summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 135k┊ongoing┊updates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
⤷ CHAPTER INDEX:
⚕one.┊two.┊three.┊four.┊five.┊six.┊seven.┊eight.┊nine.┊ten.┊eleven. ┊twelve.┊thirteen.┊fourteen.┊ fifteen. ┊ sixteen.┊seventeen.┊eighteen┊ nineteen ┊twenty ┊twenty one ┊twenty two
⤷ BLURBS INDEX:
⚕ long shift
⚕ halloween
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow @s-writing-s-fics to get notified when i post a new chapter <33
Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.
Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.
This was the second kind.
He knew because your breathing changed.
Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.
He knew you read smut.
That was not new information.
You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.
What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.
You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.
The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be suspicious.
Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.
You turned a page.
Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.
Jack’s thumb paused.
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.
You did not notice.
Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.
Jack had seen the tabs before.
He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.
You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.
He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.
He was about to find out that he was right.
Just not in the way he thought.
You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.
Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”
Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”
Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.
His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”
You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”
You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”
Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”
Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.
“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”
You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”
You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”
Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”
You did not hesitate. “Smut.”
Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”
You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”
Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”
You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”
Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”
You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”
You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”
Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”
Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”
You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.
You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.
Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”
You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”
Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”
You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”
Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”
You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”
Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”
You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.
You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”
Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”
You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”
Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”
You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”
You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.
Jack waited.
He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
Jack looked at the book.
The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.
He reached for it.
Not because he was snooping.
Snooping implied shame.
Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.
This was clinical curiosity.
Marital clinical curiosity.
He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.
Jack glanced toward the hallway.
The kettle hummed.
He opened the book where your finger had been.
He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.
Jack muttered, “Christ.”
You had not been kidding about the smut.
He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.
Red.
Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.
Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.
At first, he smiled.
Then he stopped smiling.
His eyes moved over the page once.
Then again, slower.
A throne.
A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.
A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.
Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.
At the end of that hallway sat his home office.
His chair.
His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.
The one with lumbar support.
The one with the locked wheels.
The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.
Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.
Jack said softly, “Well.”
The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.
Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.
He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.
His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.
Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.
Jack murmured, “Fuck.”
You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.
You stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.
Not casually.
Not idly.
Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.
Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.
You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”
Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”
You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”
You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”
Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”
You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.
That was the first thing that got him.
Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.
It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.
Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.
Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”
You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”
Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.
The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter.
“That’s what you wanted?”
You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”
Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”
You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”
His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.
He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”
You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”
Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”
You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”
You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”
The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.
Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“He’s twenty-two?”
You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”
Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”
You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”
Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”
You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”
He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”
Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”
Jack paused. “That was vague.”
You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”
Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”
You blinked. “Worried?”
Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”
You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”
You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”
His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”
You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”
His hand stilled on the book.
You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”
Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”
You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”
Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”
You laughed softly. “Noted.”
His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”
You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”
Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.
You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.
In the way his eyes came back to yours.
In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.
You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”
His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”
“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”
Jack went still.
You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”
His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.
You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.
“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”
His jaw shifted.
“That’s part of it too.”
Jack did not blink.
“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”
His thumb moved once at your waist.
You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”
Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.
You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”
His voice came out lower. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Because I trust you,” you said.
His hand stilled at your waist.
You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.
“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”
Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.
Then they came back to yours.
“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”
Jack was silent for a long moment.
Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.
“It’s the trust,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”
You laughed under your breath.
His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”
You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”
Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”
Jack looked toward the book.
His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”
You laughed.
He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.
His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”
You blinked. “How many what?”
Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”
You laughed softly. “Your problem?”
Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”
You smiled.
He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”
You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.
Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.
You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.
You tapped the page. “Start there.”
Jack glanced down at the red tab.
Then back at you.
His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”
You nodded. “The throne.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.
You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”
You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”
“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”
Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”
“We covered the chair,” you agreed.
His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”
The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.
“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.
Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about worship.”
Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.
But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.
“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”
Jack did not interrupt.
You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”
The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.
His voice had gone lower. “What?”
You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.
“I want to try something.”
Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”
Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.
“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”
Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”
You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”
Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.
You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”
Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.
You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”
Jack had taken one slow breath.
Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.
“Close the door.”
You had.
By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.
“Here?” he had asked.
You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.
Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.
Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.
“You want my full attention?” he had asked.
You had nodded, throat tight.
His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”
And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet.
The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.
But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.
“Look at me,” he had murmured.
You had tried. God, you had tried.
Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.
“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.
It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.
Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”
You nodded. “That was the idea.”
His thumb moved once. “The worship.”
You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”
For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
You smiled a little. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”
Your chest softened.
You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”
You nodded. “Not the first.”
His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”
You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”
Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”
You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”
His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”
You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”
Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”
You glanced back at him. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.
Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”
You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”
Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”
You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”
Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”
You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”
You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.
Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”
You added it to the stack. “That one too.”
His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.
You followed his eyes and smiled.
Jack sat forward. “No.”
You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”
Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”
You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”
His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”
You smiled. “It was.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”
You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”
Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.
The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.
Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”
You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”
Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”
You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”
Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”
His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.
Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”
Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”
Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”
You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”
You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”
The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His mouth had curved. “You need something?”
You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you.
You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”
Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.
Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”
You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”
Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”
He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.
Jack had checked once. “Like this?”
Your breath had caught. “Yes.”
Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.
His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”
You had tried.
Jack had noticed every second you failed.
Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”
You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”
Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”
You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”
You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”
Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”
You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”
His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”
You nodded. “The night it snowed.”
Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”
Your pulse kicked once.
You held his eyes. “Yes.”
The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.
He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”
You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”
Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”
You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”
Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.
You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”
His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”
You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”
You had nodded.
Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”
And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.
In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.
His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”
You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”
Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
You smiled wider. “A lot.”
Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.
You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”
Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”
You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”
Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.
“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”
You laughed softly. “Mixed?”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”
You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”
You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”
Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.
His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”
You smiled. “The sundress.”
Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”
You held his gaze. “No underwear.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.
His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”
You smiled. “That was for you.”
The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.
Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”
You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”
Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.
Jack had asked, “You sure?”
You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.
“Bathroom,” he had said.
You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”
His hand had found the small of your back.
Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”
In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.
His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.
“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”
Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.
Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.
You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”
Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”
You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”
You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”
You laughed. “This is not a court.”
Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”
Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.
Jack watched your hand move to it.
His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”
You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”
Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”
You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”
His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.
You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”
Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.
You nodded. “After the double.”
Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”
The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.
“What?” he had asked.
Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.
His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.
You had nodded.
The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.
“Tell me what you need,” he had said.
You had swallowed.
You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”
Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”
Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”
Jack had gone very still.
Then his mouth had softened against your temple.
“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.
Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.
Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.
His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”
In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”
You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”
Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”
You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”
You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”
Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.
His voice softened. “There.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”
You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”
You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”
Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”
The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.
“Begging,” you said.
Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”
You nodded. “After your shower.”
The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.
His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.
You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.
Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.
“Ask for what?” he had asked.
Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.
His thumb had moved once over your skin.
“Then tell me.” Jack had said.
You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”
Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle.
“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”
Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.
“That one mattered,” Jack said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”
You breathed out. “Because I asked.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”
Your throat tightened.
You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”
You tilted your head. “The begging?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”
You laughed once.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”
Your smile softened.
His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”
The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.
You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”
Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.
Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”
You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”
You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.
“Green dress,” he said.
You nodded. “Green dress.”
The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.
You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.
Completely.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again, like the first look had not been enough.
“Jack,” you had said.
He had crossed the room without saying anything.
You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy.
Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.
“I want you to help me see it.”
Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.
Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.
For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.
“Look,” Jack had said.
You had started to glance away.
His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”
Your breath had caught.
His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.
You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.
“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.
Your throat had tightened.
His fingers had spread over your waist.
“Beautiful,” he had said.
You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him.
The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.
You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”
Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”
Jack covered your hand with his.
You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”
Your smile wobbled. “I know.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.
You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”
The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.
“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”
You nodded. “Mostly.”
Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”
You smiled. “Pool house.”
His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”
“Fireplace.”
He tapped the third. “Risk.”
“Bar bathroom.”
His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”
“Supply closet.”
His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”
“Bedroom.”
Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”
You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“And worship.”
Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”
Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”
You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”
His eyes darkened.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled.
He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”
You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.
“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”
You laughed, startled and bright.
Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.
You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”
You smiled. “Every single one.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”
You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”
You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”
Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”
Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”
You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”
Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”
Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”
You laughed. “Obscene.”
Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.
“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”
Your breath caught.
His smile deepened.
“There,” he murmured. “That look.”
Later That Night…
The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.
Face-down.
Spine bent.
One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually.
Probably.
When your lungs worked again.
For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.
Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.
Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.
He had conducted research.
Thoroughly.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.
Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound.
“That was incredible.”
You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.
His eyes were still on the ceiling.
You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”
Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”
Your smile widened. “I heard you.”
Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”
You waited.
His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.
Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”
A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.
Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.
You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”
Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”
His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.
“Just need a minute.”
You smiled. “Take your time.”
Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.
His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”
Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”
That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”
You raised your eyebrows. “No?”
“Wrong word.”
You waited, biting back a smile.
Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.
“Beautiful,” he decided.
Your throat warmed.
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”
Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”
You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.
His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”
You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”
You pressed your lips together. “The process?”
He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”
You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”
Jack looked back at you.
His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.
“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”
You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.
Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.
You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.
His heartbeat was still too fast.
You smiled against his skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.
Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.
“That was incredible.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
He looked almost offended by your amusement.
“What?”
“You’ve said that four times.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”
Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”
Jack’s eyes held yours.
For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.
“I liked that you showed me.”
Your chest tightened.
His thumb moved against your back.
“I liked that you asked,” he said.
You swallowed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”
The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.
When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“That was also incredible.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”
His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.
“I’m enlightened.”
You laughed against him. “By smut?”
Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.
“By my wife.”
That stole the breath from your chest.
You lifted your head.
Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.
Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.
His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”
Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.
“Too late.”
You stared at him.
He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”
You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.
Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.
You hit him with it.
He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.
Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.
After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”
Joe keery fic that is like them dating but they both get super busy and it feels like they’re on the brink of a break up because the separation and their schedules never aligning. Maybe like an argument that separates them even more. But Joe goes home because he can’t bear being angry with her
DISTANCE
joe keery x reader
desc- when distance becomes a third member of your relationship and ultimately steers you apart.
val speaks - thanku for this request!! i loveeee an angst n i hope i wrote it how u wanted!
you used to measure time by him.
not in a dramatic way, not in the way people in movies say their whole world revolves around someone, but in the small, quiet ways that felt more real. mornings started with half-awake voice notes sent across time zones, his voice rough with sleep and affection. nights ended with facetime calls where neither of you said much, just existing together while he tuned a guitar or you finished whatever work you had left. even silence felt shared back then.
it wasn’t that things had changed all at once. nothing ever does. it happened slowly, gently enough that you almost didn’t notice at first.
his schedule got busier. yours did too. filming days stretched longer, interviews ran late, flights got delayed, and suddenly “i’ll call you tonight” turned into “i’ll text when i land,” which turned into a heart reaction on a message sent hours earlier. you told yourself it was normal. healthy, even. two people with full lives learning how to fit together instead of depending on each other completely.
but somewhere along the way, fitting together started to feel more like missing each other.
you still loved him. god, you loved him. and when you were actually in the same room, everything snapped back into place so easily it almost hurt. he’d pull you into a hug that felt familiar down to muscle memory, chin resting on your head like no time had passed at all. he’d smile at you the same way, soft, slightly crooked, like you were still the best part of his day.
only now, those moments felt rare. temporary. like borrowed time.
you noticed it most in the little things.
he used to remember everything. the exact way you took your coffee, the shows you mentioned wanting to watch, the tiny details you’d say in passing weeks earlier. he used to show up early just to see you for ten extra minutes, used to plan stupidly thoughtful surprises that made you laugh because who thinks of that stuff anymore?
now he forgot sometimes. not in a careless way, just… distracted. his mind always somewhere else, halfway between cities and scripts and soundchecks.
and you hated yourself for noticing.
because logically, you understood. his career was exploding. opportunities like this didn’t last forever. you were proud of him. so endlessly proud. you told everyone that. defended him when friends raised eyebrows at cancelled plans or unanswered messages.
“he’s just busy,” you’d say quickly. “it’s temporary.”
but late at night, when your phone screen stayed dark longer than it used to, temporary started to feel heavier than it should.
you caught yourself rereading old conversations sometimes. scrolling back months without meaning to. back when messages came in paragraphs instead of quick check-ins. back when he’d send photos of random things that reminded him of you, a dog on the street, a record in a shop window, a sunset he insisted looked exactly like the one from your first trip together.
you wondered if he noticed the difference too.
the thought scared you enough that you never asked.
because when you finally did see each other again after weeks apart, he still held you like you were home. he still kissed your forehead absentmindedly while talking about his day. he still looked at you with warmth that couldn’t possibly be fake.
and that was the confusing part.
nothing was wrong, exactly.
there were no fights. no betrayal. no moment you could point to and say, that’s when everything broke.
just distance. quiet, creeping distance.
one night, sitting alone on your couch with the tv playing something you weren’t really watching, you realized you couldn’t remember the last full conversation you’d had that didn’t revolve around schedules.
what time are you free.
when do you land.
how long are you there.
i miss you.
i miss you too.
you stared at the last message he’d sent, a quick “sorry, long day. call tomorrow?” - timestamped three hours ago.
you typed back, of course, adding a heart like always.
then you set your phone down and waited anyway, even though you knew he wouldn’t call tonight.
and for the first time, a thought slipped in that you immediately tried to push away:
he used to try so hard to be perfect for you.
now it felt like life didn’t leave him enough room to try at all.
you told yourself love was supposed to survive busy seasons. that real relationships weren’t constant grand gestures or endless attention.
still, as the room grew quieter and the glow from your phone faded, you couldn’t ignore the small ache settling in your chest, the feeling that you were both still holding onto something beautiful, but neither of you quite knew how to reach it anymore.
and somewhere, without either of you meaning for it to happen, loving each other had started to feel like missing each other.
-
the week was supposed to fix everything.
you both said that without actually saying it, in the relieved smiles over the phone when you realised your schedules finally overlapped, in the way he’d said, “a whole week. just us,” like he almost couldn’t believe it himself. you let yourself get excited in a careful way, the kind of hope you try not to hold too tightly in case it slips through your hands again.
you cleaned the apartment before he arrived, even the corners no one ever noticed. changed the sheets. bought his favorite snacks. you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, but your chest felt lighter all day, anticipation humming under your skin.
when he finally walked through the door, travel-worn and smiling, everything felt easy again.
he dropped his bags and pulled you into him immediately, arms tight around your waist like he’d been holding that hug in for weeks. you laughed into his shoulder, breathing him in. familiar cologne, the faint smell of airport air and something undeniably him. for a moment, all the distance disappeared.
“i missed you,” he murmured.
and you believed it completely.
the first night was perfect in that effortless way only the two of you seemed to manage. takeout on the couch, talking over each other, falling into old rhythms without trying. he told stories about filming, you told him about everything he’d missed, and it felt like proof that nothing had actually changed, that you’d both just been busy, that was all.
but by the second day, his phone started buzzing more.
by the third, he mentioned the studio.
“just for a few hours,” he said casually, already pulling on a jacket. “they finally got time booked and i don’t wanna lose it.”
you nodded, smiling. of course. you understood. music mattered to him, you loved that about him.
a few hours turned into most of the day.
he came home late, apologetic but distracted, energy still buzzing from whatever he’d been working on. he talked quickly, excitedly, words spilling over each other while you nodded from the couch, trying to ignore the quiet disappointment sitting heavy in your stomach.
it was fine. it was just one day.
except it kept happening.
each morning started with, “i’ll be back early tonight,” and each night ended with you checking the time more than you wanted to admit. dinner plans got pushed later, then cancelled altogether. the groceries you bought stayed untouched in the fridge. you told yourself not to take it personally. this was who he was, passionate, driven, but the whole point of this week had been time together.
and somehow, you were alone more than when he was in another country.
the breaking point came on a thursday night.
it was past midnight when you heard the door unlock. you’d fallen asleep on the couch without meaning to, tv still glowing softly across the room. you stirred as he stepped inside, trying to be quiet, keys clinking softly.
“hey,” he said gently when he noticed you awake. “didn’t mean to wake you.”
you pushed yourself upright, blanket slipping from your shoulders. “what time is it?”
he glanced at his phone. “late. i lost track.”
of course you did, you almost said.
instead, you nodded, swallowing the tight feeling in your throat. “i made dinner earlier.”
his expression softened with guilt. “i’m sorry. we got really into something and-”
“yeah,” you interrupted quietly. “you’ve been really into something every night.”
the words hung in the air heavier than you intended.
he frowned slightly, setting his bag down. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
you hesitated, already wanting to take it back. you weren’t trying to start a fight. you just… felt full, like something inside you had been stacking up for days with nowhere to go.
“nothing,” you muttered.
he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “no, clearly it’s not nothing.”
silence stretched between you. the tv flickered quietly behind you, filling the space neither of you seemed to know how to cross.
finally, you said it. softer than you expected.
“i thought this week was for us.”
his shoulders stiffened. “it is.”
“is it?” your voice cracked slightly despite your effort to stay calm. “because you’ve barely been here, joe.”
he looked genuinely confused, frustration creeping into his expression. “i am here. i come home every night.”
“at midnight,” you said, the words slipping out sharper now. “when i’m already asleep. when we don’t actually spend any time together.”
he exhaled hard, pacing a step into the room. “you know how this works. opportunities don’t just wait around.”
“i know,” you said quickly, standing now too, emotion rising faster than you could control. “i always know. i always understand. that’s kind of the problem.”
he blinked at you. “what does that mean?”
it all spilled out before you could stop it.
“it means i keep making space for your life, but it feels like there’s never space for me in it anymore.”
the room went very still.
hurt flashed across his face, quickly replaced by defensiveness. “that’s not fair.”
“i’m not saying you don’t care,” you said, voice shaking now. “but you’re not here, even when you’re literally standing in the same apartment as me. you’re always somewhere else. filming, recording, planning the next thing, and i feel like i’m just waiting around hoping you’ll come back.”
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. “i’m doing this for our future too, you know. this isn’t just about me.”
“i'm not asking you to stop chasing your career,” you said, tears finally spilling despite your effort to hold them back. “i just wanted one week where i didn’t feel like i came second to everything else.”
he stopped moving then, staring at you like he didn’t know what to say.
and that hurt more than anything.
because once, he always knew exactly what to say.
the silence stretched, thick and unfamiliar, both of you standing on opposite sides of the room like strangers trying to figure out how you got there.
“i didn’t realise it was that bad,” he said finally, quieter now.
you laughed weakly, wiping your face. “that’s kind of the point. you don’t realise.”
neither of you spoke after that.
the argument didn’t explode the way fights do in movies, no slammed doors, no dramatic endings. just exhaustion settling in, heavy and unresolved, words lingering in the air long after they were said.
and as you turned away, hugging your arms around yourself, you realised something that scared you more than the fight itself.
for the first time, being in the same room didn’t make the distance disappear.
-
morning came too quickly.
neither of you had slept properly. you could feel it in the heaviness behind your eyes, in the quiet stiffness that filled the apartment. the argument from the night before hadn’t really ended, it had just… stopped. paused, like a conversation neither of you knew how to finish.
he was already awake when you walked into the kitchen, suitcase half-packed by the door. the sound of the zipper closing made something twist painfully in your chest.
usually, mornings after fights meant soft apologies. someone reaching first. coffee made silently as a peace offering. a hand brushing yours like a truce.
this morning felt careful instead. fragile.
“car’s coming soon,” he said, not quite looking at you as he folded a hoodie into his bag.
you nodded. “yeah. i know.”
silence settled again, thick and uncomfortable. you busied yourself pouring coffee you didn’t really want, watching the steam rise just so you wouldn’t have to look at him.
he sighed after a moment. “are we… okay?”
the question should’ve been simple. it used to be.
you hesitated too long.
“i don’t know,” you admitted quietly.
his shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d expected that answer but still hoped for something else. “i said i didn’t realise you felt that way. i’m trying here.”
and maybe he was. maybe you were too tired to see it properly. but the hurt from the night before still sat raw under your skin.
“trying now,” you said before you could stop yourself.
he frowned. “what?”
you set your mug down harder than intended. “it just feels like you only notice when i finally say something. like i have to break down for you to see me.”
frustration flashed across his face, exhaustion mixing with guilt. “that’s not fair. i can’t fix something if i don’t know it’s wrong.”
“i didn’t want to have to ask for attention,” you said softly, voice trembling again. “i didn’t think loving someone was supposed to feel like reminding them you exist.”
the words landed heavier than you meant them to.
he went quiet, jaw tightening slightly. you could tell he was hurt now too, defensive walls going up where softness usually lived.
“i never made you feel invisible on purpose,” he said, voice low.
“i know,” you replied quickly. “that’s what makes it worse.”
another silence. sharper this time.
his phone buzzed, the driver outside. reality intruding before either of you could fix anything.
he picked up his bag slowly, lingering like he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how. you stood near the counter, arms folded around yourself, unsure how to bridge the distance that felt suddenly enormous.
normally, you walked him to the door. normally there were kisses, promises to call, a dozen i love you’s exchanged like protection against the time apart.
this time, everything felt uncertain.
“i’ll text when i land,” he said quietly.
you nodded. “okay.”
he hesitated, then stepped closer, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. it was familiar but it lacked the warmth it usually carried, both of you holding back without meaning to.
“i love you,” he said.
the words caught in your chest.
“i love you too.”
but it didn’t fix anything.
the door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have. you stood there for a long time afterward, staring at nothing, the apartment suddenly feeling too still.
you told yourself space might be good. maybe you both just needed to cool off.
so when he landed and sent a simple made it, you liked the message instead of replying.
you didn’t text the next morning either.
or the one after that.
at first it wasn’t intentional. you just didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t reopen the argument. every message you thought about sending felt either too normal or too emotional, and both felt wrong. so you waited.
and the longer you waited, the harder it became to reach out at all.
you assumed he was busy anyway. filming, meetings, studio sessions, the same cycle as always. you figured he probably hadn’t even noticed the silence yet.
but he did.
at first, joe told himself you were just giving each other space. that maybe this was healthier than forcing conversations while emotions were still raw. he reread your last exchange more times than he’d admit, convincing himself everything was fine.
except your absence felt loud.
no random texts sent at midnight. no updates about your day. no voice notes. no small check-ins that had quietly become part of his routine without him realising how much he relied on them despite sometimes being too busy to reply.
his phone felt strangely empty.
by the second day, he started typing messages and deleting them. how are you? felt too casual. are you still mad at me? felt too heavy.
by the third day, the quiet stopped feeling like space and started feeling like distance.
he noticed it everywhere. in the hotel room after long days when there was no one to call, in the moments he reached for his phone automatically to tell you something random and remembered you weren’t talking, in the way excitement about work felt strangely muted without you to share it with.
he kept thinking about your face that morning. the way you’d looked tired, hurt. the way you’d said you felt invisible.
and for the first time, the thought really settled in his chest.
what if you were pulling away because you were finally tired of waiting for him to show up?
the realisation hit harder than he expected.
because suddenly, none of it, the studio sessions, the schedules, the opportunities, felt as important as they had a week ago. success felt strangely hollow when the person he wanted to come home to might be slipping away from him.
he sat alone one night after filming wrapped, phone in his hands, staring at your contact like it might disappear if he looked away.
everything good in his life somehow traced back to you being there to witness it. every victory felt bigger because you were proud of him. every bad day easier because you steadied him without even trying.
and the idea of you being sad, or worse, believing you didn’t matter to him, made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t ignore anymore.
he realised, with a kind of terrifying clarity, that none of this meant anything if he lost you along the way.
because loving you had never been the difficult part.
the difficult part was realising he might have been slowly hurting the one person he never wanted to hurt at all.
-
the first message he sent was careful.
not too emotional. not too casual. just enough to test the space between you without pushing too hard.
hey. how’s your day been?
you saw it almost immediately. he knew you did, the read receipt appearing a few minutes later, but your reply didn’t come until nearly an hour after.
good. just busy today.
short. polite. nothing wrong with it technically.
but it didn’t sound like you.
joe stared at the message longer than he meant to, thumb hovering over the screen. normally you would’ve added something else, a random detail, a complaint about your day, a joke only he would understand. something that opened the door for conversation.
this felt like a closed one.
he told himself not to overthink it. you were busy. you had your own life, your own responsibilities. this was normal.
still, he replied quickly.
what’re you up to?
another gap. longer this time.
i’ve got a lot on this week.
no question back. no curiosity about his day.
he felt something small and uncomfortable settle in his chest.
over the next few days, conversations started again, technically. messages were exchanged. you answered him. sometimes even kindly. but everything felt… thinner. like talking to someone through glass.
he’d send a photo from set, something he knew would usually make you laugh.
you reacted with a heart.
he’d tell you something funny that happened during filming.
haha that’s good.
when he called one evening, it rang twice before going to voicemail. a minute later, a text appeared.
can’t talk rn sorry, i’m out.
he stared at the screen, confused. you used to step outside just to talk to him for five minutes. you used to whisper on late-night calls so you wouldn’t wake anyone up.
now conversations ended before they even started.
and slowly, painfully, he began to understand.
this was what it felt like.
waiting for replies. wondering if you were interrupting someone’s life instead of being part of it. rereading short messages trying to find warmth that wasn’t there. telling yourself not to take it personally while still feeling the sting anyway.
he caught himself checking his phone constantly, hoping for a message that never came first anymore.
you never texted first.
not once.
by the fourth day, it stopped feeling like coincidence.
he sat in his trailer between scenes, scrolling through your chat, noticing how one-sided it had quietly become. his messages stacked one after another, yours brief and distant in between.
he remembered you standing in the kitchen saying, i feel like i’m just waiting around hoping you’ll come back.
and suddenly he felt sick.
because this, this hollow, uncertain feeling, was exactly what you’d been trying to explain to him.
that night, he called again.
this time you answered, but there was background noise. voices, music, movement.
“hey,” you said, distracted.
he softened immediately at the sound of your voice. “hey… i just wanted to hear you.”
“yeah, i can’t talk long,” you said quickly. “i’m with friends.”
his stomach dropped a little. “oh. okay.”
a pause.
“everything okay?” he asked carefully.
“yeah, just busy,” you replied, the same words again. “i told you, this week’s kinda hectic.”
he nodded even though you couldn’t see him. “right.”
another silence, awkward and unfamiliar.
normally you filled silence easily. now it felt like neither of you knew what to reach for.
“i should go,” you said after a moment. “i’ll text you later.”
you didn’t.
he lay awake that night in his hotel room staring at the ceiling, the weight of it finally settling fully in his chest.
you weren’t being cruel. you weren’t yelling or accusing him. you were just… pulling back. matching the energy he hadn’t realized he’d been giving you for months.
and it hurt more than any argument ever could.
he kept imagining you feeling this way while he was distracted in studios, promising he’d be home soon, assuming everything was fine because you never complained loudly enough.
the thought of you sitting alone feeling unimportant because of him made his chest ache.
by morning, he couldn’t focus.
lines blurred together. conversations on set barely registered. his phone stayed in his hand between takes, hoping your name would light up the screen.
it didn’t.
during a break, he opened your chat again, rereading your short replies, the polite distance in every word.
he couldn’t stand this version of you, especially knowing he’d helped create it. he couldn’t stand the idea that you might actually be giving up on him piece by piece.
none of the work mattered if he came back to a relationship that felt empty.
none of it mattered if you were hurting.
before he could overthink it, he stood up, already grabbing his stuff.
his manager looked confused. “where are you going?”
“home,” joe said simply.
“you’ve got filming-”
“i know,” he interrupted, already pulling out his phone to change flights, heart racing with certainty. “i’ll make it work. i just… i need to fix something first.”
because suddenly the thought of you being mad at him, or worse, slowly learning how to live without needing him, felt unbearable.
and for the first time in months, work wasn’t the loudest thing in his life.
you were.
-
the apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door.
too quiet.
joe stepped inside slowly, suitcase still in his hand, half-expecting to hear you moving around somewhere, the sound of the tv, music playing softly, anything that meant you were there. but the space felt still, untouched, like it had been waiting longer than it should have.
“hello?” he called out anyway.
nothing.
his chest sank a little. he checked the kitchen, the bedroom, even the balcony like maybe you’d somehow be there anyway. your coat was gone. shoes missing from the hallway. the place felt emptier without you in a way he’d never really noticed before.
he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, nerves creeping in now that he was actually here. he’d flown home without a plan beyond fix it. beyond knowing he couldn’t keep letting distance grow between you.
his eyes landed on the small vase sitting empty on the counter, the one you kept even when there weren’t flowers in it.
before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed his keys again and headed back out.
the flower shop down the street was still open, warm light spilling onto the pavement. he stood there longer than he meant to, staring at arrangements that all felt too formal. you always teased him about romantic clichés, rolling your eyes whenever movies used grand gestures to fix things.
flowers are corny, you’d said once, laughing. but like… secretly cute.
he smiled faintly at the memory and picked a simple bouquet anyway, nothing extravagant, just soft colours he knew you liked. something hopeful.
something that might make you smile even if you pretended not to.
by the time he got back, nerves had fully settled in his stomach. he set the flowers carefully on the counter, pacing the apartment as minutes stretched longer than they should.
when the lock finally clicked, his heart jumped.
you stepped inside, mid-text, stopping short when you saw him standing there.
for a moment neither of you moved.
shock crossed your face first. “joe?”
he looked exhausted. travel-worn, nervous, eyes softer than you’d seen them in weeks. like he’d been carrying something heavy for a long time.
“hi,” he said quietly.
confusion flickered across your expression. “what are you doing here? aren’t you-”
“i came home,” he interrupted gently.
your gaze shifted to the suitcase by the door, then to the flowers on the counter. you let out a small, disbelieving breath. “you flew back?”
he nodded, suddenly unsure where to start. all the speeches he’d imagined on the plane tangled together in his head.
“I… yeah. i did.”
silence stretched between you, uncertain but not cold. just fragile.
you set your bag down slowly. “why?”
he laughed weakly, emotion already rising in his throat. “because i couldn’t stand it anymore.”
you frowned slightly. “couldn’t stand what?”
he took a step closer, hands shaking faintly as he tried to find the right words.
“you being distant,” he admitted. “you saying you were busy and brushing me off- i hated it. and then i realised… that’s exactly how i made you feel.”
your expression softened, but you didn’t speak.
he swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly. “i didn’t get it before. i thought everything was fine because you weren’t yelling or… or making a big deal out of it. but you were hurting and i just-” he shook his head, frustrated with himself. “i was so wrapped up in everything else that i didn’t see it.”
his eyes glistened now, honesty spilling out faster.
“and when you stopped reaching for me… it felt awful. everything felt pointless. like what’s the point of any of this if i’m coming back to a life where you’re not happy or you don’t feel loved?”
your chest tightened, watching him struggle through the words.
he gestured awkwardly toward the flowers. “i got those. i know you think they’re corny,” he added with a small, nervous smile, “but i was hoping they’d make you smile anyway.”
you huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself, eyes stinging.
that tiny reaction seemed to undo him completely.
he stepped closer, voice breaking now. “you’re everything to me. i can’t- i can’t do this without you. i’m so fucking sorry for being so shitty and not showing up the way i should’ve. you never asked for too much. you just wanted me, and i wasn’t really there.”
tears slipped down your cheeks before you realised you were crying.
he reached for your hands carefully, like he was afraid you might pull away.
“i don’t want a life where you feel second place,” he said softly. “none of this means anything if you’re sad because of me.”
his grip tightened slightly, desperate but gentle.
“come with me,” he said suddenly. “when i go back- stay with me. stay in my trailer, travel with me when you can. i want you there. i need you with me, not waiting somewhere else for me to catch up. we’ll figure it out together, but i don’t want distance to keep stealing time from us.”
you searched his face, seeing something different there. not just guilt, but clarity. effort. choice.
“joe…” your voice wavered.
“i mean it,” he whispered. “i’ll make the time. i’ll protect it. us. i just… i need you happy. i need you.”
the sincerity in his voice cracked the last of the hurt you’d been holding onto. you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days, pulling you tightly against his chest.
he buried his face in your hair, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear again.
“i missed you,” you murmured.
“i missed you more,” he said immediately, voice thick. “and i’m not letting us drift like that again. i swear.”
you pulled back slightly, smiling through tears. “the flowers are still corny.”
he laughed softly, relief flooding his face. “yeah, i know.”
“but they worked.”
his smile widened. the real one, warm and familiar as he pressed his forehead against yours.
and for the first time in a long while, being together didn’t feel temporary or fragile.
it felt steady again.
like choosing each other wasn’t something you had to fight for alone anymore.
