I must really have a hater gunning for me since someone keeps talking shit about me to a confessional blog đđ I acc canât deal some people are so chronically online please please find a better hobby I beg of youuuuu it is so embarrassing â¤ď¸ and if you think Iâm gonna stop writing and posting because of it you are so wrong đđ
This is meant to be a FUN place for us to write and interact together like why spread so much negativity and hate ?? Itâs literally FANFICTION - I repeat get a job and get ur money up if youâre spending your precious time complaining about me (someone you literally donât know on the INTERNET)
hey my loves đđđ I know Iâve been away for a while but Iâm back !!! I think I needed some time away and honestly havenât felt that motivated to write.. but Iâve genuinely actually missed you guys so much and am so happy to be back!
If you do make an ao3 please donât make it account access only âšď¸ Iâve seen so many fic writers doing that lately and itâs super hard to get an ao3 Iâve been on the list for a month now
i honestly think at the moment i'll stick to tumblr !! it's a lot easier for me and seems to work well - but if i do end up doing an ao3 i'll definitely make sure its not account access only that sounds so annoying !! is there a reason people prefer ao3?
chapter 4!!!! i love this story so much omggg - as always, i hope you guys enjoy xxx
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
You were ecstaticâbuzzing, practically vibrating with excitement as the sun crept over Jacksonâs rooftops like it, too, was eager for what the day might bring.
Today was the day: Joel Millerâs first date in what was likely two decades, maybe more, and you had been the orchestrator of it all.
The entire thing had lived in your head for a week now, spinning like a little carousel of possibilitiesâsome disastrous, some dreamy, some wildly romantic like something out of the battered books you kept stacked beside your bed.
Youâd imagined a dozen outcomes: Joel arriving early with flowers (unlikely), Joel cracking a rare joke over dessert (a stretch), Joel sitting with his arms folded refusing to speak (realistic), and even one where he somehow fell instantly, hopelessly in love (a girl can dream).
But most of all, you hopedâreally, truly hopedâthat heâd try.
You had found someone you thought was perfect. Her name was Naomiâmid-forties, soft-spoken but sharp as a tack, with kind eyes and a laugh that could warm a cold room.
She worked with the schoolâs little garden co-op, loved to read mystery novels, and once told you that sheâd be open to something ârealâ if it came along. And when youâd nervously shown her Joelâs name in your journal (complete with scribbled-out lines and notes in pink ink), she had blinked, smiled faintly, and said, âHeâs handsome. I wouldnât mind meeting him.â
That alone had made your heart flutter with cautious hope.
Their date was going to be at the dining hallâhumble, yes, but at sunset it turned soft and sweet, the candles on the tables flickering like tiny promises. Youâd even roped in one of the cooks that night to make something niceânothing fancy, just warm bread, grilled fish, and the kind of roasted vegetables that made even the most stoic Jacksoners groan with delight.
Youâd told Joel youâd meet him at the dining hall, just to make sure everything went smoothlyânot that you thought he needed you, exactly, but because a tiny, worried part of you couldnât bear the idea of him showing up alone and uncomfortable, his arms crossed and jaw tight, already halfway out the door before the poor woman even said hello.
And though heâd grumbled something predictably Joelâsomething along the lines of, âI donât need no damn babysitter,â or maybe it was âLike hell youâre watchinâ me like some charity caseââyou hadnât really listened, because the miracle had already happened: he was going.
Joel Miller, who frowned at butterflies like they personally offended him, who didnât eat dessert because he was apparently too proud for joy, who moved through town like he was allergic to small talkâwas going on a date.
And not because Maria begged him, or because Tommy tricked him, but because you had asked.
Because somehow, after all the sighs and sharp looks and muttered curses, he had agreed to try.
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You satânot subtly, despite your best effortsâtucked into the far corner of the dining hall, half-hidden behind a tall, mismatched stack of crates and a poorly potted plant that offered minimal cover but enough plausible deniability.
From your perch, you watched with the anxiety of a director at opening night as Joel sat at the table, looking profoundly out of place, his posture slightly slumped like he was already apologizing for being there. His shirt was unironed, the sleeves unevenly rolled, and his hair looked like heâd run a hand through it once out of obligation and then given up entirely. You winced.
When his eyes flicked up and caught yours across the room, you straightened your back instinctively and mouthed, âSit straight,â even modeling the posture with a meaningful lift of your shoulders. Joel blinked once, scowled like a grumpy schoolboy, and adjusted stiffly, muttering something under his breath as he did so.
And then Naomi walked in.
She looked lovelyâeffortlessly polished in a way that made you feel a flicker of hopeful pride. Her braid was neat, her dress floral and soft, and as she approached the table, you could see the faint smile of curiosity tug at her lips.
Joel stood up, which you had to admit was a win, but any warm feelings were quickly extinguished as he greeted her with an awkward, two-handed handshakeâfirm and businesslike, like he was closing a deal rather than stepping into a date.
Not a hug, not even a kiss on the cheek, just a dry, utilitarian shake that made Naomi tilt her head a little, puzzled. Then he satâsatâwithout offering her chair, the screech of his wooden seat dragging across the floor echoing through the hall like a warning bell.
You physically cringed, your hand flying to your forehead as you whispered, âOh, God,â under your breath, already bracing for the slow-motion disaster about to unfold before your very eyes.
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You werenât a body language expert by any meansâdidnât need to be. Anyone with a pair of eyes and half a brain could tell this date was going up in flames before the second course even hit the table.
Joel sat stiff as stone, arms crossed so tightly across his chest you wondered if he was keeping himself from bolting. He didnât smile, not onceânot even the tight-lipped kind people give when theyâre trying to be polite.
His jaw was set, his mouth a thin, immovable line, and the only real movement he made was stabbing his fork into his mashed potatoes like theyâd wronged him personally.
You watched in slow-building horror as he grunted in response to Naomiâs questions, barely making eye contact, and at one pointâat one godforsaken pointâhe actually leaned away from her mid-sentence to refill his water glass with all the grace of a brick wall.
You ran your hands through your hair, heart racing, like maybe the friction would rub the secondhand embarrassment off your skin. You wanted to crawl under the table. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. He was paying more attention to his peas than the gorgeous, interesting, totally game woman youâd found for him, and all you could do was stare, helpless, as your most promising Cupid endeavor to date unraveled like a badly-knitted scarf in the middle of winter.
You kept watching like it was a car crash happening in slow motionâhorrifying, inevitable, and impossible to look away from.
Joel said somethingâyou couldnât hear it over the clatter of cutlery and murmur of nearby tablesâbut you saw Naomiâs brows shoot up, her head tilt just slightly, the way a woman does when sheâs giving someone one last chance to backpedal. Joel, of course, did not backpedal. His mouth moved again, probably something gruff and dismissive in that grumpy cowboy drawl of his, and you actually saw Naomi scoff. Not laugh. Not smile. Scoff. Sharp, unimpressed, and loud enough that a few heads turned.
Then, just like that, she pushed back from the table with a scrape of chair legs that echoed louder than it had any right to, grabbed her coat, and left without another word. You were frozen, eyes wide, mouth half-open, watching as Joel just blinked at her retreating form like sheâd spilled her drink and he wasnât sure if he should clean it up or not.
As soon as the door swung shut behind Naomi, you didnât hesitateânot even for a second. You launched out of your hiding spot like a woman on a mission, practically sprinting across the dining hall, weaving between chairs and startled diners until you slid into the now-vacant seat opposite Joel. You leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes wide and incredulous, like youâd just walked in on a crime scene.
âJoel,â you hissed, voice pitched low but vibrating with disbelief, âwhat the hell happened?â
He barely looked up from his half-eaten plate, casually poking at a piece of roasted potato like this wasnât the dating equivalent of a four-alarm fire. âWe didnât click,â he said, with a shrug so nonchalant it nearly made your head explode.
âJoel,â you said again, dragging out the syllables like a prayer for patience, âwhy did she get up and leave like that? Like you insulted her lineage or ran over her kid!?â
He gave you a look, the picture of stone-faced indifference, and mumbled, âI donât know. She was talkinâ about her cat.â
Your eyes narrowed. âAnd what did you say, Joel?â
He paused for a beat, glanced away, then muttered under his breath, âI said I donât trust people who let animals sleep in their bed.â
You blinked at him. âJesus, Joel.â
He shrugged like it didnât matter, like he hadnât just taken a flamethrower to a perfectly decent date. âDidnât like me the second she sat down.â
âYeah, Joel,â you said, exasperated, âmaybe because you said three words total, insulted her cat, and greeted her like she was an IRS agent coming to audit your crops. You shook her hand.â
He scowled deeper, already standing, already grabbing his coat like this whole night had been a bad dream he could storm away from. âThatâs enough,â he muttered, brushing past you, out the door and into the cold.
