Would you do a inexperienced reader x joel? For your requests😊
𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫
This piece contains 18+ content
pairing joel miller x female reader
summary you stay the night at joel’s because it gets harder to leave every time [no outbreak, fluff, smut, wc 3.5k]
a/n really enjoyed writing this request! there's something about a man who's mature, and attentive, and knows what he's doing...
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Stay. The request repeats in Joel’s head like a broken record, but never weakens or distorts. It teeters on the tip of his tongue, but he has yet to utter the word out loud. It persists as he sees you to the front door and watches you step into your shoes to mark the end of another memorable night. One that made him realize he very well may be in love.
Part of him always feared he wouldn’t be able to recognize the feeling when it arose, that it’d slip between his fingers before he could curl them and hold on tight. But Joel knew it was love because it had gotten to the point where even your laughter knocked him off his feet. He was so attuned to your happiness that he clung to every iteration.
A small smile settles on your face as you meet his gaze, purse on your shoulder, ready to go. Joel rubs the back of his neck, but he’s not nervous. He knows what he wants to ask, and the raw energy of that desire buzzes beneath his skin.
“Feels like you just got here,” he laments as he lowers his arm. If that were true, the moon and stars wouldn’t be visible in the night sky.
You nod despite the fact that you’d eaten dinner with your knee against his, talked through a movie tucked into his side, let yourself relish the comfort of being in his home. These days, it feels like yours too.
“You make it harder to leave every time,” you admit. It’s a light dig.
Joel tilts his head just enough for you to notice. “Do I now?”
You nod thoughtfully. “You treat me really well,” you say. “Really, really well.” That hadn’t been the case with everybody who entered into your life. Perhaps you’d already expressed that to him in a million different ways, but the emphasis doesn’t feel wrong on a night like this.
You’ve never had a relationship as steady and constant as what you have now with Joel. The sincerity of your words warms a proud part of him.
“I’m happy to,” he says. “You know that, don’t ya?”
That’s what terrified and delighted him—the ease of it all. Maybe things would be different if it felt like a chore.
“I know.”
A smile tugs at Joel’s lips as he steps closer. “Also reckon you know I gotta steal one last good night kiss.”
Butterflies burst to life in your stomach when Joel cups your cheek and presses his soft lips to yours. He pulls away much too soon, and you’ve never felt the lingering ache of want quite like this. The feeling weaves itself between the bones of your ribcage.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he starts, hopeful. “Would you wanna stay the night?”
A lump forms in your throat. You hadn’t brought any extra clothes or toiletries. And you’d left the light on above your stove to ensure you didn't come home to a dark apartment. Even then, the response to Joel’s question is a reverberating yes in your mind. It’s the only answer that makes sense when you’ve been unsure about so many decisions in this life.
“If you’ll have me.”
He kisses you in place of an answer, large hands kneading your waist like you’re his tether to Earth. A small sound rises up your throat when his tongue runs over your lower lip in a light, almost ticklish sweep.
Joel pulls away, eyes searching yours.
“M’sorry,” you breathe shyly.
He strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I like hearin’ ya.”
The new warmth that spreads through you is deeper, unfamiliar, more consuming. Joel has never been one to refrain from dishing compliments or a well-timed remark. Now something different burns beneath the gruffness of his voice.
“Wish I heard you more sometimes,” he continues. “You’re my little church mouse.” There’s a disarming glimmer in his eyes.
You pout as a smile threatens to break through. “No I’m not.”
You could be loud if you needed to be. Joel had the singular ability to hear you even when you hadn’t said a word. You never had to vie for his attention or assert yourself for fear of going unheard.
As a stillness settles between you, he slips his thumbs beneath your shirt to brush your stomach. He smirks when you look down at his hands to escape his gaze.
A pleasant flame has kindled within you.
“Might as well get comfy again since you’re stayin’,” he says, then amends, “Since you can’t seem to get enough of me.”
You huff a laugh and look up at Joel again. He’s handsome in the dim light of the foyer. A few strands of silvering hair fall onto his forehead. His dark eyes bear that same intensity that always drew you in instead of away. This time, it’s you who raises a hand to his face. Your fingertips run over his prickly scruff, and his eyelashes flutter when you run a finger down the slope of his nose.
That indescribable tug within you hasn’t faded away
“Like what you see?” Joel asks, voice low, partly teasing.
He doesn’t move for fear you’ll pull away. You trace the dip of his Cupid’s bow, and when you go lower, he puckers his lips against your finger in a delicate kiss. Your gentle touch and heavy eyelids have made more warmth kindle low in Joel’s belly. It’s your thoughtfulness that does it for him. You’ve never been quick to rush into anything. You always think, then think some more, and he can see that’s what’s happening now.
“I’ve always liked what I’ve seen,” you finally say.
“Well, there’s a whole lot more of me.” He presses in. “We can take this upstairs if you’d like.”
“Alright,” you murmur, lowering your hands from his face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Joel offers his hand. It nearly engulfs yours as he leads you towards the staircase.
•••
In his bedroom, his lips find yours in an fervent kiss, hands firm where they grasp along your sides. You’re so dizzy, you lose track of everything except Joel. Reality rushes in when you begin to fall backwards.
After your back hits the mattress, Joel’s plush lips trail a line to your jaw and down your throat. His body is solid above yours, but you don’t feel the brunt of his weight. Your hands shakily comb through his disheveled hair as your heart hammers in your ears. It feels like you’re a live wire and he’s the water making you spark.
When he stands, leaving you lying there, the rise and fall of your chest is embarrassingly pronounced. You watch with hooded eyes as he pulls off his shirt. Wispy hair is splayed across his chest, and a darker line of it leads down from his navel. He’s broad and rugged.
“Told you there was more,” he drawls with a smile in his voice.
You’ve never wanted another person as more as you want Joel now. But you can’t help but be aware of the fact that you’re out of your depth. Aside from what you’ve gathered vicariously, this is new. You don’t have half the courage you imagined you would.
You manage to push yourself upright on shaky arms. That’s when Joel notices the look in your eyes.
“I didn’t hurt ya, did I?” his brows furrow with worry. “M’sorry.”
You swallow and shake your head. “I’m just a little nervous.”
“Nerves are okay,” he assures. “Long as you want this.”
“I do,” you promise.
Joel studies you to be sure. “I want you real bad, but the world’ll keep turning if we don’t have sex tonight.”
There’s something about his shamelessness and directness that makes you want him even more.
“Don’t wanna screw this up.” You exhale a self-deprecating laugh, and Joel purses his lips. Then the deeper truth comes out, “Want it to be good for you.”
Joel scrubs at his scruff with a husky chuckle. “Got me all wound up, so I’d say you’re off to a helluva start,” he says, then his gaze softens. “It’s already good for me.”
His words give you enough courage to lift your shirt over your head. Your bra is trimmed with lace, and the crotch of his jeans grows tighter. You’re so beautiful that sometimes he can’t believe it—mind and body.
You still his hands as he begins to unbuckle his belt.
“May I?” The way you blink up at him makes him curse under his breath.
You pull his belt free from the loops when you’re done. After popping the button and dragging the zipper down, Joel goes weak in the knees when you peer up at him with a sweet, shy smile. Then his breath catches when you lean forward to kiss the pudge of his belly. You bite your lower lip as he pushes his pants down and kicks them to the side.
The bulge between his muscular thighs is prominent through his gray boxer briefs. It swells as you unexpectedly unclasp your bra and toss it to the floor.
“Christ, sweetheart,” he groans, palming himself.
With his free hand, he gingerly cups one of your breasts and runs his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The sensitivity makes you jolt.
“Wanna scoot up the bed for me?”
You move before the full sentence has left Joel’s mouth, a little braver now. The mattress dips as he crawls overtop of you. It all happens so fast. His lips find the pulse point of your neck, then descend along your sternum in a line of kisses. He strays off course to pepper some over the supple skin of your breasts, then even lower. Your hips shift as he kisses your stomach.
With deft fingers, he undoes your shorts and helps you shuck them to the floor. Joel guides your knees to a propped position, then lays between your legs like he belongs there. The muscles of your thighs twitch with the threat of closing as his finger teases along the seam of your panties.
“Joel…” you say his name because you’re not sure what else to say and it feels like you’re on fire.
“Just admiring,” he assures, stilling. “You doing okay? Just say the word.”
The thought of this ending pains you. “Please don’t stop.”
Joel hides his knowing smile in the hot kiss he presses beneath your bellybutton, then over the top of your mound, then over the damp fabric where you ache for him. An unsteady breath leaves you when he hooks both index fingers beneath your waistband and stares into your eyes so deeply you want to hide.
“How ‘bout we get these outta the way...”
Joel is nothing short of careful and attentive as he drags the fabric down your legs. Upon resettling between them, he kisses your inner thighs, noting the way your muscles jump. He’s so close, the fan of his breath feels cool where your arousal has gathered.
“So here’s the deal,” he starts in a low timbre that makes you clench around nothing. “I’m really good with my hands… amongst other things.” He pauses to trace the crease of your thigh. He’s surprised his own voice doesn’t waver at the sight of you glistening for him, because of him. “Just gotta let me know when something’s workin’ for you and we’ll be aces.”
It’s a miracle you don’t melt straight through the mattress.
“Okay.” It’s your quietest response all night.
“Okay,” he parrots with a glimmer in his eyes.
You’ve never been this turned on in your life. This hot.
“I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” you admit in a murmur.
The thicker, dazed quality of your voice makes Joel kick up in his boxers. As his lips twitch in amusement, he fights the urge to take you right this second.
“Guess we’ll pray for the best then.”
The world freezes when the pad of his middle finger finds your clit and begins to rub firm circles. When your brows pinch together, he trails it downwards through your slick entrance as it flutters in want.
He ventures back to your swollen bud to work a steady pace. The pleasant tension within your core roots even deeper than before, snaking and expanding. Holding your breath and tensing your muscles seems to make it swell faster.
“Relax, sweetheart,” Joel soothes. “It’ll feel better on the tail end if you do.”
You’re too worried he’ll stop not to listen.
“There ya go,” he praises. “Think I’m ready for a taste.”
There’s no further preamble before he presses a feathery kiss to your clit. At your jolt, he suckles it into his mouth and feels out your reactions. Your fingers immediately curl into his taupe sheets, but that’s not enough, so you bury them in Joel’s hair to scratch against his scalp. The stimulation paired with the warmth of his mouth grows to be so much that your thighs involuntarily close around his head. His stubble prickles against your velvety skin.
The vibrations of Joel’s hum remind you that he’s a real person down there, and you force your legs back open with what’s left of your coherency. He rewards you by running the flat of his tongue from your opening to your clit. Electricity prickles beneath your skin as you arch off the bed to chase him.
This time, he sucks your clit into his mouth with more pressure than before and you lose yourself in the sensation.
Before long, he lifts up and replaces his mouth with his finger.
“Feelin’ good?” His question comes as you cant up into his touch with a quivery breath. “What’s my baby want more of?”
You whimper because, as impossible as it seems, he hasn’t done anything you don’t prefer. You want more of everything—whatever he’s willing to give. If he does happen to fall off the mark, you’re certain he’ll find it again before you even say a word.
Joel is gracious enough not to make you spell it out. He takes it upon himself to draw an orgasm so strong and concentrated out of you, that all you can do is shut your eyes and surrender to the swell as he sees you through.
Your eyes flutter open just as he shuffles back off the bed to push his boxers down. His cock lifts towards his stomach in a smooth, impressive swing. Traversing veins are strained along the length of him and his mushroom tip is flushed in a testament to his need. Dark, wispy curls surround his base.
A fresh surge of eagerness and anticipation warms you down to your toes. Joel smiles shyly when your eyes flit up to his, and it’s the first time all night he’s looked a little self-conscious. You’re the first person he’s bared himself to in quite some time.
Words escape you as he crawls back over your frame. He braces one hand beside your shoulder and uses the other to give himself a few tugs to ease the ache. You’re beautiful beneath him, all wide-eyed and longing.
His stomach clenches when you reach out to replace his hand, tentative and careful as if he’ll break. You give him a couple strokes, and even though there’s a bit more friction than he would normally prefer, it feels good because it’s you. He’s rigid in the palm of your hand, throbbing in dull pulses. You’re not sure if gorgeous is the appropriate word, but it’s the only one you can think of.
“I’ve been missing out,” you lilt after working up the courage.
Joel flushes as he laughs, those lovely crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. He lowers to kiss you, then guides the tip of his arousal to your cunt. The beady pearl of his wants mixes with the glide of you, and you frown when he stops to reach towards the nightstand drawer.
As he resumes his position, you realize he’d grabbed a condom. He rips the packet open with his teeth and promptly rolls the rubber down himself.
“Think m’gonna pass out if I don’t get inside you soon,” he says, eyes searching yours to check in. Even in his brazenness, there’s a familiar honeyed quality to his voice that sets you at ease.
You laugh even as a small spell of apprehension returns. Joel notices, and refuses to let the levity dissipate so you don’t fall back into your head.
“Is that funny?” he asks in feigned offense. “You’re the one who’s got all the goddamn blood in my head rushing south.”
He playfully pinches at your waist and a breathless giggle stutters out of you as you squirm. When you helplessly look up at him, Joel smooths a hand over your skin as fondness settles in his dark eyes.
“Hey. Remember what I said?” he asks as he lines himself up between your thighs. “Just say the word.”
The sensation of him pressed hot and heavy against your entrance has cleared everything from your mind except desire.
“I’m okay.” An encouraging smile pulls at your lips. “Just need you really bad, Joel.”
Hearing his name makes him twitch as he runs himself through your folds.
“M’right here, baby.” He notches at your entrance. “Deep breaths for me, okay?”
A dull ache thrums through you as Joel eases into your warmth. You whine after the thickness of his tip has breached.
“That’s it,” he coos. “Just like that.”
All you can do is hum airily and watch where he disappears within you.
“Feels like heaven already,” he compliments. “Keep breathing, we’re getting there.”
Tears prick in your eyes because the stretch is new, and beautiful, and overwhelming. That soft, focused look in his eyes only adds fuel to the fire because pleasure and eagerness burn just beneath. You never realized how harrowing it was to be wanted so intensely. For the longest time, you wondered if it was possible for someone to feel such a way about you, and here Joel was in the flesh.
“Know there’s a lot of me,” he grits. “Doing so well…”
When he bottoms out, both of you sigh in relief. It feels like you’re floating even though you’re pinned beneath his strong frame. Warmth radiates from his skin.
“Oh—god,” you breathe.
Joel chuckles as he eases out of you, “Close.” He thumbs a circle around your clit.
The initial pressure subsides as Joel begins to thrust, biceps flexing as he shudders with pleasure. He takes it slow and steady, each drag more intoxicating than the last. His reach deepens as he lowers himself onto his forearms and you hook your ankles around the backs of his thighs. Stroke after stroke, he hits that spongy spot within you just right. Joel can hardly believe how snug and warm you are.
“You’re in trouble,” he rasps.
“W-why?” you whimper.
“I’m never gonna get my fill of this.”
You paw at his biceps and shoulders, not exactly sure how or where to touch him to ground yourself. Scratching your nails down his back earns a satisfied growl, and when you dig your fingernails into the meat of his backside, he gives a pointed thrust that makes you bite back a cry.
“Lemme hear those pretty sounds, mouse.”
You’re unable to help the next breathy moan that escapes you.
“You’re perfect,” The moment has you so blinded that’s all you can see him as—his cock included.
It’s a broken confession.