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
Summary: Azriel x Reader series. You’re Rhysand’s younger sister and the person who’s been in love with Azriel for, like, ever. After an entire century running away from your feelings for the Shadowsinger, and the sting of his rejection, you decide to finally return home to Velaris for Winter Solstice. You’re older, more mature — and still totally enamoured by him. Chaos is bound to ensue…
My eyes have been blessed just reading it. But god my heart was hurting so bad through a lot of it. Gorgeous writing, amazing plot. Had me up til 5am reading it like a greedy slut for ANGST
tags: mutual pining, dual POV, flirting, banter, slow burn, get to know eachother, meet-cute via dating app, insecurities, soft!Frankie, all the fluff (seriously it’s so cute it may give you cavities), emotional healing, singledad!Frankie, mention of drug usage (in the past), no physical description of reader apart from wavy hair and a fuller figure, some bad jokes, body image issues, awkward but cute Frankie 𓂃⋆.˚
summary: You swiped right on a man in a baseball cap and somehow found the kind of warmth you stopped believing in.
𓂃⋆.˚ author's note: I woke up with this idea earlier this week and got completely possessed by it ever since. I had such a blast writing these two, and I’m pretty sure this won’t be the last time we meet them. There’s still so much left to tell. Happy Frankie Friday, my loves! 🤍
word count: 9,4 k (don't ask me any questions)
𓂃⋆.˚ read on ao3 𓂃⋆.˚
fat - you ; italics - Frankie
Your best friend had insisted—borderline bullied—you into making a dating profile after almost two years of being single.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried. You went on dates; they just never led anywhere. If the guy even showed up, it usually ended the same way: ghosted, breadcrumbed, or fed the classic “It’s not you, it’s me” (when it was clearly them still tangled up with their ex). If things made it past a second date, they got physical too fast and faded even faster.
There was always one thing they had in common: they wanted the curves in the dark, not in daylight. And after your last breakup, you’d learned the lesson early, that some men loved the fantasy of softness but never the reality of it.
You’d spent years fighting your body, trying to shrink yourself into someone else’s comfort zone. Diet after diet. Skipping meals because thinness was trendy when you were a teen. You were always “the bigger friend,” even though, looking back, you never really were. People just made you feel like it, front row seat: your own grandmother, who once pinched your stomach when you sat down and said, “Careful it doesn’t get any more.”
And it stuck. Lodged somewhere deep, whispering through adolescence, through early adulthood: don’t take up too much space.
But now, finally, you were learning to make peace with yourself. You’d figured out what clothes made you feel good, learned how to accentuate the parts you actually liked. You didn’t give a damn about the number on the clothing tags anymore. You wouldn’t call it self-love, but you were neutral, calm even. You could stand in front of the mirror without tearing yourself apart, trace the curve of your waist with your eyes, see softness without punishment. For the first time in your life, your reflection didn’t feel like an enemy.
And maybe that was enough.
Well, until now apparently. Your best friend told you about this app where women have to usually take the first step. You were a little hesitant at first, but ultimately you’ve downloaded it. And now there you were—staring at a blank profile that asked you to describe yourself in 300 characters or less. How do you sum up years of learning to coexist with your own reflection into something flirty and clickable? You settled for honesty. A little humor. Something like “Too old for games, too soft for casual. But I make a mean chocolate cake.”
You picked three pictures of yourself.
The first was one of your favorites: taken at the beach, hair wild in the wind, no makeup, just you. Laughing, carefree, the sunset painting everything in soft orange light. You looked like someone who still believed good things could happen.
The second was from your high school friend’s wedding, a rare occasion where you actually wore a dress. Green and low enough to show a hint of cleavage, but still soft and elegant. You were smiling at your reflection in the mirror, curls pinned in a half up-do that somehow stayed perfect all night. You remembered how comfortable you’d felt that day.
The third was your favorite in a different way. You in the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous strawberry-print apron, flour dusting the counter, mid-stir with a wooden spoon. It wasn’t flattering or staged, but it was real. You, in your element. Doing something that made you feel at peace.
After finishing setting up your profile, you scrolled through the usual parade of gym selfies, truck poses, and men holding fish until you almost deleted the app altogether.
Until you saw him.
A Standard Oil baseball cap was the first thing you’ve noticed. A soft smile that didn’t look forced. A little scruff, brown eyes that looked like they’d seen too much and still managed to stay kind. You didn’t know what it was exactly, but something about him felt... safe. Like maybe you wouldn’t have to explain yourself too much to entertain a fantasy most men felt more comfortable with than the real you.
Francisco, 38
📍Within 10 km 🚁 Helicopter pilot | ☕ Coffee addict | 👧 Dad to the coolest 5-year-old
You stared at the screen a little too long before whispering under your breath, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
So you swiped right, not expecting much. You lingered a little longer on his profile, curious to see if your first impression actually matched the rest. To your surprise it did. Even though everything about it was simple, almost understated, something about him held your attention.
The first picture was him in that Standard Oil cap again, and you couldn’t help but wonder: did he own several of the same one, or was it the cap? The kind he wore everywhere, every day? (A little gross, honestly, if it was the latter.) He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a truck, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. Unmistakably handsome. Lethal even, if you looked too long.
Then a candid — his, you assumed, daughter perched on his shoulders at the park, her laughter frozen midair while he wore that small, quiet smile that somehow said more than words ever could. A real warmth radiating from the picture. One that shot you right in the heart. You wondered what happened to the mother of his child. Did they split, or was it something more tragic?
A blurry concert shot followed, probably taken by one of his friends. The lighting was awful, but it didn’t matter. He was laughing, beer in hand, and there was something so alive about it that you found yourself smiling too.
The last one was a hiking trail selfie. No grin this time, just those serious brown eyes and the beard that was starting to show more salt than pepper. He looked steady, solid and real. That wasn’t the profile of a man who tried too hard, and you liked that. Amid the endless parade of self-proclaimed alpha males, he was the kind of man you’d never have dared to hit on out in the wild. But behind a screen, you felt braver. So you waited, sat, queued an episode of your favorite show, and—
Ping.
The sound of the notification ringed in your ears. You told yourself you didn’t want to get your hopes up too high, that it would be the interesting pilot from earlier. But your heart jumped nonetheless and sure enough….
It’s a match! Looks like you and Francisco Morales are equally curious 👀
Oh fuck.
You opened the app with a little more excitement than was probably decent and stared at the blinking cursor on the screen.
It was your move.
Don’t be too eager, you told yourself.
Be funny, but not too much or you’ll sound goofy. How much flirting is too much flirting? Can I tell him how handsome I think he is in the first message? What if he swiped right accidentally? What if your first message is not catchy enough?
Okay, deep breath. Just type something. It’s gonna be fine. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a full minute before your brain finally threw you a line that wasn’t completely tragic.
Alright, serious question, you typed, do you actually own other hats, or is that Standard Oil cap your emotional support item?
You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately regretted it.
Oh God. That was too much, wasn’t it? You should’ve gone with something normal. Hey, nice to meet you. Or You have a really cute smile. Not… whatever that was.
You locked your phone, tossed it on the couch, and swore to yourself you wouldn’t check it for at least ten minutes. But then another ding came up and you reached for it faster than you’d realized. It was a message. From him.
Depends who’s asking. If it’s a hat critic, I’m pleading innocent. If it’s someone giving me a hard time on a dating app, I’ll allow it.
You smiled, surprised at how fast he replied.
Okay, not bad. A little funny, a little guarded, like he didn’t try too hard but cared enough to respond quickly.
So it is your emotional support hat, then?
Maybe. Would it be so bad if it was?
Nah, we all need something to hold onto. For some it’s a hat, others have some stuffed animals, others have rings.
Rings? Is that your thing?
Yeah, I play with them when I’m nervous. I mostly wear five. One of them is a moonstone on my right index finger. Always. If you see me without them something’s terribly wrong.
Same with my hat, mostly at least. Now I need to see a pic of the ring.
[Attached photo of your hand] I have ugly, chubby hands. No comment please.
I like your hands. They look soft, capable. And the ring is unique, looks vintage?
It is! You have a good eye, Francisco.
Oh God, no one calls me that. Frankie’s enough.
Okay Frankie :) But I like your name. It’s not an American name. Is it Spanish?
Sí. ¿Hablas español?
You caught yourself grinning at your phone, wide and unguarded. The conversation flowed so naturally and effortlessly, it made it feel like it was its own language between you. You hadn’t felt that in a long time, least of all with a man you’d just met online.
Sorry to inform you, but my Spanish is absolutely horrible. You’d probably lose me at Sí and Gracias.
Damn, and here I was about to switch the whole chat to Spanish.
Lo siento.
Está bien. At least you’d be polite while lost.
Exactly. I’d wander off with good manners.
Good to know. Guess I’ll stick to English then. Also, bonus, I could curse you and you wouldn’t even know ;)
Yeah, you could tell me how horrendous my hair is and it would still sound like a love ballad.
Probably. I wouldn’t do that tho, only speaking a language you understand too, promise :)
After that, you texted the whole evening. He told you about his job as a pilot—you learned quickly that he flew helicopters, mostly medevac flights now. You told him about your job at a small clothing store in the local mall. It wasn’t your dream job, but it paid the bills and came with its own kind of charm. You liked the regulars, the ones who stopped by just to chat and left without buying anything. By the end of the night, he sent his number, claiming the app’s notifications were driving him crazy. So you switched to iMessage instead.
The switch to iMessage made everything easier. Faster. More natural.
By the second day, it became a habit. A little ping during your lunch break, another when you got home, one before bed.
Frankie sent photos sometimes — a blurry sunset out of his cockpit window, Marisol’s new dinosaur sticker collection, a coffee cup with “Emergency fuel” scribbled on it in sharpie.
You teased him about his hat again one evening after work.
You: So, be honest. Are you balding under that cap? 👨🦲
Frankie: Wow. Straight for the jugular I see.
You: I mean… you do wear it a lot.
Frankie: I do not have a bald spot, thank you very much.
You: That sounds suspiciously like something a bald man would say 🧐
Frankie: Hold on. Evidence incoming.
A few seconds later, your phone buzzed again — Image attachment.
He was in what looked like his bathroom, fresh out of the shower. A mirror selfie, something you usually cringed a little about. His hair was dark, thick, and sticking out in every direction. It looked soft enough to run your hands through, and for a few seconds, you caught yourself daydreaming about how those strands might feel between your fingers. A few damp strands clung to his temple. He wore a faded grey t-shirt that barely survived over his biceps, the cotton stretched tight where he held his phone. He looked a little tired, maybe even shy about the photo, but it didn’t matter. He was beautiful.
You: Okay, you win 😳 No bald spot.
Frankie: Told you 😉
You: You look… uh, normal.
Frankie: Normal?
You: I mean, in a good way. Like, very… hairy.
Frankie: You’re really bad at this, you know that? But God help me, adorable too.
You: Shut up 😅
You spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at that photo after he stopped replying for the night. He was just so real. A little scruffy, a little imperfect and somehow that made him even hotter. Which only made the creeping thought worse: what would a man like him want with someone like you?
For the next few days, you tried to push it aside. It didn’t help that he kept texting. Random little messages over the day that made you smile at your phone like an idiot. You no longer felt the need to make yourself rare, the way you’d once been told would make you wanted. With him, it was enough to simply be.
Frankie: ¡Buenos días! Hope today’s nice to you 😚
You: So far, it’s tolerable.
Frankie: That’s the spirit. Want me to send coffee through the screen? ☕️
You: Please. Make it two actually.
Later that week, you found yourself staring at his name lighting up your screen again. It was late, and you were too tired to filter yourself this time.
You: Do you ever feel like you’re not someone people look at that way?
Frankie: That way?
You: Like… the kind of person someone actually wants. Not just “nice” or “funny” or “good to talk to.” The kind of person people want.
Frankie: Yeah, prob more times than I’d admit.
You stared at the typing dots for a moment, and then another message came through.
Frankie: But if it helps, I’ve been talking to someone lately who completely messes with that belief.
You: Oh yeah? Who’s the lucky one?
Frankie: She’s got a thing for rings. Pretends she’s mean but she’s actually just soft.
You: You’re ridiculous 🫣
Frankie: Maybe. But I mean it.
You didn’t know what to say after that. Your chest felt tight in the best possible way.
You: You’re… really good at this whole texting thing, you know.
Frankie: Trying my best.
You: You… saw my pic, right? And the one or two I’ve sent you. I’m not thin and I don’t… Let’s just say, I can’t believe you’re still texting me.
Frankie: Why wouldn’t I still text you?
You stared at the message longer than you meant to, your thumb hesitantly hovering above the keyboard. It would be easier to brush it off, throw in a joke, pretend you hadn’t meant it. But you were tired of pretending.
You: Because most guys don’t. Not after the “real” pictures. They like the right angles, the filters, the version that fits their fantasy. But when it comes down to all of me, they usually change their mind. Fast. Or worse, only use me in the bedroom. Lights out.
You hesitated, watching the typing dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Frankie: Then they’re idiots.
You waited. You didn’t know what else to expect. A polite you deserve better, maybe. Something generic and careful. But then another message came through and your breath caught.
Frankie: You’re beautiful. Not the kind that needs filters or a hundred takes to look right. Just… the kind that sticks in your head. And I’m gonna be honest, excuse me if that’s too much, but you’re fucking hot too.
You stared at the words, half smiling, half wanting to cry. No one had ever said that like it was a simple truth. No hesitation. No hidden “but.”
You: You don’t even know me.
Frankie: I know enough to see you. The way you talk. The way you look at things. The way you make me laugh when I don’t expect to. That’s not surface-level stuff. And the rest? I’ve seen every pic you’ve sent, looked at them multiple times too. You don’t have to hide any part of yourself from me.
A lump rose in your throat, uninvited tears stinging your eyes. You shook your head, a quiet laugh slipping out through the ache. Who was this man?
You: You say that so easily.
Frankie: It’s not easy, but it’s honest.
He sent another message a few seconds later:
Frankie: Look, I don’t want to be another guy who makes you feel like you have to prove you’re worth wanting. You already are. In broad daylight too. I just hope I get the chance to show you that.
You sat there, phone lighting up your face in the dark, heart thudding like it was trying to tell you something you weren’t ready to believe. You’d been told nice things before, but never like this. Never with this kind of quiet certainty.
You typed back, hands trembling a little.
You: You’re kind of ruining all my trust issues right now, you know that?
Frankie: Good. About time someone did.
Frankie thought he knew what love was. He’d seen it in his parents, the way his mom tucked a hand into his dad’s back pocket like it belonged there. He’d seen it in the brotherhood of the army, in the unspoken loyalty that bound men together under fire. Hell, he’d even seen it in all the chick flicks his exes made him sit through, rolling his eyes but secretly studying.
But reality had been different for him. Love always felt like something he was chasing but could never quite catch. More like a myth, a creature you heard stories about but never really found.
He’d been in love once or twice. The first time was back in high school, with the girl who was too cool for him, the one always smoking by the bleachers. He’d been a lanky kid then, shy to the bone, too tongue-tied to ask her out—so he watched from the sidelines as his best friend ended up with her instead. It gutted him in ways he didn’t understand at the time. Even years later, he sometimes caught himself thinking about her, like a phantom bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
The second time was with his ex. You’d think, if he told the story, that he’d talk about her. About knowing she was “the one” he’d have kids with. But that wasn’t the truth. The truth was, the real love story of his life was his daughter Marisol. Nothing, no one, compared to the way the world shifted the moment he looked into a pair of dark brown eyes that mirrored his own. That was the new gravity he orbited around.
They’d met when they were both at their lowest—two people trying to stay afloat in the same storm. When she got pregnant, it was already too late for an abortion, and she’d made it clear she wasn’t ready to be a mom. They spent most of the pregnancy in rehab. Frankie was clawing his way toward clean, holding onto the idea of being there for his daughter, while she was still fighting her demons. With little success. Marisol was born early, small, and shaking—withdrawal already written into her first breaths. And when things between them inevitably fell apart, he mourned. Not her, not even the relationship, but the version of himself who believed he could fix it all. Still, he knew one thing wouldn’t ever change: his love for his child. That was permanent. Untouchable.
So he got custody of Marisol and tried everything in his power to stay afloat—to give her a good life, even without her mom in the picture. He moved back in with his parents for a while, swallowing his pride until he was steady on his feet again. He fought to get his flying license reinstated, found a job flexible enough to let him be part of Marisol’s life the way she deserved. None of it would’ve been possible without his parents’ help.
Things between him and his dad hadn’t always been easy. His father was the quiet, stern type—the kind of man who measured love in acts, not words. After Frankie’s discharge and the mess that followed, there’d been distance, disappointment that neither of them quite knew how to fix. But when Marisol was born, something shifted. His father had held her once and that was all it took. The old hardness in his expression cracked, replaced by a look Frankie had never seen before. It didn’t erase the years between them, but it built something new on top of them.
His mother, meanwhile, had always been his anchor. The way she cradled Marisol, humming the same Spanish lullabies she used to sing to him, made something deep in his chest ache in the best way.
He spent countless sleepless nights in the rocking chair with Marisol pressed against his chest, skin to skin because he’d read somewhere it helped with bonding. His mother always seemed to know what Marisol needed before he did—a kind of witchcraft that left him humbled and in awe. She never scolded, never made him feel like he was failing. Just guided him, patient and steady, with the kind of gentleness only a mother could muster.
Every time he tried to thank her—truly thank her—for holding them both together when he barely could, she just brushed him off. She’d press a kiss to his hair while Marisol slept in her arms and whisper, “That’s what mothers do, cariño mío.” And that was that.
When Marisol turned one, his parents insisted on throwing her a birthday party—cake, balloons, the whole Morales clan, even distant cousins Frankie barely remembered. His dad built a tiny swing in the backyard, his mom baked enough food to feed the neighborhood. Frankie watched her pass Marisol from one pair of arms to the next, everyone cooing and laughing, and for the first time in a long while, the air around him didn’t feel heavy.
His best friend and brother in everything but blood Santi became Marisol’s godfather and never once wavered. He’d show up with groceries, with toys, with bad jokes at two in the morning when the baby wouldn’t sleep. The other guys helped too—each in their own way—dropping by between their own families and struggles, making sure Frankie never felt completely alone in it.
By the time Marisol was three, he’d moved into a small house of his own, close to his parents. He learned to juggle work and kindergarten drop-offs, bedtime stories and flight schedules. It wasn’t easy, but it worked. And every night, no matter how late he came home, he’d still go into her room, press a kiss into her messy curls—lighter than his, but just as wild—and think that maybe, finally, he’d done something right.
Life got busy after that—joyfully, exhaustingly busy. Between work and raising a tiny human, there wasn’t much room left for anything else. Least of all dating. Frankie didn’t feel lonely, but his friends nudged him towards dating, most of all Benny, so he found himself downloading the app he met you on only a few weeks ago.
He stopped believing in fairytales for a long time already. Stopped chasing myths. He told himself love wasn’t real, not the way movies or songs painted it at least. And most importantly, no partner meant no one to be close enough to see the shadows he carried. No one asked him to set them down, because by God, he had a lot of those.
This all changed with your first message. You weren’t like the rest—he learned that quickly. You were witty, funny, attentive in a way that made it hard for him to keep his walls up. And for the first time in years, he just let it happen. He found himself smiling whenever your name lit up his screen, waiting for those little glimpses of your day in texts or random photos you sent. He even started listening to the songs you shared—pop songs he usually rolled his eyes at—and made a playlist with all of them, adding a few of his own so he could send it back.
Somewhere along the way, you became part of his routine without him meaning to. Between making Marisol’s breakfast, dropping her off at kindergarten, and flying, he spent every spare minute texting you.
When you opened up about your insecurities one evening, his blood boiled. How could anyone treat you like that? Because of what, your body? That was absurd to him. He adored your curves. Sometimes—if he was honest, more than sometimes—he caught himself daydreaming about how soft you must feel beneath his calloused hands. He imagined what it would be like to hold you, to pull you in, to feel you pressed against him. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand how anyone had ever failed to see how beautiful you were when he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
You: I was thinking 🤔
Frankie: Dangerous.
You: What if we had a call before meeting? Just to, you know, check the vibes first. Also, tbh. I’m really curious about what you sound like 👀
Frankie: Sounds like a good plan. Would tonight work, or is that too spontaneous for you?
You: Nah, it’s fine. (Only shitting my pants a little 😬)
Frankie: It’s just me.
You: “Just”? Did you take a look in the mirror recently, pilot boy? 😏
Frankie: Barely.
Frankie: Is it okay if I call you after I put my daughter to bed?
You: Yeah, no problem. I’ll be waiting ☺️
He stared at his phone for a full minute before hitting call, heart hammering like a war drum. Dios mío, it was just a fucking phone call. So why the hell was he this nervous? His thoughts started spiraling before he could stop them. Was it too early to already feel drawn to you? Maybe you’d changed your mind. Maybe this was stupid altogether.
Then the line clicked, and your soft voice came through, a little breathless, but somehow exactly how he’d imagined.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey,” he replied, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded. He cleared his throat, tried for casualness. “So… we’re really doing this, huh?”
You laughed, a small, nervous sound that eased something in his chest. “Guess we are.”
The first few minutes were harmless enough: talk about work, about your cat, he learned was named Merlin. About how the app kept glitching on you and that you didn’t open it in days. That actually made his pulse kick up a little — that quiet, impossible hope rising that maybe you enjoyed talking to him just as much as he did with you. He found himself smiling more than he had in days during your conversation, answering questions he didn’t usually bother with, letting you tease him for saying ma’am without realizing it.
And then you asked about Marisol. Not the quick, polite kind of question, you sounded genuinely curious. He hesitated, thumb running along the edge of his mug he balanced on his thigh, while he was sitting on his sofa. Most people got uncomfortable when he mentioned his kid, especially once they realized he was raising her alone. How many times did conversations die down because of him being a dad. There was always that flicker of oh, that quiet distance that followed. He didn’t want that with you, but he also didn’t wanna hide the most important part of his life.
“She’s five,” he said finally. “Kind of runs my life.”
“That’s a good thing, though, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Best thing, actually.”
He could’ve left it there. Should’ve, maybe. But something about the warmth in your voice made him want to say more.
“Her mom and I… we met when we weren’t in a good place,” he heard himself say. “Both trying to get clean, both screwing it up more often than not. Then she got pregnant. It was… complicated. Too late for an abortion, and she wasn’t ready to be a mom. We spent most of the pregnancy in rehab.”
He went quiet for a second, waiting for the usual awkward pause, the soft oh, but it didn’t come.
“You don’t have to tell me more,” you said gently. “Only if you want to.”
Frankie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “It’s okay. I just… sometimes it feels like too much for early small talk, you know?”
“I don’t think it’s too much,” you said. “It’s your story.”
That disarmed him more than anything else could’ve.
“Marisol was born early,” he continued, quieter now. “She had withdrawal symptoms. It was bad for a while. I got clean right before she came, but her mom couldn’t. I stayed. Took custody. Moved back in with my folks until I could figure it out.”
He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry, that’s not exactly light conversation.”
“It’s honest,” you said softly. “I’d rather have that than shallow small talk.”
Something about the way you said it — no pity, no discomfort — made his chest tighten.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”
After that, the conversation eased into lighter things: music, your favorite shows, the cat who apparently ran your apartment the same way Marisol ruled his place. He could still hear the smile in your voice, still feel that quiet calm that always seemed to settle over him when you spoke.
By the time you said goodnight, his cheeks ached from smiling, a feeling so unfamiliar it almost startled him. Long after the call ended, he just sat there staring at his phone, the house silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the ticking clock on the wall. It had felt easy with you, almost too easy, and that terrified him. Easy meant real. Easy meant he could lose it. For the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine what it would be like if he didn’t. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t ruin the first good thing that ever came his way since Marisol was born.
The next morning came faster than he would’ve liked. He overslept by only five minutes, but it was enough to throw the whole routine off. He moved through the motions with practiced precision — a remnant of his time in the Army — but without coffee, his patience ran thinner than usual.
Marisol was fussing in her car seat on the way to drop-off, and not even her favorite songs could settle her. Her little internal clock was as mussed as he felt. Usually, his little sun was a pro at goodbyes, but not today. Today she clung to him with tear-streaked cheeks and shaky hands, whispering don’t go, Daddy, and every word lodged like a stone in his chest while the clock kept ticking and a flight schedule waited for him.
He took a slow breath, reminding himself that snapping would only make it worse. So he crouched down, murmured softly until her cries quieted, and didn’t leave until her teacher managed to coax her away without more tears.
When he finally made it back to the car, he let out a long exhale and ran a hand through his hair before shoving it back under the cap without much thought. One glance in the rearview mirror caught the sight of his reflection. Tired eyes, scruffy beard, the old cap tilted a little too far forward and it made him chuckle quietly.
Your voice echoed in his head, teasing him about his “emotional support hat,” and for the first time that morning, a real smile tugged at his lips. Exhaustion and all, the thought of you managed to cut through it. That’s when it hit him: he was far more gone than he was ready to admit. And most importantly, he needed to finally meet you in person.
The whole drive to the hangar, he mulled over what to text you. Every idea sounded wrong. Either too eager, too casual, or too something. He didn’t want to come off desperate. Not pushy either. But he wanted you to know how much it mattered. How much you mattered, even if you didn’t know it yet.
By the time he parked, he still hadn’t typed a single word. His thumb hovered over the screen, the cursor blinking like it was mocking him. Finally, he sighed, muttered a quiet screw it, and started typing.
He hesitated, reread it twice, then hit send before he could change his mind.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, the screen still glowing for a second before it went dark. Too soon to stare at it. Too soon to care this much. But he did anyway.
By the time he reached the hangar, the morning rush had fully kicked in. The metallic scent of fuel, the hum of engines warming, the rhythmic clatter of tools. Usually it centered him, anchored him into something he was used to. Today, it only made his thoughts louder.
He ran through the pre-flight checks with mechanical precision, clipboard in one hand, coffee finally in the other. Every task was muscle memory: inspecting rotor blades, checking hydraulics, logging the flight plan but his brain wasn’t staying put. It was somewhere else entirely, replaying that blinking message screen over and over again.
He’d checked his phone twice before the engine even started. Just once to make sure he hadn’t missed the notification sound. And once more to see if he’d even really hit sent.
Jesus Morales, he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. He was a grown man, a pilot for God’s sake, not some teenager waiting for a crush to text back. Still, the anticipation sat heavy in his chest, tangled with something that felt uncomfortably close to hope.
He slipped the phone into the front pocket of his flight jacket before temptation could win again. The hum of the rotor blades picked up, wind cutting through the open hangar doors, and for a moment he let himself get lost in the sound — steady, familiar, safe.
You were nervous. More than you’d ever admit. Probably more than you’d ever been for a first date before.
You’d agreed to meet Frankie at a little Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town — a fair halfway point for both of you. He’d chosen the place, and when you’d teased him about whether he took all his dates there, he’d said, “I haven’t been on a first date in years.”
Your heart had sunk a little at that. How? You couldn’t wrap your head around it. In your book, this man was everything a woman could want. He listened. He remembered small details. He reassured you when you were spiraling.
Yes, you knew he was a single dad. You’d never dated someone who was a parent before, and you found yourself thinking about that a lot. Not because you were scared of his daughter — not even about being part of her life if things worked out — but because you respected it. You respected what it meant to be responsible for a whole human being besides yourself. It was terrifying and impressive in equal measure.
A man being a dad meant he put someone else’s needs first. It meant he was careful about who he let into his little bubble — rightfully so. You thought about your own mom after your dad died, how quickly she let new people into your home, how she never stopped to ask how you felt about it. Even as a teenager, it had been hard to see someone else sitting at the table where your dad used to be.
Frankie wasn’t like that. He was cautious about what he shared, but never secretive. Every small glimpse he offered into his life with Marisol felt like being trusted with something rare and precious. You liked every bit of it.
Maybe that’s why you’d been standing in front of your full-length mirror, changing outfits for the third time already. You didn’t want to overdo it — he said the place was laid back — but you wanted to feel good in your skin. Which was, as always, a balancing act.
A dress felt too much, too formal, almost like a costume. Maybe a skort. Yeah. With tights, your favorite ankle boots, and a soft shirt. Comfortable, no wardrobe malfunctions, still cute. You pulled on the black skort, smoothed the fabric, then reached for your green corset-style top that always made you feel a little more like yourself. You found it after rummaging through the closet that definitely needed a cleanout, and when you put it on, you smiled. It fit just right — showing off your curves without screaming for attention. You looked at your reflection, tilted your head. Not bad. Not perfect. But you.
You moved on to your hair. Luckily, wash day had been kind. Your waves fell just right, so you only had to touch up a few pieces with the curling iron.
Makeup, though was different these days. You didn’t do heavy makeup anymore. You didn’t feel like hiding. Just a little blush to bring color back to your cheeks, brushing your brows into shape, a swipe of concealer to soften the shadows under your eyes — the ones that came from too many late nights and too little sleep. A touch of brown mascara, and that was it. You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, yeah. that’s me.
You smiled, whispered under your breath, “You’ve got this.” Then you grabbed your bag, locked the door, and called an Uber.
The whole drive, your fingers couldn’t stay still. You fidgeted with the moonstone ring on your right index finger, the same one Frankie had pointed out weeks ago in one of your first conversations. Vintage, he’d said, and your heart had skipped a beat at how easily he noticed the small things.
You smiled to yourself at the memory, staring out the window as the city rolled by. Please let him be as charming as he is over text, you thought.
When you arrived, you were almost ten minutes early. Not a problem, you told yourself. Better early than late. The air had that soft, in-between chill of early evening, and the jean jacket you’d thrown on was just enough to keep you warm.
You paused by the menu posted outside the little Italian place, pretending to study it even though you weren’t really reading the words. The prices were decent, the choices solid. For a moment, that old, familiar thought flickered — maybe you should order something light, something that wouldn’t make you feel guilty later. But you pushed it away just as fast. You hadn’t eaten lunch, and you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t keep apologizing for having an appetite. You’d get whatever you wanted.
You checked your vintage Casio watch. 7:00 PM. Right on time.
You looked around the small parking lot — quiet except for the sound of cars passing by on the main road. No sign of him yet. You glanced down at your phone. No new messages.
Mhm. Weird.
You started pacing a little, more to burn off nerves than anything. The minutes stretched. 7:03. 7:07. You told yourself not to overthink it, but your brain didn’t listen. Maybe he’d gotten here, seen you from afar, and decided to leave. Maybe the photos you’d sent hadn’t prepared him for real-life you. The thought stung, even though you tried to shake it off.
No, that didn’t fit him. Frankie wasn’t that type. You knew that. You’d felt it in every conversation, every kind word, every late-night message. He wasn’t the kind of man who disappeared.
Still, as the minutes passed, your stomach started to sink. You opened your phone again, thumb hovering over his chat, debating whether to text him first, when it suddenly lit up.
Incoming call.
Your breath hitched.
“Frankie?” you said, trying to sound calm.
He sounded out of breath, his voice a mix of nerves and warmth. “Hey, hey… I’m so sorry. I’m on my way, I swear. The babysitter cancelled on me last minute, and I had to drive Marisol to my parents’ place. Which, uh, is exactly the opposite direction of the restaurant.”
You could hear the faint hum of the car engine, the turn signal clicking in the background. He really was driving.
“Frankie, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your heart easing at the sound of him.
“I feel terrible,” he rushed out. “I didn’t even have time to text you before I got her packed up. She didn’t wanna let go tonight, and then my dad started asking questions, and—” he let out a shaky laugh. “Anyway, I’m trying to hurry. I promise I’ll be there soon.”
You smiled despite yourself. He sounded exactly like he had the night of your call — flustered, genuine, that kind of nervousness that wasn’t careless but caring.
“Don’t rush,” you said softly. “I’ll wait.”
“You sure? I can understand if—”
“Frankie.” You cut him off gently. “It’s fine. Drive safe.”
He exhaled, the sound rough but relieved. “You’re kind of the best, you know that?”
You laughed under your breath. “You haven’t even seen me in person yet.”
“I already know,” he said quietly.
The call ended, leaving you smiling down at your screen like an idiot in the fading light.
You decided to wait inside. The little restaurant smelled like baked bread and roasted garlic, all warmth and quiet chatter. You picked a small table near the window, ordered a glass of water you barely touched, and tried to look casual while checking your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.
When the bell above the door finally chimed, you glanced up out of habit—and froze.
He stepped inside, ushered in by a gust of cool evening air, and your brain short-circuited for half a second. No hat. No hat! His dark hair was slightly mussed from the drive, curling at the ends, and somehow that made him even more handsome.
Your grin spread before you could stop it. The closer he got, the harder it was to hide.
He scanned the room once, eyes landing on you—and you watched the tension in his shoulders ease, his mouth curving into that soft, familiar smile you’d seen a hundred times in photos but never in person.
By the time he reached your table, you could barely breathe. He was breathtaking. The salt-and-pepper scruff framing his jaw, the little laugh lines near his eyes, the warmth that radiated off him even in the low restaurant light.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, a little nervous.