âWhat the hell,â you hissed, pushing your chair in with a sharp scrape, bolting after him.
You caught up with him just outside, your breath fogging in the evening air as you jogged to close the space between you. âJoel! Stop.â
He did. He turned on a heel, the movement sharp, sudden, and his voice was rough when it came out. âWhat? Is that why youâre here? To tell me how shit I did? You think I donât know I fucked it up? You donât think Iâm aware I ainât some charming, fresh-faced guy women line up for? I know what I am. I know Iâm well past my goddamn prime.â
You stared at himâthis big, broad, stubborn man who looked like he was made of iron and regret, standing under the soft street light like it was trying to make something warm out of someone who didnât believe he could be.
âStop it,â you said, firm, breathless. âYou want me to feel sorry for you? I wonât. Because youâre not past your prime, Joel. Youâre still here. Still living. Still capable. Youâre handsome, whether you believe it or notâNaomi said so herself before she even met you.â
He froze.
You could see itâthat flicker of something in his eyes, just barely there, something startled and unsure. And it wasnât your scolding that got to him, or the fact that youâd followed him out into the cold like you cared enough to keep trying.
It was that one word. Handsome.
Because youâwho wore sweaters with daisies on them and drank out of a chipped Little Miss Sunshine mug and believed in soulmates and fresh starts and love at first sightâyou had called him handsome. Had looked at him like there was still something good there. Something worthy.
He shifted, his shoulders tight, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat like he was trying to tuck his embarrassment away with them. His gaze didnât quite meet yours, instead flicking sideways, focused on some invisible spot in the dirt. âAlright,â he muttered gruffly, voice thick with something he wasnât ready to name. âMaybe I shouldnâtâve shaken her hand.â
You watched him, lips twitching with the threat of a smile you didnât dare let fully bloom just yet. âYou think?â you said, teasing but warm, your voice low like you didnât want to scare off this rare, soft moment.
He sighed, and it felt like it came from somewhere deepâbone-deep, years-deep. âI shouldâve talked more. Been lessââ he gestured vaguely, almost helplessly, ââme. More gentlemanly or whatever. Itâs been a while.â
You took a step closer, slow and steady, like you were approaching a wild animal that didnât quite know how to accept kindness. Your fingers brushed his forearm first, then settled there, grounding, gentle. He didnât flinch. Just looked down at your hand like it was the first warm thing heâd felt all day.
âAnd thatâs okay, Joel,â you said softly, eyes on his, voice like honey and heartache. âNo oneâs asking you to be perfect. You donât have to get it right the first time. Or the second. We just⌠have to try. A little more. Next time.â
His eyes lifted to meet yours then, a brow arching with something halfway between surprise and amusement. âNext time?â
âOh yeah,â you said, your hand still on his arm, your eyes sparkling with something fierce and fond. âIâm not givinâ up on you yet, cowboy.â
That earned you a sound you hadnât heard beforeâa real chuckle, low and rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. It made something in you light up, bright and effervescent.
He shook his head, just slightly, like he couldnât believe you, like he was still fighting the smile threatening his own mouth. âYouâre somethinâ else,â he muttered, but this time, it sounded an awful lot like a compliment.
And you just grinned, the wind catching your hair, the cold forgotten entirely. Because for once, Joel Miller didnât look like he wanted to disappear into the night.
He looked like he might actually be willing to stay.
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
i wont be doing a tag list angels, im sorry it gets so confusing and messy for me !!! hope you understand xx
no plot spoilers but my opinion on the movie and characters!!
guys⌠i just watched The Materialists and iâm honestly so disappointed đ
iâve been looking forward to this movie for so long â like, it was one of my most anticipated.
the aesthetic was gorgeous, and the cinematography was stunning. dakota looked beautiful, obviously, but her acting felt so monotone it was hard to stay connected.
i found her character so unlikable â and not in a complex or compelling way, just flat. her connections with harry and john felt so surface-level and empty. and she didnât really have a personality outside of money and value. i get that was part of the point, but still????
warning: 18+ only MDNI, literally porn with a plot, oral (female receiving) angst (duhhh), age gap? (reader is grown tho) sex work, probably more tbh.
â§Ë ŕź â･ Ëâ§Ë ŕź â･ Ë
You sat at your small dining table, the one by the window that caught the late morning light just right, your legs crossed and bare beneath the hem of the thin cotton dress youâd slipped on after your shower, the fabric shifting with every small movement as steam from your mug curled upward and disappeared into the stillness. The book in your lap was open, held lazily in one hand, but you hadnât turned the page in ten minutes.
It had been two days since Joel had come over.
Two days since heâd stood stiff and uncertain in your doorway, thick fingers twitching at his sides, eyes too soft for a man so guarded, jaw clenched like he was waiting to be turned away.
And God, when youâd touched him, when youâd kissed him, when youâd spread your thighs and whispered itâs okay, let me take care of youâhe had melted.
Right there in your hands, against your mouth, inside your body, he had unraveled with the kind of desperation that didnât come from hunger but from starvation.
Heâd stayed for hours afterward, tucked against your chest, his hand resting at your hip like he wasnât quite sure if he was allowed to hold you but couldnât stop himself.
Youâd held him without saying a word, feeling the tension drain from his limbs minute by minute, until all that was left was the slow rise and fall of his breath against your skin.
There was something almost boyish in the way he curled into you, in the way he reached for your hand and kept it over his heart, like he didnât know what to do with kindness that didnât cost him anything. He had been quiet. Tender. So careful, as if moving too quickly might shatter the moment.
Only when the sun had dipped behind the trees had he finally stirred, mumbling something about Ellie, how he hadnât meant to take up your whole day.
Heâd stood awkwardly by the door, clothes half-buttoned, hair still mussed from your fingers, eyes flicking to you like he didnât know if goodbye meant the end or just a pause. And youâyouâd kissed him again. Slow. Soft. Not part of your services, not part of anything but instinct. Because you could see it in his face, the way he flinched when he looked at you like he didnât know how to be wanted.
And then he was gone.
Now, two days later, your hair still damp from your morning shower, wrapped in a towel that dripped softly against your shoulders, you sat in the quiet hum of Jackson morningâsafe, still, yours.
You loved this time of day. The slowness. The way the light filtered through the window and warmed the floorboards. The way the silence felt more like peace than loneliness. There was no client scheduled, no knock expected, no reason to think anyone would come.
Which was why, when the knock came, you froze mid-sip.
Your mug paused at your lips, brow furrowing as you stilled in place, your heart skipping onceânot with fear, but with that curious flicker of something.
You racked your brain, trying to remember if youâd forgotten a booking, a visit, anything at all. But there was nothing. No name. No time. No one expected.
The knock came againâthis time softer.
â§Ë ŕź â･ Ëâ§Ë ŕź â･ Ë
You pulled the towel from your hair as you crossed the living room, squeezing the ends of your damp strands and dragging the soft cotton down until the tips clung to your shoulders in dripping curls.
You tossed the towel onto the back of the couch, pushing aside a few folded clothes and a half-finished book in a weak attempt at tidying, like straightening the space might somehow make you feel more preparedâless caught off guard.
The knock came again, softer now, almost hesitant.
You moved to the door barefoot, the floorboards cool beneath your feet, your dress swishing low against your thighs as you undid the latch. And when you opened itâheart skipping in that strange, fluttering way it always did when the quiet was interruptedâyou found a familiar face waiting on the other side.
Tommy.
Handsome in that easy, sunworn way he always was, jaw shadowed with stubble, brows slightly furrowed like he was mid-thought. He stood with his hands braced on his hips, elbows out, chest rising slow beneath a worn white singlet that clung to him from beneath his unzipped jacketâlike heâd thrown it on without thinking.
âTommy,â you said, the word escaping in a breath of surprise, soft and warm. Then, instinctively, you stepped aside, pushing the door open a little wider. âHi.â
âHey, sweetheart,â he said, and the sound of itâsweetheart, like it belonged to youârolled off his tongue with a kind of easy fondness that made your stomach flip.