Joel dots a few lazy kisses over the apple of your cheek, then touches his forehead to yours. It’s almost too much—his wrecked grunts, the graze of his chest, the sound of skin meeting skin where he stretches open the most tender part of you.
It is too much.
“I’m gonna—” your breath catches in your throat. “Joel.”
“Let go for me, babygirl,” he coaxes. “Lemme have it.”
The tension embedded within you winds undone in an instant. Pleasure radiates as your walls contract around him in strong, rhythmic pulses. In another life, where he wasn’t completely gone and taken by you, Joel would’ve been able to hold out. But he’s only a man.
A gasp escapes you as he gives one last deep thrust. His balls draw up as the insistent tug low in his gut drives him to spill into the condom, stomach tensing with each relentless spurt. You rub his back as he rides it out with a shudder. You’re achy, but more than content to shiver through the aftershocks. The two of you stay like that for a while, basking in each other’s closeness, the haze. Still joined as one.
Something in the air shifts, the gravity of it all finally pressing in.
Joel looks spent and satiated as he lifts up to meet your gaze. “You okay?” he wipes the tear off your cheek. The way you look at him suggests you’re expecting him to answer for you. As if you’ll be whatever he says.
“You’re okay,” Joel decides, kissing your forehead.
You weakly cup his cheek and guide him to kiss you.
“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.
Your chest flutters. “I love you too.”
All Joel can think about as he reluctantly slips out of your heat is that he’s glad you stayed. When he begins to soothingly massage your thighs, you’re almost certain you’ll never want to leave again.
-
Thank you so much for reading! Please know that you’re feedback means the world to me. I love reading your thoughts and it makes writing for you guys all the more worth it. Likes, comments, and reblogs greatly appreciated. ♡
Every ordinary thing
Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (established relationship)
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Summary:
What is peace, if not the slow undoing of fear?
What is love, if not waking to a body you know by heart, and realizing it’s still there, still choosing you, even in the quiet?
In the absence of catastrophe, Joel learns that softness can be survival too.
He learns how to build a life in the small, unremarkable hours: folding laundry, flipping pancakes, making space for joy and guilt to coexist.
To be loved not despite the heaviness, but with it, that’s the work. That’s the miracle.
In other words:
Joel Miller folds laundry once and suddenly believes in God.
Love is domestic. Love is terrifying. Love is her in his shirt on a Sunday morning, and he has no defenses for it.
Word count: ~7,400
Warnings: Soft domesticity, sensual NSFW content (MDNI), unprotected sex, emotional vulnerability, tender, No outbreak AU, established relationship, domestic fluff, soft!Joel, weekend routine, reader wears his clothes, love as ritual, Sarah is already in college, Found Family Vibes, Comfort and Intimacy.
A/N: It’s been a long time since I finished a story and shared it here. Years ago, I dabbled in the world of fanfiction, mostly about bands and singers (all of which are long gone now, deleted with love :p). But this is the first time I’ve completed something about one of my favorite characters, from both the show and the game.
I poured a lot of care into this piece. It’s a no outbreak AU, where Joel Miller has a porch, a French press, a girlfriend who wears his Henley, and no idea how to handle the fact that he’s in love. Like, real love. Folding-laundry-together kind of love.
This is a version of Joel who gets the quiet life he always deserved, soft, domestic, and deeply human. A life full of pancakes, peaches, accidental morning horniness, and one (1) emotionally devastated man learning how to love out loud.
I wanted to write something that leaned into tenderness, a space where grief and healing could sit side by side. A Joel who gets to rest. A Joel who gets to love and be loved in return.
Please forgive any grammar mistakes, it’s been a long time since I completed a story like this, and English isn’t my first language, so I still feel a bit out of my depth when writing in it.
Still, I truly hope you enjoy this piece.
♡
on AO3
The ceiling fan clicked overhead, slow and rhythmic, stirring the edge of the linen curtain where sunlight hadn’t quite reached. The sky outside was still half-asleep, that blue-gray color it got when the world hadn’t made up its mind yet. A little cool still hung in the corners of the room.
Joel lay on his side, arm tucked under the pillow, watching you.
There were worse ways to start a Sunday. In fact, there weren’t many better.
You were turned away from him, your back bare, one leg pulled up slightly beneath the quilt, the other kicked free like always. His Henley clung loose to your frame, collar slipped wide enough to show the curve of your shoulder. That same freckle. That same spot he always kissed first.
He could’ve reached for you then, but he didn’t.
Not yet.
Something about this, just watching you breathe, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm, felt like it should be savored. Like a blessing you didn’t look in the mouth.
Because some mornings he still didn’t believe it. Still thought maybe he’d wake up and find himself back in that old life, back in the silence that came after Sarah left for college and the house got too quiet too fast. Back when mornings were just time to kill before work and evenings were beer and whatever was on the TV loud enough to drown out his own thoughts.
He hadn’t known he missed softness until he had it again.
And now?
Now he was scared of losing it. Not in the way that had him checking locks three times or holding his breath every time you drove somewhere after dark. No, this was quieter. Deeper. This was the kind of fear that curled low in his gut when you smiled at him across the table, when you laughed into your coffee mug, when you kissed him without a reason.
Because this—you—had cracked him open. And it was beautiful. And it was terrifying.
His hand moved before he even meant to, fingertips ghosting along the bare curve of your hip where the shirt had ridden up in the night. Your skin was warm. Soft. He let his thumb trace the edge of a stretch mark, a place his mouth had memorized long ago.
You didn’t stir.
Not yet.
Joel shifted onto his side, slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight. He propped himself up on one elbow, leaned close enough that his breath stirred the strands of your hair where they fanned across the pillow.
He stared.
Let himself really look.
You were beautiful when you were awake, God knew he thought that every time you rolled over, hair a mess, lips dry from sleep. But this, this version of you, still caught in the safety of sleep, unconcerned and soft—was something else entirely.
He didn’t deserve it. But he had it. And he was learning not to flinch from that truth.
“Hey,” he whispered, not loud enough to wake you.
Just enough to say it.
A pause.
Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. The kind that wasn’t asking for anything. The kind you’d feel before you registered the touch.
Another one, just under your jaw. Slower.
You made a small sound, barely audible. A hum, more breath than voice.
His hand slid up, palm curving to your waist, thumb brushing skin just beneath the hem of the shirt. He didn’t move beyond that. Just held you. Felt the shape of you.
“Still sleepin’, huh?” he murmured, voice low, rough with the weight of morning.
You didn’t answer. But your body shifted slightly toward him, that familiar unconscious reach for his warmth.
That got him. Every time.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in. Cedar and salt and something only you. His mouth brushed the curve just beneath your ear. No intention, not yet. Just presence.
You stirred again, and he smiled into your skin.
“Got coffee waitin’,” he said softly, words more vibration than sound.
Then, reluctantly, he pulled away, leaving a final kiss at your spine before slipping out from under the sheets. The quilt tugged with him, and you groaned softly, curling into the warm place he left behind.
Joel stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, looking down at you like a man trying to memorize every goddamn detail.
Then he turned, bare feet creaking quietly over the floorboards, and padded toward the kitchen.
He liked the kitchen best in the morning.
Especially on Sundays, when the light came in pale through the window over the sink, slicing across the counter in quiet gold. The old tile still held last night’s cool, and the walls echoed faintly with silence. No traffic. No phones. Just the quiet breath of a house that knew how to rest.
Joel poured two mugs, the French press heavy in his hand. He left them both black, knew you liked to doctor yours after the first sip. Knew exactly how much sugar you’d eventually add, even if you claimed not to have a sweet tooth.
He stood there for a moment, one hand on the counter, watching the steam curl from the mugs. Then he turned the record player on low, just a little vinyl static, something mellow, something that wouldn’t wake you too quick. A habit now, this. Soundtracking your mornings like a goddamn movie.
One sip burned his throat in a way he liked.
He took both mugs, careful not to spill, and made his way back down the hall, footsteps instinctively soft on the old boards.
When he reentered the bedroom, the shape of you had shifted.
You were on your back now, one leg still tangled in the quilt, the other stretched long toward the far corner of the mattress. Joel’s Henley had ridden up a little higher, exposing a sliver of stomach, soft and warm-looking in the morning light. Your hair was a mess. Your lips were parted.
His chest tightened. God, he loved you like this.
You blinked once, slowly, and he saw it, the moment you registered him. The way your eyes softened, still hazy, the way your face didn’t quite smile but looked like it wanted to.
“Mornin’,” he said quietly, holding out the mug.
You took it without a word, fingers brushing his, the ceramic still warm between your palms.
“Didn’t know if you’d want it sweet yet,” he added, settling beside you on the edge of the bed.
Your voice came low, scratchy from sleep. “Gimme a second.”
He chuckled. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Liar.”
Joel grinned down at the mug in his hands. “You caught me.”
You sipped slowly, eyes closing on that first taste, and Joel watched the line of your throat shift as you swallowed. His free hand came up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, knuckles trailing along your cheek just a second longer than necessary.
“You always do that,” you said without opening your eyes.
“Do what?”
“Stare at me like I’m a sunrise or some shit.”
Joel made a low sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a protest. “Ain’t my fault you look like that in the mornings.”
You cracked one eye open and squinted at him. “Like what?”
He let the quiet stretch. Sipped his coffee. Finally said, “Like peace.”
The word dropped into the room like something sacred.
You didn’t tease him for it. Just looked at him for a long moment, then reached for his free hand, sliding your fingers between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Which, by now, it was.
Joel leaned in and kissed your temple, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. Not asking for more. Just, touching. Just needing.
You set your mug aside on the nightstand, then shifted toward him, knees folding beneath you as you crawled into his lap. One leg over his thigh, arms loosely looped around his neck.
His coffee went to the floor beside the bed.
Your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and Joel wrapped his arms around you, one hand smoothing up your back, the other resting at the small of it. He could feel the warmth of your thighs against his skin, the softness of your belly through the thin cotton of your shirt.
Neither of you spoke.
You just breathed like that for a while, wrapped up, limbs tangled, chests rising in slow rhythm. Like two people who’d remembered exactly what Sundays were for.
Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at him. There was still sleep in your eyes, but the smile was there now. Real. Warm. Easy.
“What time is it?”
“Don’t matter.”
You hummed. “You got somewhere to be, Miller?”
He shook his head slowly, forehead brushing yours.
“Just here.”
And he meant it
-
The kitchen smelled like butter and heat and something warm rising in the skillet, pancakes, maybe. Joel hadn’t quite been paying attention. He was too busy watching you move.
Not in any kind of hungry way. Not yet, anyway. This was slower. Deeper. Something that hummed low under the skin.
You were barefoot, standing in front of the stove, one hand on your hip, flipping something with practiced ease. Joel leaned against the counter nearby, mug still half-full, pretending not to notice how the hem of his Henley danced higher up your thighs every time you reached for the spatula.
He was content just to be here. Watching you hum under your breath. Listening to the lazy sizzle of batter on cast iron. The light filtered in golden through the windows and caught in your hair like a memory.
Joel didn’t say much. Neither did you.
Didn’t have to.
Your movements around each other had become a kind of quiet language. You shifted left, he stepped right. You reached for the sugar, he slid it closer. His palm brushed your lower back once as he passed behind you, and your hand found his waist without looking. Just touch, passing like breath. Natural. Easy.
It wasn’t lost on him how rare that was.
He thought of all the years when mornings meant silence for a different reason. When the kitchen was just a place to grab coffee and stare out the window for too long. When conversation felt like a thing you had to push through. Back then, peace had meant being alone. Now, it lived in the space between two bodies who’d learned each other by heart.
You leaned down to open the cabinet, and the shirt rode up again—God help him—and Joel had to turn back toward the sink or he’d forget what breakfast even was.
“You makin’ ‘em crispy on purpose?” he asked, voice low, half a smirk curling at the edge.
You turned, spatula still in hand. “You like ‘em crispy.”
“Mm,” he grunted. “Didn’t say I didn’t. Just sounds like you’re tryin’ to seduce me with pancakes.”
“Is it working?”
He shot you a look over his shoulder—dry, amused, and entirely undone.
You grinned.
Then—
The creak of the front door.
Joel straightened instinctively, spine going taut for half a second before relaxing again.
“You better not be making out in there,” Sarah’s voice rang out, footsteps soft on the hallway rug.
You muffled a laugh behind your hand.
Joel sighed like a man ten years younger, already tired.
“She always comes in loud,” he muttered under his breath, and you nudged him with your hip.
Sarah appeared a second later, Trader Joe’s tote slung over one shoulder, her other hand holding up a brown paper bag triumphantly.
“Peaches,” she declared. “From that little stand off Lamar. Like actual good ones. You’re welcome.”
Joel arched a brow. “You’re late.”
“I was acquiring produce, Dad. Calm down.”
You stepped forward, already grinning. “Those the ones with the white flesh or the orange?”
“Orange”
Sarah dumped the bag on the counter. She kicked off her shoes, dropped her tote by the fridge, and launched into a story about getting cut in line by a man in cowboy boots and a full kilt. You listened, head tilted, asking all the right questions, laughing in all the right places.
Joel listened, too. But quieter.
He poured her coffee the way she liked it—cream first, then the hot pour. Something he never did when she was younger. Something he didn’t even know to do back then.
He set the mug on the table as she launched into an impassioned argument about why yellow peaches were superior to white ones.
And he just… watched.
Watched the two of you banter across his kitchen like you’d always been this way. Like this house had always sounded like this.
Sarah kicked her feet up onto the chair beside her, loose ponytail falling over one shoulder. She looked lighter these days. Happier. And Joel couldn’t tell if that was college, or the peaches, or you.
Probably you.
He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to let it show too much. But his chest ached a little with it. The good kind. The kind that reminded him he’d been given something he didn’t think he’d ever get again.
A family. A real one.
And underneath all that—tucked quiet and sharp—was the guilt.
Because Sarah hadn’t always gotten this version of him. Not the one who made coffee soft, or kissed you slow in the morning, or remembered to say I love you out loud. She’d gotten the rough version. The survival-mode version. The man who worked too much and said too little. The one who was always there, but only just.
He was better now. He knew that. But some mornings—like this one—it still caught up to him. The years he couldn’t rewind. The words he should’ve said.
His eyes found you again. You were cutting the peaches now, smiling as Sarah leaned over your shoulder to steal one off the board.
Joel swallowed hard.
Yeah. He hadn’t known how to be soft then.
But you made him want to be better now.
-
The screen door creaked as Joel stepped onto the porch, two plates in his hands. Yours and Sarah’s were already on the little round table, cracked enamel, legs uneven. One of the chairs was half-broken, but Sarah always chose it anyway.
You sat across from her, legs tucked up in Joel’s old flannel, sipping your coffee like it was a ritual. One bare foot stretched toward the sun. Sarah was already mid-story, arms moving as she narrated something about her roommate’s attempt to make sangria in a salad bowl.
“She swears she read it somewhere online, but I’m telling you, it was just fruit soup. With tequila.”
You laughed, head tipped back, the sound catching in the warm breeze like music.
Joel didn’t sit right away.
He just stood there for a moment, plates in hand, letting the scene sink in.
The porch sagged slightly in the middle. The chairs didn’t match. One of the steps creaked loud enough to wake the neighborhood if you weren’t careful. The hydrangeas needed water. A neighbor’s dog barked every ten minutes like clockwork.
But fuck if it wasn’t perfect.
You looked over at him and smiled, easy and soft, and he realized he hadn’t moved yet.