“Hey,” you echoed, smiling so wide it almost hurt.
For a moment, you just looked at each other—two people who’d already shared a hundred tiny moments, suddenly face-to-face.
“Uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, that shy little gesture you already adored. “Is it okay if I—can I hug you?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He stepped closer, arms slipping around you in a way that felt effortless, like it was something he’d done a thousand times before. His body was warm against yours, solid but gentle, holding you firm without crushing you. You felt his breath near your ear, steadying himself just as your heart started hammering against your ribs.
He smelled faintly of soap and some aftershave, maybe a hint of coffee still lingering, and for a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.
When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, and his hand lingered for a heartbeat longer at your arm before he dropped it, smiling a little sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to make that awkward.”
“It wasn’t,” you said, laughing under your breath. “You’re a really good hugger.”
That earned you his real smile, the one that reached his eyes and made your stomach flip.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He chuckled, finally relaxing a little. “Good start then.”
You both sat down, still grinning in that awkward, I-can’t-believe-you’re-actually-real way. The menus were already on the table, though neither of you looked at them for more than a second. Frankie kept glancing up at you, then back down at his hands, like he wasn’t sure where to rest his gaze. You couldn’t blame him—you were doing the exact same thing.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence first, “no hat, huh?”
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, figured I’d, uh, let my hair breathe tonight.”
“Good call,” you teased. “I was starting to think it was permanently attached to your head.”
“That’s fair,” he said, smiling down at the table. “I did almost bring it. Old habits die hard.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” you admitted, smiling at him over the rim of your glass. “Would’ve been a shame to hide that hair after the iconic after shower selfie reveal.”
He groaned, head tipping back. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
That earned you another quiet but genuine laugh, and it felt like the room lightened with it. The waitress came over, giving you both a chance to regroup. You ordered your food, trying not to second-guess every choice, and once she walked away, the silence settled again. Not uncomfortable, but tender in its own way.
Frankie leaned his elbows on the table, his hands loosely folded. “You look really nice,” he said suddenly, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it.
You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you said softly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He chuckled, glancing down. “Tried my best. Marisol picked my shirt.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“Yeah. Said the blue one made me look less tired.” His smile softened as he said it, a little proud, a little shy. “Can’t argue with a five-year-old fashion expert.”
“That’s adorable,” you said, smiling without meaning to. “She sounds like a handful.”
“Oh, she is,” he said with a laugh. “But she’s… she’s everything. Smart, funny. Knows how to manipulate me already, which is honestly a little terrifying.”
You giggled, resting your chin on your hand. “You sound like a good dad.”
He looked at you for a second, caught off guard by the sincerity in your tone. “I’m trying,” he said finally. “Most days, I think she’s the one raising me.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then, softly, you said, “You really love her, huh?”
He nodded, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “More than anything.”
Something about the way he said it—calm, without hesitation—made your chest tighten. You could see it, the softness in his eyes when he talked about her. It wasn’t performative. It was just real.
“So,” he said after a moment, trying to lighten the air again. “Does this pass your vibe check so far?”
You smiled, tilting your head. “Hmm… food hasn’t arrived yet. Jury’s still out.”
He feigned a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to his chest. “Tough crowd.”
“You’ll survive,” you teased.
And when he laughed again—low, warm, genuine—you realized the nervousness had started to fade. It wasn’t gone completely, but it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. It felt like you were both slowly remembering how to breathe around each other.
The food arrived just as the conversation started to flow. Two steaming plates, the smell of garlic and herbs curling up between you. He’d ordered pasta with seafood; you went for something cheesy and comforting, the kind of meal you wouldn’t have let yourself enjoy a few years ago.
“God, that smells amazing,” he said, leaning forward a little.
“It does,” you agreed. “If I end up finishing all of it, please don’t judge me.”
He looked up, eyes soft. “Only if you judge me back.”
You grinned. “Deal.”
The first few bites were quiet, not awkward quiet, just that easy kind of silence that happens when food’s too good to interrupt. Every now and then, your knees brushed under the table. Each time it happened, both of you froze for a second, smiled shyly, and kept talking like nothing happened.
“So,” you said, swirling your fork, “be honest, are all pilots secretly adrenaline junkies, or are you the chill exception?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Used to be. Not anymore. These days I prefer things that don’t require me to risk my neck or any other parts of my body.”
You tilted your head. “Like?”
He smiled. “Coffee. Naps. Trying to keep my kid from drawing on the walls. I’m basically an eighty-year-old man trapped in a helicopter pilot’s body.”
You snorted. “Oh no, you’re one of those guys who calls nine p.m. ‘late,’ aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he said, laughing. “Unless you count being up at three because Marisol had a nightmare. Then I’m technically nocturnal.”
“That’s different. Parenting doesn’t count.”
“Still feels like it should be mentioned,” he said with a mock sigh, twirling his fork. “I’ve got more gray hairs than my dad now.”
“Maybe it’s the hat,” you teased, and he grinned at the callback.
“Probably is. Hides my suffering.”
You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt again. You hadn’t expected it to be this easy. To feel this natural and it was almost too good to be true.
After dinner, you both lingered, neither of you quite ready to move. He told you about his favorite spots to fly over, how sunsets looked different from the cockpit. You told him about your dream of maybe opening your own little size inclusive boutique one day, something cozy and personal. He listened, chin propped in one hand, eyes steady on you like he was filing every word away for later.
When the waitress came to ask about dessert, he looked at you first. “You want to share something?”
You hesitated, then nodded. “Tiramisu?”
He smiled. “Perfect choice.”
You both laughed when you realized you were using the same spoon, shoulders brushing lightly across the small table. At one point, you made the mistake of glancing up and meeting his eyes mid-laugh and the air between you changed. Softer. Slower. Like something finally settling into place.
“Frankie,” you said, half-whisper, half-laugh, trying to break the tension.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got coffee on your lip.”
He wiped it quickly with the pad of his thumb, a little flustered. “Better?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
His breath caught for a second, and the way he looked at you made your stomach flip. You both went quiet again after that. Not because there was nothing to say, but because it felt like saying anything might break whatever was hanging between you.
He cleared his throat, glanced at his watch, and then back at you. “You, uh… want me to walk you out?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
As you stepped outside, the air had cooled, that faint edge of autumn lingering between breaths. The smell of petrichor still clung to the night — you must’ve missed a rain shower while you were inside. Your boots pattered softly against the damp concrete as you followed him toward his truck.
“Can I drive you home?” he asked, tentative but hopeful.
You blinked, surprised for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for you. No one had ever done that before, and it caught you so off guard you couldn’t help teasing him.
“An old-school gentleman, huh? Maybe you really are eighty.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes as he closed your door before circling around to his side.
Inside, the truck smelled like him — coffee, something faintly sweet you couldn’t quite place. It was unmistakably a dad’s car: a few toys scattered on the floor, crumbs in the cup holder, a jacket half-folded in the backseat. You shifted, and the seat gave a sudden squeak. Looking down, your eyes widened in horror.
“Oh no,” you gasped, reaching under you to pull out a pink, sparkly pony with wings. “I think I just sat on—”
“—Glittersparkle,” he said solemnly. “Marisol would’ve cried for three days straight.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
He turned toward you, dead serious for two whole seconds before the grin cracked through. “I’m kidding. You’re fine. Pretty sure these things are immortal anyway.”
You laughed, handing him the toy, which looked comically small in his calloused hand. He tossed it casually into the backseat, still grinning.
“You don’t like Glittersparkle, do you?” you teased.
“I’m convinced she cursed my bloodline first,” he said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, please.”
“Ay, sir,” you replied with mock seriousness.
He glanced your way, cheeks coloring just the tiniest bit but he was smiling again, that quiet, shy kind of smile that made your chest ache.
The drive started in a soft kind of silence. Not uncomfortable, more like both of you were still processing that you’d actually done it. That the person who’d been living in your phone for weeks was sitting less than two feet away.
Rain tapped gently on the windshield now as he pulled out of the parking lot, wipers swaying lazily back and forth. The city lights slipped across his face in fleeting stripes of gold and shadow. He was beautiful, there was no denying that. The pictures hadn’t done him justice, not even close. You didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard not to when a man like him was sitting right beside you. Because of you. Talking, smiling, laughing like he wanted to be there. And that was the part that floored you most. Someone this marvelous was still looking at you like you belonged in the same frame.
He glanced your way when a familiar song played through the speakers, one you’d sent him days ago, you recognized quickly.
“You’re still listening to it,” you said, your voice light but touched with surprise.
He shrugged, one hand steady on the wheel before he upped the volume with the other. “Kinda grew on me.”
You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Guess I’m corrupting your playlists now.”
“Could be worse things,” he said softly.
Every so often, your eyes met — just quick little glances when the traffic lights painted the cabin in amber. You caught him looking once, and he didn’t even pretend to look away and your heart did somersaults.
When he pulled up in front of your building, he put the truck in park but didn’t move right away. The engine hummed low between you, clicking into cool.
“This was…” he started, then let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what to call it. Nice doesn’t feel like enough.”
You turned to face him fully. “It really doesn’t.”
His hand rested on the steering wheel for a moment longer before he turned toward you, hesitating. There was that nervous flicker in his eyes again, like he was trying to find the right words.
“Can I—” he stopped, cleared his throat, tried again, quieter this time. “Can I kiss you, would that be okay?”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t even trust your voice, so you just nodded to give him permission.
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His palm found your cheek, warm and steady, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw before he tilted forward. When your lips met, it felt like tiny fireworks — soft, unexpected, impossible to ignore. You laughed quietly into it when your teeth bumped, and he did too, the sound low and breathless between you.
When he finally drew back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, breath mingling in the quiet. His thumb slid gently up, brushing behind your ear in a touch so tender it made your heart ache.
“Worth the wait,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
You smiled, biting your bottom lip. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Definitely worth it.”
He helped you out of the truck after that, waited until you were safely at the door before giving a small wave. You stood there for a moment, watching his taillights fade down the street, the ghost of his hand still warm on your cheek, the ghost of the kiss still lingering on your lips.
When you slipped inside your apartment, your reflection in the hallway mirror was flushed, eyes brighter than they’d been in a long while. Lovesick, almost. You laughed softly at yourself in the mirror, shaking your head. Who would’ve thought that the insecure little girl you used to be would one day meet a man whose intentions were clear from the start? That for once, you didn’t need to smaller yourself to fit somewhere.
You were exactly where you deserved to be. Not hidden, not shrinking. Just beside him, in the soft safety of the light.
on the edge of thy blade | johnny mactavish x f!princess!reader
alternate universe: king of scots, johnny mactavish (16th-17thcentury) x princess!reader
type: one-shot (14.1k) — AO3
cw: suggestive language and content, mature language and content, smut, unprotected piv, breeding kinks, cumplay, oral, graphic depictions of violence + gore + murder,, depictions of assault and bodily harm, dubcon, obsession, possessiveness, misogyny, historical inaccuracies, emotional abuse (not by johnny) 18+
You’ve had one foot in the grave for your entire life.
You’re not sick, nor sickly; you just matter so little to your family, that in the event they had to cut someone loose in order to survive, you’ve always known that the sacrifice would be you. Whether in life or in death, you’ve always known this to be fact.
You are a means to an end. That is all you will ever be. Your title matters little—you will never inherit anything that belongs to your family. In the unfortunate circumstance that all eight of your older brothers would die, your fortune would go to some second or third cousin, some prince in some lonely island off the coast of Africa. The only real value of your life, the only real value a man would ever bestow you with, is your hand.
In order to marry, your father expects to gain something after your dowry. Land. Money. Gifts. Titles. Since your sixteenth birthday, you have heard your father negotiating your hand with men of far places just to see what it is he could gain with your misfortune. The only reason you are still yet unwed, at your apparently old age, is because your older brothers pity you when you beg for a little more time. They have always been able to convince your father on your behalf that you were not ready, but now that you are reaching of an age to be considered too old to be desirable, they cannot hold him off any longer. Your eldest brother, naturally your father’s favorite, quieted your tears when he told you that your father’s decision had been made final.
“I’m sorry, bug,” he had murmured to you. His wife, who always hated you for taking up too much of her husband’s time, had sat in the corner writing in her journal, clearly annoyed. She wants you married most of all, so that you can be some other man’s problem, not her husband’s. You sulked in your brother’s arms, wet face buried in his chest. Your brothers had been more of father figures than your own had ever been. Marriage would be losing every man that had ever cared for you even a little in your life. Your autonomy is nonexistent. Your happiness is not a priority. Your very being is only worth as many children as you can bear, and with your mother bearing eight boys and one girl, your body is worth more than even lands and titles. Men will give their fortunes for your hand with the prospects that you will give them just as many boys as your mother had given your father.
When your mother died giving birth to your father’s only girl, you realized that determined your value. The end of his sacred line. The cut rope of his endless baby-making mechanism, the thing that stole the one person your father loved almost as much as his first-born son—you. A girl. As soon as you were born, it was already decided—you are a useless, worthless thing. Maybe the handmaids thought your father would love you so because you might be the only precious, delicate thing left in his life, but they were wrong.
You have spent your entire life trying to please him. Doing your best in your studies. Trying your hardest with your governess. You even begged your eldest brother to teach you how to fight, but after showing your father your newfound skills you had spent years perfecting on your sixteenth birthday, he scolded you for being the most unladylike girl he had ever known, stupid and wild and absolutely shameful. You think you cried for a week straight afterwards. You don’t really remember. You’ve been in a lull ever since, and you’ve been fighting for your right to stay single, childless, and terrible. You want to die this way. You’ve tried to perform to your best ability for this man since you could walk, and you don’t want to do it all over again for another.
Men are dogs. You want them to suffer.
Your father wants to speak to you today. It is an important enough conversation that when you wake up, there are a line of handmaids waiting at the foot of your bed, with dresses hanging on the walls and fussing to get you in a warm bath. You wince as they wash and braid your hair, and you eye the dresses warily. They are some of your loveliest ones, and you see a few new ones as well. In the colors of your country, a deep, violet purple accentuated by jewels of fine quality and golden accents and handsewn pearls. You see a few of the maids polishing your finest tiaras, and you blink as you look in the mirror, shaking your head.
“It’s today, isn’t it?” You ask one of them, the one who’s fitting drop-diamond earrings into your ear. She purses her lips and just sighs, but she gives you a subtle nod. Your eyes tear just a little as you look in the mirror, and you will your hands to stop shaking. You wonder who your father has chosen. You reckon he is probably ugly and large, a man who doesn’t bathe or clean his teeth. Maybe he already has mistresses, bastard sons who will treat you as the lowly girl they already think you are, or maybe his mother still lives with him and will make your life a living hell for not being good enough for her favorite son. When your maids tie your corset too tight, you don’t even flinch this time. You’re too numb everywhere to feel anything at all.
When you look at your ring finger in the mirror, you wonder how much it would hurt to just simply cut it off.
Your eldest brother comes to collect you. When you step out of your room, still weary and teary-eyed, he kisses you on the forehead and tells you how beautiful you look. Maybe he’s right—it might be one of the most beautiful dresses you’ve ever worn, but you don’t have it in you to be excited. You just clutch your brother’s hand tight and use him for stability as you follow him blindly to your father’s study.
The wooden door creaks, groaning as if agreeing with your melancholy. Your father sits at his large desk. There’s a map of Europe in front of him, and he lets out a deep breath as he stares at one island in particular—England. He hates this land and all of its people, every last one of them. He refuses the color red in his castle just so that he doesn’t have to be reminded of them. It is written in your country’s history that England has defeated your grandfathers for generations. You’ve been pushed to this side of the world on account of their aggression, and you take a deep breath when you see the scribbles of red and black where their kingdom lies. You notice your father has left out Scotland and its highlands to the north, but you don’t comment on it as your brother pulls out a chair for you and holds your hand as you try to sit in your many skirts.
“Well…” Your father smiles, but it’s dull. “Don’t you look beautiful.”
You say nothing as you stare at your father. You can’t move your head very much anyways with how heavy your tiara and headpiece is; it jangles as you straighten your posture, the jewels that hang clinking against each other. There’s a dark veil over your face that you are grateful for—you don’t think your expression is very kind on account of the frown pinched between your brows.
“Do you know why you’re here, my darling girl?”
You nearly tear the gloves on your hands from how hard you close your fists, but you just shake your head slightly.
“It’s been far too long,” your father tells you. “You cannot be…an unwed woman any longer, lest people think ill of us, and I’m tired of hearing you whine about it. Everyone in this family performs their duties, and I spoil you.” You say nothing, but you think about spitting on him. “But…I’ve decided to make this fun. I could really make something out of this. Out of you. With one contract I sign, I could make it something…historical. I could make you queen of some other country, can you believe that, my girl?”
Because you could never be queen of this one.
“In just a few hours, the many eligible men I've called upon are to arrive. We’ll be hosting them for a week, and they will participate in a…series of games,” your father explains. He grins wide, and this time he really smiles. He is happy about this. “The winner will have your hand, my princess.”
Your eyes flicker to the map on his desk. The X-marks that are scattered around it now make more sense. They are markers for the places that are sending their sons, and you swallow hard as your eyes roam over the the faraway places they are traveling from. Your headpiece jingles as you look away, towards your brother. He has a solemn look on his face, but he doesn’t protest on your behalf. You shake your head.
“I don’t…understand,” you say softly.
“Of course you don’t, princess,” your father murmurs. “Not to worry.” He motions for your brother to come closer, and you watch as he comes to stand behind your father, who points just north of England on his map. “They’re sending the King of Scots, my boy. He is unmarried, and he leads a fine army.”
Your brother shakes his head, “I don’t know, Father. We’re not a very rich country. He could marry better. I’ve heard he’s…something of a jester in courts. Likes to have a laugh. If anything, he’s coming to anger the English king and drink through our wine cellar.”
As proud as your father is, your brother tells it to him kindly. Your country is poor, shrinking, and barren. Your father has launched offensives on many fronts, but they always fail. For as intelligent as your father claims to be, his actions only show stupidity. He's not patient. He thinks small. Instead of playing the long game, he tries his luck for small victories, and they have only garnered you and your family embarrassment. You don't have the money for a dowry to a king that powerful. You don't have the pedigree for a family that old, that rich, that important.
“Well,” your father sighs. “I suppose that’s true. As beautiful as she is, she has nothing to offer,” he shakes his head. As if it is your fault that you are not a desirable match. “We have nothing to offer. Besides, she’ll only look this way a year or two longer, and then she’ll be—”
“They’re arriving this afternoon, are they not?” Your brother interrupts. Your father laughs, nodding, putting a hand over his large stomach and rubbing it as he thinks about the feast the staff has cooked up for tonight.
“Yes, my boy. Tonight. Which means, princess, you need to go have a lie down. You must look fresh for when they come, wouldn’t want to embarrass me by not looking your best, eh?”
You stand, reaching for your brother’s hand, and he takes it gently to escort you back to your room. He tries to reach for you again when you slip inside, but you shut the door before he can say anything.
Men are a means to an end. You love your brother, but he is no use to you anymore. You will need to find other ways to help yourself, and he cannot be it anymore, not with your father’s voice in his head now, incessant.
Your father is a rat you cannot trap. An insect you cannot swat away. Biting, nagging, chewing on the bits of you that linger, and your patience wears thin. It has been many years of trying to swallow these truths, but you will it down now. There is truth in what your father says—you are grown. You are old enough to know what it is you want and what it is that's worth fighting for. There is an elegance to matrimony, a strategy to it, that has only just occurred to you. There are things you have inherited from your mother that must remind him of her constantly, and now you must use them to your benefit.
A sheep no longer. A shepherd you must become.
The throne room is lively. There’s chandeliers filled with candles, and there’s a band playing wonderful music around large tables abundant with food. Cakes, pastries, fruits, meats, jugs of wine and water and juices. There are many people—those men who have brought their sons have also brought their families, and there’s even children dancing in circles and running around with sweets in their hands.
Your appearance makes the audience quiet. Your father sits at a grand table situated in front of his throne, and your eldest brother beside him. Your brother’s wife scowls when she sees you, and because of the veil you wear over your face, you scowl right back knowing she can barely see you.
Your father allowed a new dress to be sewn for you—in fact, you will be wearing a new one every day of the week. Tonight, you wear the color of swans; a delicate off-white, beaded with pearls and wearing a belt of fine gold and rubies. Your sleeves are long, your corset is tight, and your headpiece glitters spectacularly in the torchlight from the amount of crystals lining it. There is a veil that falls delicately over your face, stopping just under your nose. It is a custom of your people that the face of a soon-to-be bride could not be seen by anyone until after she says her vows, and then, only her husband can uncover her eyes.
Men flock towards you, bees to flowers. They reach for your gloved hand, as if you are as delicate and breakable as you present, and they kiss your rings with gangrene smiles and eyes much too starved. These men are not your friends. They are ugly and formidable, and you would loathe to be at their bedsides. They bring with them bounties written in blood; your father will surely vie for something most profitable.
When they are finished giving you their introductions, your father motions for you to come towards him. There’s an empty seat to his left, and just as you sit next to him, the wooden doors creak open again, and a great deal of yelling and noise nearly overtake the music altogether.
A couple stout men walk in holding large banners. A crowd of dark and tall broods follow them, laughing and jeering and wearing outfits of various patterns of plaid. Over their shoulders, they wear great furs and wield various weapons, and at the sight of them, your father adjusts in his seat, looking to your brother and nodding. This is who they've been waiting for all night—their unofficial guest of honor. Someone important. Someone formidable. Someone unreachable. An ally they must secure.
The last man to follow walks taller than the rest of his men. He stands big and broad-shouldered, and he walks with a confidence that unnerves you. The first thing you notice about him is his eyes. Bright blue, complimented by his dark hair and well-kept beard. Those eyes are accented by a scar that cuts from the middle of his left eyebrow down across to his other cheek, and the next thing you notice about him is his dazzling smile.
He lights up the room. Charismatic down to his very bones, and he has the face to make up for it—gorgeous man he is, and even under a shawl of elegant furs, you can tell he is nothing but muscle, scar tissue, and healthy fat.
He grabs a small cake for himself as he makes his way with his men to your father’s table. You watch from under your veil as each of his men bow to your father, giving him their thanks, some even dropping off chests full of gifts, and then it is this man’s turn to give his introduction.
Up close, you admire his hairstyle. He has beautiful dark tufts of thick curls, and they fall down the middle of his head, the edges shaved with a close blade. He wears some kind of soot over his scar like war paint, and he smiles at your father with teeth when he gets close enough.
“Och, ye ‘ave no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to shake yer hand, Yer Majesty.”
His Scottish accent is heavy. He grins through it, looking eager to shake your father’s hand. Your father stands with a big, full laugh, clasping the man’s hand in both of his. They could not be any more different, your father and this man. You have read about Scotland and its Isles. You were taught much about his land when your governess taught you of world maps and alliances, and while your kingdom cannot afford to turn its head to England and their powerful navy, Scotland revels in its fight against them. They make a game of it.
Your father and Scotland are united in an equal hatred of a common enemy, and in that, they are already friends.
“It is a pleasure, Your Majesty,” your father beams. “Welcome, welcome! We are…so glad to have you, so happy you could make it!”
“Please,” the man shakes his head. “Call me Johnny. Dinnae care for all the titles and shite.”
Johnny shakes your brother’s hand next before your father gestures to where you sit next to him.
“And this is my daughter.”
Your headpiece moves with you in the soft light, and Johnny has to blink rapidly to make out your figure. The jewels you wear sparkle, the prettiest glitter in his gaze as he sets his eyes on you. He can see the curve of your lips, but your eyes are hidden by the shadow of your veil. Time sits still when you stand to curtsy. He sucks in a heavy breath—the dress you wear accentuates your figure, and he licks over his teeth when he sees the swell of your breasts over your corset. He cannot see all of your face, but he doesn’t need to.
Johnny did not come looking for a bride; but he decides in less than a moment that he will indeed leave with one.
You round the table so you can stand in front of him and curtsy properly. While other men only received a quaint nod from you, this man was royal, and custom implored you greet him more personally. Johnny hums when you dip your head and take a generous bend of your knee. He stops you before you can curtsy too low—he reaches for your hand and pulls you back to both feet, and your breath hitches when he all but falls at your feet. He takes a knee, thumbing over your knuckles, and you watch as he brings your hand to his lips and kisses each finger. His palms are rough; they are carved from experience, cut from battle, and though they’ve healed, you can feel what it has left behind.
“Yer the princess everyone will be fightin’ fer?”
“I suppose so.” He's being dramatic; a week of silly games, a distraction for your father to drag out your betrothal so he can squeeze out as much of an offer out of these men and their lands as he can.
“Might ‘ave ta ask ye for yer favor, then.”
“You’re going to participate, Your Majesty?” You ask, laughing a little.
“If it’s ye that’s what’s won, then how can I refuse?”
You pick up your head slightly, looking over at your father. His eyes are glazed over, starving. He nods his head at you, as if to grant you permission for such an embrace, and you look back down. Johnny's eyes are so much brighter up close—so blue, it nearly hurts to look at them.
“Good luck to you, then, Your Majesty.”
"'s Johnny ta ye, princess." He gets up off his knee, standing to his full height, and your head follows him until it is tipped back, neck craning so you can keep your eyes on his. He eyes the veil, in a way that you think he might remove it. Take it for himself, this privilege not meant for him, and steal it anyway. It wouldn't surprise you; he's a king, and he must be used to it. You think you see blood under his fingertips, and he smells like the grime of the ocean. There is nothing he is not given—no prize he does not collect. Whatever he asks for is given or it is taken, and there is a moment as you're looking at him that you realize now more than ever that this is what you are.
Property.
You will be bartered for. Men will play games, for fuck's sake, in a foolish attempt at proving their worth for your father's one measly daughter. A princess of no regard, a keeper of no tithes, you are only as valuable as the children that you can carry, and that is all. There is nothing else about you that is worth having, and the moment of hope and a little bit of wonder dies just as quickly as it comes. This king, as beautiful as he is and as kind as he presents himself, will not be the same one you meet once the veil has been lifted.
"Johnny," you echo softly, blinking up at him. He smiles at that. Teeth bright, smile wide, and he nods his head behind him.
"Yer plate is empty, princess," he holds out his arm for you, and you look towards your father. He gestures with his arm towards the table of food, and you take Johnny's arm reluctantly as he guides you down the steps towards the table. He shoves some men out of his way, hilt of his sword hitting them as they bump past, and you stand just at his side as he picks up a plate and begins to fill it with food.
"You don't have to do that," you say softly. "My lady can—"
Johnny tsks. When he shakes his head, his curls bounce, and you watch as he plucks a few sweets beside the food for you. Chocolate pastries and delicate fruits.
"Ah ken what ye need," he mutters. He walks, scanning the table, and you follow him. "Mmm. Try this one."
"Your Majesty—oh!" Your mouth closes as he shoves a small cake into your mouth. For a split second, his fingers are inside your mouth; just long enough for you to taste the dirt there, but quick enough not to be so improper. You swallow politely, fingers over your mouth, and when your tongue darts out to lick the crumbs off of your face, Johnny is smiling even wider, licking his fingers, all too satisfied. He meets your eyes somehow, even from under the veil, and he sucks a little too long on the thumb that was in your mouth for it to be anything but suggestive.
"Ah came 'ere ta meet yer father. Sent me plenty o'letters. Said this would be a party ta remember, said ye were gettin' married." Johnny shrugs, looking around the room. "Hate ta inform ye, princess, but no one will make an offer better than the one ah'll be makin'."
What a sickening sight to see. He's not wrong. There's no one with men more capable. There's no one with a kingdom as bountiful and rich, full of as much history as his might be. You can't imagine the kind of ancestors he must have, a lineage of great power and much fortune, and he displays their triumph in the very fabrics he wears, and he has their rage woven into him, in his blood.
You shake your head. You don't want that.
"I'm…" You clear your throat. "I'm very flattered, Your Majesty. But my family…" You shake your head again, "we don't have the kind of fortune that a dowry to you would require. There are much better arrangements for you to make. I couldn't in good conscience expect you to settle."
Practical. Matter-of-fact. Reasonable, even. If marriage is truly a transaction, you will give him your cost-benefit analysis; a marriage to you does not work in his favor.
He bends. Head tilted, getting closer, mouth close to your ear so you can hear what he has to say and not mistake it for anything else.
"I'd take ye for nothing, princess. If that's what yer worried about."
He leaves you with your father, pulling out your chair for you and setting down your plate. When he leaves, you're frozen to your seat—watching his large figure from behind as he joins his men again and begins to gather his own plate of food. It takes great effort to stop your mouth from curling into a scowl at the way he picks up a turkey leg and bites into it grotesquely; canines chewing meat with his mouth open and his greasy fingers wiping at his short beard. Your father reaches for you, a rough hand on your arm that tugs you close to him so he can mutter in your ear.
"What did he say to you, girl? Tell me."
You look down at your plate of food. Vegetables. Meat. The cakes. A balanced meal of good portions. If you could, if decorum allowed, you think you'd pick up this plate and walk right over to His Majesty and shove it right back into his face. Horridly, you almost think he'd enjoy that. Open his mouth wide to catch whatever you tossed his way.
"He's a beast, father," you murmur, resisting his touch. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp and wince when he digs his nails into your sleeve and keeps you near. The slight squeak in your voice seems to catch Johnny's attention. His head turns just slightly, and when he eyes the way your father holds you, the laughter leaves his eyes. His smile fades just a bit, and you think you see his nostrils flare. If you looked closely, you'd see his other hand nearly twitch as it reaches for his sword instinctively, but you're too preoccupied by leaning away from your father to notice. "A horrid example of a man. Let alone a royal one. Are you sure it's true? He stinks like an animal."
"Speak, girl," your father repeats. "I will not ask you again."
"There's nothing to say," you tell him. "He asked me about the games. He wants to play."
"For your hand?"
"That's what will be won, won't it?"
You think your father is about to strike you. He moves like he will, but then a shadow comes over the table, and your flinch is interrupted by your brother, who looks down at your father with a furrowed brow.
"I think it's time for her to rest," he says lowly. "If she's expected to be at the games all this week, she needs her sleep, don't you think, father?"
You won't be grateful for your brother for doing the right thing; but you are grateful anyways.
"Perhaps it will quiet her snithing tongue and make her a proper princess once more, but we're all praying for fucking miracles, aren't we?" Your father spits. When he lets you go, your chair is sent backwards from the force of it, and your lip trembles as you stare out at the sea of people still partying. This is what you're resigned to—a life of invisibility. There will be a day when you are not in the spotlight as you are now; when you are wed and underestimated and hidden behind a wedding ring that all but seals your lips shut. Your husband can hit you, abuse you, terrify you, but you'll only be noticed if you don't produce him an heir.
You squeeze your hands into fists to keep them from shaking as you stand, and you follow your brother out of the Great Hall. You don't speak to him, even as he asks you how you are. You say nothing, just keep your head high as he opens the door to your bedroom for you.
"Sister, I know that—"
"Have a good night, brother."
He's quiet when you shut the door, and he does not knock.
Your maids are silent and solemn as they help you undress. A few of them are filling a tub with warm water in another room. You did not want to bathe, but your oldest maid has insisted your mood requires one. They untangle your hair and take off your veil, and you refuse the mirror as they undo your corset and rid you of your skirts and undergarments.
You ask them to go as you soak. You lean over the edge of the tub, cheek resting on your arm, and you stare into the light of the fireplace that crackles. You think about how much worse you could have it; surely there are hundreds, thousands, of women that are in much more terrible places than you. Places that are cold. Places that are barren. Places that make them bleed, that make them sad, that make them hungry. Your birthright has granted you a place amongst a great house, has it not? Hateful father aside, what is it that you could ever want? If your resignation in life is to marry a mediocre man, surely your punishment fits the crime.
You were born rich and royal; you could not be granted all of life's great pleasures. The balance must be kept in some way, and this is your penance. You are simply an ungrateful girl. Spoiled princess.
Fucking awful—
You close your eyes when you hear the doors to the bathing room open. You don't want to see anyone. You don't want to talk. You just want them to leave you alone.
"Naseema," you sigh. "Please, I said I wanted to be left alone."
"Och, now this is the grand show I'd wanted tae be watchin'."
The water nearly spills over the edge of the tub from how fast you spin around. Your arms instinctively move to cover your chest, but you're grateful for the abundance of bubbles and oils in the water keeping you mostly covered.
There he stands, leaning against the edge of the fireplace. There's an apple in the palm of his hand that he bites into, teeth chomping into it and flashing as he chews loudly and smiles in your direction.
"You're not supposed to be in here," you tell him. "I…" You realize your face is not covered, and your eyes water. "You can't see my face, I…you need to c-cover your eyes—"
"Ah, right…I heard about tha'," Johnny points towards you as he thinks. "Thought tha' was just fer others."
"Only my brothers and my father," you clear your throat. "C-Can see me before the wedding. You need to go. You can't be in here."