You smiled, a flush creeping across your cheeks as you reached up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. âI didnât know you were coming over,â you said, voice airy with the kind of nerves he always seemed to stir without trying. âI would've gotten ready.â
Tommyâs eyes dropped.
Just for a second.
But you saw it.
The way his gaze flicked down your frameâyour still-wet hair clinging to your collarbones, the slope of your neck bare, droplets of water catching the light where they slid along your skin.
His gaze lingered on your legs, smooth and freshly lotioned, bare beneath the hem of your soft cotton dress, thighs heâd seen bare and trembling more times than he could count.
And God, he felt itâthat same ache rising up in him like it always did when he looked at you. Because you werenât just beautifulâyou were real. Soft. Familiar. A body he knew, a voice he craved, a face he could trace with his eyes closed.
âYou donât need to get ready,â he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, lower in his throat. âYouâre beautiful like this.â
You blinked at that, warmth spreading beneath your ribs, the compliment catching you off guardânot because it was the first time heâd said something like that, but because this time, it felt heavier. Slower. Like it came from somewhere deeper than flirtation.
But before you could respond, his jaw flexed slightly, and he looked awayâtoward the inside of your home, like he was trying to collect himself. âActually,â he said, clearing his throat, âIâm not here for that.â
You raised a brow, smile tilting with quiet mischief. âOh?â you asked, stepping back toward the doorframe and crossing your arms gently under your chest. âHave I been replaced?â
He huffed, exaggerated and playful, rolling his eyes with the kind of ease only he could pull offâcasual and familiarâbut his smile didnât quite reach the corners of his eyes. âNah,â he said, voice low and a little rough, âI donât think thatâs possible.â
And just like that, he was already inside.
Moving through your doorway like he belonged there. Like this was just another morning or another slow afternoon where his boots tracked dirt across your floorboards and his voice filled up the quiet corners of your house.
He didnât ask, didnât pause, didnât hover at the thresholdâhe just stepped in, shoulders relaxing the moment he passed through, like the air inside was easier to breathe.
This wasnât the first time Tommy had wandered into your kitchen after a patrol, or passed through your living room with dried blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his spine, his voice rasping with something half-guilt, half-need. He came here oftenâsometimes late at night, sometimes before the sun even roseâand every time, he said it like a joke, like it didnât mean anything.
But you both knew it did.
Because he couldâve gone anywhere. He couldâve gone home.
And yetâhe always came to you.
You closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound oddly final in the quiet, like you were sealing something in.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder, catching the faint hiss of the kettle starting to warm. âYou makinâ coffee?â he asked, like he already knew the answer.
You arched a brow, amused. âYeah,â you murmured, brushing past him gently, the scent of your lotion still clinging to your skin, the hem of your dress brushing his jeans as you passed. âCâmon.â
You reached out and tapped his arm as you moved toward the kitchen, and even though the touch was light, brief, playful, he followed like gravity had pulled him in your wake.
You poured a second mug without askingâbecause of course he wanted oneâand handed it to him wordlessly, your fingers brushing as you passed it over, the warmth of the ceramic nowhere near the warmth simmering between your skin.
Tommy took it with a small nod of thanks, then leaned back against the counter like it was something heâd done a hundred times, eyes dragging slowly over your spaceâthe lived-in quiet of it, the faint scent of soap and sunlight and whatever perfume still lingered on your damp skin.
You sat down in the exact spot youâd been in before the knock came, folding your legs beneath you, the curve of your thigh peeking through the soft drape of your dress, your book still open and waiting on the table.
Tommy watched you for a second too long, fingers curled tight around the coffee mug, his knuckles pale beneath the weight of it.
The steam rising between you curled lazily in the air, but his gaze didnât waver. It lingered on the damp tendrils of hair still clinging to your neck, the sheen of lotion catching the light along your thighs, the soft flush warming the tops of your cheeks. And you didnât look away. Didnât shift. Didnât hide.
You tilted your head instead, smile curling at the edges, teasing just enough to break the tension. âSit,â you said, patting the chair beside you with an exaggerated flourish. âYouâre making me anxious, standing there all brooding like some moody gunslinger.â
âI donât brood,â he said, but his voice was low and amused as he stepped forward, the words lacking any real heat. He pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it without resistanceâbecause the truth was, heâd do anything you asked. Had always done anything you asked.
âSure,â you said, drawing out the word with a smile as you brought your own mug to your lips. âHow are you?â
He shrugged, sipped, looked down into the swirl of coffee like it might give him something else to say. âIâm alright,â he answered finally. Then, quieter, more hesitant: âActually, Iâm here to⌠check in on you.â
You arched a brow, feigning surprise. âWow. Look at that. Real customer service.â
He huffed a soft laugh, and you saw his shoulders ease just a little, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself.
Thenâcasual, like he was just making conversation, like it hadnât been burning a hole in his chest since the moment he stepped through your doorâhe asked, âHow was Joel?â
Ah.
So thatâs why he was really here.
You set your mug down gently, the sound soft against the wood.
His voice came again, a little rougher this time, scraping the edge of something vulnerable. âI meanâwas he good to you? Not tooâŚâ he cleared his throat, glanced away for a second like it hurt to look at you while he said it, ânot too rough?â
You blinked, the question catching you somewhere between tenderness and disbelief. And for a moment, all you could do was watch himâwatch the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled a little harder around the handle of the mug, the flicker of something wounded in his eyes that he was trying very, very hard to hide.
âHe was sweet,â you said, voice soft, thoughtful. You werenât smiling exactly, but something warm passed across your faceâlike remembering something delicate, something still hanging in the air. âLike he didnât know how to take more than a few steps toward me without apologizinâ. Like he thought being touched would break him open too fast.â
Tommy nodded once, slow, his mouth pressing into a thin line, and you didnât miss the way his jaw shiftedâjust slightly, just enough to betray how that made him feel.
You glanced at him, amused now. âI still canât believe you told him I was a masseuse.â
That earned you a laughâshort, low, rough at the edges.
Tommy leaned back a little in the chair, his fingers still curled loosely around the coffee mug. âYeah, well,â he said, shaking his head, âwhat was I supposed to say? âGo see the girl who gives real good head? Didnât think thatâd go over too well.â
You huffed, a surprised little sound, shaking your head as you looked down into your mug. âJesus,â you muttered, your lips curving despite yourself as you took a slow sip, the warmth of the drink grounding you even as something in the air shiftedâagain.
Tommy was watching you closely now. Not in a hungry way, not yet. Just⌠watching, the kind of look youâd grown used to from him, like he was trying to read between the lines of your voice, your eyes, the softness in your shoulders.
Then, quietâso quiet it almost didnât reach you:
âDid heâŚâ Tommy started, voice lower now, roughened like it scraped its way out of his throat, uninvited.
There was a pauseâsharp, deliberate. Thenâ
âDid he make you cum?â
You choked on your sip, nearly spitting into your mug as your eyes snapped up in disbelief.
âTommy,â you said, shocked, your voice jumping up a note, disoriented by the sudden shift in toneâhow quick it turned from easy warmth to something heavier, more personal, more his.
He didnât flinch. Just shrugged, far too casual for the heat in his eyes. Like the question hadnât just dropped into the quiet like a stone into still water. Like it hadnât just exposed something raw between you both.
You blinked down into your lap, the words stammering at the back of your throat. âIâI mean⌠no,â you muttered eventually, your voice quieter now, searching for the right shape. âBut that wasnât the point. It wasnât about that.â
âIt was more about letting him feel wanted. Giving him something kind. Something soft. Making him feel good without needing anything in return.â
The truth of it sat there between youâquiet and solid, like it belonged.
Tommyâs jaw clenched, the muscle twitching once beneath the rough stubble, and he looked away for the first time, like the answer had cost him something he hadnât prepared to give.
You watched him, eyes narrowing slightly, and the question came before you could stop it, gentle but firm.
âWhy are you asking me all this, Tommy?â
Your voice was soft, but not fragileâmeasured, steady, the kind of question that pressed for truth, not deflection. And maybe thatâs what made it land the way it did. Maybe thatâs why Tommy didnât answer right away.
He shook his head, a slow, worn-out gesture, like the thoughts behind it were too tangled to say aloud.
His eyes flicked around your space, scanning the soft curve of the room he knew too wellâyour home, the safe little corner of Jackson that somehow always smelled like clean linen, candlewax, and something sweet.
His gaze caught on the blanket draped over the back of the couch, the coffee cups still warm on the table, the towel drying by the doorâsigns of you, everywhere.