Joel cleared his throat, set the plates down, and finally lowered himself into his chair. It groaned under his weight, another thing he needed to fix, but you reached for his hand under the table, thumb brushing over his knuckles like a quiet good morning all over again.
Sarah bit into a peach slice and moaned dramatically. “Okay. Okay, I take it back. White peaches are elite.”
Joel raised a brow. “That the official ruling now?”
“I reserve the right to change my opinion as often as I like.”
You grinned. “Just like your dad.”
Joel cut his eyes at you, but there was no real heat behind it. You knew that.
Sarah snorted. “Please. He’s been a stubborn old man since he was thirty.”
Joel took a slow sip of his coffee. “That so?”
“Uh, yeah. Remember when you refused to buy a dishwasher? Said it was a government scam.”
“It was overpriced.”
You smiled at him over your mug. “You still rinse everything by hand, even with a dishwasher.”
“Outta principle.”
You squeezed his fingers under the table. “You’re adorable.”
Joel groaned.
Sarah looked between you, amused, one brow raised.
“So when are you guys gonna get a dog?”
Joel nearly choked on his coffee.
You, though, cool as anything, just tilted your head. “You think he could handle a dog and me at the same time?”
Sarah smirked. “Barely.”
Joel held up a hand. “Y’all better be grateful I made pancakes.”
“You flipped two,” Sarah said, stealing a piece off his plate. “She made the rest.”
You laughed into your mug, and Joel shook his head, trying not to smile.
The sun rose higher, heat beginning to settle over the porch in slow waves. Somewhere down the block, a lawnmower sputtered to life. Cicadas started to buzz in the hedges. The wind stirred the edge of the curtain behind the screen door, and for a moment, everything in the world felt settled.
Joel watched you and Sarah trade stories, about music, food, places neither of you had been but wanted to see. You mentioned a little bookstore downtown she’d love. Sarah said you two should take a pottery class. You asked about her job; she asked about your garden.
He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.
He was too busy watching this new thing unfold in front of him. This version of his life where his daughter and his woman shared space not out of obligation, but ease. Out of something deeper. Something earned.
Joel leaned back, one ankle crossing over his knee, plate balanced on his thigh.
You said something that made Sarah laugh loud, hand smacking the table, and Joel just sat there for a long moment, looking between the two of you.
His hand slipped from under the table, found the warm skin of your thigh beneath the hem of the flannel. He didn’t squeeze. Just rested it there, like an anchor. Like a prayer.
No one said anything about it.
Didn’t have to.
-
The screen door clicked shut behind her.
Joel stood at the end of the driveway, hand still raised in a small wave as Sarah’s car disappeared around the bend, brake lights flickering once before vanishing behind a hedge. The cicadas were louder now, the sun hanging high above the rooftops, pressing heat into his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
He waited a beat longer than he needed to.
Just stood there, hands on his hips, like he was still watching. But really, he was just listening. For the quiet. For what came after.
When he finally turned back toward the house, something in his chest shifted. Not relief exactly—not that. Just a kind of... settling.
He loved Sarah more than he knew how to say.
But the house always felt right again when it was just you.
He stepped back onto the porch, boots scraping against the weathered boards. The plates were gone now, probably rinsed and stacked by the sink like always. The table was empty except for the peach pits and a mostly-melted pat of butter.
The door was still ajar.
Inside, the living room was dim and cool, ceiling fan spinning slow. A low hum came from the kitchen, maybe a record still playing. Or maybe just the dishwasher. Hard to tell.
Joel grabbed the cold bottle of water he’d left by the back door and headed outside.
The backyard was mostly shade now, pecan trees stretching tall and rustling lazy in the breeze. His tools were already laid out on the makeshift work table he’d set up last week. Two planks, a few brackets, the half-built bench he kept putting off because weekends like this one had a way of getting away from him. In the best kind of way.
He rubbed the back of his neck, stretched once, then bent to it.
Sanding. Measuring. Adjusting the level with that slow precision he’d always liked. There was something about wood and sweat and the ache in his shoulders that made him feel real again. Grounded.
He didn’t hear you at first.
Didn’t see you either.
But halfway through aligning the corner brackets, something pulled at the back of his neck. That sixth sense. That little hum he always got when you were close.
He looked up, and there you were, framed in the kitchen window.
Your hands were buried in the sink, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back loosely at the nape of your neck. The curve of your jaw caught the light. Joel could see the way your brow furrowed as you scrubbed a dish, the way your eyes flicked up for just a second—
Caught him.
You didn’t look away right away. Neither did he. Then your mouth curved, slow and knowing, before you ducked your head again. Joel exhaled through his nose, something warm and aching blooming low in his chest. You didn’t need to say anything. You never did.
He turned back to the bench.
Hammered the next screw in with just a little more care than he had before.
The dryer buzzed softly, then fell silent.
-
Joel wiped the back of his hand across his brow, tossing the wrench aside as he stepped back from the bench. The wood was coming together, finally, but the sun was too damn high, and sweat had soaked through the collar of his shirt hours ago. He tugged it over his head with a grunt and let it fall over the back of one of the porch chairs.
Inside.
That’s what he needed.
Cool air. A glass of water. Maybe your voice calling his name from the hallway.
The screen door creaked open behind him, the sound familiar, worn like the rest of the house. He stepped inside and paused. Let the difference wash over him, the hush of indoors, the gentle churn of the washer somewhere down the hall.
And you.
You were standing in front of the dryer, basket on the floor, half-folded towel in your hands.
His shirt hung low on you, his old Henley. Sleeves pushed up, collar askew. It barely skimmed the tops of your thighs, and every time you reached into the dryer, it shifted just enough to show a flash of bare skin. The warm weight of your body outlined beneath the fabric.
No underwear.
He knew it before you even turned.
He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dragging down the length of you with the kind of hunger he didn’t bother hiding anymore.
“You do that on purpose?” he asked, voice sanded raw from the heat and the silence.
You looked over your shoulder. Innocent. But not really.
“Do what?”
Joel pushed off the frame, took a step closer.
“Walk around like that. On laundry day.”
You shrugged, back to folding, calm as you pleased. “Didn’t plan it.”
“Uh huh.”
He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just circled—slow, steady—like he was stalking something wild and soft and meant only for him.
The air between you thickened.
You reached for another towel and bent slightly. His shirt hiked high on the backs of your thighs, exposing just enough to make his mouth go dry.
Joel’s voice came low, tight. “Y’ain’t wearin’ anything under that.”
“Nope.”
He closed the distance in two steps.
Then came the heat of him—sun-soaked, earthy, undeniably male—filling the room like smoke. He was behind you before you could breathe right, his body close but not touching, radiating a tension that made the hairs at your nape rise. You didn’t flinch when his hands slid under the hem, palms grazing up the length of your thighs until they found the swell of your hips. His grip firm. Possessive. Like he needed to feel you. All of you.
You sucked in a breath. It hitched when his thumbs stroked slow, coaxing.
“I was just folding—”
“I know what you were doin’,” he murmured into the back of your neck. “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna interrupt.”
Your body leaned back into his instinctively. And God—he swore he could’ve come undone from that alone. That trust. That give.
Joel pressed his mouth to the curve where your neck met your shoulder, open and hot. His stubble scraped lightly against your skin, and you shivered under him, hips shifting without meaning to.
“That for me?” he asked, voice gone dark and low, fingers gliding forward across your stomach, pulling you tighter against the hard press of him.
“What?”
“This whole little setup. No panties. My shirt. You in the laundry room…”
He let the question hang as his hand slid lower—one deliberate inch at a time.
You turned your head just enough for your lips to brush his jaw. “Maybe.”
Joel groaned low in his throat, nose dragging along your cheek.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
“You like trouble.”
He backed you toward the dryer without a word. Not rough. Not rushed. Just steady.
The moment your thighs bumped against the edge, his hands slid lower—beneath the swell of your ass, lifting you easily onto the warm metal surface. You gasped, one hand fisting in his hair, the other curling around the back of his neck to pull him closer.
“Jesus, darlin’,” he muttered, pressing his hips forward so you could feel just how hard he was. “Look what you do to me.”
He bent his head to your chest, unbuttoning the Henley slowly, reverently, lips following every inch of exposed skin.
“You been thinkin’ about this all day?” you whispered, voice caught somewhere between teasing and breathless.
Joel lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes.
“No,” he said. “I been tryin’ not to.”
Your breath caught when his mouth wrapped around your nipple, tongue flicking soft, then sucking slow. His hands were already between your thighs, one spreading you open, the other holding you there like you were his to keep.
“You’re already soaked,” he rasped, fingers sliding through the wet heat of you. “Fuck, baby…”
“Joel—”
He kissed you hard then, swallowing your gasp, tongue deep and slow and claiming.
You rocked against his hand, the edge already close, sharp. Joel watched your face as he worked, fingers curling just right, thumb teasing that perfect rhythm against your clit.
“Come on,” he whispered against your cheek. “Let me feel it. Wanna feel you come on my fuckin’ fingers.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, and when you came, sharp, sudden, full-body—he kept you grounded, arm tight around your waist, mouth at your throat, murmuring good girl against your pulse.
But he wasn’t done.
Not close.
He dropped his jeans enough to free himself, thick and hard, the head already glistening. He stroked himself once, twice, watching your eyes go dark.
“You want me like this?” he asked, voice a low growl. “Right here?”
You nodded, dizzy with it. “Joel—please.”
That word did something to him.
He grabbed your hips and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, and the both of you gasped like the world had cracked open.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “So tight, baby. Always—goddamn—always so perfect.”
The dryer hummed beneath you, matching the rhythm of his hips as he fucked into you slow, deep, dragging every inch.
You clung to him—mouth open, breath hot against his ear.
“I love you,” you whispered, almost broken.
Joel stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough to cup your jaw and kiss you like he meant it.
“I love you more than anything,” he said, voice wrecked. “More than I ever fuckin’ thought I could.”
And then he moved again, hips snapping harder now, deeper, building that pressure between you both until everything blurred, your name on his lips, his name on yours, the heat and the sweat and the scent of laundry and sex hanging thick in the air.
When you came again, he followed seconds later, buried deep, breath ragged, body trembling.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t pull out. Didn’t speak.
Just held you there, pressed against him, chest to chest, skin slick and hearts pounding.
His hands stroked your back. Slow. Tender.
Like he was thanking you without words.
Like he was terrified of the world starting up again.
-
Joel stayed inside you longer than he probably should’ve.
He’d always done that, lately. Let the moment stretch.
It wasn’t about the sex—though God knew that part was always good, better than he’d ever thought it could be again—but this… this after part, where your skin stuck to his and your hands rested soft on his back, nails just barely grazing, that’s what undid him.
You were quiet.
So was he.
The only sound was the dryer humming beneath you, slowing to a lazy spin. The scent of detergent hung in the air, edged now with something more primal. Sweat. Salt. You.
His hands rested on either side of your ribs. Just holding. Just being.
Then he felt it, the faint shift in your legs, the sharp little twitch of your thigh muscle.
Too much.
He pulled back, slow and careful, and even so, you winced as he slipped free.
Joel caught it.
He always did.
“Easy,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheekbone. “You alright?”
You nodded, but your eyes were glassy. Body still trembling from aftershocks.
He leaned in, kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose.
“I got you.”
He stepped back, dragging a hand down your thigh as he went, watching the way you shivered from the loss of contact. Then he bent to scoop his boxers off the floor, tugged them up one-handed as he crossed into the bathroom.
You heard the faucet run. The cabinet open. The soft clink of glass against porcelain.
When he returned, it was with a warm washcloth, steam still rising from it, folded in the cradle of his palm.
Joel went to one knee in front of the dryer and touched your hip gently.
“Lean back for me, baby.”
You did, and he came closer, slid the cloth between your thighs with care, wiping away what he’d left behind, slow and deliberate. The first swipe made you gasp. The second had your hand curling in his hair.
He looked up at you once through the curtain of lashes, eyes darker than before, but softer too. Unspoken things lived in that look.
He finished cleaning you, but didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there, hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking absently across the skin.
“C’mere,” he said after a moment, rising.
He didn’t wait for you to stand. He just hooked his arm beneath your knees and lifted you clean off the dryer like it was nothing.
You gave a startled laugh, fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Joel—”
“I told you,” he grunted, adjusting your weight against his chest, “not lettin’ you wobble around like a baby deer.”
You let your head fall against his shoulder.
He carried you down the hall like that, one hand bracing your thigh, the other pressed to your back, your body curled into his, loose and sleepy and bare. The hallway felt quiet again, sun pouring in from the front window in wide yellow slats.
The bed was still unmade. Sheets tangled.
He set you down like you were made of spun glass, careful not to jostle you too much, then climbed in behind you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
His arm curved around your waist. His nose tucked into your neck.
He didn’t ask how you felt. Didn’t need to.
The way your fingers laced with his said everything.
“You want water?” he asked after a while, voice quieter now. Almost hoarse.
You shook your head, turning slightly so your forehead pressed to his collarbone. Your breath was warm against his skin.
“I just want you.”
Joel’s throat tightened.
He kissed the crown of your head. Let his lips linger there.
“You got me, darlin’,” he murmured. “Always.”
The ceiling fan clicked overhead. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The rest of the world waited politely on the other side of the door while you both stayed like that, tangled and warm, held together by more than just skin and sweat.
It wasn’t over.
It never really was.
But this moment, this stretch of quiet, when everything slowed down again, was the part Joel never skipped. The part he never rushed.
Because this? This was the part he never had before you.
And he was never giving it up.
-
The sun had tilted west by the time Joel stirred.
He hadn’t fallen asleep exactly, but he’d drifted. That in-between state where your body rests and your mind just hums.
You’d shifted at some point. Rolled away to grab a robe. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of your feet down the hallway. He let you go. Let you leave the warmth of the bed without reaching for you, because he knew you’d come back. You always did.
He rose slow, tugged on a clean shirt from the dresser drawer, then padded barefoot to the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck.
The light had gone amber. That burnt-soft shade of early Texas evening. You were at the stove again, hips swaying gently as you stirred something in the pan—cherry tomatoes, maybe, or garlic—he couldn’t smell it yet, but the sound was there. That low sizzle. The rhythmic clink of wood spoon against skillet.
You turned slightly as he came in.
“Hey, cowboy.”
Joel felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “You always call me that when I’m not wearin’ boots.”
You smirked. “Exactly.”
He stepped up beside you, hand brushing the small of your back, just lightly, before reaching for the cutting board. You’d already laid out zucchini, basil, half a lemon. No words exchanged, just movement, shared space, shared task.
He sliced while you stirred. You salted while he flipped.
It wasn’t a recipe. It was a feeling.
Dinner for two. No measuring cups. Just what sounded good. What looked right.
Every so often, you’d lean into his side, shoulder bumping his gently. His hand would drift to your waist for a beat before going back to the knife. At one point, he kissed your temple mid-stir, like he couldn’t not.
The music was low—Otis Redding again, or maybe something else with horns and heartbreak, but Joel barely noticed. He was too aware of the way your hair curled against the nape of your neck. The way your laugh, soft and full of nothing at all, curled under his ribs and settled deep.
When the pasta finished, you handed him the plates.
He filled them carefully. You poured two glasses of wine.
No rush.
The light outside was slanting lower now. The breeze through the open window carried the smell of cut grass and something faintly smoky from a neighbor’s grill.
Joel watched you as you stepped barefoot onto the porch, robe tied loose at your waist, two glasses in your hand.
He followed.
And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like he had to say anything.
He just wanted to be.
-
The porch groaned beneath Joel’s weight as he settled into the old rocking chair, a plate of steaming pasta in one hand, his wine glass sweating in the other.