Johnny unsheathes his sword, and you tense as he spins it in the low light before leaning it against the wall. He walks a little lighter without it, and he pushes off the wall so he can walk around the room and admire the decor.
"Yer husband can see ye," Johnny mutters, soot-covered fingers touching your robe. It's an off-white color that he immediately stains with his dirty hands. Lace and stitch-work tainted with his touch.
"You are not my husband." Your voice does not waver this time. You sit up in the tub, glaring his way, and he turns his head to look at you as if he sensed it. He looks eerily satisfied at your reaction, and he takes another bite out of his apple before continuing. He stops in front of the table that holds oils and perfumes and soaps. He picks one of the bottles up to smell them, closing his eyes briefly. "You are as ungentlemanly as they come. You're unseemly."
"Ye are quite the brat, bonnie."
"And worst of all, you're beneath me."
Johnny chuckles at that. He sets the perfume down, swallowing the bite in his mouth, and he licks over his teeth at the sight of you.
"Yer just makin' it worse, princess," he shrugs. "Reckon yer bite feels good, aye? Should we find out?"
You reach for a bottle of oil that is placed near you, and you pick it up and throw it as hard as you can. Johnny ducks his head just in time, catching the wall just as the bottle shatters where his head once was. You are only given a moment to revel in it before he's dropping the apple and coming straight for you.
You are about to scream, but Johnny catches your throat in time. Big hand wrapping around the delicate part of your neck, nearly lifting you out of the tub, squeezing as he brings your face closer to his. Your legs thrash, water splashing, but Johnny just shakes his head and tsks at the attempt to free yourself. You scratch at his forearms, but it only adds to the scars already littered there.
"I'd love to take ye," he says lowly, sighing. He sounds frustrated, but not with you. "Would love tae take ye right out of this very room, princess, and throw ye on the next ship out, but there's no fun in tha', is there?"
He presses his forehead to yours, thumb tracing along your jaw. You thump at his chest with your fists, but he doesn't budge.
"No matter," Johnny rasps. "Ye'll be queen of Scots by week's end. Ye need time, time tae think. Time tae reckon with yer God-given duty." You cry as he kisses your face, wet lips pressed to your cheek. "I'll be 'avin' ye, and I'll kill any right bastard that gets in my way."
When he lets you go, you cough as you collapse against the edge of the tub. You put a shaky hand against your throat, tears welling in your eyes, and Johnny reaches for his sword to sheathe it once more before he makes his way to the door. You meet his gaze just as he turns, and his smile is gone.
"Rest up, princess," is what he tells you. "We're a long way from home."
There is rust inside of the air. It's in the wind. It's curling around you, blowing through your hair. You breathe it into your lungs and feel it attaching itself to you from the inside-out. It tastes like rot, and it settles like a stone in your stomach. Dread fills you, as deep inside of you until it reaches your toes, and when your body finds your bed, you feel little urge to sleep.
There is a monster that dwells in the halls, and it has come for you. It will not leave until it has you, and you know even if you take away its weapons, it bears claws and teeth, as terrifying with its flesh than it is with anything it can hold to strike with. Your grave has all but been dug out.
Time to reckon with your God-given duty. Time for the inevitable. Time for what's coming, with no knowledge of how fast it will kill you. Morality is a construct, and time is a death sentence—they are abstracts that have been created by men that are nothing more than a delay for what has already been decided.
The death of your mother. The hatred of your father. The pity of your brothers. The wounds you carry inside, and the fragility of your birthright. The fear of what you are not, and the hope of what you might've become—it dies tonight, and when you close your eyes, you see nothing in your dreams like you thought you might see.
Only nightmares; and when you wake up, you cannot discern between the horror that you saw in your sleep to the one that you are living in now.
It was decided that you were not permitted to watch the games until the second-to-last day, much to your relief, and you do not see Johnny once during that time. Apparently, your father thought it best for you to stay hidden during the games instead—he thinks it will make you seem more alluring if you are only seen during certain times, so as not to spoil the vision of his only daughter's beauty.
For the first three days, highborn men competed against one another in a series of difficult games. Scores were given based on the rules of the games and also based on the favor of the audience, but a variety of them were played as a way for your father to not only have more fun watching men throw more and more money at him for chances to continue, but also to narrow down the pool to a select group.
Physical games are played—archery, games of spar, lifting of objects, throwing of them. These games were a way for your father to be rid of who he seemed weak and unmanly. Of course, he also approved mental games. Card games, board games, games where strategy and thought were required to continue between rounds and receive high valued scores. These games were meant for your father to cut out the stupid ones; if any kin of yours is to have his blood, they cannot be strong in only body.
The body deteriorates, is what your father told you. After it does, you will only have your head, and it must be a sound one.
Apparently, your father picked out your dress for today. You've never known him to be so particular about what you wear, but when you see the dress hanging in your bedroom, you grimace.
The fabric of the skirts has accents of plaid sewn throughout. Delicate flowers, lightweight tulle, and ornate handsewn pearls also accompany the accents of the red and green pattern, and your maids hand you a note written by your father as they start to ready your corset and undergarments.
Do not disappoint me today, dear princess. Much is on your shoulders, and I am counting on you.
You don't know what that means. You dread finding out.
Your maids busy themselves with your hair. You have two working on the strands diligently, and you sit there with a curious look as you watch them make distinct patterns that you're not familiar with.
"Uhm…what style is this?"
Your ladies look at each other before continuing.
"Your father asked for this, Your Highness," one of them replies. "He asked for…a more Nordic style to be done."
You laugh a little. "As in…vikings? Is he mad?"
Your other maid clears her throat. "No, Your Highness," she says gently. "The Scottish are; or—they used to be."
Your throat closes up a little, and you smooth out the skirt of your dress.
"His Majesty is still…playing in the games?" You ask softly. One of your maids squeezes your shoulder soothingly.
"Yes, Your Highness. He is the last of two."
The veil is the last piece to come, but it feels nothing but performative now that Johnny has seen your face. This veil has red tulle to match your skirt, and it has been sewn with a net of small crystals that sparkle in the sunlight. Your eldest brother is the one that comes to collect you, and when he sees you, he can only smile in an odd sort of way.
"You look beautiful."
"Let's just…get this over with," you whisper. "It's all but been decided, hasn't it?"
Your brother rakes his eyes over your dress in thought before nodding.
"The Scots have made a generous offer, sister. It would be…unwise to refuse. Especially considering…the political climate."
You purse your lips. "All of this, just to anger a more powerful country? I knew father was stupid, dear brother, but surely you have more sense than that. If England goes to war, we will lose."
"If England wants war, then you will have the most important job of all," your brother snaps. He frowns, stepping closer, and you jut your chin out, refusing to back down. "You will be the one that has to convince a Scottish court that we deserve their aid, and you will do it because if you don't, you are certainly correct. We will die. I will, our brothers will, our people—"
"Don't you dare try to incite some…some innate patriotism in me, brother!" You cry. You smack his arm away from you, fisting your skirt angrily and starting to breathe heavily. "I have never wanted this. I never wanted to be anyone except for your family. This…rift between us and others is your doing, and it's our father's doing, and it is because both of you think with only your cocks!"
"You watch your mouth!"
"And now, you want me to clean up your mess—by marrying the most foul, the most disgusting, the most abhorrent man on this God-forsaken earth because you fired a weapon and missed your fucking target!"
"Enough!"
Your brother's scream echoes along the halls. You pant, chest heaving now, and you whine when your brother's hand grabs for your arm and yanks you towards him. His touch hurts, and when you turn your head and flinch, you feel just as small as your father makes you feel. He's never looked more like him, and he's never felt more like him than right now.
"You will marry John MacTavish; and you will do what your king asks of you. You will do…what I ask of you. Now shut your fuckin' mouth, and let's go."
He sounds like him now; and you cannot discern between what is and what was.
Your brother pushes against your back as you enter the Great Hall, where your father is seated on his throne, cup of wine in hand and laughing with a group of his councilmen.
Johnny is here, surrounded by his own. Lads of differing ages, old and young, in different patterns of plaid that sit around him, but Johnny wears the most leather and iron, and his furs across his shoulders are the most ornate. He still looks just as handsome as the first day you met him, but you are intrigued by the cut along his brow that looks fresh. When you step into the room more clearly, his eyes find yours, a magnet, even when yours are invisible to him.
His gaze heats the moment he sees you. Lidded, his eyes look you up and down, already taking note of the matching pattern that you wear now that's been carefully added to your skirts. Your dress is a wonderful piece of artwork that melts together your own culture and his, and you look away, turning your head to get Johnny out of your view so you can focus on something else.
Anything else.
Your father has chosen a game of chance for the final game. There's a table in the center of the Hall with nothing but three dice sitting in the middle. There are three seats, one for a dealer, and two for the opponents, and when your father sees you, he motions for you to come over and take the empty seat beside him.
You settle in it with a small curtsy towards your father, who takes your hand in his and squeezes it firmly. He is in good spirits today; or perhaps it's just the mead. Either way, you're grateful, so you squeeze his hand back. For a brief moment, you look to your father, and you wonder what things would be like if he had loved you for even a second of your life.
Maybe he would have let you live just as you always were. Maybe he would have comforted you even if marriage was necessary. Maybe he would have allowed you, encouraged you, to marry for love instead of for fortune because it was the only kindness he could imagine for someone as precious as his only daughter.
Maybe he would have cried for you—mourned for you, as a woman's transition into marriage is most surely her demise. Maybe he would have done nothing at all, but you'll never know.
Your father does not love you; and he never will.
The Great Hall grows quiet as your father waves his hand towards one of his attendants. They take a seat in the dealer's chair, grabbing up the dice, and he motions for the men to take their seats for the game. Johnny sits with an air of confidence, and the man that sits across from him tries the same. He's a large man of tanner skin and darker hair, with clothes that have great patterns with beads sewn into them. Your father tells you he's from a land to the East, one that has great amounts of gold and mining reserves. You overhear him tell his advisor that if he wins, he has agreed to give your father a few reserves in exchange for your hand.
"Father, with this offer…the Scots can't be worth as much," you hear your brother mutter. "Why are we playing this game then? Perhaps the better choice is obvious, father."
"Because England draws near, my son."
"We can buy an army with that money."
"Perhaps…" Your father shrugs. "It isn't a bad offer; but it is personal with the Scots. They will fight for less, and with their hearts—" Your father pokes your brother in the chest, laughing lowly. "—war is not won by coin. No mercenary will be as invested as they would be."
You suck in a deep breath as the dealer shakes the dice in his hand. There is music playing, but it quiets to a low volume as the dealer begins to explain the rules.
"For each round, one has high, the other has low. We'll roll each die, best of three wins the round. His Majesty will pick who chooses first."
The dealer gestures towards where your father sits, and he grins wide, raising his arms.
"Our great Scottish friend can choose first. May luck be on your side."
Chance. Your father's way of letting the universe decide what matters more—vendettas or investments.
Johnny wins the first round. He chooses high, and the dealer rolls a four, a six, and a one. It is in the second round that you notice something strange—the manner in which the dealer rolls the dice. He has nimble fingers, and he twists them in one hand oddly, the hem of his shirt sleeve moving as he tosses them between his hands. You notice him move his head side-to-side, and when your father allows the other man to choose first, he eyes the dealer before choosing high.
The dealer rolls a six, another six, and a five.
Johnny sits back when your father offers for him to choose first. He shakes his head and holds out a hand to the man across from him, who looks at the dealer. The dealer moves his head from side-to-side, and when he chooses low this time, you look at your father incredulously, mouth hanging open since that is all that he can see.
"Father," you touch his arm. "Father, he's cheating."
"Shush, girl."
"But—"
The dealer rolls a three, a one, and then four. Just as you are about to grab for your father's jacket sleeve, Johnny makes a move—he slips the dagger from beneath his kilt and shoves it right through the dealer's hand.
You stand as the room erupts in screams and hollers. Your chair falls backward, and you put your hands over your mouth as Johnny grits his teeth and twists the dagger until the dealer flails out of his chair, screaming in agony. Blood spills across the betting table, his body shaking from his cries.
"Ye thought I would nae spot a game spoiled wit fulhams?" Johnny cackles, licking over his lips before spitting on his opponent. The thick glob of it sprays across the man's face, prompting him to yell. "The first rule of anythin' is tae learn about yer enemy. Tha' English shite isnae goin' tae work on me, ye fuckin' dobber."
Everyone goes quiet when Johnny reaches for his sword. He unsheathes it with ease, and you watch in horror as he kicks the table and sends dice flying, and he brings it down like it weighs nothing—right through his opponent's neck. The sword cuts like a hot knife through stiff butter, sharp edge bent for killing. The blood that erupts from the wound puddles underneath him as he falls to his knees, gurgling as he grips onto the blade and tries to move. His legs kick out from underneath him, and Johnny grunts as he brings the sword back towards him. It cuts through the front of him, and you stumble backwards when you see the man's insides break free from his body, falling out onto the stone floor.
The music stops. The yelling breaches, and the crowd starts to close in. Johnny points the sword towards your father, laughing maniacally as he comes closer. A line of guards forms in front of you, a wall between Johnny and your family, but you don't feel any safer with them there. Your kingdom has not seen battle in decades—your men would be no match for someone like him. You can see it in their eyes as they hold out their weapons in front of them; they'll fall like flowers under crushed feet, and Johnny will make it to you before his next breath.
"John, you're not thinking clearly," your father laughs. "You've made your point."
"I'll be takin' my prize," Johnny spits, running a hand over his face to wipe the blood off. It only smears it, war paint across his cheeks now as he keeps his sword up and pointed towards your guards. "I'm done playin' yer parlor games. Bunch of nobs, ye lot are, dangling 'er o'er us. Over me."
His voice rasps near the end, and you've never heard anything so threatening. You've never heard a man so easily talk of death at his hands before. Johnny takes another step forward, and every guard in the line lowers their swords towards him.
"And what does the great kingdom of Scots offer in exchange?" Your father goads. Your brother's head snaps fast to look at him; he is just as surprised at you are how stupid your father truly can be. He takes a seat like there is no danger around. Like he is negotiating a trade deal. Like there isn't a man whose familiar place is a battlefield holding a weapon out to him, like he's not standing on the edge of a cliff into nothing but the void. "What will you give me?"
Johnny lowers his sword just slightly, pointing right at your father with it.
"Yer life," he murmurs. "Ye can have yer fuckin' life, what's left o'it. Miserable pile of shite it must be ta be ye, but ye can fuckin' 'ave it, 'n tha's all I'm givin' ye."
"Not good enough."
Johnny strikes first. His men follow his lead, but they wait for his sword to break against another before they come up behind him.
They make quick work of your father's guards. You have always imagined battle to be bloody, but you never imagined it to be so visceral. Flesh gives way so easily to sword, and the insides of someone fall out so quickly. Guts and viscera on the stone floor just where you used to dance and eat meals, heads nearly decapitated from the body it once belonged to where you were given your first tiara.
You pick up your skirt when the blood touches the tips of your shoes. You loathe getting your dress dirty.
There are tears coming down your face that Johnny can see when he steps up to where your father sits. Your veil does not cover your mouth, and he sees the tears pooling under your jaw, but you are silent otherwise. You fist your skirt up with one hand, and the other shakes as it covers your mouth, and you can't will yourself to say anything.
You cry out, however, when your father grabs your arm and twists it, pulling you towards him. You're yanked in his direction, but he stops suddenly when the tip of Johnny's sword touches the front of your father's jacket, pointed right in the center of his chest.
"Let 'er go. Now. Dinnae fuckin' touch 'er."
Your father, thankfully, is not daft enough to disobey. He releases you, and you fall forwards, trying to find something to stable yourself with. You hold onto the nearest chair, but when your father reaches for you again, you hear metal fall through the air just behind you. What follows is the bloodcurdling sound of your father's scream, one that freezes you solid.
Your father's right hand rests at his feet now—cleanly cut off from the wrist down. You think you see his fingers twitch, even after being severed from its source.
"I said no' tae touch 'er, aye?"
It is something of a relief to watch your father writhe, fish out of water on the floor beside you. Your brother is on his knees, trying to calm him, but your father has been reduced to tears, screaming, yelling for help.
Your hands stop shaking, and you suddenly are able to find your footing. You stand still as you watch, breath coming out a little lighter. When the hem of your skirt finds blood and your shoes touch it, you barely notice. Your father looks funny from this angle.
Small.
You don't even realize you're stepping away until you bump into something. At your back, a hand steadies you, and when you turn, Johnny is there. Sword sheathed, hands stretched out like he's trying to seem like less of a threat, but the blood that paints his face and his body overshadow the attempt.
You hear your brother saying something. You think he might be calling out to you, but you don't turn around. The world is a little hazy, everywhere except for right in front of you.
Anyone that gets in my way. That was what he said. That was what he promised you.
Anyone. Anyone. Anyone.
His hand feels warm when it curls around your waist. When he tugs, he feels no resistance, and your feet shuffle closer. When your hand rests, just there in the middle of his chest, his own comes over yours, palm engulfing it as he squeezes gently.
Maybe he was right. Maybe he made a good argument. Time, maybe it was all you really needed. Time sweetens everything.
It rots.
You thumb at the fur across his shoulder. Fox, you think. You step a little closer, and Johnny understands; his hand leads your own to cover your ear, and when he presses your head against his chest, the world gets much quieter. No screaming. No yelling.
Just the thud of a strong heartbeat, and the rush of your own blood. You only hope that it stays inside of you.
You don't know why Johnny decides now to respect your people's traditions. He doesn't touch the veil or try to look underneath it, even though he already knows what you look like.
The ceremony is nothing but theatrics. A shaking Catholic cardinal that stands beside you and Johnny, making motions with his hands. You don't understand a word he's saying; it's all garbled Latin that means nothing to you, but Johnny still touches his forehead to yours and closes his eyes at one point which makes you think he must be saying something nice at least.
Something about until death.
When Johnny lifts your veil, you blink up at him. It feels like the wrong time to smile, but you try to. He does kiss you, but it's soft and short, a gentle press of closed lips and his fingers just under your chin.
You don't say goodbye. Not to your father, not to your brothers, not to your ladies. Johnny allows you a small number of things to bring, but even when you look around your bedroom, you realize there isn't much you want to take with you.
There's nothing about this place that makes you want to stay. Everything and everyone here will cut ties with you—if not because you are a woman, than it is because you are now a MacTavish.
You think it odd when Johnny offers his hand to you, but you take it anyways. He puts you up onto a horse, and though you think he will have you ride alone, you are pleasantly surprised when Johnny gets up onto it behind you. You sit side-saddle, legs dangling over, and he keeps his arms around you, hands on the reigns.
"Goin' home," Johnny mutters, leaning over the side of the horse to spit onto the ground.
You don't look behind yourself when you go. There is nothing left for you here.
It is winter when you see his home for the very first time. It was a long, grueling journey passing through highland country, with great mountains and valleys that his men knew well. The first snow began to fall just a week before you arrived, dusting the great plains of what used to be vast greens in a blanket of crunchy white powder. You neared his home surrounded by barren trees on the back of his horse, Nessie, and there was a large audience to greet you as you made it past the grand walls that surrounded his dwelling.
Dwelling—if you could even call it that. Johnny lives in a fortress. A castle of great structure and architecture, with high walls and many towers for defense and fortification; it is apparent the kind of country Johnny has found himself king of. His house is built for war because he must anticipate it often. There are places in the walls that look bent from outside force, but they have been formed to withstand it.
As you pass through the Forework into the courtyard, you're overwhelmed by the crowd that greets you. Johnny looks overjoyed as he slips off of the horse. He's greeted with great welcome by his men and others alike, but he doesn't linger for long before he turns to reach for you.
Your hands find his forearms, and you let him help you down. As soon as your feet touch the stone, everyone bows.
You're not used to this kind of attention. Your hand curls around Johnny's bicep, gloved palm squeezing there gently, and he presses his lips to the side of your head as he smooths out the back of your dress.
"Welcome home, bonnie."
In your books, you learned of Scotland and its lush green cliffs and vast waters, but they did not talk about its winter season. They did not tell you of the snowfall and the trees without leaves and how the lands seemed to stretch far into the horizon, a blanket of nothing but white and barren land. Underneath it, you think it must be beautiful, but as you squint into the horizon, you see only nothingness.
The weather forces you into the confinements of Johnny's home. You can't wander far because you don't know the land, and the cold bites when you walk too far. You can't walk to the other side of his estate, because one of his staff is always following you around, and it makes you easy to spot. If his breath is not hot down the back of your neck, his eyes follow you wherever you go.
On the journey back, your new husband allowed you your space. On his ship back to the north, you slept in your own quarters as long as you agreed to have meals with him. When you were back on land, he allowed you a tent if you rode on horseback with him. Johnny gives, but only if he gets something back—his generosity is not free, that much is evident to you.
Your new home is no different. You bargain for your privacy, but as the days pass, even you know that it won't be enough. You are a man's wife, and that allows him certain privileges—privileges that he's feels he can have simply for holding a title over you.
The ladies here are quiet around you. They are gentle as they take your hair down from their many braids; your new status means you have a new name, and they style your hair in intricate, twisted braids with fine cuffs and jewelry. You have seen the same decorations in Johnny's own hair—his curls falling in twists, small, sporadic braids styled with feathers and silver. Johnny may be royal, but he is not dormant. He doesn't hide behind his throne nor use his name to keep himself safe. You have seen him once or twice, on your many walks around the property, sparring with his men and showing off his undeniable skill. His sword is heavy, but you would never know it; he swings it like it weighs nothing in his hands, and there is no doubt in your mind, after seeing him best ten men nearly all at once, that Johnny is right where he wants to be.
His scars are not for show. He has bled, and he bleeds, and he will bleed, because that is the kind of life he will always chase. Peace does not suit him, chaos does, and maybe that's why he married you, too.
You can see him in the mirror behind you. Your ladies are taking your jewelry off when you notice him there, in the doorway, leaning against it as he watches with a lidded, heavy stare. As soon as the ladies notice him, they are dropping into their curtsies, whispers of his name leaving them as they give him their attention, and with a wave of his hand, they are flittering out in a hurried cluster, shutting the door behind them.
"You missed dinner," you say softly. Your hand reaches up to rub against the bare skin of your collarbone. You are in nothing but your night shift, a shawl around your shoulders and naked underneath it all. As he makes his way further into your bedroom, he drops his clothing. The furs around his shoulders. The leather around his torso and forearms, the belt adorning his kilt. When he stands behind you and wraps his arm around your neck, your head is forced back against his middle, his bicep flexing and keeping you head-locked there—all for him to look at. "Johnny, l-let me go."
"Most bonnie thing," he murmurs, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His eyes are a wicked shade of blue, and your lip wobbles as his other hand reaches around to trace along the neckline of your night shift. You suck in a shaky breath, shivering.
"John," you shake your head. "What…What are you doing?"
"Am I no' allowed ta admire my wife?" He asks. You lean away from him as he presses his face into your neck, and you let out a harsh breath.
"You stink," you mumble. "Like a dog."
He smells like sweat and dirt. Like dust kicked up and now it's stuck along his damp skin. Up this close you can see the scars that are littered across his face and against his chest. All he wears is his kilt, and you have a sickening feeling he truly wears nothing underneath it, like he was hoping he might find you like this, like he was hoping he'd see you just as you are now.
"Och, I ken what's got ye so angry, my love," he rasps. You close your eyes when you feel his lips against your jaw. He gives you a wet kiss, slobbering on your skin as he licks over the fresh oils your ladies spent time moisturizing you with, and he snarls when he tastes it, sucking at the bend of your neck and groaning. "I've neglected ye, 'aven't I?"
"John—"
"Aye, love—fuckin' wagging me tail when ye call me by my name, fuck—"
"You are a dog!"
"Want ta hear me bark?"
You scoot the chair back abruptly, shoving him off, and he stands like a heaving wolf behind you as you turn to face him. He licks over his lips, tilting his head from side-to-side, and you shake as you take a few steps back until you hit the wall and freeze.
"Stop it, John," you whisper, shaking your head. Your heart is beating out of your chest, and every hair on your body stands on end. "I know…I know what you did for me. I know it. Your home…it's beautiful." Your eyes water. "But it isn't mine. It never will be."
Johnny smiles a little. He looks around your bedroom, admiring the decor, before he moves to undo his kilt and drop it completely. Your eyes avert upwards. His nakedness, as quickly as you saw it, doesn't surprise you. He is pure muscle, pudge, heft, and you feel hot all over as he goes to fetch himself a drink from the cart on the other side of the room. He is solid. There is no give to Johnny, in any place—not in his chest, not in his belly, and certainly not in his cock that hangs heavy and thick.
"Ah have been patient wit' ye," he begins. You listen as he pours himself a full glass of mead, swirling it in its cup before taking a large gulp. The ceiling grows darker as you hear him pace, as if the moonlight itself draws away as your nervousness grows. His voice dips low, timber like ice though it strikes hot fear. "'ave I no' been a patient king, my love?"
"We're strangers," you say softly. "I don't know what your limits may be, but I am finding them short and ill-managed."
He laughs. Deep, bellowed, and your chin dips when he stands in front of you now. You do not dare look any lower than his eyes, and he stares at you over the rim of his cup as he takes another sip from it.
"Ah came ta y'r house ta jest, my queen," Johnny murmurs. His smile fades, and his eyes are nothing but black holes. "Ah share a common interest with yer da, but ye lived in a house of cards." He bends, shaking his head. "Y'r da is a right piece o' shite, and his daughter was mine fer the takin'. Ye are the most beautiful thing I've seen since I saw my first sunset, bonnie." You hear the clink of his cup as he sets it down, and then you feel the warmth of him as he steps just that much closer to you. "I saved ye from tha' wretched place—"
"You are not the hero in this story, John!" You cry. You put your hands on his chest to push him away, but he doesn't budge. His muscles flex under your touch, but he doesn't move, it's not possible. He's warm under your palms, thick hair around his chest that trails down his middle. Your nails scratch, and his pecs harden, and you feel warm tears come down your cheeks before you can stop them. "What—you save me from one fucking cell, just so I can sit in another? Is that it? Is that your redemption, my king?" You spit his title out like it hurts to say it, and before you can smack him off, his neck tilts, and your lips collide.
He is warm, and your body reacts. Your lips part when his do, and your tongues meet as his hands come to squeeze around your soft middle. There is only thin cotton that separates you and his bare hands, and it draws all the heat in your body low, to where your thighs quiver.
"Ah am no hero," Johnny mutters against your lips. You exchange hot breaths, and he drags you closer. Your feet follow, and you stand on your toes, his hands cupping just under your thighs as he gropes and squeezes you near. Your nipples pebble under your shift, and as he presses you to him, he feels all parts of you, and you him—he is hard and leaking between your bodies, and your hands find the sides of his face. "But I am owed."
You don't know if he loves you—maybe he thinks he does. You don't think Johnny knows what love means, or what it feels like. He takes you off your feet so easily; like you weigh nothing, gathering you up into his arms, lips against yours, crowding you away from the wall until you fall onto your back on the bed and invite him between your legs.
Your shift tears like paper between his hands. It falls in tatters around you, and Johnny wastes no time sliding his hands under your back and arching you up into him so he can put his mouth on your tits. He licks and spits on them like a hound, and your soft mewls only drive his hunger.
"John—"
Your words are swallowed by him. He kisses you again, wetter this time, hooking his burly arms under your knees and hoisting you up the bed until your head rests against the pillow and he can rut his cock between your legs. He's thick. Heavy at the base, full all around, and when the tip catches between your folds, you squeak at the plapping sound that follows the movement of his hips. He's too eager, uncontrollable, and just when you think he's about to push inside of you, he shakes his head, breaking your kiss.
"Ah…" He pants into your mouth. "Ah won't last." He grins. "Yer too pretty."
"Fuck you—" You gasp, and he shakes his head again.
"Dinnae worry," Johnny breathes, and you shriek when he throws your legs up over his shoulders, bending until he can press his nose just under your belly-button and take a deep breath. He's sick—but all you want is more. "Ah'll make a proper queen of ye yet, aye?"
Oh, he eats you as if you are the supper he missed. Thick fingers spreading you apart, pushing back the hair that keeps you hidden from him—when his tongue touches that first soft part of you, when it flicks over where you are most tender, you cry with relief, with pain. It hurts, but it hurts good, and you stare up at the same ceiling and lose yourself when his tongue slips inside of you. You're leaking, wet and sticky, and you fear it only encourages his insatiable nature. Your words mean one thing, but your body does not lie. It betrays you. You want to not want this, but it isn't true.
He's truly the dog that no one can tame. Too hungry, too eager, too much energy, and he feeds on you, and you hate him and you love him all at once. No one has ever paid such attention to you in your life. You have always been forgotten. The last thought. No one has ever put you above anyone else, and your feelings have never mattered. You are the last in a line of many boys. You are the thing that killed your mother. You are the woman that was never meant for anything except to be done away with—the only value you have ever been in any man's eyes is the object of many fortunes, generational and transactional.
It bleeds from you now, this hard truth that is no longer. It drains like an infected wound, and Johnny sucks it straight out of your cunt. You are beneath no one. You belong to no one except for him. You are a MacTavish now, a sister no longer, a daughter no more; you are a queen of great country, and you will understand that, and you know from the way he laps at your pussy that he'll keep doing this until you learn this new truth.
You know, however, that even then, he will want you.
His mouth is so hot. He adjusts you in his arms, moaning between slides of his tongue as he swallows hard and smacks his lips together. He pulls away to take a deep breath, brows pinched together as he squeezes your soft skin and nearly whines as he rests his cheek against your inner thigh.
"Ye close?" He asks, and you whimper as he flicks his tongue across your hole. Your insides pulse and tighten, wanting for something that he hasn't give you yet. Whatever this feeling is, you need him, and you wish he wouldn't stop. You want him to keep going. He can see your hole squeezing around nothing, and he grins, too satisfied with himself.
"C-Close?"
"It feels good, aye?" He murmurs, and you reach with your hand to pull on his hair, making him chuckle. "Ye've never come, my love? Never touched this wee bonnie cunt, tha' what I'm hearing?"
"Johnny, please—!"
"Whatever yer feeling—" He smacks his lips together, "—chase it. Dinnae stop until I tell ye."
You do. You do chase it. You can't help it, anyways, not with the way Johnny has you in his mouth. The way he spits on your cunt and has his way with it, kissing the soft parts when he needs a breath and sucking between your folds when he gathers it. His eyes are watching you, lidded, fluttering, and it brings him the upmost satisfaction watching you writhe in his arms. His pretty girl, a queen if ever saw one.
You see white behind your eyes. You cant your hips, rolling them up and into his mouth, and he seems to enjoy the way you react. Your pleasure is his pleasure, and it makes you feel so hot, so intense. You've never felt so out of your body before, and just as he wraps his lips around somewhere soft and pulsing, you cry with it as your thighs shake and he hinges his jaw open to catch something that he wants. It comes out of you sticky and warm, and you whine as he flattens his tongue and swallows it up.
The come-down is soft. Your body sags as it hangs in his arms, and you whimper when your back touches the bed. It dips under your weight, and you feel suffocated as Johnny pushes your legs apart and lays over you. His forearms settle by your head, and you blink up at him, mouth falling open as he uses one hand to hike your thighs up around his hips and grins down at you.
His face is wet. His short beard is shining with you, and he licks over his lips before he bends and presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your mouth.
"Most bonnie thing, I tell ye, love."
"I didn't…" You sigh deeply, and you can't help it when your hands slide up his sides and hook over his shoulders. "I didn't realize…"
"Yer governess might 'ave told ye one thing about…how husbands love their wives," Johnny murmurs against your cheek. You close your eyes, back arching into him as he grinds his leaking cock between your folds. "Ah'll tell ye another."
"You don't love me."
"Ah love yer cunt, bonnie—"
"That's not love, John."
"Give it time."
He's a dog when he's inside of you, too. Pushing into you for the first time, he shutters against the skin of your neck, finding your hands so he can intertwine your fingers and squeeze them tight. The whole room feels smaller as he pulls out just enough to shove right back in, and your thighs lock around his hips with the force of it. His cock pulses, just grazing the deepest places in you, and you want so badly for it to be the worst experience of your entire life, but it isn't.
For all the love Johnny doesn't have, your body will never know it. He fucks you like you're the wife you really are, and it hurts to know it. It hurts to understand it. He kisses so sloppy, but when he looks into your eyes, he sees you. He sees you for what you are, and that is his wife, and your eyes water at the realization of it because you've never been anything so precious.
Not a wife like other wives. You're not invisible like you know your mother must have been. You're not forgotten like you used to be. You're not misunderstood because no one will listen to you—every time your cunt tightens around him, Johnny moans into your mouth and tells you how beautiful you are, and you hate how much you love to hear it and try so hard to get him to say it again.