And the thought of another manâlet alone his brotherâstanding here, sitting where heâd sat, walking barefoot on these floorboards, having you in the way Tommy had⌠it struck him like a body blow.
A visceral, curling wave of nausea rose in his chest, sharp and sudden, almost enough to make him reach out for the edge of the table to steady himself.
Heâd told himself it didnât matter.
That what you two had was just businessâsweet, messy, stolen little hours that didnât belong to anyone but the moment.
But now, standing here, imagining Joel touching you with the same reverence Tommy had held in his hands so many nights beforeâit made his breath catch in his throat. It made the room feel too small.
You said his name again, gentler now, a thread of concern woven through it. âTommy.â
He blinked hard, swallowing past the tightness in his throat.
âI donât know,â he muttered at first, voice rough, like it scraped its way out. Thenâclearer, more brokenââI donât know, I just⌠I keep thinkinâ about him here.â
He gestured vaguely to the space between you, but you knew what he meant.
âI keep seeinâ it,â Tommy said, his eyes flicking toward the chair where you sat, the late morning light glinting softly off the curve of your collarbone, the shine of your still-damp hair, the bare stretch of your legs folded beneath youâlegs heâd kissed, held, bent, worshipped. âHim here. Lookinâ at you the way I do. Havinâ you the way I have.â
His voice caught on the last wordâhaveâlike it was too big, too personal, too revealing. Like saying it aloud turned everything youâd been pretending into something far more dangerous.
âTommy,â you said quietly, setting your mug down, your voice steady but touched with disbelief. âYouâre the one who wanted me to see him.â
âI know,â he said quickly, the words rushing out as if he could get ahead of them, stop them from settling in the space between you. âI know, it was stupid. I shouldâve neverââ
He cut himself off, the sentence fraying at the edges, and suddenly he stood, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor as he rose too fast, too sharp, like he needed to move before something inside him split open.
âTommy,â you said again, this time firmer, a note of warning buried inside it, but he wouldnât look at you.
âIâm sorry,â he muttered, voice thick, eyes focused on anything but your faceâon the window, the door, the wall, the floor, as if they might offer him a way out of whatever this was. âI shouldnâtâve come. I should go.â
He turned, already halfway to the door.
And the silence that followed was loudâlouder than anything either of you had said.
Because it wasnât just about Joel.
It never had been.
â§Ë ŕź â･ Ëâ§Ë ŕź â･ Ë
Youâd spent the entire morning trying to make sense of what Tommy had saidâturning over every word, every look, every silence heâd left behind.
Your heart fluttered each time you replayed the way his voice cracked, the way he wouldnât meet your eyes, the way heâd stood so suddenly like the room was choking him.
Youâd picked at the memory like a loose thread, hoping if you tugged just right, it might unravel into something clearerâsomething simpler. Something that told you if heâd meant more than what he said.
Half of you had expected him to come back.
Had imagined it more than onceâheâd knock, all fidgety hands and breathless apologies, muttering something about being stupid, about not knowing what he was saying. Maybe heâd kiss you too hard at the door, maybe heâd push you against the wall, try to fuck it out of his system like he had beforeâtry and forget what he said, only to remember it even louder in the silence after.
You didnât even hear the knock at first.
You were wiping down the kitchen counter, your thoughts miles away, your hair now dry and curling softly at the ends, falling in the way it always did when you let it air out.
And for a split second, your heart leapt.
You thoughtâTommy. You thought he came back. But when you opened the door, it wasnât him.
It was Joel.
He stood there on your porch, eyes shy beneath the brim of his jacket hood, one hand scratching the back of his neck in that same bashful way he had when he wasnât sure how welcome he was.
In the other hand, he held a small bundle of wildflowersâmismatched, a little uneven, clearly plucked from some overgrown edge of Jackson, their stems wrapped in a scrap of twine.
âJoel,â you said softly, the surprise slipping through your voice before you could catch it. âHi.â
âHey,â he said, voice low, his fingers fidgeting where they clutched the flowers. âI, uh⌠wasnât sure if you were seeinâ anyone today. Didnât wanna intrude. I can come back if youâre with someone orââ
âNo,â you said quickly, stepping back instinctively to make space that you hadnât decided to give yet. âNo, I was just cleaning.â
Your eyes flicked to the flowers, to the gentle way he held themâlike they were fragile, or maybe like he didnât quite believe he had the right to be offering them at all.
âThose are pretty,â you murmured, the words quiet but sincere, your voice softening as it slipped between you both.
âOh,â Joel said quickly, as if remembering himself, as if realizing he was still holding the wildflowers like he didnât quite know what to do with them.
He stepped forward slightly, offering them out toward you, awkward but earnest. The bouquet looked small and delicate in his large, calloused handsâthe same hands youâd guided over your chest just two nights ago, when he was trembling and quiet and nearly too gentle to bear, fingers hesitant and reverent as if every inch of you might vanish beneath his touch.
âTheyâre for you,â he murmured, his voice low, almost sheepish. âYou got a bunch out on your porch already, so I figured⌠well, you might like some fresh ones.â
You smiled before you could stop yourself, a warmth blooming at the base of your throat, your cheeks heating as you reached out to take them. âYouâre so sweet,â you said, almost under your breath, the words brushing past your lips like a secret you didnât quite mean to say aloud.
Joel ducked his head slightly, eyes flicking away like he wasnât sure what to do with praise that didnât come laced in sarcasm. He stood there, still fidgeting slightly, like he was waiting for permission to go or stayâlike he hadnât expected to get this far.
You hesitated for just a breath, then stepped back, your fingers curling around the edge of the door as you pulled it open a little wider.
âDid you wanna come inside?â you asked, the question light on your tongue, casual on the surfaceâbut it carried a thousand undertones neither of you dared acknowledge.
Joelâs gaze lifted to yours, and he nodded once, slow and a little uncertain, his voice gravel-soft. âYeah,â he said. âIf thatâs alright.â
And you stepped aside.
And he came in.
â§Ë ŕź â･ Ëâ§Ë ŕź â･ Ë
Joel sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as though they couldnât quite decide what to do with themselves.
His water sat untouched on the table beside him, condensation slipping lazily down the glass, forgotten.
His eyes drifted across the room as you moved about with quiet grace, placing the wildflowers in a vase with care, fingers gentle even as you fussed with the stems like it mattered how they stood.
When you finally came to sit across from him, legs curled beneath you, the silence that lingered between you was thickânot uncomfortable, but expectant, like something was waiting to be named.
You tilted your head, eyes glinting just a little. âHowâs your back?â you teased, your voice light and playful, the smallest smile tugging at your lips.
Joel let out a soft, surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, and you saw the tension ease just slightly from his shoulders. âItâs, uh⌠surprisingly better,â he said, gaze darting down toward the floor, âthough Iâm not sure it was the massage that did that.â
His ears flushed red as he said it, and his hands twitched in his lap like he didnât know whether to shove them in his pockets or fold them tighter.
You laughed thenâlow, breathy, a little caught off guard by his shynessâand it was such a sweet, easy sound that Joel felt it sink right into his chest, warm and dangerous. He wanted to hear it again. A hundred times. A thousand.
âI hope it was good for you,â you said gently, your voice softer now, more sincere. âI hope you felt good.â
Joelâs expression shifted. He looked up at you, eyes troubled, then looked away again, his foot bouncing slightly against the floor.
âThatâs actually why Iâm here,â he said, the words stumbling out in pieces. âShitâitâs just, itâs been a long time since someone⌠since IâveâŚâ
You moved without thinking, your body carrying you forward like instinct, and sat beside him, close but careful, your thigh brushing against his. You reached for his hand, your fingers curling gently around his, warm and grounding, your voice low and steady.
Joel swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat.
âGo on,â you said.
âItâs been a long time since Iâve been with someone like that,â he said, barely louder than a whisper. âAnd Iâm stillââ He hesitated, jaw working. âIâm still upset with myself.â
Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. âUpset?â you echoed. âWhy?â
He looked at you then, really looked, like the words cost something just to say aloud.
âI didnât make you feel good,â Joel said, his voice low and heavy with something sharp, something shameful. âNot really. Not the way you deserve. I didnâtâGod, I didnât even think toâŚâ He broke off, his voice cracking around the edges, his hand tightening where it rested uselessly on his thigh. âYou gave me everything, and I justâtook it.â
And oh God, he looked so broken.
Nothing like the man Jackson whispered about behind closed doors.