Across from him, you were already tucked into your chair, legs folded up like you always did, robe loose at the collarbone. The soft lamplight from the kitchen behind you made the outline of your body glow faintly. You were eating slow, careful, like the meal, and the moment, deserved to last longer than it would.
And maybe it did.
Joel watched you a second too long. Then looked down at his plate. Ate a bite he didn’t fully taste.
Not yet, anyway.
His chest ached in that way it always did after a day like this, after a day spent not just touching, but being touched. Not just looking, but being seen.
He wasn't used to it. Even now.
This peace had crept up on him quiet. Unassuming. It didn’t knock or ask first. It just showed up one day, in your laugh, in the way your hands fit around his coffee mug, in the sound of you humming in the hallway. He hadn’t known how much of himself he’d boarded up over the years until you started slipping through the cracks.
And now?
Now, it terrified him. The idea that this could end. That the world might change its mind.
He took a sip of wine and glanced out at the yard.
Cicadas had started up again, buzzing low and steady from the trees. The grass looked soft in the dim light, dotted with fireflies blinking like slow heartbeat pulses across the dark.
The porch smelled like earth and leftover heat. The way Texas always did this time of night.
“Good?” you asked, voice soft and half-lidded with contentment.
Joel nodded, unable to lie. “Perfect.”
You didn’t look at him when you smiled. Just took another bite, slow and quiet.
He wanted to reach over and touch your ankle where it was draped over the arm of your chair. Just lay his hand there and feel the warmth of you. He wanted to say something. But his thoughts were too full. His hands too tired. His heart, if he was honest, too loud.
Because this wasn’t just dinner.
This was proof. This was evidence that it could be good again. That he could live soft without losing himself. That he could sit on a porch with a woman like you and feel full.
“I think,” he said eventually, setting his plate aside, “I could sit here every damn night and never get tired of it.”
You turned your head.
“That right?”
He nodded slowly. “Could get real used to this. Us. Just… sittin’ here. Bein’ quiet.”
You smiled. “We’re very good at being quiet.”
Joel swallowed around the lump in his throat.
“We are.”
And God, wasn’t that the truth?
Because it hadn’t always been this way. There’d been years—decades, even—where silence meant distance. Where quiet was the loudest thing in the house. He’d known a different kind of stillness then. Cold. Hollow.
But this?
This was warmth wrapped in hush. This was the stillness that came when nothing was missing.
His eyes drifted to your wine glass. You were reaching for it now, sipping slow, the tip of your tongue catching the rim before you set it down again.
He couldn’t stop watching your hands.
“How long d’you think we’ll get this?” he asked suddenly, then hated himself for it.
But you didn’t flinch.
“Joel.”
He looked up. Met your eyes.
You didn’t answer the question. Just looked at him.
And somehow, that was enough.
He breathed out slow.
“Think you’d ever get tired of me?”
Your voice came light, like it didn’t matter. But he heard the weight under it. The quiet question behind the joke.
And he hated how often that thought haunted you. Hated that the softness you carried came with a bruise beneath it.
He set his plate down gently.
Then leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes locked on yours.
“I’ve spent a lotta years not havin’ this,” he said. “Not havin’ you. And I didn’t even know what I was missin’.”
The porch light buzzed softly. A wind moved through the trees.
Joel pressed on.
“So no. I wouldn’t get tired of you. Not in ten years. Not in fifty. You could drive me up the fuckin’ wall and I’d still want you right here. Next to me. Every night.”
You blinked once, smile caught somewhere between laughter and tears.
He sat back again, breath slow in his chest.
Because it was true.
He would never get tired of you. But he would ache for more time, always. He’d always worry that this version of life—this second chance—was something too good to be held onto. Too delicate for hands like his.
So he would love it quietly.
He would love you like this, soft and silent and constant.
And never look away.
-
The house was dim when you came back in, porch door clicking shut behind you.
Joel followed, wineglass still in hand. His shoulder bumped yours as he passed, and you leaned into it briefly, the kind of casual touch that meant everything and nothing all at once.
Inside, the record spun, Otis again, maybe the same side looping because neither of you had flipped it. The room was just warm enough to make the couch feel like gravity. You dropped into it with a sigh, legs folding beneath you. Joel settled beside you, arm draped along the back of the cushions, his thigh pressed against yours.
Neither of you reached for the lamp.
Didn’t need to.
The only light came from the kitchen, a soft spill of gold over the floor, catching dust in the air, turning everything honey-colored and slow.
You pulled the old knit blanket down from the back of the couch, tossed half of it over Joel’s legs, the other over your own. Then you shifted. Just a little.
Enough to lean against his chest.
Joel wrapped his arm around you without thinking. Held you like he was built for it. His hand found your hip beneath the blanket, resting there, just weight, just warmth.
“You tired?” he asked, voice low, close to your ear.
You nodded against his shoulder. “Not ready for bed though.”
“Me neither.”
The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was alive. Filled with the sound of the record, the faint rattle of the AC kicking on, the soft rhythm of your breathing. The world outside the windows had gone fully dark. No more kids in the yard next door. Just porch lights blinking across the neighborhood like slow blinks.
Joel looked down at you.
You were tucked into him so naturally. Head just beneath his chin. Fingers tracing idle circles against his ribs through his shirt. That was your habit, touching him without even knowing it.
He swallowed hard.
Because right now, all he could think about was the way the day had unfolded, quiet, slow, full of nothing important and everything that mattered. You in the kitchen. Sarah on the porch. The shape your body made in the morning light. Your laugh at dinner. The way you folded into him afterward like you were always meant to live right there, beneath his hand.
He thought about a porch swing.
A proper one. One he could build and hang and watch you fall asleep on in the summer evenings when the air got heavy and slow. He thought about adding a shade over the back deck. Planting more rosemary in the garden. Fixing the squeak in the screen door.
He thought about you being here through all of it.
And he wanted—God, he wanted—to ask.
Ask if you’d want more.
Ask if you saw this lasting. Years from now. Decades. Ask if you could picture a version of this life where you both got older in this house, where you both woke up in that bed every Sunday morning until your hair went gray.
He didn’t.
Not yet.
But the words pulsed just under his skin, unspoken and heavy.
Instead, he kissed your forehead.
Pressed his lips to your temple like a vow he hadn’t said out loud.
You shifted slightly, your voice barely a murmur.
“I like our life.”
Joel closed his eyes.
Let that settle into him like a balm. Like something he didn’t have to earn anymore.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Me too.”
You stayed like that for a long time.
Until the wine ran warm.
Until the record clicked in its groove.
Until your breath slowed against his chest and your fingers stilled beneath the hem of his shirt.
Joel held you close and whispered into your hair, words almost too soft to hear.
“You’re my whole damn world, you know that?”
And when you answered, I know, it felt like something permanent had been carved into the bones of the room.
And for the first time in years, he believed it might actually last.
debra morgan is such a girl’s girl. so protective of the sex workers she knew from vice. befriended rita and then introduced her to dex, literally her favorite guy on earth, because she knew rita needed someone kind and gentle and trustworthy. charmed the shit out of doakes’s mom and sisters. aghast at laguerta’s behavior toward her because she simply would never. we don’t talk about this enough !!
description. you're tired after a long day of serving, ready to close when a sad old man walks in. maybe he’ll make it worth your while.
tags. smut, pathetic sad old man, he knows its wrong and wants you anyway, small talk, much!joel!, abrupt/open ending, needy!joel, limited dialogue. not dark joel, but he waits for like an hour late at night for you to leave your job.
word count. 3.7k+
an. this was ever so slightly rushed as my hyperfixations have changed from joel to bucky and I want to start writing a series I have for him, but trust it will be beautiful. also diverted from the original request but hopefully its still enjoyable! gif cred
You sighed gently as you heard the chime of the doorbell, the sound ringing a second time as it closed behind the patron who had decided to enter the diner half an hour before your shift was meant to end. It wasn't like there was an all-night diner filled with rotating staff down the road.
They had to enter your diner, which you had grudgingly agreed to cover on your one day off, of course. To make matters worse, two coworkers chose not to show up, so you were left to work the closing shift by yourself after the kitchen staff left.
Your feet throbbed with each step, and the uniform, which was uncomfortable but reliable for fat tips, dug into your waist where the apron was knotted tightly. A dull ache pulled at the base of your ponytail, and the steam from sizzling eggs and endless cups of coffee left your once-perfect makeup looking damp and shiny.
You turned with a wide smile that never quite touched your eyes. Tilting your head, you delivered the well-rehearsed greeting you gave every customer, voice dripping in practiced sweetness. After twelve hours of speed-walking and customer service voice, your brain was operating on autopilot, and it took a moment for the figure in front of you to fully register.
He appeared to be at least fifty years old, unless he had aged prematurely due to a difficult lifestyle, which you doubted. He was the type of man who had been attractive in his twenties and had matured into his handsomeness by the age of forty; his features were masculine but softened by gentleness. Silver slithered steadily across his temples and through his still-brown hair. His face had character due to its prominent nose, which lifted slightly when he gave you a half-smile. In contrast to you, it made it to his eyes, winking at you from the faint crow's feet at their corners.
After swallowing and letting your eyes widen for a heartbeat, you put the mask back on, smiling a little more genuinely this time.
“Good evening! Pick any table you like; I’ll be right with you.” From your position behind the counter, your voice drifted across the diner, singing an octave higher than your typical speech.
He nodded firmly, then slipped into a booth near you, his fingers neatly laced on the shiny vinyl tabletop. Breathing slowly, he looked around the vintage décor, not so much admiring as analyzing.
You washed your hands before approaching his table, carrying yourself with a sway that disguised your exhaustion.
“What can I get for you tonight, sir?”
The notepad stayed tucked away; instead, you clasped your hands lightly in front of you, voice honeyed as you addressed him. You felt a sudden flutter in your stomach as his eyes raised to meet yours and his brows arched subtly.
“Just a coffee’s good for me, sweetness,” he said, his voice gravelly, worn with age and possibly a bad smoking habit.
“Any cream or sugar?” Ignoring your accelerating heartbeat, you continued speaking.
“No, thank you. Bitter as this old man suits me just fine.” When your giggle slipped, a smirk pulled at his mouth, and his self-deprecating remark turned into a smile.
With a playful gleam in your eyes and a slight tilt to your posture, you teased, "I don't know." “You seem plenty sweet to me. Would you like a pastry with that? The kitchen’s closed, but I can still pull something from the warmer.”
He seemed to ponder, gaze flicking briefly to the menu propped at the edge of the table before he clicked his tongue.
“Not sure. I can be a bit picky with my sweets.”
You tapped your chin and leaned an elbow against the booth's divider, creating a playful tilt in your posture.
“Well, our special today," yesterday technically, you thought, "is classic American cherry pie.”
His eyes sparked at the mention; the lines at the corners deepened, though the thought tugged at something nostalgic. "Oh… please don’t tempt me.”
You laughed softly, straightening as you moved your hands to rest on your lower back, the sway of your hips betraying your amusement.
“Temptation’s half my job description,” you teased, lowering your voice just enough to let the words linger.
His shoulders relaxed as his fingers drummed absently on the tabletop while he leaned back against the vinyl seat. “That so? Then I suppose the real question is whether your pie is as sweet as your smile.”
The quip caught you off guard, and heat rose in your ears and cheeks. You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, hiding the flutter behind another polished grin.
"So," you said, tilting your head, "why don't we let you be the judge?"
He responded with a nod, "I suppose it's only fitting that I have a sweet treat when I get a sweet server."
To hide the curve of your smile, you cocked your head away from his stare and then looked back over your shoulder. “Coming right up.”
As you walked carefully and methodically across the diner, the weight of his eyes followed. Behind the counter, you placed a slice of cherry pie—probably a little past its prime—in the warmer. The scent of coffee lingered on your hands as you lifted the pot and returned to his booth to pour a tall, steaming mug. Before stepping back for the pie, you gave him a gentle smile and acknowledged him as the earthy scent rose in a swirl of vapor.
The heat from the pie permeated the plate as you carried it back. He took a deep breath through his nose when you placed it in front of him. His posture softened as a quiet sigh escaped, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to release with the exhale.
With a half-smile, he looked up at you after picking up the fork and turning it once between his fingers.
“You always serve dessert with this much attention, or am I just lucky tonight?”
With your arms folded loosely in front of you, you shifted your weight onto one hip and grinned.
“Depends. Most folks don’t notice appreciate slow and steady.”
“Mm.” He cut into the pie, the fork sinking into the soft cherries with a satisfying scrape against the plate. "They're idiots then."
You laughed lightly, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. “Careful, sir; keep that up and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to sweet-talk me.”
He raised his mug in a small toast before taking a sip, his eyes never leaving yours. “And what if I am?”
Your laugh slipped out, colored by a faint scoff. Flirting with men older than your grandfather was hardly new territory. Half survival, half performance, it was part of the job. Watching a man who is well past his prime brighten from a little feminine attention can be endearing, but you've never experienced it quite like this.
He seemed to be seeing more of you than you were letting on, and there was something about that that made the routine act feel different. More like choice than routine.
He caught your laugh and smiled, his fork hovering above the pie. “Joel.”
You tilted your head. “Hm?”
“My name—S’Joel. As much as I like you calling me ‘sir,’ I reckon I’d like to hear you say my name more.” His southern drawl tugged on something in your chest.
“Joel…” You test the name's weight by letting it roll over your tongue. “Can’t say I know any Joels around here. You here for business or pleasure?” You reasoned that if you had to work overtime, you might as well engage in some conversation with a handsome older man.
He finally lowered the fork, slicing into the pie with slow precision before answering. “Bit of both, I s’pose,” he said, the twang in his voice rolling smooth as whiskey. He lifted the bite but didn't eat it right away, his gaze fixed on you as if deciding whether to give more. “World’s got a way of mixin’ business and pleasure, don’t it?”
Your arms were folded loosely across your apron as you leaned a hip against the edge of the booth. “Depends on the kind of business,” you teased, but beneath the lilt of your words was a real curiosity.
Joel smirked around the fork as he finally tasted the pie, chewing thoughtfully before nodding once. “Sweet. Just like you promised.” His gaze moved briefly to your hands before returning to your face. “Don’t often get both in the same place.”
“I suppose not.” You let your eyes wander to the diner's glass, street lamps illuminating an old pickup parked in the lot by itself, except for your vintage beauty, a present from your grandfather on your sixteenth birthday. There was something charming about it, even though the gears were old and the engine shuddered. Not so different, you realized, from Joel.
You didn't hesitate when he motioned to the seat across from him and asked you to humor an old man. The next hour was spent sitting there, chatting aimlessly as the aromas of black coffee and warm cherry blended together. He grimaced as though you had cursed him when you mentioned that you preferred iced coffee, mocking you by saying that coffee was supposed to be hot. A warm flush rose up your neck as you struggled to defend your decision, laughing nervously.
Time passed you by unnoticed until you looked at the clock and saw it was 12:47 AM. The reminder brought the exhaustion back, and the mental fog that had lifted during your effortless conversation returned. Joel seemed to notice and began wrapping up quickly. You cleaned and put away his dishes as he left, leaving only a faint trace of his presence.
Closing the diner didn't take long—just wiping down his table, double-checking the ovens, and turning off the lights. It was nearly 2:00 AM when you stepped outside. Your keys jingled, each step you took crunching against the gravel, but the sharp scent of smoke made you look up. A familiar figure leaned against his pickup, the vehicle still untouched. Smoke drifted lazily from the small ember in his hand, curling into the cool night air.