It is dirty and freeing at the same time. When your eyes find that ceiling, it fades behind your closed eyes, and with every thrust of his hips, you feel new again. His hands fall, one burly forearm wrapping underneath you while the other cups under your knee, and the next kiss you share is hot and wet and breathless. You follow him when he pulls away, and your hips cant when his pull back, but it's when your hands touch his face again that he falters. He comes without warning, too fast, his stomach tightening as he buries himself deep. Your neck tilts back against the pillows; you feel so full, like the spaces inside of you that have always felt hollow are right where they've always wanted to be.
Your face is damp with your tears when he pulls away to look at you.
"'ave I hurt ye, my love?" He whispers, and you shake your head, because you don't think he could, even if he tried. You are so frustrated. You are so angry. You hate yourself for it, you hate what you feel inside because it betrays the things you have always felt were the truest parts of you.
Men are simple. Men are cruel. Men are dull, stupid, and driven by nothing but their own selfish desire—but they've also never looked at you the way Johnny does. Maybe he's as stupid and hard-headed as his cock, but those eyes don't lie; they can't. They're not capable of it.
"No," you whisper, and you close your eyes as you press your cheek against his. His stubble scratches against your face in such a way, and you nuzzle against him, your arms wrapping around his neck. "W-Will you promise me something, John?"
"Anything."
You feel different when he pulls out of you. You press on his chest gently, guiding him upright, and you follow him. You settle in his lap, fingers brushing back the curls along his hairline. The moment is terribly intimate, and your eyes are shining like stars. He touches his forehead to yours, and you nearly crumble on the spot. You hate the way he makes you feel. You hate how much you adore it.
"P-Promise me you'll always tell me the truth. Even if you don't think I will want to hear it."
"I promise." Johnny speaks like a king, and your breath shakes. "Ye can cut me own heart out if I lie ta ye, bonnie. Ah'll no' be angry. Ah won't hold it against ye. We won't meet in heaven, my love, that much I ken, so in this life—" He picks up your hand and holds it over his panting heart. It beats like a drum under your palm, fast and unhindered and alive. "—what's mine is yers."
You falter. For all you speak of your bravery, you break like glass at his tenderness. Your mouth finds his again, and your hand slides up the length of his cock. He groans, nearly sobbing at the feeling, and you hide the smile that comes over your face at how easily he succumbs. When your thumb rubs over the tip, he whimpers, and when your hand cups just under, squeezing his balls, he spills between your thighs like it was the first time a girl ever wet his cock. You giggle when you feel it, webbing between your fingers, but you stop laughing when his own hand slides over his cock and then slips into you, two fingers deep until your mouth falls open and you look as stupid as you feel.
Johnny can be wise when it matters. As you stare at him from the other end of the tub, you realize he isn't all that he seems. He's a brute in body and mind, but he isn't blind. There is something innocent in him, even if it's hard to notice it. He isn't impressionable like other men; if he was, he would not have batted an eye when he saw your father put a hand on you. He would have taken you the very evening you wed, he would have drowned your screams into the very blankets of your marriage bed.
For all his severity, Johnny is a lover by nature and a fighter by necessity. There were women in his life that he must have loved once, and he has been chasing the security of it ever since. He did not find it in those around him, but he recognized it in you, and so he had to have you. The manner in which he takes—you won't say you understand it—but you are unfortunately grateful all the same.
It is a few months later when there is a letter on Johnny's writing desk with the seal of your country stamped on it. The paper is wilted slightly, crumpled, and when you open it, Johnny sits patiently at your back, an arm secured around your waist as you read its contents. The penmanship is shaky. The cursive is afraid.
It is a cry for help. Your brother tells of your father's constant illness and the threat of England that he cannot keep at bay any longer. You set the letter down with a grimace, and then your hands smooth down your front, just over where your belly has just started to fill out firm and round. Johnny's fingers follow, cupping just under your belly-button. He fixates on this spot often now, and you look at him intently before standing from his lap to make your way to where the hearth blazes with warmth.
"What are they asking for?" Johnny asks.
"It doesn't matter."
You bend, tossing the paper, and you watch with wet eyes as it burns. The edges of it catch on flame, and then so quickly, it's eaten by fire. You're still staring at it when Johnny is at your back, a hand along the nape of your neck as he presses his lips to your temple.
"If ye asked it of me…I would give it ta ye," Johnny murmurs. "Ye ken?"
You look up at him from over your shoulder, frowning, and he grimaces when a few tears catch on your cheek.
"No."
"They'll die, my love."
"I don't care," you whisper. "You reap what you sow, Johnny. As true as it is in children's stories, it is for men. Y-You won't make me feel sorry that there are consequences to their actions—you won't."
He lays his hand against your jaw, and his kiss is soft. You don't need to convince him of the woes of men. He is familiar, and he doesn't care either.
Maybe it's selfish of you. Maybe it's cruel. Maybe you are motivated by what's best for you, and not for them. Maybe you are thinking too much about the individual and not of the common good. Maybe you should be more motivated by duty and honor than on your thoughts, your feelings, your emotions.
No—no. If that is what God wanted, he would have made you a man.
Right?
The last of the letter burns, and you with it. You are a MacTavish now.
summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps
notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling
warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 21143
your callsign is sunny
It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together.
Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish.
You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick.
It was meant to be.
Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease.
And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch.
A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms.
Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.”
She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open.
“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.”
Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.”
She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind.
“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.”
“Wasn’t the other day.”
You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.”
Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?”
He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.”
You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.”
Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.”
You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side.
Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.”
Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.”
You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk.
Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge.
“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.”
He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?”
A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him.
“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.”
Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?”
He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote.
“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters.
He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be.
He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap.
“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.”
“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you.
“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?”
His eyes go wide at your tone.
“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.”
You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels.
“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters.
Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.”
You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh.
“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.”
“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation.
You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling.
“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.”
You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.”
You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.”
You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.”
Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?”
Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.”
You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out.
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.”
Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.”
“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.”
You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.”
“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.”
You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.”
Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.”
“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?”
“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.”
“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.”
Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.”
Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.”
You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?”
“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.”
You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.”
“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds.
“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.”
You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.”
“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.”
You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer.
“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare.
“So what, Mick?”
He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.”
You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?”
Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches.
“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.”
The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers.
You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you.
It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please.
But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth.
And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection.
An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick.
“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen.
Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.”
“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.”
His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.”
A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.”
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.”
“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?”
There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest.
Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.”
“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting.
“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.”
Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?”
Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.”
“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?”
“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.”
Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.”
You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.”
“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.”
You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs.
“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.”
“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.”
You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?”
Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.”
Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.”
Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?”
“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.”
You snort. “So, seduce him?”
“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.”
Both Mickey and Reuben flinch.
“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.”
“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.”
“We?” you repeat, pulse racing.
“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.”
Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin.
“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.”
“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?”
That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire.
You nod. “Okay. I’m in.”
-
The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum.
“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.”
“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?”
You roll your eyes. “Both.”
“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn.
Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.
This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings.
“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.”
You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin.
The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.
About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor.
Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense.
“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?”
Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail.
Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan.
When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin.
You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade.
“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear.
“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue.
Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next.
“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.”
“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.”
She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
“Why are you wearing a thong?”
You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.”
She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.”
“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.”
You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.
Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it.
“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing.
Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.”
You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead.
Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory.
Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work.
By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose.
You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha.
Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him.
“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?”
Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.”
“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk.
“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything.
Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.”
“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!”
The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic.
Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view.
“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look.
The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket.
“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.”
You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover.
Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related.
“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?”
Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?”
Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.”
“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“How many are left?” Natasha asks.
“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.”
“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.”
“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.”
You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing.
“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.”
Bob blinks at her. “You do?”
She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.”
“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.”
With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation.
“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.”
Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.”
Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to.
-
“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.”
She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear.
Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister.
You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should.
Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business.
“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times.
A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot?
“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside.
There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him.
“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff.
“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor.
Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet.
It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away.
“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently.
“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.”
“What game?” Javy asks.
Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.”
Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up.
“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing.
“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.”
Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.”
Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become.
“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly.
Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?”
You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough.
Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time?
Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip.
Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.”
“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.”
Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?”
Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.”
Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.”
Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?”
Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig.
And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud.
The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through.
“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.”
But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?”
You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.
Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.”
Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone.
You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.”
You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder.
“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.”
You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement.
The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch.
His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.
You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.”
A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.
“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath.
“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter.
Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!”
You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset.
You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger.
God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive.
The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it.
You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being.
“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?”
You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier.
“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency.
Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.”
Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason?
You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral.
“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit.
She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.”
He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.”
Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare.
“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room.
Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering.
He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him?
Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could.
“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned.
Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?”
The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath.
“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide.
“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.”
“You bitch,” Jake mutters.
“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.”
“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch.
“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.”
Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends.
Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other.
Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-”
“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.”
Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying.
Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be.
The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest.
“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.”
“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.”
Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath.
Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.”
“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan.
He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator.
“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth.
“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns.
“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in.
There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free.
Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis.
Then the room explodes.
Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness.
Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.”
Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.”
“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin.
It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner.
Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen.
By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.
“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand.
You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?”
“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?”
“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?”
He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?”
Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.”
You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.”
He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.”
Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face.
“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face.
Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker.
“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.”
You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth.
“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler.
You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up.
“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen.
It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face.
Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach.
You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what.
Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise.
Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it.
What is it they call that?
Oh yeah… big dick energy.
Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants…
Wait. That’s like… kind of huge.
A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug.
Stop staring, she mouths.
You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie.
“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?”
“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back.
The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs.
“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.”
You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.”
The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts.
“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further.
There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet.
“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?”
Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob.
He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking.
The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name.
“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?”
Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual.
“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.”
Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely.
Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.”
You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction.
The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it.
The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining.
The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame.
“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers.
You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change.
“Yeah?”
Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers.
The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave.
You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room.
It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations.
On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins.
A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob.
And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves.
You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together.
You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear.
You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks.
Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle.
Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen.
Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others.
“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen.
You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO.
Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face.
He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic.
Your frown deepens. “What are you-”
But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand.
“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer.
You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked.
“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing.
“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him.
“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.”
Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”
“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?”
Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly.
“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?”
Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?”
Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?”
Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest.
You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd.
“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.”
The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top.
“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.”
He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room.
You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you?
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does.
You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it.
You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache.
You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest.
His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust.
You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out.
"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag.
You blink. “What?”
“For your clothes,” he says simply.
“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside.
His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt.
“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.”
You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s.
His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all.
You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen.
Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back.
Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor.
Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step.
The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader.
Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk.
You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes.
…Right?
Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir.
“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans.
Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.”
“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.”
“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop.
“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.”
You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers.
Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night.
Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence.
Too much silence.
You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps.
You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway.
It doesn’t.
Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen.
The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin.
“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?”
You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight.
Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest.
Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless.
You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath.
You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn.
“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer.
No. No, you’re not.
You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-”
Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton.
The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you.
He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin.
You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you.
He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks.
You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching.
When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard.
Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter.
“Bob,” you whisper.
Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.”
You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself.
“Like what?” you ask softly.
“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath.
You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton.
“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now.
He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm.
You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?”
You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now.
“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging.
He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin.
You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap.
But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock.
You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away.
It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin.
You don’t sleep. Not at all.
-
“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?”
You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis.
“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat.
You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you.
“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.”
You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-”
“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you.
Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food.
“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.”
You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence.
“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.”
Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another.
Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.”
Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?”
You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?”
You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.”
“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.”
“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.”
You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?”
Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way.
Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.”
“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.”
“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin.
You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?”
“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully.
You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter.
Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.”
You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...”
She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.”
-
Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird.
The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition.
You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose.
“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon.
You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.”
She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up.
At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are.
“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs.
He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.”
You snort. “Little?”
Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.”
You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth.
Then you both nod. It’s show time.
“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly.
You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.”
He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?”
You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?”
His grin breaks loose. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey.
“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?”
“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.”
Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?”
You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?”
Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.”
You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief.
You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay.
A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose.
The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye.
On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel.
Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke.
That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing.
By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun.
That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back.
Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?”
He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
She snorts. “That was very convincing.”
He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out.
Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column.
“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?”
Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.”
“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?”
“Bad week,” Bob grumbles.
Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?”
He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.”
“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.”
His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet.
“I doubt it.”
“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing.
Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast.
Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.”
He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.”
Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.”
Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face.
“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.”
“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display.
“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder.
You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.”
Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting.
There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned.
It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder.
“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.”
You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little.
“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly.
You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear.
“You’re annoying.”
He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles.
When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder.
“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth.
You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.”
You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny.
“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry.
Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.”
You frown. “Yet?”
“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.”
You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table.
When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares.
But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes.
You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.”
Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear.
You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea.
You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him.
You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?”
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.”
Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.”
You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.”
“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.”
You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first.
Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.”
His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.”
“Swear it.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.”
You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.”
You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details.
“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.”
His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk.
“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.”
You roll your eyes.
“I want in.”
You blink, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I want to help,” he says, plainly.
You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?”
He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.”
You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.”
He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.”
“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.”
“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.”
You raise your brows, prompting him to go on.
“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!”
He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh.
Great. Now Hangman is involved...
You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like.
“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer.
You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.”
He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there.
But Bob notices.
And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white.
Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.”
Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle.
Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?”
Bob shakes his head. “No.”
“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.”
“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.”
“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.”
“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin.
Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.”
Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.”
Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel…
You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat.
“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers.
You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.”
She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.”
Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air.
“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.”
Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace.
“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.”
You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.”
Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.”
Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.”
“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.”
Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.”
“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.”
Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand.
Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.”
Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.”
“You want us to lie?” you ask.
He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?”
You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.”
Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.”
Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing.
“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.”
“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels.
You frown. “What?”
“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.”
You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?”
-
The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting.
“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee.
Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.”
“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield.
“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone.
Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?”
He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.”
You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red.
“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs.
Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.”
You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you.
“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.”
You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin.
You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies.
“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face.
Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.”
“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt.
You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far.
“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?”
“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical.
“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice.
Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place.
“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?”
You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts.
Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?”
Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.”
The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean.
Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder.
You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at.
Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered.
He’s furious.
And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you.
You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand.
And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal.
You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you.
Hangman might be a genius after all.
You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin.
You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore.
You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.”
She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you.
You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe.
You freeze. “What?”
She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned.
You twist around.
And promptly forget how to breathe.
Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head.
Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin.
And holy shit.
It’s glorious.
Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you.
But in the light of day?
Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go.
The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too.
You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.”
Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.”
You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose.
Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face.
But it’s not a wave.
You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.”
You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?”
Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?”
You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.”
He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-”
“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.”
Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water.
When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges.
You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching.
Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter.
Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.
“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces.
Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement.
“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.”
You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?”
He winks. “Because we’re the best.”
You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be.
After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance.
You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble.
You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy.
“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.”
Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob.
You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.”
There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins.
But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!”
And the game is back on.
The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares.
You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate.
“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.”
He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent.
And Bob sees everything.
You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under.
You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots.
He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear.
You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary.
“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.”
There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group.
Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know.
The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way.
Bob.
“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept.
Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal.
He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line.
Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide.
You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.”
After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod.
This is it.
Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching.
And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score.
But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time.
Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying.
You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand.
It’s just Bob now.
He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan.
You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both.
The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat.
You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist.
You don’t move.
You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in.
Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put.
“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline.
His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes.
You lean in just a little.
“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?”
His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours.
They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation.
Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time.
Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe—
He snaps.
He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down.
And the look in his eyes could burn the sky.
He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second.
You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him.
His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second.
His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable.
You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in.
You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost.
There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered.
When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.”
And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again.
“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear.
Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away.
“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.”
You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction.
“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.
“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.”
Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death.
“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear.
Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.”
“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.”
You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back.
Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.”
“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign.
You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.”
There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again.
Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.”
Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.
He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.”
You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful.
“Shit.”
You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach.
“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word.
His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.”
Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent.
“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.”
You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love.
And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.
And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.”
Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?”
He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you.
Then he turns and jogs toward the water.
It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways.
Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?”
You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips.
summary: you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé (soulmate au)
notes: okay, listen, this was never supposed to see the light of day... this was what i would write between other fics when i felt blocked or wanted to be dramatic and wax lyrical about loving lewis pullman... so basically, this is me not-so-subtly saying i would abandon everything i know and love for him... please be kind! this one feels weirdly personal because it's so emo??? but regardless, i hope you enjoy and would love, love, love to hear what you think! (p.s. happy birthday to me!)
warnings: swearing, angst, mention of slight age gap (with bucky), heartbreak (lots), crying, fainting, the void (almost), alcohol consumption, acotar reference (if you squint), so many metaphors, nudity, and horniness very slightly bordering on smut (yes, i still managed to make it horny) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!
word count: 14951
Mates.
It’s not something you hear about often—and it happens even less.
Centuries ago, it was something creatures hungered for. Something that drove them. Compelled them to find their one true mate and, well… mate.
But that was long ago. Now, it’s rare. Fabled. Forgotten by most. Even fewer still are lucky enough to have one.
There are other words for it now—soulmate, twin flame, kindred spirit, true love. Softened, romanticised. Colloquial terms thrown around like confetti at a wedding. Used to describe someone you choose to love. Not someone you’re bound to by something older than time.
Because mates? Real mates? They aren’t chosen. They’re fated. Selected by some ancient magic. A gift from the gods—or whatever existed before gods. Two souls born within the same lifetime, tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. And if they meet?
Well... no one really knows what happens then.
You see, with a world this big, teetering on the edge of collapse, stuffed to the brim with people all trying to survive—who has time to go chasing destiny? Who’s got the energy to scour the globe in hopes of locking eyes with some cosmic stranger?
Sure, the sex would probably be mind-blowing. But sex can be plenty good without a soul-deep connection plucking the strings of your orgasm.
Which is exactly why no one really cares about mates anymore. Most people don’t even believe they exist. And those who do? They’re usually just lonely—reaching for hope, not magic.
And you? Well, you’re more than happy in the arms of your sex god super soldier fiancé.
Or at least… you were.
-
“Do we have to?” Bucky sighs, his face buried in the crook of your neck, stubble grazing your skin.
You giggle and squirm beneath the weight of his body—his very naked body.
“Come on,” you say, half-heartedly shoving at his chest. “We’re already going to be late. Besides, you can’t possibly be ready to go again.”
He lifts his head, blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Sure about that, doll?”
He shifts, and you feel it—thick and heavy, pressing insistently against your hipbone.
Your eyes go wide, heat pooling between your thighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be like... over a hundred?”
He chuckles, sliding down a little, clearly aiming for your breasts.
“Technically, yes. Biologically, no.”
You hum, enjoying the rasp of his beard as it brushes against your skin. “Still,” you tease, “even biologically, you’re almost an old man.”
His head snaps up, eyes wide in mock offense. “Excuse me?”
You giggle again, trying to wriggle free. As much as you’d love to stay tangled up with him all morning, you really don’t want to be late—again—and keep his teammates waiting. They’re not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, but not in a bad way. More like the sarcastic, sharp-eyed, chaos crew who’d never let you live it down if you showed up looking freshly ravished. And honestly? You’re not in the mood to be roasted before coffee.
“For that little comment,” Bucky says, shifting to straddle you as the blankets fall away, “I’m cutting you off.”
You try to look up at his face, but your attention is… elsewhere. More specifically, the part of him that obviously doesn’t agree with this whole cutting you off plan. It’s hard—painfully hard—and staring right at you, begging to be touched.
You lick your lips, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Cutting me off?”
He nods, sliding off the bed and taking his gorgeous body with him. “Mhm. You’re cut off. For at least twenty-four hours.”
You scramble after him, following him into the ensuite like a woman on a mission. “Twenty-four hours?!”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin, but he keeps it together. “Yep.” He turns to you, leveling you with a mock-stern look. “You called me old.”
You jut your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “It was just a joke.”
He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. “Well,” he murmurs, “maybe next time you’ll think twice.”
Then he turns to the shower and cranks on the hot water, leaving you standing there like a sulking child who’s just been denied dessert.
As the two of you shower and dress in companionable silence, a twinge of guilt starts to settle in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have made that crack about his age.
He didn’t seem offended—but still. The age gap is real. It’s not something either of you acknowledges often, but maybe you should be a little more mindful. He is the older one. The one in the public eye. The one who constantly fields backlash from idiot reporters and politicians, all desperate to dig up something to use against him.
And now that you’re engaged—engaged—right as he’s stepping into this whole New Avengers thing? The spotlight on him is brighter than ever. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pick your playful jabs a little more carefully. Just for a while.
“Hey,” you murmur, lacing your fingers through his as you step into the tower elevator. “Sorry about before.”
He hits the button for the main floor, then glances at you with a puzzled little frown. “For what, doll?”
You shrug. “Calling you old.”
He chuckles—low, rough, and unfairly attractive. “Don’t be sorry. I’m a big boy. I can take a joke.”
There’s a beat of quiet as the elevator hums around you. Then, he leans in, lips near your ear, breath warm on your skin.
“I’ll just have to punish you for it later.”
Anticipation sizzles beneath your skin, adrenaline zipping down your spine before settling between your legs—a place Bucky’s words have a habit of landing.
Before you can fire back something smart—or filthy—the doors slide open, and you're greeted by the wide, sunlit expanse of the New Avengers common room.
“Finally!” Yelena calls, her head popping up over the back of the couch. “You’re like… twenty minutes late.”
“It’s not my fault,” you say quickly, slipping away from Bucky toward the kitchen. “All Barnes.”
He shoots you a look, lips twitching, then turns back to his teammates, moving toward where most of them are crowded around the living room setup in the centre of the huge space. Everyone is here except their newest specially-abled member—Bob.
You haven’t met him yet, and honestly, you’re not exactly eager. You know he’s got… issues, to say the least. And with all the other complications this group brings, you’re already close enough to being overwhelmed. How they came to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes 2.0? You’ll never understand.
You busy yourself in the kitchen, fixing coffee and some breakfast while Bucky and his team dive into their meeting. You don’t live at the tower—you and Bucky have a small apartment a few blocks away—but you’re more than comfortable here. At first, coming along to all the meetings and mission briefings felt like a drag, but eventually you got to know everyone, and now, it doesn’t bother you so much.
An hour later, the meeting slips into something more casual. Bucky excuses himself to take a phone call, and Ava disappears—literally—so you take the opportunity to settle onto the couch, half-listening as John and Alexei bicker over what to watch on TV.
John wins, and you’re stuck watching college sports.
“I read your book,” Alexei announces, turning to you with a proud smile—his back now to John.
You tilt your head, frowning. “My book?”
“Yes, yes.” He slings an arm over the back of the lounge, turning fully toward you. “The one you told me to read.”
You stare at him, confused, for a beat longer than you’d like—until realisation dawns, followed swiftly by mortification.
“Oh my God, no,” you mutter, face burning. “No, Alexei, you didn’t—”
“The one about the faeries,” he says proudly. “It is a little naughty, but it is good.”
“You!” Yelena gasps from across the room. “You’re the one who told him to read those books!”
You sink deeper into the plush couch, hands flying up in surrender. “No, I swear—I didn’t tell him to! He asked what I was reading, and I... I told him. That’s it. I never told him to read them!”
John groans. “He hasn’t shut up about those porn books all week.”
From the kitchen, Bucky turns sharply, halfway through his phone call. His eyes land on you—wide with amusement, brows lifted in mock surprise, the phone still pressed to his ear.
“They’re not all naughty,” Alexei says with a small frown—and you’re not sure if he’s defending himself or you. “There is fighting and magic too. They are good books.”
You can’t help but let a quiet giggle slip past your lips. “Which one are you up to?”
His eyes sparkle with excitement. “I just finished the second book.”
You sit up and lean toward him, ignoring the dirty looks from Yelena and John. “Oh my God, did you love it? The second one is my favourite.”
Alexei nods eagerly. “I loved it. They are perfect together. Much better than the blond man.”
“Much better,” you agree with another soft laugh.
“I have question, though,” he says, his smile faltering into a curious frown. “How can they be mates if they are born hundreds of years apart?”
Yelena scoffs. “The book has soulmates too?”
You turn to her with a playful smile. “They’re mates, not soulmates. Like, fated mates. It’s not as lame as it sounds.”
“It sounds very lame,” she deadpans.
“It is not lame,” Alexei argues. “It is beautiful.”
Yelena rolls her eyes and John lets out a disbelieving laugh, still focused on the TV.
“You know,” you say slowly, leaning forward to catch John’s eye on the other side of Alexei, “some people actually believe in mates. Like real soulmates.”
“Yeah—desperate people,” John quips.
You roll your eyes. “No—I mean, yeah, but not just lonely people. Some still think fated mates are real. Rare, but real. Like some kind of ancient, sleeping magic. Most people won’t find theirs, because the world is too crowded now. But centuries ago, it used to matter. In some cultures, it still does.”
Yelena snorts. “Still sounds lame.”
You’re just about to respond when Ava phases in beside you, startling you.
“It’s true,” she says plainly. “I’ve heard stories.”
You ignore your spiked pulse and tilt your head. “You have?”
She nods. “Yeah. You know, when I was stuck in a lab for most of my childhood. I read a lot. Learned a lot. There are a few different versions, but some cultures still believe in real mates.”
Yelena frowns, but leans in—clearly intrigued. “This is ridiculous. There is no way every person has someone they are destined to be with. If that were true, we’d know more about it.”
“Not everyone has one,” you say. “It’s actually pretty rare.”
Ava raises a sceptical brow. “So, you believe in mates?”
You shrug, your cheeks warming with a touch of embarrassment. “I don’t know.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Yelena asks, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
You press your lips together, buying a moment to decide whether or not to tell them your story. But really—why not? It’s not like you have anything to hide. Mate or not, you’re happy with Bucky. And you know you will be for the rest of your life.
“Okay,” you begin, leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees. “A few years ago, I was at this gala—something for work—and this woman approached me…”
- Five Years Ago -
You tip the champagne flute to your lips, emptying it in one gulp.
“Wow,” you mutter to yourself. “These fancy events are stingy with the refreshments.”
An older couple nearby gives you a dirty look, but you ignore it and wander off in search of another waiter with another tray of tiny, unsatisfying champagne flutes.
“Excuse me?”
A woman steps into your path before you can reach the next tray. She’s older, with a lined face and silver-grey hair that falls almost to her hips. Her floral dress flows a little too gracefully for a ballroom with no breeze, and the many pieces of jewellery adorning her neck and arms clink softly as she moves.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says with a small, serene smile. “But I had to speak to you.”
You tear your eyes away from the waiter retreating with your drink.
“That’s okay,” you reply, turning to meet her gaze—only to falter when you notice her eyes. They’re not hazel or green or brown. They’re gold. Entirely gold.
“Sorry, I—uh, I don’t think we’ve met?”
You offer your hand, which she takes gently, though her eyes never leave your face. They scan your features like she’s searching for something—something buried. Something you’re not sure is even there.
“No, we haven’t,” she says, stepping a little closer. It’s invasive, but her strange energy keeps you frozen in place. “I don’t normally do this. I usually keep my… visions to myself.”
Oh, God. She’s a fucking loon.
You let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Visions?”
She nods. “I’m not crazy.”
Sure, lady.
“My family is gifted—well, some of us are,” she continues. “I prefer to keep to myself, but when I saw you, I had to say something.”
You frown. “Say what?”
“You have the mark.”
“The… mark?”
“Yes,” she says, and you realize she’s still holding your hand as she gently places her other over it. “In your fate lines.”
Your eyes dart around the room. Why is no one noticing this weird little encounter?
You glance back at her—into those strange gold eyes. “My what, now?”
Her brows pull together slightly. “You don’t believe in fate?”
“I believe in free will.”
She smiles. “The two aren’t so different. Fate offers the door. Free will decides whether you open it.”
“Okay...” you murmur. “So I’m marked?”
“You have the mark,” she corrects. “The mark of a mate. Your other half. The dark to your light. You’ll know him when you feel the pull. It won’t be gentle—it never is, for ones like you.”
Your brow creases. “Ones like me?”
She studies you again—longer this time. Her smile is faint, but her eyes are deep, unblinking. She’s not looking at you. She’s looking through you. Still searching for something beneath your skin.
“You’re not ordinary,” she says softly. “Neither is he—at least, he won’t be when you meet. That’s why it matters. You two were made for something bigger. Together, you’ll either shift the course of something… or break it entirely.”
Okay. Definitely time to find that waiter. And take the whole damn tray.
She leans closer, her voice a whisper now—but somehow heavier. “This isn’t about belief. It’s about design. You can walk away—fate gives the door, not the hand that turns the knob. But when the moment comes, it won’t feel like a choice. Not to you. Not to him. Because something in the marrow of your bones will know.”
You swallow hard, the hairs on your neck standing straight.
She glances around once, then leans in—like she’s sharing a secret. “There will come a time when everything depends on whether you hold onto each other. Or let go. And if you let go…” Her lips press together, almost regretful. “Well. I suppose the universe will just have to adjust. Somehow.”
And then, like smoke in a breeze, she slips into the crowd—leaving your pulse racing and the taste of stardust on the back of your tongue.
- Present -
“Were you on drugs?” Yelena asks—not accusing, just curious.
You shoot her an unimpressed glare. “No.”
Of all the faces in the room, Alexei’s is the most excited—his eyes practically sparkling.
“Did you go after the mysterious woman?” he asks, leaning in.
You shake your head. “No. I went after the waiter and took his tray.”
Yelena snorts. “So you were drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” you argue. “Yet, at least.”
Ava tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Did you believe her?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. It sounds far-fetched, but… look at the last ten years. Super-people, aliens, sorcerers, magic. It’s not that hard to believe in the grand scheme of things.”
Alexei leans closer, dropping his voice. “Do you believe Barnes is your mate?”
No—but you’re not saying that out loud.
“Sure,” you say, your voice just a little too high. “I mean, assuming I believe the woman—which I never said I did—”
“You do,” Yelena cuts in. “I can see it in your eyes.”
You shoot her a look. “Whether or not I believe her... I love Bucky. He’s my person. I don’t care if he’s my cosmically assigned soul partner or not. I want him. Only him. End of story.”
Yelena breaks into a cheesy smile. “Aw, you are so cute. Sappy, and a little gross, but cute.”
You roll your eyes as she pushes off the lounge and heads toward the kitchen, where Bucky is still muttering into the phone. John’s attention is glued to the TV—you’re not even sure he heard your story. And Ava phases out again, disappearing somewhere into the tower.
After a moment, Alexei turns to you, voice lowered. “Are you scared?”
You frown. “Scared of what?”
“If you meet your mate.”
You laugh—softly, uneasily—ignoring the sharp twist of anxiety in your chest. “I don’t even know if I believe in that. So why would I be scared?”
“Because,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, “you’ll either have to break his heart, or break your own by refusing fate.”
His words hit harder than they should. For a moment, it’s like your lungs forget how to work—air punched right out of your chest, heart pounding hard and fast against your ribs.
You’ve never thought about it like that—because you’ve never truly believed the strange woman’s prophecy. You met Bucky nearly a year later, and the thought never crossed your mind.
Not until now. Not until you had to retell that bizarre encounter out loud.
And sure, you could keep telling yourself you don’t believe in it. But there’s always that one question that lingers.
What if?
What if what she said was real?
What if Bucky isn’t your mate?
What if you find him?
What if she was right—and you can’t stay away?
What if the choice comes down to breaking Bucky’s heart… or your own?
-
“You okay?” Bucky asks, his fingers laced with yours as you walk down the corridor toward the elevator.
You’d spent the last few hours watching TV with Alexei and John—mostly talking about books—while Bucky worked. You tried to push all the weird questions and swirling doubts out of your mind, but it wasn’t easy with Alexei’s constant interrogation.
“Yeah,” you reply quietly. “Just tired.”
He squeezes your hand. “You sure?”
You glance up and meet his baby blues—so sincere it makes guilt creep up your spine. You can’t just tell him you’re scared he’s not your person... That would break his heart. And for what? Some cryptic message from a strange woman about a mark you’ve never even seen? Or believed in.
“Shit,” Bucky mutters, his eyes snapping away from yours.
You frown and follow his gaze, eyes widening when you see the end of the hallway swallowed in black.
“Um,” you lean into him, “what the fuck?”
“It’s Bob,” he says, slowly backing away. “He’s having a nightmare.”
You glance up at your fiancé. “He’s still sleeping?”
“Yeah, he has trouble actually sleeping,” Bucky replies. “That’s why he’s in his room all the time. He’s trying to sleep, and then whenever he does... it’s this shit. I thought I had nightmares, but this kid…”
Your heart thuds heavy in your chest—but not fast. Not panicked. You should be panicked. But you feel calm. Strangely calm. Even as the darkness creeps across the floor and walls, inching toward you as you back away.
“What happens if we touch it?” you ask, hesitating mid-step.
Bucky tugs your hand, urging you to keep moving. “Nothing good.”