Nothing like the sharp-eyed patrol leader with a rifle slung over his back and a permanent scowl carved into his brow.
He looked at you like a man wearing his heart too far outside his chest, like it might split open if you so much as blinked too hard.
âJoel,â you whispered, your voice barely above breath as your hand reached for his forearm, your fingers stroking over the worn fabric of his shirt, grounding him. âI wasnât keeping score,â you said, soft and sure. âThat nightâit was about you. And you did make me feel good. You just donât realize how much.â
He shook his head slowly, brows furrowed in disbelief, voice hoarse and threaded with that gentle Southern shame heâd never quite grown out of. âNot in the way I shouldâve. My mama raised me better than that.â
You smiled, faint and wistful, your thumb still circling over his skin, and for a moment neither of you spoke.
Then his voice came againâquieter, rougher, barely more than a breath.
âI wanted to make it up to you.â
Your eyes flicked up to his, your heart thudding once, hard.
âMake it up to me?â you repeated, the question curling at the edge of something warmer, heavier.
Joel nodded once, slow and careful, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast.
And thenâyour gaze dipped, caught by the unmistakable shape pressing against the front of his jeans, thick and straining beneath the denim, his body betraying just how deeply he meant it.
The sight made your breath hitch, your thighs shift, your body answering his want with a sudden swell of your own.
âIf youâll let me,â he said, voice low and reverent, eyes dark with need but soft with sincerity, âcan I taste you?â
The question wasnât crude.
It wasnât cocky.
It was humble.
His hands were already moving, large and warm and trembling ever so slightly as they slipped beneath the hem of your dress, pushing the fabric upward in slow, reverent strokes.
His palms coasted along your thighs, the calluses catching gently against your skin as inch by inch, he revealed the soft cotton of your pantiesâalready damp, already clinging to you in the most obscene way.
And still, his touch stayed careful, like he was unwrapping something precious, something he couldnât quite believe he was allowed to see again.
You watched him, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and aweâthe same man whoâd trembled in your arms two nights ago, whoâd needed your guidance and tenderness just to feel safe enough to fall apart, was now beginning to take some of that control back.
But not forcefully. Not rough. Just⌠sure. Steady. Like he'd made up his mind that this time, you would be the one held. Worshipped. Undone.
âYou can,â you whispered, voice breathless, your chest rising with the weight of the moment. âIf you kiss me first.â
Joelâs eyes flicked up to yours, something impossibly soft blooming behind the heat there, and he smiledâa crooked, quiet thing that made your chest flutter. âYeah,â he murmured, reaching up, cupping your jaw with one rough, stubbled hand. âI can do that.â
He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, you whimperedâhonest and involuntary, the sound catching at the back of your throat like surprise.
His stubble scratched lightly at your skin, grounding you in the realness of him, the solidity of his body pressing closer. The kiss was warm and deep and unhurried, and you tasted something in it you hadnât expectedâgratitude, maybe, or hunger wrapped in guilt, in reverence.
And God, it did something to him.
âFuck,â he breathed against your mouth, like the taste of you knocked the air out of his chest.
He broke away with a groan, thick and low in his throat, and thenâwithout a wordâhe sank to his knees in front of you, the motion stiff but sure, the kind of groan a man makes when his bones donât bend easy anymore, but heâll get on the fucking floor if thatâs where you are.
Instinctivelyâwithout thought, without hesitationâyou opened for him, your legs parting wider like your body had already decided what came next, like it had been waiting for him.
He exhaled shakily, eyes flicking between your face and the place between your legs like he couldnât decide where to look, like both were too much and not enough.
His handsâthose handsâwere warm and large and trembling slightly as they slid up your inner thighs, engulfing the soft flesh there, pushing gently until you were spread for him completely. The pads of his thumbs brushed over skin that had never felt so exposed, so seen, and his gaze was reverent, locked between awe and disbelief.
âCan I take these off?â he asked, voice low and almost hesitant, nodding toward the thin fabric still clinging between your legs. âWanna see all of you.â
âYeah,â you breathed, barely above a whisper, the word escaping like it had been plucked from somewhere deep inside your chest.
Joel moved carefully, slowly, like undressing you was an act that required gentleness. His fingers hooked into your panties, and he slid them down inch by inch, his eyes never leaving you, his breath uneven as he exposed more of your skin. And when they slipped past your ankles, one leg still hooked loosely over his shoulder, he didnât toss them asideâhe kissed the inside of your calf, lips brushing against your skin like a thank you, like a prayer.
And then he saw you.
Really saw you.
His breath caught, sharp and audible, and he went utterly still.
Because heâd seen you the other nightâbut not like this. Not on his knees, not up close, not when you were already so wet for him you glistened in the low light. Your folds were soft and flushed and soaked, your slick painting your thighs, and the sight alone wrecked him. His lashes fluttered, and he let out a quiet, reverent soundâsomewhere between a moan and a gasp, like he couldnât quite believe this was real.
âJesus fuckinâ Christ,â he murmured, more to himself than to you, voice cracking like the words cost him something. Slowly, with a tenderness that made your stomach twist, he reached out, and let his thumb drag a single, deliberate stroke through your folds, collecting some of the slick that had already begun to drip down the curve of your pussy.
His thumb stilled, glistening with the proof of your want, and when he looked upâeyes wide, lips parted, breath completely stolenâhe stared at you like he was seeing something sacred. âYouâre this wet for me?â he whispered, the words catching like gravel in his throat, his voice wrecked beyond recognition.
You nodded, your breath shivering out of you, but before you could speak, his hand drifted higherâpast the curve of your slick folds to where soft curls framed your mound like something delicate.
âYouâre fucking gorgeous,â he murmured, voice low and broken, like he didnât even mean to say it aloud.
You tilted your hips forward slightly, your thighs twitching with anticipation, your voice a velvet hush. âTaste me,â you breathed, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted in need. âI want your mouth.â
Joel let out a low, choked noiseâa sound that came from deep in his chestâand nodded once, fast and fervent, like he was afraid if he hesitated youâd take the offer back.
And then he was in it.
His mouth closed over your core like heâd been waiting his entire life to taste you. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe from your dripping entrance all the way to your clit, and when he felt your thighs tense around him, heard the gasp that stuttered out of your lungs, he moaned into you. Low, guttural, helpless.
He let you move against him.
Let your hips roll forward, needy and desperate, and he took itâhis mouth open, his tongue pliant, letting you grind against his face like you owned him. And maybe you did. He didnât hold your thighs down, didnât try to control the rhythmâyou were the one with your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and guiding, and every time you did, he rutted against the floor, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans, aching for friction.
Because this wasnât about his pleasure.
It was about yours.
He sucked gently at your clit, then flattened his tongue against it, letting you ride the pressure, and when you cried out his nameâhigh, breathless, brokenâhe groaned again, louder this time, his hands fisting like he was trying to hold himself together.
Your thighs began to tremble.
The tension in your belly coiled tight, and Joel felt itâhe knew itâand he didnât stop. His mouth moved faster, wetter, messier, like he was trying to pull the orgasm from you with his tongue alone.
And thenâ
You shattered.
The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, white-hot and consuming, your back arching, your cry muffled by your own hand as you came against his mouth, soaking him, your thighs trembling around his face as your hips bucked and rolled and he didnât stop. He moaned through it, kept licking, like he couldnât bear to stop tasting you even as you came apart above him.
Only when your legs started to twitch with overstimulation did he finally slow, his mouth softening, tongue giving one last tender lick before he let out a shuddering breath and pressed his face into your thigh.
He stayed there.
Just⌠stayed, his cheek resting against your skin, his lips still brushing your inner thigh, eyes fluttered shut like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he couldnât quite believe heâd made you come like that. He didnât move to get up. Didnât ask for anything. He just held thereâbreathing you in.
You were still trembling when you reached down for him, your body buzzing, your chest fluttering with aftershocks that hadnât yet settled into stillness.
Your fingers threaded through his hair gently, tuggingânot to guide him this time, but to bring him closer. Joel looked up, dazed and flushed and glistening at the mouth, lips swollen and chin slick with you. There was something wrecked in his eyes, something unsteady, as if he wasnât quite sure if he was allowed to rise from his knees.
âCome here,â you whispered, voice rough with bliss, breathless from the high of it. You tugged again, and he followed instantly, like it wasnât even a choice.
He rose slowly, his knees stiff from where theyâd pressed into the floor, groaning just a little with the movement, and you met him halfway, hands cradling his face the moment he was close enough.