You came to a stop a few feet away, your stomach twisting. You'd enjoyed his company inside, but seeing him waiting for you outside made the hairs on your arms stand up.
"Joel?" you squeaked, trying to keep the fear out of your voice.
“Hey… I know how this looks. I just… God, uh, this is gonna sound pathetic…” He muttered, scratching the back of his head and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
You tilted your head while listening. Maybe it was foolish to hope he wasn't a creep, but something in his voice seemed genuine. You trusted your instincts and decided to listen to him.
“I really enjoyed talking to you,” he said, dragging the words slowly. “Haven’t had that… in a real long time. Hell, probably haven’t had that since… 'fore you were born.” His calloused hand rubbed across his face, brushing against the stubble on his jaw before dropping to tap the cigarette with his other hand. He took a drag, inhaling deeply and allowing the smoke to curl into the cold air. “I was just… I don’t know, being honest. Figured I’ve got nothing to lose. Was hoping you might want to… humor an old man?” He let out a nervous laugh at the end, nodding toward his car as if to soften the request.
Your lips tightened into a playful line, trying to hide the smile tugging at your cheeks. “Humor an old man?” You teased with a low, sultry voice.
He gave a rough laugh, the sound catching in his throat, before lowering his head slightly and returning your gaze. “Yeah… if you’re willin’.”
You swayed on your feet for a heartbeat, feigning hesitation as you considered your "decision," then took a slow step closer, and another. You felt his gaze as his breath hitched, just enough to make your pulse skip. You had to bite down lightly on your lower lip to keep a giggle from escaping.
Your fingers reached for the cigarette that still dangled between his fingers. With a grin, you flicked it away and stomped it out, then lifted your gaze through your lashes to meet his.
"So?" you murmured, allowing the single question to hang in the cool night air while waiting.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, the tension coiled in his shoulders, the slight shift of his stance telling you he was waiting—wanting. His hand hovered near yours for a moment, the warmth radiating from his skin brushing against yours.
Then, as if you had reached a silent agreement, he leaned forward, allowing his lips to brush yours in a gentle, testing kiss. It was soft and light at first, but it was enough to make your knees weak and your breath catch as you felt his beard tickle your face. You returned it by tilting your head and allowing your tongue to slip across his lips.
A strong pulse rushed from your stomach to your clit, and you felt your anatomy begin to pulse in anticipation. You let a foot lift ever so slightly to press your thighs together, but you underestimated Joel's expertise, it seems, because he immediately took note. And you knew when he began to grin into your kiss, his tongue more confidently brushing yours while grunting low and heavy into your mouth.
His hands reached out to pull your face closer to him, curling your upper lip between them before releasing it to do the same with your lower lip. His breath warmed against yours in the few moments between kisses, his teeth taking the place of his mouth and gently tugging on your lower lip. With a fleeting kiss, he leaned back, one hand leaving your cheek to reach for the passenger-side door, the other cradling your face and pulling you along.
It clicked open as he dragged you along, kissing you once before allowing you to enter the tall vehicle; his gaze followed your figure as he held your hand to keep you steady. He stepped in and immediately leaned over and reached to the side of the seat; his hand leaning on the head caused it to fall back, dragging you down with it. Joel crawled over you before carelessly slamming the door. His eyes softened when he saw you jump at the unexpected sound, and he apologized softly as he laid his body over yours.
He lowers his forehead to yours before catching your mouth again, your hand mirroring his as it cups his cheek. You can taste bitter coffee and cigarette, but there's still a hint of sweet cherry on your tongue when his lips brush against yours again. His other hand moves from your cheek to your neck, then down your chest. It stops below your breasts before it rises again, pushing one up as his thumb presses in between the space separating them.
His cheek scratches yours as he moves to your neck, leaving wet, open-mouth kisses on your skin. You tilt your head to the side to give him more access, shivering with a gasp as his thumb passes over your clothed nipple. You can feel his fingers under and alongside your breast press as he hears you.
You let your hand fall down his chest, to his belt, and eventually to the bulge growing in his worn jeans. It hovers at first before you press your palm into it—you gasp as he groans into your neck; you can feel the heat from his cock through his jeans—it feels thick and heavy in your hand.
The hand on your chest jumped to your waist as he tightly squeezed you in his palm; his eyes were closed tightly, his mouth hanging open, and a few soft groans floated out of his throat as you palmed him. His face nuzzled your neck absentmindedly while he tried and failed to keep his hips from gently rolling into your hand.
"Fuck... stop, baby." His hand wrapped around yours and gently pinned it to the head of the seat. "Gonna end this 'fore it starts." He grins playfully against your cheek.
He pushes himself up to face you, scanning your features before lowering himself. His knees crack as they slide from the seat to the floor, and his rough hands gently pull your hips closer to his face. You used to enjoy the convenience of having undershorts built into your skirts for work, but now you did anything but that. Your hips twitched against Joel's face, his nose pressed into the fabric as he inhaled, and his lips kissed your clothed pussy. He licked a slow stripe from your hole to your clit, and as you looked down, you saw his eyes rise and his lips curl into a grin at your response. Your head fell back with what was nothing short of a whimper, your hands meeting his hair. Grey twisted with a faded brown, it was soft and thick in your hands. He kissed your covered clit again before sliding his hand into your undershorts' crotch from the side. His knuckles brushed against your damp panties as he grabbed and roughly pulled on the shorts. You let out a yelp as the seams tore, briefly digging into your hips before the cloth gave way. You had little time to react before your panties were pulled to the side and his tongue was inserted into you.
His nose brushed your clit as his delicate muscle explored your walls, the mix of your wetness and his saliva making squelches much louder than you thought possible. He shook his head a little and growled, sending a tremor through you. He did nothing to stop you from rolling your hips greedily for more.
You cried, "Joel..." as you clenched your fists and tugged at his hair roots.
He pulled away to exhale deeply across your heat, kissing it repeatedly as if it were his long-lost love. Every other time he kissed, his tongue touched your clit before his lips found your inner thigh, and his fingers moved to take its place. He spread your lips and watched your hole tighten around nothing.
"Look how fucking needy she is, baby... leaking like a damn faucet." His middle finger poked at your entrance while his pointer and ring fingers kept you spread. "S'okay, I can fix that." He muttered before wrapping his mouth around your clit, his middle and ring fingers sinking into you. You groaned as your back arched off the seat, the old leather sticking to your sweat-soaked body. As his arm began to piston his fingers, he quickly added a third, flattening his tongue against you. There was no resistance, only a grunt against your clit with each twist of your hips. As his saliva trickled from your pussy, his name slipped from your mouth. He drew away from you briefly, panting just a hair's breadth from your skin. He heaved, his chin gleaming in the dim streetlights. "Tastes so good, baby..." inside of He kissed your pussy tenderly, as he had done with your lips. He kissed you as a lover would. Each time he moved his mouth, your hips were pushed closer and higher. He allowed it, even appreciated it, and smiled every time. He withdrew again, causing you to whine. He watched you intently as your gaze fixed on his. "You wanna cum?" He teases.
You stumbled, nearly every thought in your head hazy, "Fuck—Please."
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll make you cum." He scraped your inner thigh with his teeth. "Gonna make this pretty pussy push all that sweetness out for me." He took his time returning his mouth to your center, dragging a slow groan as his tongue dove back in. His hands were on top of your thighs, thumbs stroking the sides, but he did nothing to keep you down as your thighs cinched around his head. He sucked down your arousal with every groan you were struggling to cover up. You could feel every hushed moan he made but couldn't hear. His facial hair needled your inner thighs, but even with your head tilted back and your eyes sewn shut, you could feel the heat of his stare. Your mouth hung open as he continued to pull every sound out of you. He seemed as loud as you were, and as he lapped at you like a thirsty dog, the heat coiling inside you grew. With each drag, your muscle would clench around his. He could feel them growing in quick succession, his hands gripping your thighs tighter as he breathed you in. You were unable to think; all you could feel was the touch of his tongue, the prick of his beard, and the vibration of his throat as it circled your clit. Your chest heaved as your groans grew louder and your hands tightened around his hair. "That's it, baby... cum for me," he exclaimed almost whiningly. "C'mon, let me feel it." What broke you was his pleading, your voice breaking, and your body trembling. Without any desire of your own, your hips attempted to flee as your groans blended with his. You stopped writhing and shaking, but he continued to move. The man's boyish groans cut through the flood of your pleasure, and his mouth continued to devour everything your body offered him of your pleasure.
As he ate your pussy, you gasped and panted, defenseless against his unrelenting mouth. Your moans turned to whimpers, and your hands pushed weakly at his head. Reluctantly, he turned his mouth to your thigh and pulled back.
"Feel good, baby?"His voice tipped into a higher pitch as he asked.
You nodded dumbly with a soft "Uh-huh.You felt him smile against your thigh before he moved away, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing. With a furrowed brow, you turned your head to see what he was doing. Your gaze was drawn to the driver's side door as he stepped inside with a groan. He turned and gave you a strangely tender look.
"You comin' home with me?" He asked.
You hesitated for a moment, the weight of his question settling in your chest. The warmth of his gaze made your heart race, and you found yourself nodding, excitement bubbling up inside you at the thought of the evening ahead. His mouth twisted into a smile as he exhaled deeply and started the car with unsteady hands.
Pairing: Mechanic!Joel Miller x Reader (also age gap)
Summary: You car keeps breaking down. Joel Miller keeps being the one you end up with. Long stares, rough hands, and a voice that makes it impossible to breathe.
Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap (no specific age mentioned, but he’s older). Teaching kink, praise, light restraint (hands guided/pinned), unprotected PIV, reader is inexperienced-but-not-a-virgin
Word count: 6.3k
The first time it happens, you’re already embarrassed.
Your car coughs like it’s choking, rattles until the whole steering wheel trembles under your hands, and then sputters its last gasp before going dead right there on the side of the road. The red dash lights glare at you like they’re mocking you.
You try everything—turning the key, pumping the gas, whispering, cursing—but nothing works. It’s still and silent, leaving you alone with your frustration and the oppressive September sun beating down on your neck.
By the time the tow truck drops you off at Miller’s Garage, you’re sticky with sweat, hair plastered damp to the back of your neck, shirt clinging where it shouldn’t. You keep telling yourself it’s fine, that people break down all the time. You’re just another unlucky customer.
But the second you push open the door and hear the jangle of the bell overhead, that illusion dies.
Because Joel Miller is there.
He’s behind the counter, one hand working a rag over his palm, slow and steady. The other braces against the worn wood. The overhead light cuts along the slope of his shoulders, the grease-dark lines at the bend of his elbow.
He looks up.
It’s not what you expect. No smile, no frown—just eyes that pin you in place. Steady, unreadable, dark enough to make your lungs seize up. He’s older, that’s obvious—hair threaded with silver, stubble rough along his jaw. But that’s not what makes you falter. It’s the weight of his presence, the kind of gravity that fills the whole room.
“Car give up on you?” His voice is low, rough, like it carries grit in it.
You nod too fast, clutching your keys so tight the edges dig into your palm. “Y-yeah. I don’t… I don’t really know what happened. She just stopped, and I…”
The words trail off because you can feel how hot your face is getting, heat crawling from your chest straight up to your hairline. You hate how obvious it must be.
Joel doesn’t move right away. He just watches, like he’s cataloging the way you fumble. Then he tosses the rag onto the counter and straightens, wiping one last streak of grease across the thigh of his coveralls.
“That’s alright,” he says finally, deep and steady. “Leave her with me. I’ll see what she needs.”
The way he says it—what she needs—sends your stomach flipping. It’s stupid, you know it is. He’s talking about the car. Obviously. But it doesn’t sound like it, not with that slow drag of his voice, not with the way his eyes don’t leave yours even once.
You swallow, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, trying to find something normal to say. “Okay. Thank you. Um—thank you.”
He doesn’t smile, not exactly. Just a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, so faint you almost think you imagined it.
You sign the paperwork with shaky hands. Joel doesn’t comment on it. He explains what he’ll look at first—battery, fuel pump, maybe the alternator—but the words don’t really land because your head is buzzing too loud. You nod along anyway, cheeks burning the whole time.
By the time you step back outside, the heat feels suffocating. You don’t even notice the sun anymore. All you can feel is the echo of his voice, low and rough, sliding under your skin. All you can see is the way his shoulders filled out that faded cotton, the way his eyes didn’t let you go for a second.
You sit on the curb outside for a moment, trying to collect yourself. You should be embarrassed—mortified, really—but the only thing you can think about is him. The gravel in his tone. The slow, deliberate way he moved. The fact that he said what she needs and you’re still trembling from it.
And when you finally stand, brushing the dust from your skirt, you know you’re already dreading the next phone call from the shop, not because the car is failing again, but because you don’t trust yourself to be normal the next time you see Joel Miller.
You practice what you’ll say the whole walk over.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that could be mistaken for flirting. You will be normal, you promise yourself. You will be composed, you will not stare at his hands, you will not get stuck on the sound of his voice. You will smile like a person who isn’t constantly replaying the moment he said what she needs like it was meant for more than a car.
The afternoon is a little cooler than last time, a thin wind cutting through the late-September heat and lifting the hair off your neck. The garage doors of Miller’s are rolled halfway up. You catch a flash of a car lifted on the jack, the long, pale line of a driveshaft, and the echo of a socket wrench snapping loose. Metal, oil, heat. The place smells like work.
The bell over the front door clangs when you push it open. You half expect to be alone for a second, time to smooth your clothes, to breathe, but Joel is already there, bent over a stack of invoices behind the counter, forearms braced on wood scuffed to a dull shine. The overhead light glances off his hair where the silver threads. A fan in the corner ticks back and forth, pushing warm air.
He doesn’t look up right away, and somehow that’s worse. It makes you a little too aware of your body—where your bag strap sits, the damp line under your dress where sweat cooled, the way your pulse skitters in your wrist.
Then he glances up. Just a flick of his eyes at first, like he’s registering movement. Then a longer look that settles.
“Afternoon,” he says. That voice again, rough and unhurried. “Got your girl runnin’.”
Your shoulders drop an inch. “Oh. Good.” You try on a smile you hope reads as casual. “Thank you.”
He straightens, slow. Wipes his hands on a rag in a way that feels habitual, once, twice, the cloth catching on the scrape of his knuckles. He’s in a t-shirt now, not the coveralls from before, and the thin cotton clings along his chest where the heat got to it. There’s a smudge of black at the base of his throat, a crescent where he must have dragged a dirty hand without noticing.
“She needed a new belt,” he says. “Couple other things I’m keepin’ an eye on.” He nods toward the clipboard. “We’ll see how she behaves.”
Behaves. You swallow, nodding like you understand. You don’t, not really; the words swim a little when he speaks. He flips a page and the paper crackles; the fan clicks and turns; somewhere in the back the compressor hiccups on. It feels like your senses are turned up too high.
Joel sets the clipboard aside and leans a hip into the counter. It creaks gently beneath his weight. He surveys you, the way people do when they’re taking stock, calm, unbothered, not in any hurry to fill silence just because you are.
You make yourself breathe. “How much do I—um. I should—pay now?”
“Yeah.” The hint of a smile crosses his mouth, barely there. “Don’t worry. I didn’t give you the ‘pretty girl tax.’”
You blink. Heat skitters across your face so fast you feel a little lightheaded. “That’s—uh. Good,” you say, and immediately wish the tile would swallow you. Pretty girl. It shouldn’t land like that. You shouldn’t be reacting like that.