Your head tilts as you watch the inky mass crawl, swallowing everything in its path. Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—but you know better.
“Is it cold?” you ask, eyes still fixed on the darkness.
Bucky frowns. “What?”
“The darkness,” you say, glancing up at him. “Is it cold? It doesn’t seem cold.”
He stares at you like you’ve just asked if it tastes like chicken. “It doesn’t really... feel like anything,” he says, eyes darting between you and the growing shadow. “Now, come on. We’ll take the stairs and warn the others.”
You stop short, frowning. “You’re just going to leave him?”
He looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “Well, no. We’ll go in if we have to, but it’s usually better to wait it out. He’s getting better at managing it. It usually stops before it spreads too far. So, we try not to interfere unless we need to.”
“He shouldn’t have to deal with it by himself,” you argue.
“I know that,” Bucky says, tipping his head slightly as he studies you. “We all know that. And he knows we’re here for him. But we can’t sleep beside him every night—if we do, we get pulled in the second he starts dreaming. He knows we’ll help him if he needs it, but he’s trying to learn how to control it on his own.”
You feel an ache to run in after him—a man you barely know—to dive into that abyss. But you know it’d be stupid. You’re not like Bucky or the others. Not enhanced. Not particularly special. You probably wouldn’t last a second inside whatever hellscape awaits you in that darkness.
“Okay,” you mutter, squeezing Bucky’s hand. “Let’s go.”
You backtrack through the tower to the common area and give the others a heads-up. Then, taking the route furthest from Bob’s room, the group filters out. Yelena and Ava decide to hang back and keep watch, while Alexei and John head off in search of lunch.
You and Bucky say your goodbyes—for the second time today—before heading down the street toward your shared apartment.
“What was all that, hm?” Bucky asks gently, his voice soft but his eyes sharp with concern.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still want to go back. The darkness hadn’t scared you—it hadn’t even really deterred you. All you could think about was the man trapped inside it—scared and alone. Gifted with powers like a god, but still powerless against his own demons.
“Nothing,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Just feeling a little extra empathetic today.”
He studies you a beat longer, but you keep your eyes fixed ahead. After a minute or two, he sighs, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your shoulders instead. He pulls you in close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring something too quiet for you to catch—but you’re pretty sure it’s an I love you.
Once back at your apartment, you curl up on the couch together and start watching a movie—one you insist Bucky has to see, since he missed out on so many years of excellent pop culture. About an hour in, the pressure in your chest finally starts to lift—the weird heaviness that had been stopping you from telling Bucky what was really wrong. But instead of relief, guilt settles in, and you quickly turn to him.
“Buck,” you say softly.
His eyes are on his phone. “Bob’s fine now. Yelena said he woke up and wasn’t even rattled. Said the nightmare was bad, but he found it easier to stop.”
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s good. I’m glad.”
He locks his phone and tosses it onto the couch beside him, giving you his full attention. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah—um, about before. I’m sorry for not listening to you. For arguing. It was weird, and I was kind of lost in my own head.”
He leans forward, takes both of your hands in his, and doesn’t speak—just laces your fingers together and watches how his hands swallow yours.
You clear your throat, hesitating. “Do you remember when I told you about that strange woman who came up to me at The Vantage Summer Gala a few years ago?”
His gaze lifts to yours, steady. “Of course. The lady who told you about your soulmate.”
“Well,” you begin, “I was telling the others about it—Alexei brought up those books I supposedly told him to read, and... I don’t know, we ended up talking about soulmates, or whatever. And after I told them the story, Alexei started asking weird questions. Like if I believed her. If I think you’re my soulmate. And then... what if you’re not? And—and—” Your voice catches, throat thickening. “And w-what if—”
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around you. “You’re not about to cry over something dumb Alexei said, are you?”
You let out a watery laugh, your eyes welling as you press your cheek to his shoulder.
“I knew something was eating at you, doll,” he whispers into your hair, breath warm against your skin.
You sniffle, blinking fast. “It just feels so stupid.”
“Nothing’s stupid if it hurts you,” he says firmly. “And you don’t ever have to keep things from me. I don’t care how small it feels—if it’s bothering you, I want to know.”
“Okay,” you mumble into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you, still holding you close. “Don’t ever be sorry for being upset.”
You swipe the back of your hand beneath your nose.
“Now listen, okay?” He takes your hands again, holding them tight. “This might not help, but I need to say it.”
You frown but stay quiet, holding your breath like it might help hold back the tears.
“I know you’re unsure about what that woman told you,” he starts, “and I don’t know if soulmates are real or if fate really gives a damn about people like us. But I know what I feel when I look at you, and when you look at me.” He pauses, just for a beat. “I love you. And not because the universe says I should. I love you because you’re kind, and sharp, and stubborn as hell. I love the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking, and the way you look at me like I’m someone worth staying for.”
A few tears slip down your cheeks as he takes a shaky breath.
“But if one day, you find out there is someone else—if that soulmate thing is real, and you meet him and your whole world shifts—then I won’t hold you back. Even if it kills me, I won’t be the reason you’re not happy.”
The tears start falling faster.
“Do I want that? Hell no. I want you. Here. With me. Always. But loving someone means putting them first, even when it hurts. So if it ever comes to that… I’ll let you go. But until then… I’m all in. Every part of me is yours. No marks. No fate. Just choice. And I choose you.”
His voice wobbles as he finishes, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
You swallow a sob and take a deep breath, willing your voice to work.
“I love you too,” you whisper, a little pitiful after his brilliant speech.
He grins—and you barely get a second to appreciate it before he’s on you. His lips crash into yours, his hands gripping your body as he presses you back on the couch. The movie is long forgotten as he kisses you like you're the only place he’s ever felt at home.
You start fumbling with his shirt, trying to undress him, but barely make it far before his phone starts buzzing.
He groans and pushes up, and you let him go—his line of work is literally life or death.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
He nods, tapping out a quick reply before locking his phone again. “Yeah. Just John asking about tomorrow night.”
“The foundation ball thing?”
“Yep,” he sighs. “Can’t wait.”
You lean in until your lips are just inches from his. “Can I come?”
He frowns. “I thought you didn’t want to?”
“I didn’t,” you say. “But now I do. I think I need to be there.”
His expression softens as he leans in to kiss you again, murmuring, “Of course you can come.”
-
You feel strange under the glowing lights of the lavishly decorated ballroom. You haven’t even stepped foot in a place like this since your encounter with the fate lady—which isn’t helping that nagging anxiety that hasn’t let up since yesterday. But you’re still here, dressed to the nines and sipping champagne, because you knew you had to be. You just felt it. In your bones.
“Wow, you clean up nice,” Yelena says, her eyes sparkling as she approaches.
You’re at a high table near the back of the room, conveniently close to the bar.
“And excellent choice in location,” she adds with a wink.
You laugh quietly. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of these kinds of functions unless there’s copious amounts of alcohol involved.”
“I’m not a fan of much without copious amounts of alcohol,” she says dryly. “But I imagine you’ve got a little PTSD from this kind of thing. Especially after the voodoo lady read your palms.”
Her tone is teasing, but her words still prick your chest like tiny needles full of panic.
“Very funny,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a crazy woman tonight who can tell you all about your future.”
She scoffs. “No thank you. I am perfectly happy keeping that a mystery.”
You snort softly into your glass and take a generous sip of champagne.
“I’m pretty sure the only reason Alexei came tonight was in hopes of getting his fortune told,” she says, glancing across the room to where he’s talking to Bucky. “You know he hasn’t shut up about it for the past twenty-four hours? He even asked me to help him use a computer so he could research.”
“Oh my God,” you giggle. “I’m so sorry.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Alexei catches your eye and his face splits into a grin. He waves enthusiastically, then quickly excuses himself and begins weaving through the crowd.
“Oh, great,” Yelena sighs. “He’s coming over here.”
“You are here!” he exclaims, earning a few curious glances from nearby guests. “I am so excited to see you. We have much to talk about.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips. “Hey, Alexei. Yelena was just telling me you’ve been doing some research.”
“Lots of research,” he confirms, setting his beer down on the table. “I know everything about mates. Ask me anything.”
Ignoring the sting of nerves rushing through your veins, you start to search for a safe question—something that won’t set your anxiety on fire.
“How do you know if you’ve met them?” Yelena cuts in before you can speak.
Alexei’s eyes light up. “Ah, good question. It is obvious. You cannot deny it once you meet them. It feels like gravity is gone, and they become your only tether to the earth. You don’t need oxygen. You don’t need water. You just need them.” He smiles proudly and nods at both of you. “Now ask me what happens when you touch them.”
You frown, curiosity getting the better of you. “What’s the difference? Between simply meeting them and touching them?”
“There is all the difference,” he says, frowning like you’ve just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “You see them, and yes, you know—but you still have choice. When you touch them, you cannot change mind. You can try, but it is too painful.”
You tilt your head. “Like... it actually hurts? Or it’s just emotionally difficult?”
“It physically hurts,” Yelena answers, and your gaze snaps to her. “You’ve acknowledged the connection, so you can’t go back to being without them. It feels like you’re being torn apart the further you try to get away.”
You raise your brows, surprised by her sudden expertise.
“What?” she snaps. “I was helping him use the computer, okay?”
You press your lips together to stifle a laugh and turn back to Alexei. “Okay, so what happens if you don’t like your mate?”
He scoffs, throwing his head back dramatically. “It is not possible. These two people are designed to be together, from birth. It is deeper than souls or magic. You cannot even describe it. There is no way two beings created for each other could possibly dislike one another.”
“Okay...” you say softly, “but what if you deny it?”
“Deny it?” he echoes. “You cannot—because you will not want to. The second you find them, you will ache for them in ways you cannot explain. No one else will ever fit. No one else will ever satisfy. You will crave them in your blood, in your breath. Denying it would be like trying to unmake the sky.”
His words knock the breath out of you for the second time in twenty-four hours. You nearly stumble back at their weight—at the way they land straight in your chest.
“This part is interesting too,” Alexei continues, ignoring the way your face has paled. “Before you meet them, you feel it.”
John appears beside you, setting his drink down on the table and eyeing Alexei with a frown. “What do you mean, feel it?”
“When you are close to meeting them, everything shifts,” he says. “Just a little. Sometimes it feels like anxiety. Sometimes it feels like peace. But always, it feels like something is happening—something inevitable. You start going places without knowing why, saying yes to things you would normally refuse. There is a pull in your gut, something telling you where to go. Like the universe is nudging you to where you are supposed to be.”
The words hang in the air, humming like static before a storm—until Yelena’s voice slices through the tension.
“Walker,” she snaps, frowning. “Where the hell is Bob?”
John blinks, taken aback. “I don’t know. I thought Ava was with him.”
You glance between the two blondes, blinking slowly. “Wait—Bob is here?”
“Yes,” Yelena says, clearly irritated. “He asked to come. Said he needed to be here—I don’t know. I felt bad saying no, he never leaves the tower.”
John exhales sharply. “I’ll go find him.”
Yelena turns to Alexei. “Can you go track down Ava? Let us know if she’s with him.”
“I’ll tell Bucky,” you say quickly, already moving as you slip away from the table and into the crowd.
You move through the crowd with steady purpose, weaving between glittering gowns and polished tuxedos, eyes scanning for that familiar face.
Bucky. You’re looking for Bucky.
The ballroom thrums behind you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low swell of music—but it all begins to blur. Your heartbeat picks up, not with panic, but with something else. Something you can’t name. A shift beneath your skin.
You slip through a side door, into a wide corridor draped in golden light. The hush is immediate, swallowing the noise of the party like a dream closing over waking thought. The silence buzzes in your ears, and the air feels... heavier. Thicker. Like the world had been holding its breath, and you just stepped into the exhale.
You walk slowly, drawn forward without thought. Each step echoes, like it belongs to someone else.
And then—you see him.
At the far end of the hallway, half-turned as if he wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay, stands a man. Tall. Tousled brown curls. Shoulders hunched just slightly in a way that says he doesn’t quite know how to fit inside his own skin. His head lifts as if sensing you, like a string inside him just snapped taut.
His eyes meet yours.
It’s not a lightning bolt. It’s not an explosion. It’s worse—or better. It’s everything. The moment stretches, distorts. A pressure builds in your chest, like gravity has decided to anchor you only to him.
You can’t breathe.
The world doesn’t blur—it sharpens. Every detail. The rise of his chest as he inhales, the exact shade of his deep blue eyes, the way his fingers twitch like they know something his mind hasn’t caught up to yet. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, like a long-lost note finally striking true.
Your mouth parts, but there’s nothing to say.
He takes a step forward, unsure. Almost afraid.
And you realise—you weren’t searching for Bucky. Not really.
You were being led to him.
“D-Do I know you?” His voice carries down the corridor—low, deep, wrapping around you like silk and smoke.
“No,” you whisper, even as every part of you screams yes.
He’s still a few feet away, and you’re not even sure he heard you—but his head tilts, just slightly, like he did. Then he takes a step. And another.
Drawn forward like the tide answering the moon.
His movements are slow, deliberate—like he’s caught in the pull of something he doesn’t understand, only knows he has to follow. Eyes locked to yours, wide and dark, shimmering with a quiet awe you can’t name.
He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to forget how to breathe. But you don’t need to breathe. Not now. Not when he’s here.
He is your oxygen. Your gravity.
He is everything you will ever need.
Everything you want.
He is everything.
“Hey—there you are.” The voice crashes into you like a wave shattering glass.
You jolt, snapping your head toward Bucky as he rounds the corner, a sheepish grin on his face, completely unaware of the world he’s just torn apart.
“Bucky,” you mutter, as if reminding yourself of his name.
Bucky frowns, curiosity sharpening his gaze as it flicks between you and the man beside you. “Bob?”
You whip back to Bob, eyes widening at his outstretched hand—fingertips hovering just a breath from your arm.
You flinch as if burned, stepping back before he can touch you—and his eyes snap up, darkening with something raw and wounded. The crack in your chest widens, because you feel it too. The sting of refusal. The ache of distance. The desperate, inexplicable need to feel his skin against yours—a need neither of you understands, but both feel deep in your bones.
“What’s going on?” Bucky’s voice is tight as his eyes settle on you.
You meet his gaze, a sharp pang of guilt slicing through your chest—because the face you love isn’t the one your heart seeks anymore. Your eyes? They’re drawn only to Bob. To memorise every line, to trace every curve. To know him more intimately than your own reflection, more deeply than the shadows behind your closed eyelids.
“I was—I, uh—looking for you,” you say, forcing your gaze to stay with him.
His posture stiffens, guarded—something you know all too well after years together. His brow furrows as his sharp eyes dart between you and Bob. He can sense it—whatever it is. The shift in gravity, the subtle movement beneath the earth. He knows there’s something more, but he doesn’t know what. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.
He fixes his gaze on you. “Are you okay?”
You nod slowly, then glance at Bob—you can’t help yourself—and it feels like surfacing from deep underwater, finally able to breathe. “Bob,” you whisper.
Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Of course. You two haven’t met yet.”
He wraps an arm around your waist and Bob’s eyes flare with heat—anger. He moves as if to shove Bucky away, but you find his gaze and silently plead for restraint.
You swear his eyes darken a shade, but he holds back. Jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—tense—but no longer coiled to strike.
“Bob,” Bucky says, eyes flickering between the two of you—clearly not missing the silent exchange or the way Bob’s body tensed. “This is my fiancé.”
Time stops—or at least, it feels that way. Bob’s eyes don’t leave yours, that same wounded look returning—only now, it’s splintered into something far more devastating. Like he’d caught a glimpse of heaven—just for a moment—before being ripped from the sky and cast down. Down through the clouds, through the earth, all the way into fire.
He was so close. So close to having everything. To having you.
Now all that’s left is ash in his mouth, and a slow, burning fury aimed at the man standing beside you. A man he calls a friend. A teammate.
“I need to go,” you whisper. “I—I feel sick.”
Bucky’s arm tightens protectively around you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You shake your head, eyes stinging. “I need to leave. Can we go—” your voice breaks as you glance up at him, wide-eyed and pleading, “—please.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take you home, doll.” Then he turns to Bob. “Yelena’s looking for you. Come on.”
Bucky guides you back through the same door you’d slipped through earlier, back into the chaos of the ballroom. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all feels like it’s coming from underwater. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that your axis has tilted.
A few guests nod or greet Bucky as he passes, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel the way you’re swaying beside him, the way your weight leans harder against him with every step. He’s moving fast now. He knows something’s wrong.
So do you.
Your vision swims. The lights blur into streaks of gold and silver, voices folding into one another like crashing waves.
Somewhere in the distance, you hear Yelena. Then Alexei. Then—Bob.
Bob.
You spot him behind Yelena, eyes wide and wounded, standing like a ghost at the edge of your unravelling world.
He’s the only thing that makes sense in the chaos.
The only thing that’s clear.
And all you want to do is reach for him.
But you can’t.
Not here. Not now.
Not ever.
Because you love Bucky.
Because you chose Bucky.
“Bucky,” you murmur, barely audible, “Need t’ go…”
His arm tightens again. “I’ve got you.”
“Is she okay?” Yelena’s voice cuts through the noise.
“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, urgency creeping into his tone. “I need to get her out of here—now.”
You try to blink, but your eyes don’t open again.
The music and chatter twist into a storm—deafening, chaotic, pounding against your skull.
You try to move, to breathe, to see—but nothing works.
Your eyelids are too heavy.
Your lungs feel like they’re filling with water.
Your chest is caving in under the weight of it.
Everything is too heavy. Too loud. Too much.
Then—
The world cuts out.
Everything stops.
-
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yelena’s voice is muffled, but still clear.
“Keep it down,” Bucky hisses, his voice low—laced with urgency and… grief.
“I came here to ask if you knew what happened to Bob last night, because he’s been acting weirder than usual,” Yelena snaps, no softer than before. “But I did not come here for bullshit—I get enough of that from Alexei.”
Bucky exhales a long, tired breath. “Maybe we need to talk to Alexei.”
“Why the hell would we do that?” Yelena demands. “Whatever he’s been on about these past few days isn’t real. He’s off with the fairies—literally. Do not tell me you actually believe in all that stupid soulmate crap.”
There’s a pause. A thick, heavy silence as you try to peel your eyelids open. But you can’t. They’re too heavy.
“You didn’t see what I saw, Yelena,” Bucky says, voice strained. “The way they looked at each other... it felt—I don’t know. Like something cracked open. They were just standing there, but it was like all the air got sucked out of the room. I could feel it—the whole world shifting.”
“You sound like Alexei,” Yelena replies, deadpan. “So you’re either on drugs, hit your head, or you’re trying to be funny.”
“Why would I joke about the woman I love being inextricably bound to another man?”
Your eyes snap open. Heat licks up your spine and burns behind your eyes as your vision adjusts to the harsh morning sun.
“Okay. So, drugs. Or you bumped your head,” Yelena says, voice carrying through your bedroom door.
“Yelena,” Bucky pleads, voice cracking. “Please. I don’t know what happened, but I know something did. I need your help.”
She sighs. “Okay, fine. But you asked for this.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I’ll call Alexei.”
Your mouth is dry and your whole body aches with stiffness as you sit up, rubbing at your burning eyes. The sun through the window is too low and too bright for it to be your usual wake-up time—so you know you’ve overslept.
You throw back the duvet and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, curling your toes into the plush carpet you and Bucky picked out together. You’d chosen it the second you stepped into the flooring store. The saleswoman warned you off it—something about loose threads and visible tread marks—but it was just so unbelievably soft, you couldn’t imagine choosing anything else.
The day it was installed, you and Bucky spent the first fifteen minutes making carpet angels, laughing like idiots, and revelling in the feel of it beneath your skin. Then you spent the next hour defiling the brand-new flooring. There’s still a stain you never managed to get out—thankfully hidden beneath the bed.
Your stomach twists with nausea, bile climbing your throat until you gag. You scramble to your feet and rush into the ensuite, gripping the basin for dear life as you cough up nothing but stomach acid.
Tears well up, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks before your mind can even catch up.
You feel wrecked. Totally and utterly ruined. Chewed up and spat out by the universe.
You don’t understand anything. It’s like you’ve been dropped into the centre of the labyrinth without a torch. But there’s a rope inside your gut—tugging, steady and sure—pulling you in a direction that promises escape. Only, it’s not leading you toward where you should be going. Not to Bucky.
No, the rope is dragging you toward someone else. Your mate. The man from last night. Bob. The only thing your body seems to crave.
“Fuck,” you mutter, letting your heavy eyelids fall shut as you slowly straighten.
You avoid your reflection in the mirror as you strip off and step into the shower. You can’t look at yourself right now. You’re not just confused—you’re scared. Something inside you has changed, irrevocably. And you know that the moment you admit it, you’ll lose the power to stop it.
Once you’re showered and slightly less of a wreck, you wrap yourself in a comfortable pair of sweats and an old hoodie—one you haven’t worn in a while, since you usually prefer to steal Bucky’s. But not today. You tried to put on one of his sweaters, but the smell made you gag. And then you started crying again. Because yesterday, his scent was one of the most comforting things in the world to you. But not anymore.
Now, all you can think about is Bob—where he is, what he’s doing. And you know he’s thinking about you too. You can feel it.
After another few minutes of tears, you dry your cheeks and take a deep breath before stepping out of the bedroom and padding down the hall. When you reach the lounge room, the low chatter dies instantly, and three pairs of eyes turn to you—wide and full of concern.
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, brows drawn tight. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze.
“You do not look great,” Alexei says flatly.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Alexei. She knows.”
You curl up on the far end of the three-seater lounge, putting as much distance as possible between you and Yelena. Bucky is on the two-seater, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Alexei is perched on one of the dining room chairs with his back to the TV.
It’s on, but the volume is muted.
“So,” your eyes flick toward Yelena, “what’s all this about?”
She sighs, her gaze darting to Bucky before settling back on you. “I came over to ask Barnes if he knew what happened to Bob last night, because he was acting strange—stranger than usual. But instead, I get told a bunch of bullshit about this ridiculous soulmates thing that Alexei has been going on about. And now I’m being forced to entertain the idea that it might be real. So... explain.”
You frown. “Explain what?”
“Whatever happened with you and Bob last night,” she says, waving a hand like the answer should be obvious.
You blink a few times, brows pulling tighter as you glance down. The room thickens with silence, tension rising in the air. The only sound is Alexei’s heavy breathing.
“What do you mean... he was acting strange?” you ask softly.
Yelena sighs again, tipping her head as if searching for the right words. “He was... weirdly calm. And not the kind of quiet, anxiety-ridden, dissociative ‘calm’ he usually is. He was actually peaceful. It was kind of alarming. So Ava stayed up all night to keep watch. We thought it might be the ‘calm before the storm’—you know, before one of his other personalities came out to play—but... nothing. He went to bed and slept. No noise, no darkness. Ava even phased into his room to check he was still there. And he was—sleeping peacefully.” She pauses. “He was... talking, though. Kept saying your name.”
You swallow—hard. “My name?”
She nods.
“Okay,” you mutter. “That doesn’t really mean... anything.” You glance at Alexei, like he might save you. “Right?”
“Doll,” Bucky says softly, voice tight, eyes still locked on the floor. “You were sayin’ his name all night too.”
You choke on nothing. Your chest tightens, lungs aching, heart leaping into an erratic rhythm.
“Alexei,” Yelena says sharply, turning toward her father. “Assuming this ridiculousness is real—how do we know for sure?”
Alexei raises his brows, eyes fixed on you. “She knows. And so does Bob. There is no magical way of asking the universe. They just know.”
Yelena’s head snaps back to you, her eyes wide, expectant. “So?”
A few silent tears slip down your cheeks, and you blink quickly, trying to keep the whole dam from breaking.
“Oh,” she murmurs, rearing back slightly. “I’m sorry.”
You let out a weak, watery laugh. “Why are you sorry?”
She shrugs. “For being harsh, I guess? I don’t know. I’m just... confused. It’s hard to believe any of this is real, but—”
“Why else would it affect them so much?” Alexei cuts in, gesturing toward you. “Whether or not you believe it, you cannot deny something has happened. Look at her. You think this is what happens when she simply meets someone new? Of course not—that would be crazy.”
“Couldn’t it be something else?” Yelena presses, brows knit. “Like, maybe Bob’s powers just—”
“You said it yourself,” Bucky interrupts, “he’s been better lately—especially last night. You really think that’s a coincidence?”
“Did not the crazy lady say it to you?” Alexei asks, eyes locking on you. “That you and your mate were something special?”
You nod slowly, sniffing and wiping the wetness from your cheeks. A beat of silence stretches between the four of you as you try to compose yourself, pressing down the guilt and that strange new sensation pulling you toward your mate.
“So... what do we do?” you ask, your voice hoarse as it slices through the quiet. “How do we stop it?”
“Stop it?” Alexei echoes. “You do not stop it. It’s not possible.”
Your bottom lip quivers. “But Bucky—”
“This isn’t about me,” Bucky says, eyes dark as he finally looks up. “If Bob could control himself after just meeting her, then this could be—this could help him control his powers. He might be able to use them without the other two showing up.”
You frown, narrowing your eyes. “What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he turns to Yelena. “She could help him. This could help the whole the team.”
Frustration bubbles beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire through your veins and making your heart pound. “This isn’t about the team, Bucky,” you snap. “This is about you and me.”
Nausea swirls low in your gut, your body physically rebelling at your own words—this attempt to reject your mate. Because you don’t want to. Not really. But you know you should. You chose Bucky. And you’re going to stick with that.
Even if it kills you.
“Barnes...” Yelena says softly. “I’m not sure if—”
“This isn’t about me!” he exclaims, turning toward her sharply, his expression stormy. “Not anymore.”
You watch him with wide, watery eyes. “Bucky. Please. I don’t—I don’t want this... I don’t—” Your voice catches, breath halting as you fight for the words. “I don’t want... him.” It burns to say it, but you know it’s what Bucky needs to hear. “I want you. I choose you.”
His face softens, blue eyes turning almost cerulean—the way they do when he’s close to tears.
You turn to Alexei. “Couldn’t I just... help Bob? Be there for him to help control his powers and—and still be with Bucky?”
Alexei chuckles—low and soft, full of quiet contrition. “You could try. But it would be difficult... being so close to him, wanting him in a way you cannot explain, and holding yourself back. Not to mention the physical and emotional pain you would put him through.”
“So,” Yelena pipes up, “this could make Bob worse?”
Alexei shrugs. “Theoretically, yes.”
“Can’t we just try it?” you ask, your voice cracking halfway through as more tears spill down your cheeks.
Yelena scoots closer and gently places her hand on your knee. She’s not entirely sure what to do—your body language is still guarded—but you offer her a soft smile as her thumb begins to trace small, calming circles.
“We can try it,” she says quietly.
Bucky nods, watching you with a heavy expression and the faintest spark of hope behind his eyes. “It’s worth a shot.”
Alexei leans forward, his eyes crinkled and mouth pulling into an awkward grimace. “Well... there is one more thing.”
You all turn toward him, frowning.
“Do you remember what I said last night? About... it being different when you touch?”
You nod slowly.
“If you want to try just being his friend, then you cannot touch him,” he says. “Not at all. And you will want to—badly. But you cannot.”
Yelena lifts a brow. “Why?”
There’s a pause—an awkward silence while Alexei searches for the right words.
“You will not be able to... resist, as you say. When you first see him, it is all spiritual. Like fate. An invisible string pulling you together, but...” he hesitates, brow furrowed. “When you touch, it is more... physical.”
You suck in a sharp breath. “Physical?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Like... sexual. You will not be able to—”
“No, no,” Yelena cuts in, eyes wide as they flick toward Bucky. “We do not need to unpack this. She just won’t touch him.” She looks at you pointedly. “Right?”
You nod. “Exactly.”
Never mind that your fingertips are already burning. That your whole body is buzzing, restless with the ache to be near Bob again. The idea of his skin against yours sparks like a live wire and makes every nerve ending flare to life. You feel lit up—like something dormant inside you has snapped awake. Like a part of you was missing, and now that you’ve found it—felt it—you can’t breathe without it.
Yeah... this is going to be fine.
-
The day has been long. Maybe the longest you’ve ever lived through.
You tried to read. You tried watching TV. You even went for a run—which turned into a walk, which turned into a slow lap around the block before you forced yourself back inside. Because all you really wanted to do was find Bob. Go to him. Be near him.
It’s strange. Unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You know him—somehow. Like he already belongs to you, and you to him, even though you’ve only met once. Barely exchanged a handful of words.
Your whole body aches for him in a way you don’t understand. You feel like you’re fading without him, like staying away too long might cause you to unravel entirely. The idea of never seeing him again makes your stomach churn.
But you can’t let it show. You have to remember you chose Bucky. He’s your person—not this stranger with eyes that feel like home. You gave your word. You said yes.
So you’re going to marry Bucky.
Even if it’s not what you want anymore.
Even if he’s not what you want anymore.
“You sure you’re feeling better?” Bucky asks, stopping at the door to the bathroom.
You’ve been standing in a towel, staring at your reflection for at least five minutes now, trying to will yourself into being stronger. To shake this feeling. To silence the strange, restless hum beneath your skin—like stardust catching fire. Like gravity itself has shifted, bending around you, pulling your soul toward Bob’s with a force so fierce it almost hurts.
You clear your throat. “Much better, I promise.”
He gives you a small smile—weak, but still there.
There’s a beat of silence. A stretch of unfamiliar energy between you, tense and fraying at the edges. As if the universe itself is rejecting the bond you once believed was written in the stars.
But the stars had nothing to do with you and Bucky. Not really.
Now you know what it truly feels like when the stars choose. When they bind one soul to another.
“I love you,” he says softly, his voice hoarse. “Regardless of everything. Whatever you choose—I love you. I always will.”
Your eyes fill with tears—easily, instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I wish I could—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, nearly choking on the word. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“But—”
“Doll, I’m serious.” He steps forward, hesitating before reaching out with his flesh hand. You take it, and he gently pulls you a step closer.
“I know what I said before—about the team. That shouldn’t have been what I was worried about. But it was easier, you know? Easier to focus on something practical than to face the truth. Which is… I think I’m going to lose you.”
You shake your head, tears already spilling. “No, you’re not—”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, forcing a tight, sad smile. “Maybe it’s meant to happen. Like… literally written in the stars, right? And if being away from him is hurting you, I won’t be the one who makes you stay. That’s the last thing I want.”
He looks away, jaw working, before he meets your eyes again. “So just… forgive me. If I shut down. If I don’t know how to deal with this. If I can’t always stick around when—if—you choose him.” His voice trembles. “Because it’s going to hurt, doll. More than I probably know how to handle. But I meant what I said—I’ll let you go.”
He blinks fast, but a few tears escape anyway, carving slow trails across his cheeks. “If that’s what’s right—for you, for him, for fate or the universe or whatever this is—then I won’t fight it.”
He pauses, breathing deep.
“But you have to promise me something.” His voice steadies, just a little. “Don’t hurt yourself for me. Don’t hold back. Don’t settle. Don’t lie to yourself just because you made a promise before everything changed. Before you knew what this really was. Can you promise me that?”
You swallow hard, your breath catching in short, shallow gasps as you try not to scream. All you can do is nod.
“Good,” he whispers, his fingers brushing the ring on your left hand.
Then he leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a soft kiss to your damp cheek.
A sob breaks free from your chest, more tears falling fast as he slowly turns and walks away—leaving you standing there, crying for what feels like the thousandth time today.
Not because you don’t love him.
But because you don’t want him.
And you hate yourself for that. Hate that you’re doing this to him.
But there’s nothing in you strong enough to stop it. So all you can do now is try not to hurt him more than you already have. Try to make it work.
Which is exactly why you’re going to the tower tonight.
To see Bob. To talk to Bob.
Because this thing—whatever it is—it involves him too.
And that’s something everyone else seems to have forgotten.
After drying your eyes—and then your body—you change into a fresh pair of sweats and another old hoodie. You pull on a pair of sneakers, run a brush through your hair, and head out the door. You don’t care about looking good right now. You don’t even care about looking decent. You just want to see Bob.
The walk to the tower is quiet. Bucky doesn’t try to hold your hand, and you don’t notice until you’re standing outside the looming building—when nerves start to creep in and you suddenly wish you had something to hold on to.
You glance his way, mouth parting—to ask for his hand, for comfort—but then you feel it.
That pull.
It threads through you like a live current, drawing you forward, calling to you like a heartbeat echoing in someone else’s chest. Like the ache of a memory you’ve never lived.
“You ready?” Bucky asks softly.
But his voice barely reaches you. It sounds distant, like he’s speaking from another room—or underwater. Muffled beneath the steady thrum of your pulse.
You nod, eyes fixed ahead as you step through the doors. Into the elevator.
You wait—still, silent—breath caught in your chest.
Then the doors open.
The moment you step into the common room, the air changes.
Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John are gathered near the TV, the low hum of a movie playing as they speak in hushed tones—careful, like they’re trying not to break something fragile. But none of them are the first thing you see.
It’s Bob.
He’s sitting alone on the far couch, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely as he stares at nothing in particular. Like he’s been waiting in stillness. Like he knew.
His head lifts before you even take a full step into the room.
The moment your eyes meet, the rest of the world exhales. Or maybe it holds its breath—you can’t tell. All you know is that everything inside you goes quiet. The noise, the ache, the confusion—it all stills beneath the gravity of him. The pull.
You don’t move at first. Neither does he. It’s like your souls got there before your bodies could catch up. Like the space between you is still catching fire.
And then, gently, you walk toward him. Just a few steps. He rises slowly, hands by his sides, eyes locked on yours with a look so open, so raw, it nearly undoes you.
No one speaks.
Not until Ava lets out a soft, wide-eyed breath from the couch. “Holy shit.”
The others glance between you and Bob, exchanging looks, but no one interrupts. No jokes. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of people who have just witnessed something that feels... bigger.
You stop in front of him. Close, but not touching. His breath hitches. Yours does too.
Still, neither of you says a word.
You don’t need to.
Because whatever this is—this ancient, aching thing that lives between your ribs and beneath your skin—it’s speaking loud enough for both of you.
Yelena clears her throat, gaze lingering on Bucky. “Okay… yeah. I get it now.”
You blink rapidly, like you’ve just slammed back into your body after falling out of it. Slowly, you step back, eyes flicking toward the rest of the team—but refusing to snap straight back to Bob.
“This is crazy,” Alexei says, his grin so wide and his eyes so bright it looks like he might actually combust.
John pulls a face, nose wrinkled, confusion and mild disgust written all over him. “I can, like… feel it too.” He looks at you, alarmed. “Why?”
You shrug, breath caught in your throat, your voice nowhere to be found.
There’s a beat of silence, thick and humming with the weight of unspoken words and the flood of questions swirling through everyone’s minds.
Then John claps his hands together, loud and abrupt. “Okay, so… how do we figure out if she can control him?”
That snaps the room back into motion.
“I don’t think it works like that,” Ava mutters, folding her arms.
“How the hell would you know?” John fires back.
Alexei lifts a brow. “She is not here to control Bob.”
“Oh. Okay. Did you read that in one of your magic manuals?” John scoffs.
“Walker, please,” Yelena sighs. “Now is not the time to argue.”
They start talking over one another, voices rising and overlapping like a wave about to crash.
And then—
“Wait.”
The single word is soft. Barely audible.
Bob.
Everyone turns, and the room falls back into a heavy silence.
He shifts slightly on his feet, shoulders drawn tight, eyes fixed on the floor for a beat before flickering up to you. His voice is uncertain, but steady enough. “I… I’m confused.”
There’s a pause.
“What do you mean?” Yelena asks gently.
Bob swallows, glancing around the room before his gaze returns to you.
“Well… whatever this is, I feel it. I know it. I know—” His voice falters as he looks at you again, softer now, “I know you. You’re… mine.”
You don’t flinch. You don’t look away.
He blinks, grounding himself.
“But… I don’t understand what’s happening. Why it’s happening. Or… what you’re all talking about.”
You open your mouth, but Bucky speaks first, stepping forward.
“She’s not staying,” he says quietly, almost scared to say it out loud. “Not really. She’s… choosing me.”
Bob’s brows pull together, dark blue eyes widening.
“I mean… she’s here to help,” Yelena jumps in, a little too quickly. “Just to help. While we figure things out.”
“Help,” Bob repeats, like he’s trying to fit the word into a sentence that doesn’t quite work.
You finally speak, voice low. “I’m not leaving you. Not completely. But I also… I made a promise. And right now, I’m trying to keep it.”
Bob’s eyes search yours—not angry. Not desperate. Just… aching with the effort of holding something too big for his hands.
And somehow, that’s what hurts the most.
Because those words taste like acid in your mouth. Burning your tongue like white-hot lies.
You don’t want to keep your promise—not now. Not when he is standing there, looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. You don’t want to walk away to protect someone else, even if that someone else has your heart in his hands too.
All you want is this. Him. The man in front of you.
You want to hold him. To reach across the impossible space between you and wrap your fingers around his and never let go. To tell him that whatever force carved your souls from the same star had it right. That you don’t care about the plan or the past or the path you promised to walk.
You just want to stay.
You want to lace your soul into words and place them in his hands.
To tell him that you’ll keep him safe.
That you’ll be the light when his world goes dark.
That you’ll be steady when everything else shakes apart.
That he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.
That you’re his.
Because you are. You always were. Even before you knew.
And walking away from that feels like trying to cut the sky in half and pretend the stars won’t notice.
“I—I don’t understand,” Bob says, his voice firmer now, edged with something darker. Something dangerous. “She doesn’t want this.”
You exhale sharply, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. “Bob, please.”
His eyes snap to you, wide and shining with everything he can’t bring himself to say. But you don’t need words. You don’t need promises. You just need him.
“You don’t want this,” he repeats, softer now. Almost broken.
You swallow hard. “I do. This is what I’m… choosing.”
His brow pulls tight. “Why?”
“I made a promise,” you say again, as if saying it enough times might make it true. “And I want to keep it.”
You don’t.
“But I’ll still be here when you need me. We can still… be together. Just… not completely.”
Bob’s eyes shift to Bucky, dark blue bleeding into molten silver. “She’s choosing you?”
The energy in the room changes again.
The air goes still. No static hum. No crackle of power. Just… silence.
Heavy and unnatural—like being buried underwater. A crushing pressure that squeezes your lungs until you forget how to breathe.
Bob’s jaw tightens. You can see it—feel it—in the tension radiating off him. In the flicker of silver that sharpens, flares, then fades again in his eyes.
“You’re lying,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
“I can feel you,” he continues, voice raw, trembling just beneath the surface. “That’s what this is, right? This connection? I feel you, and you feel me. So I know you don’t want this.”
“Bob—”
His hands clench into fists at his sides. “No. Don’t say it again. Don’t say it’s your choice. Don’t say it’s a promise. Because that’s not what you’re feeling.” His voice cracks, then drops into something lower. Rougher. “You want me. I know you do.”
A faint pulse of cold slips through the room—sharp and unnatural, like a draft from somewhere that shouldn’t exist. It kisses your skin, raises every hair on your arms, and sinks deeper, like ice threading through bone.
Ava shifts her weight uneasily. John glances toward Bucky, tense.
“I don’t understand,” Bob says again, and this time his voice is breaking. “Why are you lying to me? Why are you choosing something that hurts you? That hurts us?”
You open your mouth, but the words aren’t there. They’ve drowned somewhere in your throat, tangled in the ache behind your ribs.
“I can feel your heart,” he whispers, silver light blooming behind his irises again. “And it’s breaking.”
There’s a pause. A beat where no one dares to speak. No one breathes.
Then Yelena steps forward, her voice steady. “Bob, please. You need to—”
But he cuts her off, eyes flashing silver as his anger sharpens, gaze snapping to Bucky. “Why won’t you let her go?”
Bucky swallows and takes a step back, his blue eyes wide and watery, flicking between you and Bob. “I—”
“She’s not yours,” Bob says, his voice so deep it echoes through the room—through your mind. “You can’t keep her.”
The room tenses. Silence coils thick around you, something ethereal seeping into the air like gasoline waiting for a spark.
“Bob,” Yelena tries again, louder now, more urgent. “You need to calm down. Now.”
You glance at the floor—at Bob’s feet. Shadows crawl across them, creeping upward, inch by inch, slowly consuming him.
Panic flickers across his face. He knows he’s slipping. The power inside him swells—cold, fierce, pressing outward.
His breath comes faster, fists trembling. “I’m… I’m sorry—”
The air snaps, taut like a wire pulled too tight. His power spirals, wild and uncontained, slicing through the room in jagged bursts like shards of ice.
The darkness creeps higher with every breath, swallowing him slow—leaving nothing in its wake but shadow, nothing but void.
“This was supposed to help,” John snaps. “She was supposed to help him, not make it worse!”
Alexei steps forward, eyes locked on you. “You need to go to him.”
You shake your head, slow and small, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I—I can’t.”
Ava backs away, her body flickering as she prepares to phase.
“Bob, look at me,” Yelena says, steady but firm. “Breathe. You are not alone.”
But his eyes stay on you. That look—raw heartbreak etched into every line of his face, love twisted with fear and confusion—
It fractures something inside of you.
“We need to get out of here,” Ava calls from a few feet away.
John starts backing up, his eyes wide and locked on Bob—as if waiting for a sign to turn and run.
“We cannot leave him,” Alexei says. “We go in, if we have to.”
“Bob,” Yelena pleads. “You’ve got this. Please. You can control this.”
Everything starts to blur.
The shouting becomes a wall of noise, voices crashing over each other, words slurring until they’re nothing but static—a low, violent hum in your ears. The blood rushes louder. Your head throbs, a sickening, rhythmic pounding like your skull is splitting apart from the inside out.
You want to scream.
You want to tear at your skin just to feel something real, to make the pain physical—tangible—because at least that would make sense. You want to tell them all to shut up. To stop talking. To just let you breathe.
You want to drop to your knees and scream into the void until it spits him back out.
Bob.
Bob, whose body is almost completely swallowed by shadow.
Bob, whose eyes—silver and scared—are locked on yours, pleading. Begging.
Bob, who holds your heart in his shaking hands. Who owns your soul, even now. Even as you’re walking away from him.
The one thing you need… and the one thing you’re denying yourself.
And for what?
For the heart of someone else? For a promise that was never meant to cost this much?
You would burn the whole damn world to save him.
You’d tear the universe apart just to keep from breaking that heart.
But this? This is breaking yours too.
Bucky’s voice cuts through the chaos—barely louder than a whisper, but somehow it reaches you. Steady, but breaking.
“It’s okay,” he says, eyes locked on yours even as his own brim with tears. “Go to him. I’ll be okay.”
You shake your head, lips trembling, a silent protest caught in your throat. But deep down, you know he means it. You feel it—the weight of his acceptance, the way he's choosing love over possession. Choosing you, even if it breaks him.
“I don’t want to let you go. God, I don’t. But I can’t be the reason he breaks.”
Your chest aches so deeply it nearly folds you in half. But there’s something else there too—something small and warm and unspeakably grateful. You don’t deserve this kind of kindness. But he’s giving it anyway.
“You still have a part of me. Always will.” His voice falters, but his eyes stay soft. “But he needs all of you right now. And I… I just want you to be safe.”
A sound escapes your throat, half a sob, half his name. You take a shaky breath, tears sliding down your cheeks as you step toward him—not to stay, but to say thank you without words.
His smile is soft. Cracked around the edges. Brave in the way only someone who’s breaking can be.
“It’s okay. I promise.”
You nod once. Swallow hard. Squeeze your eyes shut—steadying yourself. Then turn back toward him.
Bob, who’s almost gone—his form nearly swallowed by the creeping dark, his features carved in flickers of silver and shadow. He stands there like a man on the edge of oblivion, barely tethered to this world. Just a silhouette of the boy you love, wrapped in light and ruin.
His eyes find yours, and for a second, everything stills.
Even now, almost lost to the void, he sees you. Only you.
You take a step forward, your body trembling with the weight of it all—the fear, the guilt, the unbearable ache of loving something you might be too late to save.
“Bob,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, like a lifeline.
The darkness claws higher, curling up his neck like smoke. But his eyes—those bright, breaking eyes—shine through it all. The fear in them cuts through you like a blade. Not fear of what’s happening to him.
Fear that you won’t come.
That you’ll leave.
That he’ll lose you, too.
“It’s okay,” you say—to him or yourself, you’re not sure.
You lift your hand and move forward, closing the space with slow and careful steps—like one wrong move could shatter the world.
One step, then another—until you’re standing toe to toe with him. The shadow writhes beneath your feet, hungry and alive, but the moment you enter his space, it curls back. Like it knows you. Like it fears you.
Or maybe it just recognises what he loves.
The air is ice. He’s trembling. His face—barely visible now—flickers in and out of shadow like a dying flame. You reach for him, slow and sure, your fingers brushing the centre of his chest.
Right over his heart.
And the darkness parts.
Just slightly—splitting like oil pulled from water, leaving a sliver of fabric beneath your touch. His heart stutters. Yours lurches.
Then you press your palm flat.
And a soft light blooms.
Not blinding, not loud—just a soft, golden glow that seeps from beneath your hand like a memory. Gentle and warm. It spreads slow, steady. The shadow recoils, peeling back inch by inch, retreating from the light, from you.
Everything stops.
The void is gone.
Your ears are filled with the sound of your own pulse as you stare into those dark blue eyes—like the ocean kissed the sky and gave birth to this colour just for him.
He looks so fragile now. So tired. Wrecked not just by the strain of his powers, but by the weight of you. Of your touch. Your choice.
You, choosing him.
For a moment, you just stare at each other—memorising every line, every flicker of emotion—though you already know his face by heart. You’ve always known him. In dreams. In shadows. In the quiet corners of your mind. Drifting through memories and half-sleep, like your souls were stitched together before time ever started.
Always there. Always waiting.
“You okay?” you whisper, your voice faint, barely real.
He nods.
Then you collapse into him, arms winding around his waist, clinging like you’ll never let go.
And you won’t.
Not ever.
There’s still guilt. A lingering ache for the hurt you’ve caused. A hollow echo of someone else’s heart breaking.
But right now, all you feel is Bob. His arms around you, pulling you in like a lifeline. His face tucked into your neck, curls brushing your skin like a secret only he gets to know.
All you want is Bob.
All you need is Bob.
You can’t believe you ever thought you could live without this.
Without him.
Trying to choose someone else would’ve destroyed you. You see that now.
You feel it.
At some point, you shift to the couch. The others are gone—when exactly, you’re not sure—but you’re grateful. You need space. Time. And Bob needs rest.
Which he finally gets. For a few hours.
You settle at one end, sinking into the soft cushions, with Bob’s head resting in your lap. His arms wrap around your thigh like a vice—steady strength even in sleep. You play with his curls, trace the line of his jaw, and rub gentle circles along his back as he drifts.
You’re exhausted, but sleep eludes you. You don’t want to waste a single second with him. Never before have you wanted someone so fiercely. All you need is to feel him here—safe, alive, with you.
So you stay awake. Occasionally you shift, easing pins and needles or aching muscles, but Bob barely stirs. He nuzzles into your lap, your lower belly, holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him from unravelling.
It should feel strange, wrong even. But nothing has ever felt more right.
You know this man better than you know yourself—of that, you are certain—and no part of you hesitates or doubts. This is real. The most real thing you’ve ever known.
You know it’ll be complicated. Awkward with the team, even more so with Bucky. You’ll have to hide it from the world for a while. But none of it matters—not one bit—when the boy in your lap breathes softly against your skin. His lashes dark on flushed cheeks, lips parted with a stray drop of drool on your thigh, and that aching, desperate pull in your chest growing stronger with every breath.
He sleeps until the sun starts to set, and you stay with him. At one point, you turn on the TV and pick a random movie, but your eyes rarely leave Bob. You don’t need him to wake—you’re perfectly content just being near him—but when his lashes finally flutter open, your breath still catches.
He stretches slowly, shifting against you like a cat basking in the sun all day. Then he rubs his eyes and sits up, blinking blearily, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips.
“You stayed,” he murmurs.
You nod.
Without him, your body feels cold, but you resist the urge to cling to him. He needs space to wake fully, to stretch his limbs and shake off the last vestiges of sleep.
“Where are the others?” he asks.
You shrug. “Not sure. They’ve been gone all day.”
He nods slowly. “Did you—Did you leave at all?”
“No,” you say softly. “Stayed right here.”
He shifts closer, one hand finding yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world—as if his hands have known yours for years.
His brow creases. “You must be starving.”
You bite your bottom lip, weighing up your next response. Because yes, you’re hungry—but there’s something else you’re craving. Something more urgent, more raw than anything you’ve ever known. Something you need more than you want. Something Alexei warned you about, and you didn’t quite believe—until now. Now it claws at your chest, primal and fierce, relentless and aching.
“There’s… something else,” you say slowly. “I don’t know if you—”
“I do,” he cuts in.
Your lips part, breath catching in quick, uneven gasps as you hold his gaze—captivated, utterly pinned by the raw hunger burning in his eyes.
His brows lift ever so slightly, a subtle twitch—a silent question hanging in the air. You nod.
Then he moves forward, hands cupping your jaw—careful but urgent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real.
The world fractures—time fractures—and everything narrows to a single, blazing point where your lips slam together with the force of a thousand storms.
It’s raw. Fierce. Like the universe just exploded inside your chest.
His mouth devours yours—claiming, desperate—fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You burn and tremble, caught in a tidal wave of need and relief that steals your breath.
The air hums with electricity, silence shattered by ragged gasps and the wild pounding of your hearts—syncing, breaking, snapping together like a sacred, unspoken vow breaking free.
Every nerve screams alive, every touch sending sparks crashing like fireworks. It’s hot, heavy, frantic—a beautiful chaos that feels like coming home after being lost forever.
You taste everything—fire, desperation, the sharp tang of longing—and drown in it, surrendering to the moment where nothing else exists but this.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads collide, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. His eyes are dark, wild, shattered open, and in that look, you know this bond has broken through every barrier, every shadow, every doubt.
You’re his.
And he’s yours.
“I need you,” he whispers, voice rough, cracking, as his hands slip beneath your shirt.
“I know,” you breathe, arching into him, trembling. “I need you too.”
-
“Do we have to?” Bob sighs, face buried in the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your bare skin.
You giggle, placing a kiss to his shoulder, perfectly content beneath the weight of his body—his completely naked body.
“I mean,” you murmur, fingers trailing down the dip of his spine, “you’re already late. Is there really any point in going at all?”
He lifts his head, deep blue eyes shining with adoration as he looks at you. “Exactly,” he says, soft lips twitching. “Besides, I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do.”
He shifts, and you feel it—hard and heavy, pressing insistently against your lower belly.
Your lips curl into a smirk, heat blooming low and hot between your thighs. “And what exactly might these other things entail?”
He chuckles, sliding down slightly, tracing his tongue between the valley of your breasts.
“So many things,” he murmurs against your skin, “all of them involving me inside of you… in one way or another.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth wraps around your nipple, drawing a breathy sigh from your lips. “That sounds…” you gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive bud, “very good.”
He looks up again, lips parting from your skin as he gives you a soft, boyish smile. His eyes are bright—almost pale blue in the morning light spilling through the windows—and he looks so damn pretty. His curls are mussed, his cheeks are pink, and his skin is pressed flush against yours in the most delicious way. Even after weeks of having him—weeks of giving yourself to him in every possible way—you still can’t get enough.
“Does that mean we’re staying?” he asks, hands gliding up your ribs toward your breasts.
You giggle, flinching at the ticklish drag of his fingertips across your bare skin. There’s nothing you want more than to stay right here with him—forever. You don’t care if his teammates are waiting. You don’t even care if they blame you for holding him hostage. All you want is to stay tangled up with Bob until something human forces you to stop devouring each other—either sleep or hunger, the usual culprits.
“Yeah,” you whisper, a dopey, lovesick smile curling your lips, “we’re staying… but on one condition.”
His brow furrows, and he sits up a little further, his hard cock grinding against you in the most distracting way.
“Bob,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, hands flying to his shoulders to hold him still.
He laughs softly, low and cheeky. “Yes?”
“I need you to fuck me,” you say, cheeks flushing pink—despite the fact that he literally just did, not five minutes ago. “Again,” you add. “And again, until I can’t walk.”
When your eyes open, you find his—dark and hungry, a stark contrast to the sweet, boyish softness from just seconds ago.
“And then I want pancakes,” you say with a small smirk.
His lips curve before he surges up and crushes his mouth to yours. Your chest aches. Your stomach swirls. Every coherent thought in your head vanishes. You’ve kissed Bob hundreds—maybe thousands—of times by now, and still, every kiss is earth-shattering. Every kiss steals your breath, stops your heart, and reminds you that this man was made for you.
“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.
You let out a breathless sigh as he trails kisses down your jaw, his mouth sucking a bruise into the soft skin of your neck. “I love you too.”
-
Mates are rare. They're not just lovers or partners—they’re soul-deep bonds that tilt the earth, shatter reality, and leave everything else dull by comparison. They’re not easy. They break hearts just as easily as they heal them. But when you find yours, there’s no doubt. No fear. No force on earth strong enough to pull you away.
Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the heartache, and the chaos—you know with absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
content warnings: language, suggestive content, fluff? that's it really
word count: 9.4k
synopsis: You really like making Azriel blush.
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
You wanted to swim in the honeyed pools of amber that hovered over you, watching you intently with a twinkle of mischief that made your stomach flutter. You could get lost in Azriel’s eyes. You often did get lost in his eyes, which then often led to you fumbling and blushing when someone caught you. It was embarrassing, really, how enamored you were with the quiet shadowsinger. You didn’t know how to not melt under his warm gaze.
And now here he was, leaning over you as his legs bracketed your body, pinning you to the floor of the training ring, his soft lips moving as he quietly provided critiques on your technique. You couldn’t focus on anything he was saying, though. All you could think about was how beautiful his eyes were and the torrent of butterflies that had been unleashed in your stomach.
“Your eyes are pretty.”
Azriel froze, his eyes going wide. Your own eyes widened slightly as you realized what you said, the private thought escaping from your lips. Your cheeks started to warm as his incredulous gaze met yours. “What?” he rasped.
You quickly decided you were too far gone at that point, so you steeled your nerves and repeated your words. “Your eyes,” you said again. “They’re really pretty.”
Azriel’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, the color spreading up his neck to the tips of his ears, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. Azriel was blushing. This male that always left you a fumbling blushing mess was now knelt over you with wide eyes and red cheeks, his mouth opening and closing slightly. His wings fluttered slightly as he leaned back, clearing his throat as he stood up from his position.
He didn’t meet your eyes as he held a hand out to help you up, and you felt a little guilty for making him uncomfortable, knowing all too well it’s not always fun to feel such nervous embarrassment. You accepted his hand after a moment, his skin warm and rough against your own. You were about to apologize once he pulled you up, but Azriel dropped your hand, glancing at you briefly before moving away, and you lost the nerve to even acknowledge your foolish lapse in judgment.
You bit your lip, looking down at your boots as you wished the mountain would just fissure open and swallow you whole. “Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you from your simmering mortification. His cheeks were still red when you met his eyes, but there was a faint, bashful smile on his face that made your stomach flip. “Thank you.”
You had to fight the grin that immediately wanted to bloom on your face, and simply nodded your acknowledgement as Azriel turned away, unwrapping his hands, your training apparently done for today. Your previous embarrassment morphed into pride, as you replayed the interaction over and over in your head. Nesta glanced at you curiously as you sat next to her to stretch, but you ignored her gaze as you glanced back at Azriel, who was now speaking with Cassian as if nothing had happened. His gaze suddenly met yours, his cheeks still tinged pink, and you smiled softly, shaking your head as you looked away again. You had made Azriel blush, and you had every intention of doing it again.
~ ~ ~
“Have you eaten yet?”
Azriel stood in the entryway to the sitting room you had wandered off to with Nyx, a plate of food in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. You smiled softly, shaking your head before looking back at Nyx, who was starting to get fussy. His eyes were tired and heavy, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he either passed out in your lap or started wailing as he fought off sleep. “I told Feyre I would watch him while she ate,” you said softly, fingers tickling at Nyx’s stomach, making him giggle.
Azriel moved closer, sitting the food and wine on the table next to you. “Let me take him,” he offered softly. “Go ahead and eat.” The food smelled amazing, and you were starving, but you hated to just pass Nyx off to him.
Azriel sat next to you on the couch, the cushions jostling beneath you. He held his hands out to Nyx, a soft smile on lips. “Do you want to come sit with me?” he cooed, and your heart nearly exploded as Nyx happily launched himself from your lap and into Azriel’s arms.
Azriel laughed softly, catching Nyx easily, and bouncing him in his lap. He glanced at you, nodding toward the plate. “It’s going to get cold.”
You bit your lip, fighting back the stupid smile that wanted to engulf your face, and instead took a sip of the wine before picking up the plate. You ate quietly while Azriel sat beside you with Nyx, his happy giggles slowly dying down as exhaustion crept up on him. At some point, Azriel had coaxed Nyx to lay on his chest, and the little babe had quickly fallen asleep. When you looked over after setting your empty plate down, Nyx’s cheek was squished against the shoulder of Azriel’s sweater, his wings drooping around him to rest on Azriel’s chest.
It was possibly the most wholesome thing you had ever seen, and a million rogue butterflies were swarming your stomach as you watched them. Azriel was too engrossed with Nyx to notice your attention, his fingers rubbing gentle circles on his back. Azriel’s face was softer than you had ever seen, his usual stoicism long gone while he held his nephew.
“You’re really good with him,” you said softly, your awe seeping into your voice.
He startled a bit, his hand pressing into Nyx’s back as his eyes jumped to yours. A pink hue slowly crept across his cheeks, and your heart fluttered at the sight. He didn’t really respond, though. He just gave you a tiny tight-lipped smile before looking back down at Nyx.
“I mean it, Az,” you whispered, shuffling a little closer. “That boy adores you. Clearly.”
The color on his cheeks only darkened, but his shadows pulsed excitedly before one ventured out to snake around your wrist. Azriel’s eyes went wide when he saw it, and the shadow promptly left you. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“I don’t mind them,” you answered honestly. His shadows were now circling over Nyx, and you couldn’t understand why he would think they would ever scare you when they could be so gentle—when they were a part of him.
The two of you sat in silence for a bit, watching Nyx snooze peacefully on top of Azriel, the air in the room warm and calm. Eventually, you reached for your empty plate and glass, and stood up from the couch. Azriel tracked your movements, and when you turned to face him, he was already looking at you.
His cheeks were still a faint pink, the color making your mind wander back to training last week. His eyes were soft as he beheld you, and you had to fight your own blush from creeping up your cheeks. You lingered longer than you should have, standing there awkwardly with your hands full, but you didn’t want to leave Azriel. He was so stunning, so calm, and you knew it would be a long time before you saw him so unreserved again.
Your friends’ laughter from the living room faintly reached your ears, and you reluctantly took a step back from Azriel. “I should probably go socialize a little bit,” you said with a sigh and a teasing smile. “If you don’t mind?” you then asked, gesturing toward Nyx.
“Not at all,” he said softly.
You nodded, looking down at your hands. You held up the empty plate, then said, “Thank you for bringing me dinner.”
He simply smiled, and it was a small one at that, but it still made your stomach flip. You returned it, and then moved to the hallway, reluctantly leaving the beautiful shadowsinger with a babe sleeping on his shoulder.
~ ~ ~
You loved Velaris.
Truly, you thanked the Mother every day for leading you here, for Rhysand taking you in as a refuge when Cesere was attacked. You weren’t even a priestess, you were simply an Autumn Court female that had taken sanctuary at the temple, but that didn’t matter to Rhysand. You were just as much of a victim, and Clotho had let you reside with the other priestesses in the library once you arrived in Velaris.
You never felt entirely content, though, living in a mountain with only books to occupy your time. You also didn’t have the courage to leave said mountain—not until you befriended Gwyn, who befriended Nesta, and then pulled you along with her to training. Your life changed for the better that first day of training. You felt whole. For the first time in your life, you felt settled.
The shadowsinger across the street from you had more to do with that feeling than anyone. You couldn’t explain why you were so enamored by him, so drawn in by his presence. You didn’t even like to acknowledge it, really. It only left you flustered and anxious about possibly losing the person who had quickly become a pillar in your life. You were positive that if that pillar came crashing down because you weren’t careful, you wouldn’t survive it. You clutched the piece of cloth you kept stuffed in your pockets, the familiar fabric soothing your anxious thoughts.
Your fears didn’t stop you from wanting him, though. It didn’t stop you from admiring him from afar, or even occasionally letting those admirations slip through your lips. He deserved to hear them, anyway.
He was just so kind. You had never witnessed a kindness quite like his, never been privy to such gentle care and respect. You had to ignore the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time his kindness was directed toward you, because he was kind to everyone.
For fuck’s sake, you were currently watching him help a meek and embarrassed female fix her booth that had toppled over in the market square. His shadows collected stray jewels and baubles that had scattered on the ground, pushing them into a neat pile next to the female. You could tell Azriel was making every effort to appear smaller, less intimidating somehow, despite the leathers and siphons adorning his body. His wings were tucked in tight, and his shoulders were relaxed, his posture slightly slouched as he handed her things.
You saw his lips move softly as he said something that made the female smile slightly, her shoulders relaxing. Your heart clenched at the sight, an irrational jealousy igniting in your core as you watched her cheeks turn red, and Azriel smiled at her. You averted your gaze back to the jewelry in your hand, the owner of the booth you stood at clearly growing impatient with your dallying.
You smiled sheepishly at the older male, setting the necklace back down on the velvet tablecloth. You glanced back at the booth across the street, a confusing mix of relief and disappointment twisting inside you when you saw the female sitting alone, and Azriel long gone.
“Were you really not going to say hello?”
You spun toward the familiar voice, your heart racing as you met Azriel’s eyes, who was now standing only inches away from you. You swallowed hard, unsure how to answer. Were you going to say hello? Likely not, but you were too embarrassed that you had been watching him for the last five minutes without any true reason.
He didn’t wait for you to answer before he handed you a paper box. You frowned at the familiar blue container that came from the very bakery you were planning on visiting today.
Azriel reached forward and opened it after watching you stare at it for far too long. “Had I known you were coming to the market today,” he said as he revealed the chocolate croissant, “I would have suggested we come together.”
Your lips parted as you looked at the fresh and luscious pastry, your mouth instantly watering. You picked it up and took a bite, the chocolate like heaven on your tongue. You hummed in appreciation as you ate the treat, muttering your thanks between bites.
Azriel laughed as he guided you into the busy street, his hand between your shoulder blades as the two of you meandered through the bustling market. When you reached a less populated area, his hand fell away, and he asked, “What are you doing out today?”
You held up the now empty box, swallowing the last bite of your pastry. “I was going to get one of these,” you answered. “So thank you for that. I guess now my mission is moot.”
Azriel laughed, his shoulder briefly brushing yours. “We can always go get another.”
You grinned. “You’re full of good ideas today.” You thought back to earlier, then said, “I saw you help that female.”
“Yeah,” was his simple response, and you could tell he was a bit bashful about it.
“That was kind of you, Az.”
He shrugged, not really accepting your compliment. “She needed help.” A passing faerie bumped into you, sending you stumbling into Azriel. They murmured a rushed apology when you glared at them, and Azriel steadied you by your waist. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you huffed, straightening your shirt. You tossed the empty box in a garbage bin as you kept walking. “What was she selling?” you asked, desperately trying to forget about the juvenile jealousy you felt when you watched him smile at her.
“Handmade jewelry. She said she just opened a storefront a few weeks ago, and was hoping a booth would garner some attention. I told her I would have to bring you by,” he said, completely nonchalant.
Your brain stuttered. “Me?”
He glanced at you, his brow furrowed. “Yeah?” he said slowly. “Why not? I thought you liked handmade things.”
You shook your head. “No—I mean, I do—” You paused, and Azriel’s expectant and confused expression made you falter. “That would be nice,” you said instead. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said lightly, his confusion still clear.
You felt even more ridiculous for your earlier jealousy, and you didn’t feel like having him prod you anymore, so you diverted the conversation to an entirely different topic, albeit not very smoothly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your tattoos.”
Azriel raised his brows. “My tattoos?”
You nodded, eyes roving over the swirls of ink that you did genuinely find fascinating. You lifted a hand to run your finger over one of the lines, his skin warm from the afternoon sun. You swallowed hard as you pulled your hand away, realizing you needed to actually ask him a question about them. “What do they mean?” you asked.
He looked a bit reluctant to tell you, but before you could assure him he didn’t have to share, he said roughly, “They’re Illyrian.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he huffed out. “The only reason I don’t hate them is because I got them with Rhys and Cass. They’re supposed to stand for luck and glory. I only got them because we had just survived the Blood Rite, and they insisted we mark ourselves with their symbols just to spite them.” A small smile had creeped onto his face. “Which was convincing.”
You smiled hesitantly. “Well, I’ve always liked them.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded, then traced the ink again. “They’re beautiful. Intricate. And it doesn’t matter if they have Illyrian origins, they’re yours. You got them with your brothers to celebrate your survival. That’s what they mean to you.”
His cheeks were dusted a faint pink, and pride surged in your chest. Your fingers trace the ink all the way down to the scars wrapped around his forearms, and you glance at him before following them down to his wrist, and then his palm. You thread your fingers through his, squeezing tightly. “Every mark on our skin tells a story. Our story. That’s never something to be ashamed of.” You brushed your thumb over the back of his hand, and his cheeks were now red, his eyes wide with awe. “It’s beauty in its rawest form.”