Your palms cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing over his stubble, and when your eyes met his, they were full of heat and adoration, soft and deep and real.
âYouâre perfect, Joel,â you murmured, your voice the gentlest thing heâd ever heard.
He whimpered.
A tiny, broken sound escaped him before he could catch itâraw and completely involuntaryâas if the words shattered something inside him that had been holding on far too long.
His eyes closed for just a beat, like he couldnât bear to see the truth of your face while hearing that, and then you leaned forward and kissed him.
You tasted yourself on himâwarm, sweet, slickâand moaned quietly into his mouth, your fingers still buried in his hair, tugging softly as his breath hitched against your lips.
Joel kissed you back slowly. Gratefully. He didnât pushâdidnât deepen the kiss like a man trying to take. He just let you have him, mouth parting when yours did, lips moving in sync like he didnât know what else to do but follow your lead.
When you pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours for a moment, breath shaky, and then he nuzzled softly into the curve of your jawâslow, needy, like an animal finding warmth. He didnât speak. He just breathed you in, his nose brushing beneath your ear as he melted into your skin, letting you cradle him while his chest heaved softly, still recovering from what heâd just done to you.
You stroked your fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic, your other hand trailing down the back of his neck, and he stayed right thereâface buried against your throat, hands unsure, but present, like heâd stay in your lap forever if you let him.
â§Ë ŕź â･ Ëâ§Ë ŕź â･ Ë
It had been hours since Joel leftâhours since youâd come undone on his tongue, since his face had pressed into your thigh like he didnât know how to leave you, like he didnât want to.
Now, the room was quiet, the night creeping in slow and soft, the kind that settles behind your ribs and makes everything feel a little heavier.
Youâd eaten dinner in silence, washed the dishes with trembling hands, gone through the motions of a routine you didnât feel inside your body.
And now, tucked beneath the weight of your blanket, the hum of the lamp casting a warm pool of gold across your skin, you stared at the ceiling and let your mind spiralâbecause of all the things today couldâve been, this wasnât what youâd expected.
You were still thinking about it. Still playing it all back. Joelâs voice. His mouth. His hands. His trembling apology. And Tommyâthat morningâasking if Joel had made you cum, like some part of him already knew what the day would become.
You shook your head softly, a bitter little breath escaping your lips. Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it was getting harder to define.
You reached to flick off the lamp, your hand brushing the switchâ
But then a knock.
Not loud. Just⌠there.
You groaned quietly, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your hand as you pulled yourself from bed. You reached for your robe, tugging it quickly over your pajama shorts and singlet, tying it loosely at your waist, the soft cotton brushing against the bare skin of your thighs as you padded barefoot toward the door.
And when you opened itâ
There he was.
Tommy.
Looking like heâd walked all the way from his house in the dark just to lose sleep over something he couldnât name. His hair was a mess, shoved half-heartedly back into the low ponytail he always wore to bed, strands curling wild around his temples. He was still in his pajama pants, a flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open over a thin tank that clung to his chest, like heâd thrown it on at the last minute in a rush to be anywhere but alone.
âTommy?â you said, brows furrowed, voice soft with confusion. âWhat are you doing here? Itâs late.â
He didnât answer.
Because the moment his eyes landed on youâreally landedâhe knew.
He stepped forward without a word, one hand rising to your face, fingers warm against your cheek, calloused palm cupping your jaw like instinct. And he saw itâall of it. The soft flush still lingering on your skin, the dreamy haze in your eyes, the way your lips looked just a little too kiss-bruised, your hair just a little too tangled.
He knew that face. Knew it too well.
Your post-orgasm glow was something heâd memorized over countless mornings, late nights, lazy afternoonsâback when your body still sang under his hands.
And thenâ His gaze slipped past you.
To the flowers.
Sitting in a small glass vase on the table just behind your shoulder, their stems uneven, their petals a little wild and lopsidedâbut unmistakable. The same kind that grew along the fence outside Joelâs place.
And Tommy's stomach dropped.
He didn't say a word.
But he didnât have to.
Because you were standing in your doorway, robe loose and soft over your thighs, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, and you looked beautiful. Unfairly beautiful. Devastatingly fucked-out and glowing, all flushed cheeks and parted lips, your breath catching like you didnât know how to explain it, like maybe you didnât.
And Tommy?
He just stood there.
Mouth parted. Eyes stunned. Chest heaving like heâd taken a hit.
Because the pieces had clicked. And they clicked hard.
i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand
im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what heâd said werenât already chewing at his thoughts.
âThis is stupid,â he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. âAinât nothinâ to fix.â
But stillâhe tugged his jacket on.
Stillâhe grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.
And stillâhe left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadnât quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.
He didnât know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.
But he walked anyway.
Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benjiâs toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterdayâs visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.
His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythmâthe kind he got when he was doing something he didnât want to admit he cared about.
He knew where youâd be.
You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.
He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focusedâso damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.
And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.
Try.
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
You didnât see him at firstânot until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chestâand there he was.
Joel.
Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasnât sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.
His shoulders were stiff, like they hadnât decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.
And your first instinctâstupid and human and wholly unprepared for thisâwas to turn.
To leave.
To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterdayâs silence had started.
You mumbled something half-formed, barely audibleââI shouldâsorry, I didnât realizeââ and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.
But his voice stopped you.
Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.
âYou donât gotta run.â
The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.
You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fearâbut out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.
He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.
âI, uhâŚâ he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. âI made this. Sâjust bread.â
You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between youâand sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.
âI ainâtâŚâ he tried again, then cleared his throat. âAinât good at talkinâ. Or⌠at fixinâ shit I broke.â
There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didnât hurt the way it had the night before.
You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.
âIs this an apology?â you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.
Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.
âItâs bread,â he muttered.
You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadnât expected to feel.
âOkay,â you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didnât mean anything and meant everything all at once. âI like bread.â
He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.
You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how youâd gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.
Joel had never been to your houseânot that thereâd ever been a reason for him to beâand yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.
There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believedâdeep down, in spite of everythingâthat love was still something worth inviting in.
It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.
And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read âlove you, mean itâ in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too⌠youâand yet he didnât complain, didnât grimace, didnât say a word.
He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.
You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mugâyour voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.
âSoâŚâ you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, âwhat made you change your mind?â
He didnât answer right awayâjust sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.
His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.
âI didnât,â he muttered. âNot really.â
You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.
Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.
âI just figuredâŚâ he continued, voice rough but quiet now, âif it meant youâd stop lookinâ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... Iâd let you try.â
Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escapingâbut it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You couldâve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lieâbecause you knew Joel Miller didnât change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.
âWell,â you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, âI promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.â
Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.
âOkay,â you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.
Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glassesâthin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.
And thenâlike magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaosâyou pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldnât quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.
Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.
âThe hell is that?â he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like youâd just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.
You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particularâa page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.
âItâs my matchmaking journal,â you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.
Joel squinted. âYour what?â
âMy matchmaking journal,â you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. âItâs where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first datesâoh, and moon sign clashes. Thatâs a big one.â
Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.
At his name, scratched out no less than three times.
And then back at you again.
âYouâve got moon signs in there?â
âMhm.â
âAnd me.â
âYes.â
âScratched out.â
You blinked innocently. âYou werenât very cooperative.â
Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhaleâthe kind that said this is ridiculous.
âYouâre serious about this?â
âAs a heart attack,â you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. âNow, letâs start.â
Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
But he stayed.
And you smiled.
And maybeâjust maybeâthis was going to work.
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You started off simpleâcareful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.
You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.
âJoel Miller,â you read softly, tilting your head. âFifty-six years old⌠former contractor⌠current grumblerâŚâ
Joel shot you a look. âWhat?â
You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. âNothing. Just jotting down your strengths.â
He raised a brow. âThatâs a strength?â
You nodded, scribbling something else down. âYouâre consistent. Consistency is a green flag.â
He scoffed. âThat what passes for romance these days?â
âOh, I never said you were romantic,â you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel â High risk / High reward? in your looping script. âBut thatâs what Iâm here for. We build from the rubble.â
Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.
âOkay,â you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. âLetâs start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?â
âI ainât got hobbies,â he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.
You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. âThatâs not true. Everyone has hobbies.â
âNot me,â he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.
You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.
Joel squinted across the table. âWhatâre you writinâ?â
âJust⌠that your hobbies include cooking.â
âThat ainât a hobby,â he grunted, frown deepening.