He writes the total. Slides the paper around so it faces you. Your eyes don’t focus right away. You pull your card out, fumble it, catch it with a clack against the counter. Smooth. You tell yourself to get a grip.
Joel’s gaze tracks the movement, the smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth like he’s amused in private.
“Been a while since this model saw a dealer floor,” he says, as if to rescue you from yourself. “Most folks don’t keep ’em this long.”
“Most folks give up easy,” you say, and then panic because it sounds like a challenge.
“Mm.” He hums. “Or they get tired o’ fixin’ the same trouble.”
You hand the card over. Your fingers brush his—just a brush, not even a full touch—and something zings up your arm like you grabbed a live wire. He doesn’t react. He just takes it and swipes it through the old terminal that complains for a second before accepting defeat.
“Honestly,” you add, too quick, trying to clean your own mess, “I don’t… I don’t mind the extra work.” You sign your name. Your hand shakes a little, traitorous. You steady it. “I like—” The words tangle, and you have to push them out. “I like the old ones. Even if they’re harder to handle.”
You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. You keep your eyes on the looping tail of your last letter until the pen nearly slips from your damp grip.
Silence.
Not empty. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just full.
You feel it before you see it, the way the air changes. The fan ticks, the compressor kicks off, and in the hush you can hear your own breath.
When you finally lift your eyes, Joel is still and intent, like whatever you just handed him is heavier than your card.
He doesn’t smile this time. Doesn’t tease. He studies you, your mouth, your damp hairline, the pink that climbed into your cheeks like the sun rose there. It isn’t invasive, but it isn’t kind either. It’s assessment. It’s understanding.
Something tugs in your stomach, low and hot. You try to swallow. It doesn’t go down right.
He taps the signed receipt once with a blunt finger, almost like he needed something to move. Then he folds it, neat, slides your copy over. His knuckles are nicked; a pale scar breaks the line of one, white against tan.
“Harder to handle,” he repeats at last, and the way the words come out—low, testing—makes your knees go soft. “Huh.”
You laugh, a tiny sound that betrays you, fragile and breathless. “I just meant—she’s old, but—she’s good.” You wince. “The car. I mean. She’s—”
“You don’t gotta explain it,” he says, and there’s a softness there that wasn’t before. Not indulgent, but something adjacent. “Some things are worth the trouble.”
His eyes catch yours when he says it. Hold. Don’t let go.
You make the mistake of holding back. The moment stretches, and you can feel yourself flushed just from being looked at. You’re too aware of the way your dress clings between your shoulder blades. Too aware of the pulse above your collarbone. Too aware of him: the dark at his throat, the notch of his bicep under thin cotton, the calm line of his mouth.
You can’t breathe right. You look away first—coward—and point vaguely toward the bay doors. “Is it—can I?”
Joel blinks, like whatever he was doing in his head dissolves on contact. He nods toward the back. “Keys are in it. I pulled her up front for you.”
You nod. You can’t seem to stop nodding. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t move. He’s still braced there when you step away from the counter, still watching in that quiet way of his. You feel it prickling along your spine, a hand between your shoulder blades that never actually touches you.
Your palm slips on the door handle. You fumble it and then get it right, cursing yourself on a loop. The fan clicks behind you. Someone in the back drops something small—nut, bolt, a tiny, bright clatter that pings around the garage. You step outside like you’re breaking the surface of a pool.
The car sits just inside the bay, angled nose-out. The hood is down. There’s a new belt somewhere in there, hidden like a secret spine. You tell yourself to focus on that—on function, on relief—but the only thing your mind holds is the weight of Joel’s stare.
You climb in. The seat is warm from the building, soft in places it shouldn’t be. You turn the key and she catches after a reluctant stumble. The engine hums with something like apology.
When you check your mirrors, you catch him in the rearview: a sliver of him in the bay door’s rectangle. He hasn’t gone back to the invoices. He hasn’t touched the rag again. He’s just there, hands on the counter, head tipped a fraction as he watches the car idle. As he watches you.
You grip the wheel. Your mouth is dry. You think, wildly, that you should wave. You don’t trust your wrist to follow instruction.
Instead, you put her in drive and roll forward slow, like if you move too fast you’ll spook the moment and shatter it. The sunlight hits, sharp, and the wind slides a strand of hair across your cheek. Your heart is a staccato against your ribs.
At the edge of the lot, you glance back because you can’t help yourself. Joel is still there, smaller with distance, but no less fixed. He lifts his chin just barely, acknowledgment or farewell or something heavier disguised as either. You don’t know. You don’t know anything except the heat sitting low in your belly and the way your skin feels too tight.
You turn onto the road. The engine settles into its new rhythm, the belt doing the invisible work you paid for. The open window drags warm air across your throat. You tell yourself to think about the bill, the numbers, the fact that at least this time you didn’t knock anything off a hood.
But your body holds the scene like a hand around a match.
Harder to handle, he’d said. Testing the fit of it in his mouth.
You drive past a grocery store, a laundromat with fading letters, a church marquee that says “SOMEDAY ISN’T A DAY OF THE WEEK.” Your cheeks are still hot, and you can’t decide if it’s from embarrassment or something you can’t name yet without setting yourself on fire.
By the time you pull into your apartment’s tired lot, you’ve convinced yourself you imagined it. The look. The silence. The way he said it back to you. You make a deal with your own mind: you will be normal next time. You’ll wear shorts you don’t mind getting dirty. You will ask about belts and tensioners and maintenance schedules like a person in control of herself.
You turn the key and the engine goes quiet. The sudden lack of noise makes the world feel too sharp. Your ears ring. The smell of oil that clung to your dress stays with you all the way up the stairs.
Inside, the apartment is cool, dim, unhelpfully empty. You lean your forehead against the door and inhale, slow and shaky, because there’s no one here to see it. You don’t cry. It’s not that kind of heat.
You peel your dress away from your skin and think about hands you didn’t touch, a mouth that didn’t smile, a voice that lodged somewhere deep enough to change your breathing.
You tell yourself to let it go.
But when you finally sleep, it’s to the soft phantom feel of callused fingers sliding a receipt across wood, the taste of mint and heat and the faint ghost of oil at the corner of his lip when he kisses you in a dream, and a steady, patient stare that follows you even in the dark.
It’s been a month. A whole month since you last saw him.
You told yourself you’d let it go. You tried. But Joel Miller has lived in your head every single day since. Every time you started the car, you thought about his hands on the hood. Every time you saw silver hair in the grocery store or grease stains on someone’s shirt, you remembered the weight of his eyes.
You dreamed once—dreamt of the fan ticking in his office, of callused fingers brushing yours when he slid the receipt over, of him saying harder to handle in that low voice that made your knees weak. You woke flushed and aching, embarrassed at yourself but unable to stop.
And then today, of course, your car dies again.
This time she doesn’t even make it halfway across town. A final sputter, a grinding cough, and then nothing. You sit in the silence of the stalled engine, heart sinking.
You think about calling a different tow. You almost do. But your fingers dial Miller’s before you can stop yourself.
When the truck pulls up, it’s him.
Joel climbs down from the cab, sun on his shoulders, and your whole body betrays you. Heat rushes your face, your pulse jumps, your throat goes dry. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Doesn’t look amused, either. Just steady, unreadable, like always.
“Well,” he says, voice carrying in the warm air, “guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
You manage a weak laugh. “Yeah. She—uh… didn’t make it.”
“Mm.” He opens the passenger side door for you. “Hop in. I’ll deal with her.”
The cab is hot, the vinyl seats sticky against your legs. You fold your hands tight in your lap, trying not to fidget, trying not to notice how close he’ll be sitting once he gets back in.
Joel secures your car to the flatbed with practiced ease, strong arms braced as he cranks the winch, muscles moving beneath his shirt. You catch yourself staring and whip your gaze back to the dashboard, cheeks burning.
Then the driver’s door creaks open and he’s beside you. The cab feels smaller instantly, his body filling the space, his scent—oil, sweat, soap—so thick you almost choke on it.
He glances at you once as he starts the engine. “Seatbelt.”
You fumble for it, hands clumsy. The buckle clacks against the slot, misses, clacks again. Your ears are hot.
Joel watches for a beat, then reaches over and does it himself. His hand brushes your hip as he pulls the belt across you, big fingers snapping it into place with ease. You go rigid, every nerve sparking.
“Thank you,” you whisper, mortified at how thin your voice sounds.
He hums low, shifts the truck into drive. “You’re trouble,” he mutters, almost to himself.
You bite your lip, heart pounding. “It’s—it’s not my fault it keeps breaking.”
Joel glances sideways, eyes sharp in profile. “Didn’t say it was the car I meant.”
The words sink in, heavy, and you can’t breathe for a second.
You twist your fingers in your lap, fumbling for something—anything—to say. “I—I didn’t… I’m not…”
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t look at you again. Just drives, forearms flexing on the wheel, jaw tight.
The silence in the cab is thick, full of everything you don’t know how to admit—that you’ve thought about him too much, that you’ve imagined things you shouldn’t, that you’ve never wanted someone the way you want him.
Your cheeks are hot the whole ride back, and you can feel his presence like a hand on your thigh that never actually lands.
—
Joel doesn’t say much when you get back to the shop. He lowers your car off the flatbed with steady, practiced motions, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, jaw tight. You hover near the door, arms folded, pretending to study the oil-stained concrete because you can’t look at him without remembering how close he sat beside you in the truck.
When he finally comes inside, the bell clanging as the door swings shut behind him, he doesn’t head straight for the counter. He stops a few feet in front of you. The rag is still in his hand, dragging slow across his palm.
“This thing’s done for,” he says flatly, nodding toward the window where your car sits. “I can patch her up again, but she’s hangin’ on by threads. You oughta think about lettin’ her go.”
Your throat tightens. You know he’s right—you’ve known it for a while—but you hate the idea of giving in, of being the kind of person who trades old for new. You swallow, staring down at your shoes.
“I don’t… want to,” you murmur. “I like her. Even if she’s… difficult.”
The words come out small, almost swallowed, but Joel hears them. You know he does because he goes very still.
The rag stills in his hand. His jaw flexes once, twice, like he’s grinding something down. Then he looks at you—really looks, heavy and sharp and burning straight through you.
“Say that again,” he rasps.
Your pulse stumbles. “I—I like the old ones.” Your voice wavers. “Even if they’re harder to handle.”
The silence that follows is crushing. You wish you could rewind, take it back, say something normal. But the words are already hanging there, thick in the air, and Joel’s chest is rising slow and deep like he’s keeping himself in check by force.
Then the rag hits the counter with a dull slap.
In two strides, he’s in front of you. His hand comes up, rough fingers curling under your jaw, tilting your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. They’re darker than you’ve ever seen, steady and unreadable no longer. Now they’re burning.
“You got no fuckin’ idea what you’re doin’, do you?” he says, almost quiet, dangerous in the way quiet can be. “Comin’ in here month after month, blushin’, stammerin’, lookin’ at me with those eyes—”
“I wasn’t—” you start, but your voice cracks in the middle, betraying you.
His thumb drags slow across your jaw, rough skin catching on your lip. He’s so close you can taste his breath—oil, heat, something darker underneath.
Your chest heaves. You should shake your head, deny it, run—but instead your mouth betrays you. The words tumble out, quiet, clumsy, but true: “I think about you,” you whisper. Your cheeks burn hot enough to scorch. “All the time. I… I don’t know what I’m doing, but… I want—”
The silence that follows is brutal. You squeeze your eyes shut, humiliated, ready for him to laugh or shove you away.
But he doesn’t.
Joel exhales hard, like the dam finally breaks. His grip tightens at your waist, dragging you against him. “Fuck,” he rasps. “That’s all I needed.”
And then his mouth is on yours.
It isn’t gentle. It’s hot, consuming, a kiss that devours the breath straight out of you. His lips claim yours, teeth grazing, tongue sliding deep before you can gasp. You whimper into him, fists clenching uselessly until he catches your wrists and presses them flat against the hood.
“Here,” he mutters, voice ragged against your mouth. “Keep ’em there.”
You nod frantically, chest shuddering, thighs trembling against the cold metal behind you.
His palms skim down your sides, over your hips, rough and firm, until his fingers grip the hem of your skirt. You twitch at the contact, and he chuckles dark against your throat. “Skittish little thing,” he murmurs, nipping hard enough to make you gasp. “Relax. Let me show you.”
Your breath hitches, but you try—you really try—to let yourself be held in the heat of him.
When you lift one hand, tentative, toward his chest, Joel catches it. Guides your palm flat over the hard plane of muscle under his shirt, pins it there with his own. “Feel that?” he growls, teeth scraping your jaw. “That’s yours right now. Take it.”
Your fingers curl, clumsy but desperate, tugging at fabric. Joel groans low, approving. “Attagirl,” he praises, rough and wrecked. “Just like that.”
His knee wedges between your thighs, denim pressing firm against your center, grinding you down until you moan into his mouth. Your back arches helplessly, the hood rattling beneath you.
Joel swallows the sound, pushes his tongue deeper, one hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you still. He drags your other hand lower, guides it over the ridge straining against his jeans. You jolt, freezing, eyes wide.
“Easy,” he says, voice dark silk. He presses your palm firmer against him, hissing through his teeth. “That’s me wantin’ you. Don’t gotta be shy about it.”
Heat floods you, shame tangled with aching want. “Joel—”
“Yeah, baby. Say my name like that.” His thumb strokes along your knuckles, coaxing, teaching. “Upstairs. Now.”
He hauls you off the hood before your knees can buckle, steadying you with a hand on your hip. His other hand never lets go of yours as he drags you toward the back staircase, up into the small apartment above the shop.
The door clicks shut behind you, and Joel’s on you again—mouth hungry, hands everywhere—walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed.
“You think about me?” He murmurs against your lips, rough and low. “Gonna make sure you don’t think about nothin’ else after tonight.”
He kisses you like he’s been starving. Hot, consuming, nothing hesitant about it. His mouth tastes like mint and heat, and there’s the faint ghost of oil at the corner of his lip when his tongue drags against yours.
“You got no idea,” he mutters against your mouth, voice shredded with restraint. “No idea what you do to me, comin’ in my shop with those eyes, that little voice—makin’ me think about this when I shouldn’t.”
You whimper, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. He kisses you harder, deeper, until you’re dizzy, until you’re clinging.
Then he pulls back, just enough to look at you. His eyes are black in the dim light, his chest heaving. “You tell me now,” he says, low, commanding. “You want this? You want me to teach you?”
Your cheeks flame, but you nod. “Yes. Please.”
That’s all it takes.
Joel groans, shoves your thighs open with rough hands, and steps between them. He drags your palms up over his chest, slow, guiding, until they’re resting on the thick muscle of his shoulders. “Hold on right there. Don’t let go.”
His mouth trails down your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You gasp, arching against him, and his hands tighten on your waist. “Sensitive little thing,” he growls, kissing lower. “That’s good. Means you’ll learn quick.”
He kneels in front of you, spreading your legs wider. His palms skim up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher until the cool air hits your skin. You bite your lip, trembling.
“Look at me,” Joel orders. His eyes catch yours, pinning you. “First lesson. Don’t hide from it. You want somethin’? You look me in the eye when I give it to you.”
Your stomach flips, but you nod. You keep your gaze on him even as his hands curl over your hips, even as his mouth presses hot, open kisses along the inside of your thigh.
The first swipe of his tongue against you makes your whole body jolt. You moan, sharp and broken, one hand flying down before you can stop it. Joel catches your wrist midair.
“Told you—hold on.” His grip is firm, pressing your hand back to his shoulder. “Let me show you.”
He licks into you again, slower this time, savoring. You writhe against his mouth, heat pooling low and fierce, tears stinging the corners of your eyes from the intensity. No one’s ever touched you like this, like you’re worth devouring.
When your hips buck, Joel groans against you, rough and approving. “That’s it. Don’t fight it. Let it happen.”
You clutch his shoulders like a lifeline, thighs trembling around his head. Your voice is a wreck when you manage his name—“Joel—oh my God—Joel—”
He pulls back just long enough to smirk up at you, beard wet, lips slick. “Sweetheart, we’re just gettin’ started.”
He stands, looming over you, hands already tugging at his belt. The clink of metal makes your stomach clench. He takes your hand—small, shaking—and wraps it around the thick ridge of him straining against his jeans. Guides your palm up, down, slow.
“That’s me wantin’ you,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, eyes burning into yours. “Don’t be shy. Feel it. Learn it.”
Your cheeks blaze, but you squeeze, clumsy and unsure. Joel groans, head tipping back. His hand covers yours, showing you the pace, the pressure. “Yeah. Just like that. Attagirl.”
You’ve never heard anything filthier than the sound of his praise.
He shoves your skirt higher, fingers sliding beneath your panties, rough pads teasing your slick folds. You gasp, legs spreading wider without thought.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, almost reverent. “So fuckin’ wet for me. You been this wet before?”
You shake your head frantically, face flaming. “N-no—”
Joel’s thumb drags slow circles over your clit until your thighs are trembling against his hips. Every nerve is raw, every sound out of you high and unsteady. He keeps his eyes on you, heavy and dark, even as your lashes flutter. “Stay with me,” he mutters, low and rough. His free hand cups your cheek—the one with the pale scar you noticed at the counter—and you feel absurdly safe even as he ruins you. “Don’t run from it. Look at me.”
You try. God, you try—but when he pushes two thick fingers inside you, your head tips back with a broken cry. He fills you too easily, curling just right until sparks shoot up your spine.
“That’s it,” Joel praises, curling again, dragging a moan from deep in your chest. “Tight little thing. Didn’t even know what you were missin’, did you?”
You whimper, shaking your head. “N-no—”
“Shh.” His mouth is at your ear now, hot and commanding. “You’re learnin’ now.”
He works you open slow, rough but careful, until you’re slick and panting around his fingers. Then he pulls them free, leaving you clenching on nothing, and undoes his belt with one sharp pull. The sound makes your stomach flip.
“Gonna stretch you,” he says, matter-of-fact, almost gentle even though his voice is shredded with need. “You’ll take me, but you’re gonna listen. Do exactly what I say, yeah?”
You nod frantically, cheeks blazing.
Joel guides the head of his cock through your folds, slow, deliberate, coating himself in your wetness. The first push makes you gasp, eyes wide. He pauses immediately, one big hand braced on your hip, the other stroking your cheek. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, coaxing. “Long breath in, let it out. Good girl.”
He pushes deeper. You moan, clutching at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him. Joel’s jaw clenches as he holds still, letting you adjust, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin.
“Feels too big now, don’t it?” His voice is a low growl, intimate, almost tender. “But you can take it. Relax. Trust me.”
You sob out a broken “Joel,” and his breath shudders against your neck.
“Attagirl. That’s it. You’re takin’ me so well.”
Once you loosen beneath him, he rocks his hips slow, letting you feel every inch. You gasp, nails digging into his shirt, thighs trembling. He groans low, forehead pressing to yours. “Listen to that,” he pants, hips grinding deeper. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Never had anyone fill you like this, have you?”
Your answer is just a breathless cry, your body arching helplessly.
Joel chuckles, dark and wrecked. “Didn’t think so. Don’t worry—I’ll teach you.”
His hand slides down to guide your leg higher around his waist, opening you up more. He pushes deeper, harder, until you moan his name again.
You hold, teetering—one heartbeat, two—
“Listen to me,” he growls, voice low and ragged in your ear. “You’re close, aren’t you? Can feel you squeezin’ me. Don’t hold back, baby. Let me have it.”
You moan his name, nails biting through his shirt, your body trembling as the heat builds unbearable and tight. Joel keeps his pace steady, grinding into that spot again and again until you’re keening under him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, guiding your hips to roll with his. “Right there. You feel it? Right where you’re gonna break for me.”
And then you do. Your whole body arches, legs locking around him as your orgasm crashes through you. It tears a cry out of your throat, high and raw, and your vision goes white around the edges. Joel groans, guttural, holding you down as you clench tight around him, milking him with every desperate pulse.
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, teeth sinking into your shoulder. “That’s it, that’s my girl. Come for me, soak me—fuck—”
You’re gasping, whimpering, body jerking helplessly as it rolls through you in waves. Joel doesn’t let up—he fucks you through it, his thrusts slower now but deep, deliberate, drawing out every aftershock until you’re sobbing against his chest.
“Good girl,” he whispers, voice gone soft around the edges. “Did so good for me. Didn’t know you could come like that, did you?”
You can only shake your head weakly, still trembling, still fluttering tight around him.
The sight of you wrecked is Joel’s undoing. His thrusts go rougher, sharper, each one dragging a low grunt from his chest. He buries his face against your neck, breath hot, curses muffled against your damp skin.
“Goddamn— you’re squeezin’ me so tight—fuck—gonna fill you up, baby—”
Your nails claw at his back, dragging broken gasps out of your throat. “Please, Joel—”
That shatters the last of his restraint. He slams deep, hips stuttering as his orgasm rips through him. He groans your name like a prayer, spilling hot inside you, thrusts sloppy and desperate as he rides it out. His whole body shakes with it, muscles tense, holding you down as if he can’t bear to let you go.
When it finally ebbs, he stays buried in you, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He presses a long, rough kiss to your forehead—almost reverent—before easing back just enough to see your face.
“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice is gravel, but there’s gentleness threaded through. His thumb strokes your cheek, wiping a damp strand of hair away.
You nod, dazed, cheeks flaming. “Y-yeah.”
“Yeah, you are.” He kisses your temple, slower this time. “Took me so good. Better than I ever imagined.”
He pulls out carefully, shushing your little whimper at the loss, and grabs a clean rag to tend you. His touch is gentle now, almost tender, and when he settles you against his chest, he tucks the sheet around you like it’s second nature.
“Lesson one’s over,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hairline. “But I’m not done teachin’ you. Not by a long shot.”
The room is dim now, only the hum of the box fan in the corner and the faint creak of the old building settling around you. Your body is a haze of ache and warmth, still trembling in little aftershocks every time you shift.
Joel’s beside you, half-sitting against the headboard, one arm looped around your shoulders. His skin is still hot from earlier, damp where your cheek rests against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear—steady, slower now, but strong.
You’d almost fallen asleep like this, but the brush of his hand down your arm stirs you. He’s tracing lazy lines along your skin, thumb dragging soft circles into your wrist.
“Hey.” His voice is quieter now, low but not sharp, just gravel worn smooth. “You with me?”
You hum, blinking heavy-lidded. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
Joel chuckles, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “’Course you are. Wore you out, didn’t I?”
Heat blooms in your face, but you don’t pull away. You mumble into his chest, “That was… a lot.”
His hand stills, cupping your jaw gently, coaxing your face up so he can see you. His eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen, dark but not burning. “Too much?”
You shake your head quickly. “No. I—I liked it. I just… no one’s ever—” You break off, biting your lip, embarrassed to finish.
Joel leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth slow, grounding. “No one’s ever taken the time,” he finishes for you. “Yeah. I figured.” His thumb strokes your cheek, gentle as ever. “You let me know if I push too hard. This is supposed to feel good, not scare you.”
Your throat tightens. You nod. “It did feel good. Really good.”
His mouth twitches—half a smile, tired but genuine. “Good girl.”
You feel the praise all the way down your spine.
Joel shifts, reaching for the nightstand. A bottle of water sits there, half-empty. He twists the cap off and presses it into your hand. “Drink. You’ll thank me later.”
You sip obediently, throat still raw, and he watches until you hand it back. Then he leans down and presses his lips to your damp hair, a kiss so light it makes your chest ache.
“You hungry?” he asks after a beat. “Ain’t much up here, but I can throw somethin’ together. Eggs, maybe. Sandwich.”
From downstairs, the old compressor coughs to life and you both go still. Joel huffs a laugh into your hair. “Timer on that thing’s older than your car,” he murmurs. “We’ll fix it… later.”
The idea of Joel Miller making you food in the tiny apartment above his shop sends a strange heat curling through your chest. You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Not right now.”
He hums, satisfied, and tugs the sheet higher around your shoulders. His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers slotting between yours—rough, callused, steady. He tucks your knee over his thigh even while you’re bundled in the sheet, like he can’t stand the idea of you not being anchored to him.
“You did good tonight,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Better than I expected. You trust me?”
You nod into his chest. “Yeah.”
Joel exhales, deep and heavy, and kisses the top of your head again. “Then I’ll teach you everything you wanna know. Tomorrow I’ll show you how to make me come with your hand, slow.”
The promise hangs in the air, warm and sure. You fall asleep with his hand wrapped around yours, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and for the first time in weeks your dreams are quiet.
summary: Patrols with Joel are usually always the same. He leads and you follow. It's what works. Until one night when you confess far too much and it opens up a can of worms that neither of you can seem to put away.
part ii of ii
part i can be found here! part ii follows part i so i do recommend reading it if you haven't.
word count: 4.8k
rating: explicit
warnings/tags: smut, first time, romance, age difference (reader is mid 20s, joel is early 50s), reader is AFAB but with no other descriptors
a/n: finally got to writing part 2! i haven't edited this yet so excuse any errors/mistakes. i didn't intend for this to get as sappy as it did but i do hope it still stays true to characterizations. as always, please let me know your thoughts!
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
The dining hall is fairly quiet this morning. You’re grateful since you were hoping to distract yourself from the continuous thoughts of Joel you’ve had since he made you that offer on your porch almost two weeks ago. You haven’t had a chance to see him since. Your patrol schedules haven’t aligned and he isn’t really the one to socialize all that much but somewhere in your heart, you wonder if it’s on purpose. Whether he regrets his offer and is avoiding you until it blows over. The chances of that happening though, are basically zero. You’ve thought about what he’s said since the minute he started walking back home that morning. Whenever you have a spare moment, you ponder it in your mind. What his hands would feel like on you, how his beard would feel against your neck, the sort of sounds he’d make. It’s like you’ve been infected with some sort of horny virus that’s hyper-specific to Joel Miller. You haven’t even told Maya about it yet, worried that it would be pointless if Joel really has regretted saying anything to you.
Which is exactly why you woke up this morning, grabbed a battered version of The Count of Monte Cristo you had found on a run a few weeks ago, and decided to read during breakfast. You’ve never been one to mull over men but Joel Miller has somehow wormed his way into your mind and at this point, it’s sort of frustrating having to distract yourself from thoughts about him. You’re just starting chapter three when someone clears their throat. You look up to see Joel Miller standing in front of you, an unreadable expression on his face. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. You can feel your face beginning to warm up.
“Joel,” you greet, giving him a nod.
“Mornin’,” he says, sounding rather gruff. His cheeks are flushed, probably from the cold air and his hair is just long enough that it curls around his ears. As always, he looks as handsome as ever.
“Can I sit?” he asks and you do your best not to look surprised as you nod. You think you might look a bit like a deer in headlights. He takes the seat across from you, his broad frame filling the space in front of you.
“I just wanted to apologize,” he says and you can feel your brows furrow. “For what I said that mornin’ on your porch. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Now, your eyes do widen. You’re about to interrupt but he keeps going.
“I realize that it was probably odd for you, havin’ me come in and offer something like that. Like I said, it’s none of my business and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do somethin’ you don’t wanna do.”
“No,” you say, abruptly. His brown eyes widen a bit and the pitch of your voice. You realize how loud you must have sounded and look around to see if anyone is looking at the two of you. Thankfully, the dining hall is still mostly empty save for a few people scattered around.
“What I mean is that you didn’t,” you say, looking back at Joel and speaking softly. “Make me uncomfortable, that is.”
He nods, looking relieved but not convinced. “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” you agree. And then you begin to ramble, like you always seem to do when you’re having a conversation with Joel Miller. “I want to take you up on your, um, offer. I just haven’t seen you around and I didn’t know if it would be weird to like, knock on your door and say ‘Hey Joel, can we have sex please?’ y’know? I guess, I didn’t really know how to proceed and I’m sorry if it seemed like I was disinterested - ”
“Hey,” he says, cutting you off. “Take a breath. And stop apologizing. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. If anything, I might have overstepped.”
“You didn’t,” you say, quickly. “You really didn’t.”
There’s a pregnant pause and then he nods, before standing up. He’s leaving? But you haven’t even figured out what to do next.
“I’m glad,” he says.
“You’re leaving?” you ask, trying not to sound too disappointed. You see the corner of his mouth twitch in a maybe smile.
“Have patrol,” he says, although he sounds a bit reluctant.
“Oh,” you say. Then you bite the bullet. “So when can we?”
You watch him flex his hand, the muscles moving beneath the sleeve of his flannel.
“Whenever you want,” he says, voice serious. “Just knock on my door and say Hey Joel, can we have se-”
“Okay,” you say quickly, cutting him off. Your cheeks feel warm and so do your ears but you’re pleased that he cracked a joke. He smiles then, not just a twitch of his mouth or a ghost of a dimple but a real smile. There just for a second before it’s gone again.
“I mean it,” he says. “Whenever you want. If you want.”
“I do,” you say, again far too quickly. He nods, and now his eyes are dark as they trace over you. “What about today?”
“I’ll be back from patrol at sundown,” he says. “I’ll come to yours ‘round nine, if that’s fine for you.”
You nod, clearing your throat and suddenly feeling warmth in the pit of your stomach. “Fine with me,” you agree. “I’ll see you then.”
He nods before he turns around. You try not to watch his retreating figure but your eyes trace over his broad shoulders and his back, how long his legs are and how sure of himself he seems. You feel a flutter in your stomach and look around to make sure no one saw you ogling Joel Miller.
Nine p.m. can’t come soon enough, you think as you try to resume reading your book.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺
There’s a sharp knock on your door exactly at nine. You smile as you walk towards it. Joel is never late, not for patrol and now not for this. When you open the door, he’s standing there, looking cold. You step aside.
“Come in,” you say and he does, taking his coat off as he walks through the threshold and then Joel Miller is in your house. You both look at each other and he clears his throat.
“How are you?” he asks. You want to say that you’re better now that he’s here and that you’ve spent the better part of your day thinking about this very moment but instead you smile, shrugging.
“Fine,” you say. “How was patrol?”
Joel frowns. “S’awful. Paired up with some new kid that never shot a gun and thought doin’ so right as we entered the perimeter would be a great idea.”
You wince, scrunching your nose. You can empathize with him. You were once paired with an eighteen year old that thought it would be hilarious to shoot at a skittish deer only for a clicker to come out nowhere and tackle him. You had managed to kill it somehow but your hands had shaken the whole day after that.
“That sucks,” you say. “Bet you missed being partnered up with me.”
You mean it as a joke but he doesn’t smile.
“You’re a good patrol partner,” he says, voice serious. You snort.
“I just follow orders,” you say, shrugging. He shakes his head.
“There’s that. But you’re also vigilant, and you’re good at spottin’ things and thinkin’ fast,” he explains. He sounds genuine and you feel yourself flush.