âYes it is,â you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. âAnd youâre good at it.â
He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to complimentsâat least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.
You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes thenâsteady and warmâand tilted your head.
âOkay. How about we try this instead,â you said, voice softer now. âWhat do you look for in a partner?â
Joelâs sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.
âI ainât lookinâ for a partner,â he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.
You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, âJoel. You said youâd do this. So if youâre going toâif youâre really going toâwe might as well try.â
Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.
âIf itâs easier,â you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, âwhat kind of women did you used to date? You know⌠before all of this.â
He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like theyâd been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. âYou mean like⌠twenty years ago?â
You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.
Joel exhaled, low and rough. âJesus,â he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. âAinât thought about that in a long time.â
You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.
He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. âGuess I used to go for women who didnât take shit from me. Strong. Didnât scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs⌠smart, too. I liked that.â
You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesnât back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???
He glanced at you, almost defensively. âThat donât mean Iâm lookinâ for anyone now.â
âI know,â you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. âBut it helps. Just paintinâ the picture.â
Joel grunted againâhis signature form of communication, reallyâbut it wasnât the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said Iâm only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if youâd just asked him to solve advanced calculus.
âOkay,â you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, âdo you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?â
That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.
âI ainât orderinâ off a damn menu,â Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. âThis ainât the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.â
You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. âSo⌠no preference?â
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. âMy preference is peace and quiet.â
You gave him a look thenânot judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didnât mean to.
You tucked your pen behind your ear like youâd done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.
Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.
The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spokeâgruff, honest, voice low like he didnât much care to hear it out loud.
âSomeone kind,â he muttered. âSomeone who doesnâtâdoesnât need me to be anything more than I am. Ainât lookinâ to be fixed. Just⌠someone real. Good with quiet. Good with⌠mess.â
Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what heâd said without frightening it back into hiding.
You didnât say anything, didnât tease, didnât scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.
Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. âBut I still donât want no one clappinâ when the plane lands. Thatâs justâhell no.â
You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didnât feel like bolting.
recently (as in the last day đ) Iâve been getting a few negative inbox messages and Iâve honestly never received anything like this before.
honestly itâs really put me off writing for the moment (Iâve legit felt nauseous all day because of it đđ) and I hate that Iâm this sensitive and letting it overcrowd the hundreds of positive messages I get from you guys
so that being said Iâm taking a little bit of a break from writing
hopefully Iâll be back soon but for me this tumblr and writing is all for fun and I get so much enjoyment from seeing you guys enjoy the stories I post, but opening the app and seeing messages like that takes all the fun out of it
Sorry for the long message đđđ and I hope you guys understandđđđ
A/N I'm so glad yall enjoyed part 1 ! made me so happy seeing all the comments, hope you enjoy this part x
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You adored Tommy and Maria. That was no secret. Their house felt like a second homeâthe door always open, the hearth always warm, baby Benji always giggling in your arms like he knew something the rest of the world had forgotten.
You were there often enough that your teacup had a place on the shelf, your name was a murmur in bedtime lullabies, and your laughter belonged to the walls.
But Joel? Joel was different.
Despite your closeness with his brother and Maria, you and Joel had never been anything more than⌠polite shadows crossing paths. A nod at the gates. A quiet "morning" when your boots passed on the trail. He never stayed long enough for more.
Everyone in Jackson knew itâfelt it. He carried himself like a man built from silence and steel, like someone forged in grief and never fully cooled. Where Tommy was sunlight, Joel was shadow. And not the soft kind, either. The kind you noticed in your peripheral visionâunavoidable, unmoving.
You didnât need to know his story to recognize the shape of it. You saw it in the way he moved: cautious, careful, like the earth beneath him might give way if he stepped wrong.
You saw it in the tension that never left his shoulders, the way he never lingered, never asked questions he didnât need answered. His eyes held the look of someone who had loved and lost so deeply heâd buried the whole concept beside whatever grave he no longer visited.
And he was, quite plainly, the last man in Jackson youâd ever try to matchmake.
Not because he didnât deserve loveâbut because he didnât want it.
Your methods werenât scientific, but you had instincts. You always asked yourself the same quiet questions before setting anyone up:
What are they seeking?
What do they need?
And are they open to love, truly open?
Joel Miller failed the last question before it could even be asked.
He didnât strike you as someone waiting for anything.
He struck you as the kind of man whoâd wake up before dawn just to be alone with his coffee and the sound of his own breath. The kind who preferred the ache of his joints to the vulnerability of comfort. The kind of man who built his world out of habit, routine, and distanceâand kept it that way because it hurt less.
He didnât smile at people. Didnât linger in town square to chat. Didnât extend kindness unless necessity forced it from him. He wasnât polite. He wasnât soft. He was older, rough-edged, and entirely uninterested in being understood.
That was the truth of it.
So when Tommy leaned back in his chair that day, voice teasing but eyes glinting with something deeper, and said, âFind Joel someone,ââyou knew exactly what he was doing.
He wasnât asking. He was testing you. He had picked the one man in Jackson who didnât want to be chosen.
And maybe⌠maybe he thought youâd fail.
But something about that challenge stuck in your ribs.
Because while Joel wasnât looking for loveâwhile heâd built his life so carefully around the absence of itâyou couldnât help but wonder:
What if he used to believe in it? What if he still did, quietly, deep down, in a place too bruised to admit it out loud?
And worseâwhat if the only reason he didnât believe anymore was because no one had looked at him like he was worth choosing?
Not until now.
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The first time you tried to bring it up, he was in Tommy and Mariaâs kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven and looked like effort.
The scent hit you before you saw himâgarlic, thyme, maybe something smoked. It wrapped itself around the room like a warm quilt, rich and unexpected. Joel stood over the stove, jaw tight in concentration, a hand towel slung over one shoulder like it belonged there. His brow was furrowed, focused, almost peaceful in that gruff, guarded way of his.
You hovered in the doorway, heart thudding traitorously in your chest.
You were used to being approached by people who wanted your helpâwho smiled too wide, who leaned in eagerly, who whispered, âDo you think thereâs someone out there for me?â Not⌠this.
Not trying to coax someone toward the idea of love like it was medicine heâd refuse to take.
He didnât look up when you entered. Or if he noticed, he didnât acknowledge you.
You lingered by the counter, clutching the edge like it might give you courage. The silence felt loud. You hated that it made you feel twelve years old.
He finally glanced over, barely. âYou need somethinâ?â
His voice was flat, more gruff than unkind, but still edged like a warning. You were an interruption.
âOh. No,â you said quickly, shaking your head. âJustâthis smells amazing.â
He grunted. Actually grunted. Like a bear in a flannel.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and instead muttered something under your breathâsomething like âcharmingâ or maybe just âJesus Christ.â
You cleared your throat. âSo⌠do you like cooking?â
He turned his head a fraction, enough to eye you sideways. âItâs food.â
You blinked. âThat wasnât really an answer.â
He shrugged one shoulder. âI cook. So I can eat.â
You gave him a flat look, but he was already turning back to the pot, stirring like you hadnât said anything at all.
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
Dinner at Tommy and Mariaâs was always warmâfamiliar, comforting, threaded with laughter and the scent of something slow-cookedâbut tonight, it buzzed with a quiet, unbearable tension.
Joelâs food was, of course, incredible.
Rich and rustic, seasoned to perfection, made with the kind of care heâd never admit out loud. But he ate like it was nothing. Like he hadnât spent hours making it. He was already halfway through his plate by the time youâd taken your second bite, chewing in near silence, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for a storm no one else could feel.
You sat across from him, napkin folded delicately in your lap, heart tapping anxiously against your ribs.
Tommy was loving this. His smirk was nearly unbearableâeyes flicking from your face to Joelâs with all the subtlety of a man watching live theatre. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. He could see the way you kept glancing down, folding and refolding your napkin, trying to find the perfect opening to ask a question you werenât even sure Joel would let you finish.
You took a breath, then another.
Wiped your mouthâgently.
âThis is delicious, Joel,â you said, hoping your voice didnât betray how hard your palms were sweating. âReally. Itâs⌠so good.â
He nodded once, without looking up. âMm.â
That was all.
Tommy bit back a grin and reached for the bread.
You looked at him helplessly, and he looked about ready to combust from holding in his laughter.
You pressed your fingers to your water glass, steadying yourself. And thenââSo,â you said, voice a little too bright, a little too casual, âdo you cook often for other people? Or⌠someone in particular?â
Joelâs fork paused. Slowly, he looked up.