“Thanks Joel,” you say. He nods and then looks around your living room. It’s warm from the fire you had going and you’ve done your best to try to decorate it with trinkets you’ve found on runs and around town. It’s cozy and some part of you hopes Joel thinks so too.
“S’nice,” he says when he looks back at you. You smile, gesturing for him to sit down on your couch.
“Do you want something to drink?” you ask and he shakes his head. Suddenly, tension creeps through the room and you can feel your palms beginning to sweat. Now what? Do you just climb on his lap and beg him to fuck you? Or do you ask? The first option seems desperate although at this point, you truly are desperate for him. And the second seems far too serious.
“Why do you wanna do this?” he asks, cutting through the silence, and it’s definitely not what you’re expecting. Your mind blanks for a second before you realize you have to answer him.
“I just do,” is the first thing out of your mouth. “I mean, I want to do this. And I trust you.”
He nods, seeming satisfied with your answer.
“Alright,” he says. Then he spreads his legs further and taps his left thigh. “C’mere.”
You stand up immediately, and walk towards him, standing between his legs. He wraps one large hand around your wrist, tugging you so that your knees brace around his thighs. You’re straddling him. You’re straddling Joel Miller. Your heart starts pounding in your chest and you take a breath, trying to calm your nerves. You settle so you’re more comfortable. This close you can smell the scent of the soap he uses and something else, more woodsy. He takes your chin between his fingers, making you focus on his eyes.
“We stop whenever you wanna stop,” he says, serious. His eyes are so dark now, you can barely see the brown around his pupils.
“Or you,” you say, voice breathier than it was a few moments ago. You’re pretty sure your heart is beating at a mile a minute. Joel smiles, a real smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle and you want to kiss him there.
“Don’t think I’m gonna wanna stop,” he says, voice lower.
“Me neither,” you say, leaning towards him. When you kiss him, something warm cracks open in your chest. You feel him pull you closer, his hand gripping your hips. You open your mouth in a moan and feel his tongue run across your bottom lip. You’re gripping his shoulders so tight that you’d probably leave marks if he was shirtless. You’re not sure when you started rocking your hips against him but he stills you with his warm hands, squeezing your hips. You whine, biting at his bottom lip as he pulls away.
“Joel,” you say and you’re surprised by how needy you sound. “Please.”
He chuckles. “Tell me about that dream of yours,” he says. It’s not what you’re expecting and if you were any less turned on you’d probably be embarrassed.
“Really? Right now?” you ask. “Feel like there are better things we could be doing.”
“Humour me,” he says. His eyes trace over your face and you shift slightly in his lap, feeling how hard he is beneath you. You move your hips a bit more before he stills you, squeezing your hip hard enough that you hope there’s a bruise in the morning.
“Um, well, it was sort of like this,” you start, curling your arm across his upper back. You like how you can feel the muscles move as he shifts. “And you were sort of,” you pause here, suddenly feeling shy.
“I was sorta what?” he asks, voice soft.
“You were touching me,” you say, voice breathy again. His hand skates across your torso, lifting the bottom of your shift so the tips of his fingers brush just below your belly button.
“Like this?” he asks and you shake your head. You take his hand, pushing it below the elastic of your cotton pants so that it rests right above where you want him the most. You’re so wet he can probably feel it through your underwear. You shift again, looking for more friction.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he says and you moan. He rubs you through your underwear and you can feel yourself clench around nothing. “S’all I did?” he asks and you shake your head.
“What else?” he asks and his mouth brushes against yours. You kiss him and he allows it, sucking on your tongue before he pulls back, just a fraction so that your mouths are separated.
“You put your fingers in me,” you say. He hums, looking pleased. He pushes your underwear aside, and the direct contact of his finger against your clit has you bucking your hips. He shushes you, before petting you some more.
“Joel,” you moan. “Inside me, please.”
You’ve gone past caring if you sound desperate. You need some part of him in you right now or you might just combust. He answers your pleas by slipping his middle finger in and curling it just so perfectly. You clench around him and he grunts. It’s thicker than your own fingers and the feeling of being full isn’t lost on you. You shift your hips, greedy for more.
“You’re so tight,” he says and he sounds like he’s trying to contain himself. “Fuck,” he says and you moan. You can hear the wet noises of his finger moving inside of you and then you feel a second one prod at you. You widen your knees to give him better access and he tucks his head against your shoulder, kissing at the soft skin of your neck.
“You’re dripping all over my wrist,” he says as you keep moving your hips. Your head tilts back, eyes closing in pleasure. You’re so close, you can feel it in your fingertips and toes. Suddenly, he stops and you make a noise of protest.
“Joel,” you say and he’s lifting you off of his lap before shifting you so you’re flat on your back on the couch.
“Can I take these off?” he asks, gesturing to your pants. You nod, still dazed. He tugs them off quickly, tossing them aside.
“Need to taste you,” he says, before he’s pushing your knees apart and settling himself between them. You should feel exposed. You’ve never been in front of a man like this. But somehow, you don’t. You trust Joel. And right now he’s looking at you like you’re the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. He looks right at you as he lowers his face and licks from your clit and all the way down and the noise you let out is so loud you hope for her sake that Mrs. Alvarez is asleep.
He keeps watching your face, as he presses his nose against your clit and you can’t even find it in yourself to feel embarrassed as you grind your hips against his face. Joel makes a noise, almost like a grunt and then you feel his tongue inside of you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you arch your back. You must look possessed, but you don’t care. This is better than any dream you’ll ever have. He replaces his tongue with his fingers and then does some sort of combination of the both that has you bucking your hips.
“Joel —” you start and when he curls his fingers, you moan before you can get the rest of your sentence out. He hums against you. You can feel it building inside of you, like a giant wave about to crash against the shore. You try to warn him again.
“Fuck…Joel I’m — I’m gonna come,” you finally get out and if anything, that spurs him on. He curls his fingers again, this time rubbing against that part inside of you that you can never reach because it cramps your wrist. You slide a hand into his curls, tugging as you arch your back and let go. It’s so intense you can feel your thighs shaking around his head, but his steady hands grab both of them, holding them still. When you come back to yourself, you open your eyes to find him sitting on his knees, watching you. His mouth is pink and wet, his cheeks flushed red.
“Did you like that?” he asks, and it doesn’t sound like a line. He sounds genuine. Which is why you laugh. You see his brows furrow but his mouth twitches in a smile.
“You just made my legs shake and I’m pretty sure I sounded like a cat in heat at some point and you’re asking me if I liked it?” you ask. He smiles but there’s something predatory in his eyes. You feel yourself clench around nothing.
“Have to make sure,” he says, voice warm. He shifts, and that’s when you notice the bulge in his jeans. You reach forward, ready to unbutton his pants but he wraps both your wrists in one of his hands.
“We don’t have to,” he says. You snort.
“I think it’s sweet that you’re such a gentleman Joel, really. But I really want to,” you say. He traces his eyes over your face, almost like he’s cataloguing every aspect of you. He reaches a hand out, finger moving gently under your eye.
“You sure?” he asks, resting his hand against your jaw. You reach for his hand, tugging it so that his thumb settles against your lower lip. You open your mouth, touching the tip of your tongue to the tip of his finger.
“Please,” you say again, looking right at him. He takes a deep breath.
“Alright sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll give it to you.”
You reach for his pants again and this time he lets you unbutton them. Before you can take him out, he stops you. He runs a finger along the bottom of your shirt and you understand. You sit up, taking it off, leaving you in your flimsy cotton bra and nothing else.
“Your turn,” you say and he smiles. He reaches for the back of the neck of his shirt, tugging it off in one quick movement. Efficient, as always. It makes you smile. His chest is golden and solid, and you trace your hand across his sternum and down to his stomach. He’s strong everywhere. His arms are corded with muscle and his shoulders are so broad that you want to bite into them.
“I’d let you,” he says, voice amused. It’s then when you realize that you said this out loud. You flush, feeling your face heat and he chuckles. You lean back as he tugs at his pants before he stops, as if suddenly remembering something.
“We should do this in your bedroom,” he says. That’s when you realize that you’re still in your living room, almost naked on your couch. You nod, standing up. You feel a little ridiculous, naked from your stomach down and it’s like Joel can read your mind. He tugs you so that your back is against his warm chest and you can feel his belt buckle at the bottom of your spine.
“S’alright,” he says. “It’s just me.”
His voice is warm and gruff, and you lean into it. He presses a kiss against your neck before nudging you gently. You take that as your signal to lead the way. He stays close behind, so close you can almost feel the heat of him as you lead him to your bedroom. When you enter, you cross quickly to turn on your bedside lamp so that the room is lit in a warm glow. You turn around and find Joel watching you with dark eyes. You walk so that you’re on the edge of the bed, before you sit down. He walks towards you, slipping a hand into your hair so that he’s cupping your head. He leans down and kisses you, tongue probing into your mouth. You allow him. You grab at his shoulders, nails digging into the strong muscle there and he grunts against your mouth. You’d let him do anything to you at this point. He tugs at the straps of your bra, before he reaches behind and undoes the clasp. He leans back and looks at you, eyes wide. He moves his hand so it’s right at the top of your ribs, running a finger along the skin there. He pushes you so that you’re lying down with your legs on either side of his hips. He finally tugs his pants off, quickly followed by his underwear.
You’ve never needed something inside of you so badly until now. You shift your hips, opening your legs even wider. You reach forward, running a finger down his cock and he grunts.
“Fuck,” he says. You wrap your hand around him, and he’s so warm.
“Is this okay?” you ask, and he nods again, jaw clenched. He wraps his hand around yours, showing you how to move it. You’ve always been good at following his instructions. His hips shift and suddenly he’s tugging your hand away.
“This’ll be over a lot quicker if you keep doin’ that,” he says, and he looks a bit embarrassed. You’re so endeared. You lean back, settling on your elbows and he holds himself at his base before moving closer to where you need him the most. When his tip touches your clit, you moan, shifting forward.
“Please,” you beg and he grunts.
“We have to go slow, sweetheart,” he says and you know he’s right but you feel possessed with need.
“Joel — please. I need it so bad,” you whine.
“Yeah?” he asks, rubbing himself across your slit. You nod and he leans forward, kissing you filthily. He pushes the tip in and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You both look down to where you’re connected, how you’ve opened up for him so well. You moan, shifting forward, trying to inch more of him into you. He pushes in a bit more and you’ve never felt this full in your life. It’s like he’s splitting you open and you can’t get enough.
“It’s so much,” you say, but you’re still shifting forward. Joel grunts, forehead pressed against your neck. He finally bottoms out, both hands gripping your hips so tight that you think it might bruise. You hope it does.
“Just a second,” he says. “You’re so tight sweetheart.”
You flush, smiling. You run your hand down his arm as you get used to the stretch. It stings a bit but for the most part, it feels amazing. Like something you’ve never experienced before.
“Good?” Joel asks, after a pregnant pause. He’s above you now, and you can tell how desperate he is to move. You nod. He pulls back before thrusting in again and you moan. You can feel yourself get wetter and so can he, judging by the noise he makes.
“You’re perfect,” he says, moving. “S’fuckin’ perfect. Been thinkin’ about this for months now, and I get to have you.”
You’re too drunk on the feeling of him inside you to respond to the revelation. You moan, moving your hips in tandem with his. His hands tighten on your hips, and he pulls you closer. His arms flex with every thrust and he looks so beautiful like this, face flushed red and the greying curls of his hair sticking to the back of his neck.
“Feels so good, Joel,” you say and he thrusts into you harder. One of his large hands moves from your hip so that it presses down right below your belly button. The pressure feels so good, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You mewl as his hand moves lower until his fingers circle your clit.
“She gonna come for me again?” he asks and you clench around him so tightly that he grunts, thrusting harder. “That’s right, she is,” he says. “Be a good girl and come for me.”
You do. Your back arches and you feel like you’re flying. You’re so wet you’re pretty sure you’ve made a mess of your sheets but you don’t care. When you come back to yourself, Joel is watching you, eyes dark. You shift your hips forward. He leans down and kisses you, gripping your jaw between his fingers. He runs his tongue across your mouth before you open, letting him in. It’s messy and hot and you can feel yourself pulse, where he’s still inside of you. You pull back, looking right into his brown eyes.
“Your turn,” you say, voice raw and echoing your words from earlier. Something in his eyes softens and then he thrusts again. You clench and if you weren’t so worn out, you’d probably be able to come again. Instead, you run a hand up his arm and into his hair, pulling him closer. His hips start moving more erratically and he presses his face into your neck. You think of what you said earlier about biting him and how had responded. You don’t second guess yourself as you gently sink your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, sucking.
Joel moans, thrusting into you once more before he’s pulling back out of you. You watch as he wraps a hand around himself, tugging once, twice before he grunts and comes all over his hand. Before you can think, you’re reaching out, uncurling his hand from around himself and bringing his fingers to your mouth. You lick the taste of him, swallowing down the saltiness. He watches the entire thing, mouth gaping and eyes hooded.
“Fuck,” he says, finally. You slump against the bed, watching as he steps back. You want to ask where he’s going but he’s already out of the room. Something in your chest stutters, and you take a deep breath. Before you can spiral into worry, he comes back with a damp towel and clean hands. He pushes your legs apart before he wipes across your thighs and in-between, where you’re sticky and wet. He drops the towel on the floor and then comes around to the other side of the bed, slipping in. He pulls you against him so that you’re settled facing each other, his large hand on your waist. You think of what he had said when he was inside you, about wanting this for ages.
“Joel,” you start, unsure of what to say. He’s watching you carefully. “Do you like me?”
It sounds foolish, now that you’ve said it out loud. Like something you’d say in elementary school.
Joel however, smiles. His brown eyes are soft as he looks at you.
“You just made my legs shake and you’re asking me if I like you?” he says, echoing your words from earlier. You flush.
“I mean —” you start to say but he interrupts.
“Know what you mean, sweetheart,” he says and the endearment isn’t lost on you. It was one thing for him to say it during sex but now, after, it feels like it means something more.
“I suppose I wasn’t honest with you,” he says. “I’ve liked you far too long and couldn’t stand seeing some boy try to get your attention. Felt like I was possessed when I came to you that mornin’,” he says. He sounds sheepish. You move your hand so it rests on his shoulder. He pulls you closer, his leg going in between your own.
“If it makes you feel any better, I thought I was dreaming,” you say and he chuckles.
“You and your dreams, huh?” he says and you laugh.
“Sorry for accosting you at the bar,” you say and he chuckles.
“You can tell me about your dreams anytime,” he says. “Even the ones that aren’t dirty.”
You flush. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
There’s a pregnant pause.
“Joel,” you say and he hums in response. He’s still watching you. “I want to do this again. And not just this but like. All the other stuff too. Relationship stuff.”
There, you’ve said it. It’s out in the open.
“You askin’ me to go steady?” he says, but he’s pulling you even closer now. One of his hands snakes behind your back, running down your spine.
“Well sure if that’s what you called dating back in the middle ages,” you say.
“Ha,” he says, deadpan. Then, “Sweetheart, you don’t have to ask. I’ve been yours for months now.”
“Oh,” you say. The confession overwhelms you in the best possible way but you’re also left speechless. “I’m glad.”
It’s not your best response and you want to say more but Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles.
He cups your face, pulling you in for a kiss that’s so tender you feel your chest crack open. He pulls back but you push forward, kissing him once more. You bite at his lip and his hand moves to your hip, squeezing once. You pull back, smiling.
“So is it too early to ask if I can put a donut around your dick?” you say, feeling warmth bloom in you as you feel Joel chuckle. He presses a kiss to your forehead.
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