His brow furrowed, deep and unmistakable. That classic Joel Miller expression that hovered somewhere between mild confusion and why are you still talking to me?
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
You tried to smile, but it landed halfway between charm and panic. âNothing. Just⌠this kind of meal seems like something youâd make for someone special.â
He blinked at you. Once. Twice.
Then, âThis a dinner or a damn interview?â
The words landed sharp. Not cruel, but cutting in that quiet, measured way only Joel could manage. Dry. Dismissive. Final.
It shut you up.
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
After that night, after the dinner table rejection that hummed in your chest like an ache you didnât know how to name, you decided there was no use in subtlety.
You had tried soft. You had tried polite. You had tried slipping things in like compliments folded into napkins, but Joel Miller was not the kind of man who read between the lines.
So the next time you saw himâthree days later, tightening fencing wire behind the stables, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed in that eternal expression of someone perpetually unimpressedâyou walked right up, leaned against the gatepost, and said, âHypothetically⌠if someone asked you out, would you even go?â
He didnât stop working. Didnât glance at you. Just muttered, âNot interested in hypotheticals.â
You huffed, pushed off the post, and walked away.
Two days after that, you caught him hauling firewood into the school kitchen, face flushed from the cold, jaw tight. You handed him a cloth to wipe his hands and asked, âWould it kill you to let someone care about you?â
He blinked at you, deadpan. âYou tryna get yourself assigned latrine duty with all these damn questions?â
You rolled your eyes and let the door shut behind you.
It became a patternâawkward, pointed, persistent.
You asked him at the tool shed while he was oiling his shotgun, the scent of steel and turpentine between you, your voice feather-light but your eyes fixed carefully on his profile.
âWhatâs your type, anyway? If you had to pick?â
He didnât even glance up. âPeople who mind their business.â
You tried again during patrol prep, the morning still damp with frost, his belt heavy with knives and yours with hope.
âYou ever get lonely, Joel?â
He grunted without missing a beat. âYou ever stop talkinâ?â
After that, you told yourself youâd stop.
That maybe Tommy was right, maybe Joel Miller was the one locked door even your heart couldnât open. You werenât built to beg, and love shouldnât have to be pried loose from someone like a tooth. So you promised yourself: no more questions, no more attempts. He didnât want to be known.
But the promise frayed faster than you'd expected.
It had been a soft eveningâone of those rare Jackson nights where the world felt quiet and intact, where the sun dipped low and golden behind the trees and the sky blushed lilac at the edges, and everything smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the promise of spring.
He was sitting on the porch steps outside the meeting hall, arms resting on his knees, posture taut like he was keeping the world at bay even while it softened around him.
You hadnât meant to approachânot reallyâbut something about the hush in the air and the loneliness curling at your ankles pushed you forward before you could stop yourself.
âJoel?â you asked gently, your voice low and full of something raw you didnât try to hide this time.
He didnât look at you, but he didnât walk away either.
You sat down a few steps above him, enough distance between you to feel it. Enough hope left to try again.
âYou really donât think thereâs anyone out there for you?â you asked softly, the words slipping from your lips like petals dropped into water, barely a ripple, as if saying it gently enough might keep it from shattering between you.
The air had cooled into dusk, the kind of quiet evening that made the world feel suspendedâtrees swaying in slow rhythm, the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes, light from the porch lantern casting golden shadows that didnât quite reach him.
Joel didnât answer right away.
He exhaled, slow and sharp, and the sound of it felt like something snappingânot loudly, not dramatically, just the quiet, unmistakable give of something that had been holding too much weight for too long.
And then, with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his voice came low and flat and brutal.
âWhat I think,â he said, âis that you donât know how to mind your own damn business.â
You blinked, lips parting just slightly, but he wasnât finished. His gaze never touched yours, his jaw tight with the kind of bitterness that had lived in him too long to name.
âYou wanna feel needed?â he continued, each word cut clean and cruel. âGo find someone who gives a damn. It ainât me.â
And thenâhe looked away.
Not in shame. Not in regret. Just turned his head with the finality of someone who had decided you no longer existed.
Your breath caught in your throat, small and sharp like the echo of a sob that hadnât made it out. You stood slowly, hands stiff at your sides, your body moving before your mind caught up, every inch of you suddenly aware of how foolish you must have lookedâhow fragile your hope had been.
âIâm sorry,â you said quietly, but the words felt like they belonged to someone else. You didnât even know what you were apologizing forâexisting, maybe. Caring.
He didnât look up.
You turned, your steps uncertain at firstâjust the gentle scrape of boots on woodâbut soon they quickened, like maybe if you moved fast enough you could outrun the heat rising behind your eyes or the way your throat had gone tight and narrow, like your heart was trying to climb out of it. Your shoulders curled inward as you walked, a soft, instinctive foldingâas if you could shrink yourself into something smaller, something less noticeable, something easier to leave behind.
By the time you reached the path, the sky had deepened to a bruised indigo, the sun swallowed whole behind the trees, and the wind that had once carried the scent of pine and firewood now felt sharp and cold against your skin, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome.
And Joel?
Joel just sat there.
Still. Silent. Staring at nothing like the world around him had gone quiet too.
He didnât flinch when Ellie approachedâher footsteps uneven, heavy with the kind of angry purpose only a teenager could carryâbut he didnât greet her either. Just kept his eyes on the dark horizon like it might tell him what heâd just done.
Ellie stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her brows drawn so tight they nearly met.
âThat was mean,â she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a branch underfoot.
Joel blinked, slow and deliberate, then rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm loud in the silence.
âEllie,â he muttered, low and tired, âhow many times do I gotta tell youâitâs rude to eavesdrop.â
She rolled her eyes so hard you could hear it in her exhale.
âYeah?â she shot back. âYou know what else is rude? Being a complete asshole to someone whoâs literally just tryinâ to care about you.â
He didnât answer, just shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders tight and his mouth pressed into a hard, straight line, like he was holding something back but wasnât sure if it was words or regret.
âShe wasnât asking to annoy you,â Ellie went on, climbing the first step now, her voice lower but no less sharp. âShe was asking âcause she sees somethinâ in you. Which, frankly, is a goddamn miracle.â
Joel turned to look at her thenâjust barely, just enoughâand the soft light caught the edge of his face, carved in angles and shadows, every line telling the story of a man who had carried too much for too long, who had forgotten softness because it had stopped surviving in his hands.
Ellieâs voice came quieter now, stripped of its usual armor, her hands still buried in her jacket but her posture more uncertain than defiant.
âYou know I never met my mom,â she said suddenly, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond him, like the words were too fragile to look directly at.
Joel blinked, the shift in conversation jarring, his brow tightening in the center like something had caught him off guard and he didnât quite know how to hold it.
Ellie shrugged, quick and small, like she regretted saying it the second it left her mouth. âI donât know,â she added, voice softer now. âI guess I wouldnât mind you⌠yâknow. Finding someone.â
She said it like it was no big deal, like it hadnât just cracked the air in two.
But Joel was still staring at her, still unmoving, still caught on that sentenceânot the words themselves, but the space between them, the unspoken ache in her tone, the confession she hadnât made outright but had wrapped in something lighter so it wouldnât break the both of them.
âI mean,â she went on, her voice wobbling only slightly, âsomeone whoâs good. Who could maybe⌠I donât know. Be around. Help. Talk to me sometimes. If you werenât. Not that I need it.â She swallowed. âJust⌠wouldnât hate it, is all.â
The wind shifted again, cool and clean, brushing past them like it too was afraid to speak.
Joel looked at her like he hadnât knownâhadnât let himself knowâthat there was a piece of her still searching for something sheâd never had. Not just safety. Not just shelter. But softness. Guidance. A presence that could fill in the shape of something maternal, something gentle, something lasting.
Something like love.
And maybe, for the first time in a long while, Joel didnât feel defensive. Didnât feel the need to retreat behind some cold remark or hard silence.
He just sat there, staring at this kidâhis kidâand realized with a slow, dawning ache that in all his effort to protect her from the world, he hadnât stopped to think she might want more than just protection.
She might want family.
ŕźśâ˘ââŕ¨âĄŕ§âââ˘ŕźś
Tag List: (for future i think i will tag #cupidofwyoming for each chapter instead of a tag list because a lot of the time the tags dont work for some reason?! that way you guys can still find the chapters on my blog xx)