You tugged on his hand, knowing he wouldn’t have a response to that, urging him to keep walking with you. “And by the way,” you hummed, making Azrial turn toward you again, “I happen to quite like the story yours tells.”
His blush crept up to his ears, and you smiled to yourself triumphantly, loving every second that you got to see Azriel flustered. Every second that you saw him faced with compliments that he should always hear, that you wished he would learn to accept. You were worried he might drop your hand when he just stared at you for a moment, the silence charged and heavy around you. Instead, he squeezed your hand, and kept walking side-by-side with you, eventually murmuring the softest, “Thank you.”
~ ~ ~
“Can I ask you something?” you hummed, leaning forward on the counter, your head propped up in your hand.
Azriel smiled softly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He was across the counter from you, his back leaning against the granite that was faintly illuminated by the moonlight spilling into the kitchen. “What’s that?” he asked.
You hesitated, but your earlier conversation with Nesta was playing on a loop in your head, and your curiosity was eating at you. Your whole body was warm just thinking about it again. The wine running through your veins probably didn’t help, though it certainly gave you the courage to finally ask, “Is it true you can orgasm from someone touching your wings?”
Azriel choked on the tea he was sipping on, setting the mug down a bit harshly on the counter, the liquid sloshing over the rim. He coughed for a minute, his shadows fluttering around him in concern, but eventually he met your eyes. His own were wide as he asked you with a rasp, “Who told you that?”
You shrugged sheepishly, admitting, “Nesta might have mentioned it.”
He muttered something that sounded like “Mother help me” as he looked up at the ceiling, running a hand over the back of his neck.
The movement made his leathers stretch over the muscles of his arm, and the heat that bloomed in your gut pushed you to ask, “Have you ever…?”
Azriel’s cheeks were pink as he looked back at you, the moonlight making the color across his skin even more pronounced. He gaped at you for a moment, but he eventually admitted, “Yes.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that. A small part of you withered up at the admission, something acidic swirling inside you. You selfishly wanted him to say no, that he had never shared that part of himself with another. Which was insane, given he was over five centuries old. Of course, he had explored that with a lover.
He stepped closer to the island you sat at, his face softening. “Not often, though,” he added quietly, shocking you by elaborating. “I haven’t in a very long time. I was young, and curious, and—” He paused, shaking his head. His cheeks were still an adorable red, but his voice had regained its steadiness as he said, “It’s very vulnerable, to let another person touch your wings.”
You smiled softly, the wine finally making you a bit sleepy. Azriel had brought you home from Rita’s awhile ago. First you had insisted on tea before bed, and now you were pestering the poor male about his sex life of all things. You blamed Nesta for planting the seeds of curiosity in your mind, and Mor for plying you with far too much wine. At least you got to see him blush again, even if that wasn’t your outright goal tonight.
“I should probably go to bed,” you murmured quietly, pushing your mug away from you. You had barely drank your tea, and Azriel definitely noticed, but he was polite enough not to say anything. You met his eyes, his hazel irises unnervingly alluring as they simmered with something new, something you had never seen in Azriel’s gaze. You swallowed hard, and stood up from your stool. “Goodnight, Az.”
His throat bobbed, his jaw clenching briefly as he looked you over, then bid you a quiet goodnight. You didn’t linger, and you most definitely did not think about his lips, his eyes, or his wings as you laid in bed, waiting for sleep to claim you.
~ ~ ~
“Well you two are a sight for sore eyes,” Nesta drawled from beside you, her gaze sweeping up and down the two Illyrian warriors that had just appeared in the living room.
They were caked in mud, covered from head to toe. Even their wings were covered in it, their normally elegant and translucent membranes now an opaque brown. Cassian undid the tie holding his hair back, shaking out the strands and sending a mixture of wet and crumbling mud flying all over. You ducked your head as Nesta scolded him, but he simply grinned at the two of you.
His eyes glinted as they locked on his scowling mate. “Won’t you come help clean up?” he asked innocently.
She scoffed, but stood up nonetheless, leaving her book on the table. “Only because if I don’t we’ll be finding remnants of your filth for days.” Cassian’s grin widened as he reached for his mate, but she quickly side-stepped him. “Don’t even think about it,” she growled, walking down the hall. Cassian quickly followed after her, disappearing from sight.
You swallowed hard, then looked back at Azriel. He smiled sheepishly at you, turning his palms outward. “I probably reek right now,” he said with a bit of a huff.
You smiled softly, shaking your head. “Not really—” Your words got caught in your throat when you did catch a scent of something far more alarming than dirt. “Are you bleeding?” you asked worriedly, sitting up straight.
Azriel winced. “I might be. Whatever the hell was in the bog scraped my back when we—”
“Your back?” you cut him off in alarm. You stood up, moving toward him. “Are your wings—”
“They’re fine,” he assured, his eyes watching you with a softness you had never seen before. You swallowed hard, feeling a bit embarrassed for your reaction. You stopped a few feet away from him, not sure what to do now.
His lips tipped up slightly before he nodded toward the hall. “I should probably clean myself up.”
“Do you need help?” you rushed out before he could move far.
Azriel froze, his eyes going wide. Mortification crawled up your spine, realizing that was an absurd offer. Azriel had been doing this for five centuries. He surely knew how to clean his back and wings himself. Cassian had asked Nesta for help, sure, but she was his mate—
“Yes,” he said softly, and your mind stalled for a minute. He had mud smeared all over his cheeks, but you were fairly certain you could see a flush creeping up his neck and to his face as he cleared his throat, then said again, “Yes. Please. I—It would be helpful to have someone else clean my back. If I’m still bleeding, it’s probably because the wounds are caked with mud—but I could call Madja if—”
“No,” you cut off his rambling. You had never seen Azriel stumble so much over his words before. It was endearing, but you also didn’t want him to second-guess asking you for help. Your offer was genuine, and you wanted him to know that. “I want to help.”
His throat bobbed as he studied you for a moment. His shadows were peeking out from behind him, as if they were being held back from exploring. “Thank you,” he said softly. Not for the first time, you wished it wasn’t so difficult for him to accept help, but you were honored that he was taking yours.
You followed behind him quietly as he led you to his room, pushing open the door for you before shutting it gently behind him. You tried not to ogle too much at his room, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit giddy that Azriel was letting you see more of his life.
He was so private and reserved. You weren’t oblivious. You knew that him letting you into his room meant something, but you also weren’t delusional, and you weren’t going to let this warp your mind into thinking this was more than it was. This was Azriel, trusting you as his friend, to help him with something personal, vulnerable, and you would be damned if you screwed that up.
“What do you need me to do?” you asked softly, slowly dragging your gaze from Azriel’s oversized bed to meet his eyes.
He stared at you for a moment, and you shifted a bit under his gaze. “Az?” you asked again softly.
He blinked, then shook his head a bit. “Sorry, I—” He paused, closing his mouth, then said instead, “Let me clean up a bit first, okay?”
You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Azriel’s eyes stayed glued to yours as he gestured toward the bed. “You can sit down,” he said softly. He finally peeled his eyes from yours, and you had to blink a bit to regain your bearings.
You stayed put until he disappeared into the bathing room, noting that he left the door open. Your chest felt a little tight as you sank slowly onto the edge of his bed, which was somehow infinitely more comfortable than yours. You dragged your fingers over the black duvet, the fabric soft to the touch. You had to repress the urge to wrap yourself in the downy cover, to fully immerse yourself in Azriel’s scent. You pulled your hand back to your lap, feeling a bit insane.
Despite his dark bedding, his room was….comfortable. It wasn’t bright by any means, but it was cozy. He had soft faelights scattered throughout the room that cast the room in a calming glow, and he had plush blankets thrown over the back of the chair sat in the corner. The case of books next to the chair called to you, and you nearly gave in to snooping through his collection when his voice startled you from your thoughts.
You walked tentatively to the threshold of the bathing room, but you didn’t look inside. “Do you want me to come in?” you asked nervously. You closed your eyes, clenching a hand around those nerves and pushing them down. You were going to help Azriel without making a fool of yourself. It was fine. You were fine. You wanted to help him.
You could hear the amusement in his voice as he answered, “If you still want to help.”
You swallowed hard, steeling your nerves as you stepped inside, but they quickly melted to goo when you saw him still in the bath. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in his wet and bare skin, the Illyrian tattoos you were always so fascinated by winding around his arms. The bath was filled with bubbles and steam that concealed anything…intimate, but you still felt like you were on the precipice of doing or saying something very stupid as you neared him.
He smiled slightly at you, the mud cleared from his face to reveal his pink tinted cheeks. You would like to think that your presence caused the flush of his skin, but it was likely the heat of the bath. You folded your hands in front of you, awkwardly standing a few feet away from him. “What do you want me to do?”
He pointed to a bottle and cloth on the stool beside you, water falling from the arm he raised. “Just make sure it's clean, please. Then rinse it with that tonic from Madja. It should heal fine on its own.”
You nodded, mind steadying now that you had a clear task. You picked up the cloth and sat the bottle on the ground, dragging the stool so you could sit behind Azriel. “Just the one scrape then,” you asked absentmindedly as you inspected the rest of his back. There were a few scratches and bruises littered across his skin, but there was only one wound still bleeding.
“Yeah,” he said softly, then huffed a low laugh that didn’t sound all that amused. “It’s embarrassing, really.”
You frowned, dipping the cloth in the somehow clean water—likely thanks to the House. You rang it out before pressing the cloth against his skin. “It’s not embarrassing,” you said softly. Your ministrations were gentle over his wound, wiping away at invisible dirt, because really he had cleaned it well on his own. He didn’t say anything back, and when you switched the cloth for the tonic, you asked, “Why would a wound be embarrassing?”
“It’s not just that,” he said, voice low. “I—I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I don’t need your help.”
You stilled, the cap to the bottle clutched tight in one hand while the other was about to pour it over his wound. You tried not to let the words sting, tried to put yourself in Azriel’s place. You lowered the bottle to your lap, then asked softly, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” he answered, though it sounded strangled. “I don’t.”
You sat with that for a minute, then moved so you could face him, kneeling at the side of the tub. Azriel’s eyes were conflicted as he met yours, and you noticed that his shadows had been sequestered away somewhere. “It’s okay to want someone to help you,” you started gently.
He looked so vulnerable in front of you, naked and wounded in a tub of water, giving you free access to his back, trusting you enough to let you so close to his wings. It made your heart clench. “Even if you can do something yourself, that doesn’t mean you always have to.”
He stared at you silently, and you started to feel a bit silly, doubting that those were his true worries. He nodded, though, a small acknowledgement of your words that you knew meant a lot from him right now. You smiled softly, and his eyes brightened a bit, even if he didn’t return the gesture. “Can I finish what I started?” you asked, standing up from your position to reclaim your seat on the stool.
Azriel hummed his agreement, and you didn’t waste any more time before you poured the inky liquid over his wound, trusting Madja’s creations even if it looked disgusting. Azriel tensed as the liquid seeped in, and you mumbled an apology as you recapped the bottle. Eventually, he relaxed, and you watched the liquid run down his back and into the water. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Anytime,” you hummed, setting the bottle on the counter next to you, hoping your nonchalance would keep him from freaking out again.
Your eyes snagged on some brown smudges still scattered across one of his wings, and you bit your lip before saying, “There’s still some mud on the back of your wings.”
Before he could even respond, you asked, “Do you want me to clean them?”
That was apparently the wrong question to ask because Azriel visibly tensed, and you noticed his shadows start to creep out from the corners. Your mind flashed back to your drunken conversation with him last week, and your face immediately went hot. “Or not,” you rushed out, fumbling to rectify your mistake. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking about—nevermind. I mean, not nevermind, because I will gladly clean them if you want me to—but if—”
“Y/N,” Azriel’s quiet voice cut you off, and your lips immediately clamped shut. He turned his body so he could meet your eyes, and you realized he had relaxed again. You wished you could say the same about yourself. “I would appreciate that,” he said quietly.
Your lips parted as you processed his words, and you realized this was him asking for the help he wanted, not necessarily needed, just like you told him to do moments ago. You swallowed hard before nodding, then picked up the wet cloth you had dropped. “Will it hurt?” you asked, feeling stupid and out of your depth. And nervous. You were incredibly nervous again.
“No,” he said, flaring his wings out a bit more for you to reach. “Just be gentle.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, and you clutched the cloth tight in your hand, struggling to lift it toward his delicate membrane. Azriel must have sensed your hesitance, because he turned his head slightly, a small frown on his face. “Y/N,” he said quietly, “You don’t have to.”
You bit your lip, while your heart was trying to fly straight out of your chest. “It’s not that,” you whispered. “It’s just—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. After our conversation last week—”
Azriel blanched and then swore under his breath. He shifted more so he could better face you, some water sloshing over the edge of the tub. “That’s not—touching my wings—” He shook his head. “It’s not always sexual. I wasn’t trying to take advantage—I swear to the Mother—”
It was your turn to blanch, and you cut him off hastily, “I never thought that.” Azriel’s mouth snapped shut as he stared at you with wide and frazzled eyes, and you were sure your expression mirrored his. “That never even crossed my mind, Azriel,” you said more softly. “It’s just…it’s intimate, right? You’re trusting me, and I don’t want to fuck up.”
Azriel’s shoulders relaxed, his face softening. “It is intimate,” he agreed quietly. “And you don’t have to wash my wings for me. I can do it.” You started to protest but he cut you off with a pointed look. “But if you want to, there’s nothing to fuck up—unless you stab me in the back,” he hummed and you rolled your eyes.
He smiled softly, and you couldn’t help but return it. Your nerves had abated, now just a slight undercurrent thrumming in your veins in anticipation of touching Azriel again. It was silly, to be excited to touch him. He was trusting you to help him, as his friend, and you needed to focus.
You motioned for him to turn around, and said, “Okay, Shadowsinger.” He raised his brows and you grinned, but he did turn his back to you, flaring his wings out again.
You dunked the cloth in the water again, and asked softly, “Ready?”
He nodded, and you didn’t waste any more time hesitating or second-guessing if this was okay. He told you it was, and there was no sense in prolonging this. You brought the cloth to the delicate membrane, gently dragging it over the smudge of mud he missed. Azriel’s muscles rippled across his back at the contact, and you paused. “It’s okay,” he assured, though his voice was rough.
You didn’t question him. You kept cleaning his wings, moving slowly from one spot to the next, meticulously cleaning the thin but powerful membrane. Your fingertips sometimes brushed against the soft skin, but you didn’t dare outright touch him, no matter how much you wanted to.
“I’ve always thought your wings were beautiful,” you murmured, moving to the last smudge of dirt near the base of his wing. Azriel’s breath caught in his throat, but you kept speaking, “I mean, Illyrian wings in general are, but when I met you—” You dragged the cloth slowly over him, the dirt long gone, but you weren’t ready to pull away. “I was just in awe. Of a lot of things, really, but your wings are just stunning. They were practically glowing in the sun when we first met. And they shimmer in the moonlight—”
“Y/N,” Azriel rasped, and you pulled your hand away to move in front of him. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his face was flushed crimson, and for a brief moment you relished in putting that blush there. There was no doubt it was because of you, because of your words, and you were glad. Azriel deserved to hear these things, to hear such reverent compliments.
“I think you should leave.”
Just like that, your heart fell, and you scrambled to catch it, but it was no use. It slammed into the pits deep in your soul, and any warmth that was slowly seeping through you immediately iced over. You didn’t hesitate to drop the cloth in the water and stand up, to back away from Azriel and remove yourself from this mortifying situation.
“I’m sorry,” you rasped, and Azriel’s head did snap up to face you then. His lips parted as he looked at you, but you shook your head, taking another step back. “I’m sorry,” you said again. “That was—it was inappropriate.” Who were you to think it was your place to tell him such things? To so blatantly awe over him while he allowed you to help him with something so vulnerable? You felt sick.
You had enjoyed pushing him and prodding him over the last few weeks, delighting in the blush that seemed to arise more and more often in your presence. Now you questioned if it was because you made him uncomfortable, and not because he was flattered or flustered. You didn’t stay a second longer. You bolted out of the bathing room, out his bedroom, ignoring the tendrils of shadows licking at your heels as you moved aimlessly through the halls, until you shut yourself away in your room, begging the ground to swallow you whole.
~ ~ ~
It had been a week since you saw Azriel. Since you royally embarrassed yourself in front of him. It made your skin itch every time you thought about it, wishing you could claw the memory right out of you.
Today was his birthday. You stared at the little pile of gifts you had collected for him sitting on your desk, wishing you hadn’t fucked everything up and could just give them to him. You were fairly certain that you were the last person Azriel would want to see tonight, but you also knew you couldn’t skip out on his birthday dinner without facing an interrogation from the rest of your friends. Cassian would be here any minute to take you to the River House, so you shoved aside your humiliation and aching heart to slip on your shoes, and sighed before opening your bedroom door.
You nearly screamed when you saw a figure leaning against the wall across from your room, your heart rate only calming when you realized it was Azriel. Then it started racing for an entirely different reason.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice sounding gravelly.
He pushed off the wall to move closer to you, and your grip tightened on the door. “Picking you up,” he replied, his voice calm and cool, like nothing had changed.
Your mouth went dry as he stopped only a foot in front of you, his shadows sneaking out to curl around your ankles. He didn’t pull them back. “Why?”
He frowned a bit. “It’s my birthday.”
“I know,” you said hurriedly, not wanting him to think you forgot his damned birthday. “I know that. I meant—Cassian said he—”
“I told him I would pick you up,” Azriel said simply.
You blinked at him. “Why?”
Azriel finally showed some hesitation, his throat bobbing before he answered, “We need to talk.”
Now? He wanted to talk now, before you had to sit through a dinner with his entire family for his birthday. They were your friends, of course, but they were his family, and you were still so unsettled after last week. You were still so mortified by giving into your emotions, letting your impulses take over you when you were with him last time. You had tried telling yourself that it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Sure, you might have gushed over his beauty, but it’s not like you kissed him.
Your heart was not convinced by that logic, though.
Azriel placed a gentle on your waist, and your eyes dragged from his touch up to his eyes. There was something hesitant in his gaze, an uncertainty you had never really seen in him. He nodded behind you. “Can I come in for a minute?”
It took you a second to process his request, but eventually you nodded, stepping back to allow him in.
He smiled softly, but you couldn’t return it. You were too anxious, watching the male you had grown embarrassingly infatuated with move around your room with curious eyes. His gaze snagged on the pile of wrapped gifts on your desk, and your face immediately heated when he looked at you.
He seemed to debate saying something, then decided against it, much to your relief.
“What did you want to talk about?” you asked softly.
He took you in quietly, his observant gaze making you even more self-conscious. You rubbed at your arm, shifting on your feet, and his face softened. He took a step closer, and you held your breath, ignoring the surge of emotion that rose in your chest.
“No one has ever made me feel the way you do,” he said quietly. His words rattled through your core, stealing your breath and knocking all sense from your mind. “And last week, what you did for me? I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone, never trusted someone so implicitly, and it terrified me.” He took in a ragged breath, running a hand through his hair. “I was scared, and I pushed you away, and I’m sorry. To just ask you to leave after you helped was–” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable,” you whispered, failing to really comprehend what he was telling you.
Azriel immediately moved closer to you, stopping only inches away. “You have never made me uncomfortable, Y/N,” he said, picking up your hand. “Since the day I met you, I’ve been drawn to you. I would catch myself wondering about you, asking about you, before you ever even came to training. Then when I actually got to know you, when you became my friend, it took everything in me not to cling to you.”
His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, his skin rough against yours. His touch was so gentle, so comforting, and you wanted to drown in it. You wanted to fall into him, to beg him to hold you and let you melt against him. “I thought you needed a friend, more than anything, and I wanted to give that to you, but these last few weeks have felt different. I could have been reading things wrong, but—”
“You haven’t,” you cut him off, meeting his surprised eyes shyly.
“I haven’t?”
“No,” you said sheepishly. “I—I’ve always been drawn to you too,” you admitted quietly. “But last month, at training, when I told you your eyes were pretty?”
Azriel nodded, a small smirk pulling at his lips. “I remember.”
“Of course you do,” you muttered, feeling embarrassed now. “Well, you blushed when I told you that, and I loved it. You always made me feel flustered. I felt like I was always the one blushing and floundering for words around you, and it just felt good to know that I had the same effect on you.”
Azriel’s smile widened a bit, but he let you keep rambling, “So I kind of started pushing you a bit more. I wanted to make you blush, but I also thought you deserved to have someone tell you nice things. It became more about that, really. I just, I’ve always thought those things, I just started to let myself say them. Last week I was a bit more overbearing, I guess—”
“You weren’t,” Azriel said softly. His eyes were bright as they looked at you, and you wanted to swim in his irises. His beautiful irises that had fully captivated you, and were the reason you were even in this current situation. His cheeks were tinted pink, and it made your stomach flip.
“You’re blushing now,” you whispered, a bit breathless.
He somehow moved even closer, making your breath hitch. He picked up your other hand, squeezing them both tight. “I know,” he murmured, his eyes glued to yours. You had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You seem to have that effect on me.” One of his hands moved up to cradle your jaw, and electricity shot up your spine. “Is it too late to ask for a gift for my birthday?” he asked, voice low and warm and intoxicating.
You swallowed hard, staring up at him with wide eyes. Your lips parted as your gaze flicked down to his, then back to his eyes. “Depends what it is,” you breathed out.
He moved his face even closer, his lips so close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. “A kiss?”
Vulnerability laced his voice, and it made your heart clench. You easily closed the little remaining distance between the two of you, his lips against yours utterly electrifying. You never wanted it to end. He kissed you like you were a gift, like you were precious, and he wanted to savor every second with you. His lips were just as soft as you thought they would be, and you wanted more.
You tugged at his sweater, loving the feel of the soft fabric in your hands in lieu of his usual leathers. His hand squeezed your hip, tugging you closer. His tongue brushed against your mouth, and when you gasped, opening your lips for him, he pulled away. You whined slightly, the sound escaping your lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. His voice was breathless as he said, “We’re going to be late.”
You pressed your lips to his again, and he indulged you for a moment, before pulling away again with a soft chuckle. “We can continue later,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing yours. Your forehead fell to his chest, his sweater still clutched in your hands.
“Is this real?” you asked, voice muffled by his chest.
Azriel’s arms wrapped around you, pressing you even closer to him. “It’s real,” he hummed quietly, squeezing you as you nuzzled into him. His shadows brushed your cheek, and you smiled softly, certain you were glowing from the inside out.
~ ~ ~
You knew Azriel deserved to spend his birthday with his family, surrounded by love and laughter, but you selfishly wished the two of you could have hid away for the night. You didn’t think it was entirely fair that you spent the entire day thinking you had ruined your friendship, only for him to show up and kiss you, and then drag you to family dinner. It was fine. Truly, it was. It was his birthday, and he deserved to celebrate.
You were just feeling very discombobulated and flustered as you watched him from afar, your sole company the cookies piled on a platter on the kitchen island. You chewed on one absentmindedly as Azriel smiled at Nyx, laughing as the little boy wiggled and giggled in his grasp. He passed the boy to Feyre, and Cassian swooped in to place another drink in his hand.
He was happy, and it was beautiful to see. He seemed more relaxed than you had ever seen him, and it made your heart glow to see him grin and laugh with his brothers. You could deal with this moment of limbo for a bit if it meant he got to have this.
“Az seems chipper,” Nesta hummed as she walked into the kitchen.
You sat your cookie down, spinning on your stool to follow her around the island. “He does,” you said lightly, glancing back at him. When you looked back at Nesta she had a smirk on her face. “What?” you asked.
“I have never seen him so…free. Happy,” she told you.
“It’s his birthday.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is,” she agreed. “But you can’t tell me that Azriel cares that much about his birthday. He’s had over five centuries of them.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. You turned to look over your shoulder again, watching Azriel laugh as Cassian tells some story, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “That,” Nesta said, “is pure joy.”
“Yeah,” you agreed softly. “It is.”
“Why exactly are you hiding in here with the cookies?” she asks.
Nerves quickly turned in your stomach. “I just—” You what? How the hell could you possibly explain what you were feeling right now? “I don’t want to suffocate him.”
Nesta looked you up and down, her lips turning into a small frown. “Everyone knows there is something between you two.” Your eyes widened, your lips parting, but she didn’t let you speak before she said, “And I promise you, that male wants you in there with him more than anyone else. You wouldn’t be intruding or overstepping, or whatever lies you’ve been telling yourself all night.”
You swallowed hard, once again turning to watch him. He was just…captivating. Everything about him just left you awestruck, his presence alone making you feel warm and giddy. “I think I love him, Nesta,” you admitted softly, your words barely more than a breathy whisper.
She came around to place a hand on your shoulder. “I know,” she said, her voice equally quiet. “I’m fairly certain that love is required.”
Before tonight you would have denied it. You would have scoffed and told her to fuck right off with planting cruel and fruitless hope in your heart. Azriel had kissed you, though. He came to you, and opened up a little sliver of himself just for you. It could have just been lust, you supposed, but you didn’t think it was. There was too much between the two of you for it to just be…superficial. Even thinking about it made your stomach sour.
“Go on,” Nesta urged. “Go celebrate with him.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitation and nerves still anchoring you to your seat. You nearly sprung right out of it when something brushed against your neck, though, and relief flooded you when you saw a tendril of shadow. Nesta laughed as she walked away to sit back down with her mate. The shadow fled back to Azriel, circling his ear slowly. Azriel turned to face you, his eyes locking with yours from across the house.
You smiled softly, your nerves immediately melting away when he matched your smile. His gaze lingered for a moment, before he slowly dragged his attention back to his conversation with Cassian. Nesta’s words swam around in your head, and with one last deep breath, you pushed yourself from your stool to join the rest of your friends in the living room.
Your approach was slow, and you debated where to go, but you knew you wanted to be near Azriel. You actually wanted to steal him away for yourself, even if just for a moment. You rounded his side, and leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek, his skin soft beneath your lips. His head immediately snapped to you when you pulled away, and you grinned when you watched his face go red.
You sat on the arm of his chair, your frame so small compared to his that you could rest your head on his shoulder if you wanted. You leaned in close again, and his hand rested on your thigh as if to balance you on the chair. “Happy birthday, Az,” you whispered in his ear. “Can you come with me for just a second?”
His hand squeezed your thigh as he looked at you with wide eyes, his nod almost immediate.
“You look a little flushed, Az,” Rhys drawled from the chair across the room.
Cassian’s laugh was near booming as he exclaimed, “Look at him blushing!”
Azriel’s gaze instantly hardened, but there was no hiding the red coating his cheeks and ears. He pulled you up with him as he stood, his hand resting on the small of your back, the weight settling and electrifying all at once.
“You should see him at training, Rhys,” Cassian went on. “Y/N is my hero. I’ve never seen Az come undone with just a look until she came along.”
You actually had no idea what he was talking about. Sure, you had started making him blush with your little compliments and touches, but…had there been more than that? “Fuck off, Cassian,” Azriel growled as he steered you away from your friends’ prying eyes and ears. He led you outside to the gardens, the moonlight casting a faint glow on everything.
The light made his eyes shimmer, and you smiled softly at the sight. “I’m sorry about them,” Azriel muttered, but you could tell there was some reluctant amusement behind his words.
You grinned softly, placing a light hand on his chest. “It’s fine,” you said. “I’m sorry for pulling you away from them.”
Azriel’s eyes softened, and he brought a hand up to brush your cheek. “I’ve been plotting my escape with you for the last hour.”
You laughed, leaning into his touch. “You can’t be serious.”
“Very.” He grinned, then slowly leaned down to press his lips to yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body melted into him, his hold the only thing keeping you upright as he kissed you desperately. Lovingly.
You reluctantly broke away, laughing when he tried to follow after you. “I did actually have something to give you,” you told him.
He leaned back in for another peck, and then another, the two of you smiling against each other. “You are more than enough,” he hummed happily.
Your body flushed at his words, your heart doing somersaults in your chest. It all felt so surreal, but after Nesta’s little talk, after you admitted you loved him, you had decided you needed to show him this.
You pushed away slightly to reach into your pocket, then paused. “Your real gifts are at the House, but—”
“So that pile of presents was for me,” he said, his grin teasing.
You rolled your eyes. “Yes,” you admitted with a huff, then continued more softly, “But I wanted to show you this.”
Azriel immediately turned more serious at your tone, watching as you pulled the tiny square of fabric from your pocket. You unfolded it for him to reveal the jagged edges, the true size no bigger than your palm. The fabric was as dark as the night sky, the shade blending seamlessly with the shadow that passed over your open palm.
His eyes were wide as they moved from your hand to your face. “What—”
“It’s from your cloak,” you rasped, unexpected emotion clawing at your throat as you looked at it. “From the night you saved us at Cesere.” You bit your lip, hesitating a moment before telling him, “I watched it get caught on a broken column, and I grabbed the strip left behind before Mor winnowed us to Velaris. I don’t know what compelled me to do so, but I’ve carried it with me since.”
You squeezed the fabric in your palm, your eyes drifting back to Azriel’s, his eyes now shining in the moonlight. “It became my reminder that there is good in this world. That there is always hope, even amid terror and destruction.”
Azriel kissed you, both of his hands coming up to grip your face. It was so brief, but so passionate—so reverent—it left you dazed. His forehead rested against yours, his hands still cradling your face, as he rasped, “I love you.”
Your lip wobbled as his words washed over you. “I love you, too,” you replied, voice watery.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled you into his chest, his arms tucking you in against him. His wings wrapped around you, cocooning the two of you in a bubble of darkness, and you nearly sobbed as a glowing thread unfurled between you.
Please remember your favorite writers are attention whores with a praise kink, they need validation to survive. Feed them comments and reblogs to save a life.
I KNOW CHRISTMAS IS OVER BUT ITS OK PRETEND ITS NOT
i'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, i have split the last part into 2 because i wanted to give yall something - multiple crying emojis. I LOVE YALLLL AND AGAIN I APOLOGISE
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Maria had asked you to meet her at the greenhouse under the pretense of planting seeds, but you couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to her invitation than pulling weeds.
She knelt beside you in the soft earth, her hands deftly working to clear the tangled mess of weeds from the fragile seedlings. Her movements were steady and deliberate, but her sharp, watchful eyes weren’t focused on the plants—they were on you.
The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken tension, until Maria broke it, her voice deceptively casual. “So,” she drawled, her tone light but her gaze cutting. “Tommy told me about yesterday.”
Your hands faltered for just a moment, the weeds slipping from your fingers before you quickly resumed, feigning nonchalance as her words hit their mark. “What about yesterday?” you asked, keeping your voice steady, though your chest tightened.
“You know,” she said, her tone deceptively casual, “in the dining hall. With Joel?”
“I already told you what happened,” you muttered, your focus dropping to the soil as if it could shield you from the conversation.
“Yeah, you did,” Maria replied, sitting back on her heels, her expression impossible to read. “But you left out the part where Joel nearly took some guy’s head off. For you.”
You exhaled, leaning back and brushing dirt off your hands. “Maria, it’s just… Joel being Joel,” you said, your voice quieter now. “He’s protective. That’s all.”
“Protective?” Maria’s laugh was louder this time, tinged with incredulity. She shook her head, reaching for another weed. “Honey, Joel doesn’t just get protective over people. Not like that.”
You busied yourself with the watering can, your fingers tightening around the handle as you avoided her gaze. “He does it for Ellie,” you said, your tone defensive. “And Tommy. And you. It’s not—”
“Not that special?” Maria cut in, her voice sharper now, though there was no malice in it. She leaned closer, brushing a hand against her knee to wipe off the dirt.
“This is different, and you know it. Joel Miller doesn’t make a scene unless it’s life or death. And yesterday?” She shook her head, her gaze unwavering. “That was a declaration.”
Your breath caught at her words, your hands tightening on the watering can as you tried to focus on the steady stream of water pooling at the base of the plants. “It wasn’t a declaration,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “He just… cares. That’s all.”
Maria’s brow lifted, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to puzzle you out. “Oh, he cares, alright,” she said, her tone softer but no less sure. “But this isn’t the kind of caring he shows for Ellie, or Tommy, or anyone else. This isn’t just Joel looking out for you. This is Joel claiming you.”
Your heart skipped, the word hitting you like a jolt. “Maria, stop—”
“I won’t,” she interrupted, her voice firm but gentle, her gaze steady as she gestured toward you. “Because someone has to say it. Joel didn’t just stand up for you yesterday. He didn’t just step in. He made it loud and clear to everyone in that room that you’re his priority. You think that’s nothing?”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the words tangled in your throat. Maria’s expression softened, her voice dropping just enough to make you listen.
“That’s Joel Miller’s language for ‘I care more than I know how to say,’” she said, her eyes locking on yours with quiet intensity.
You sighed, setting the watering can down and wiping your hands on your thighs, your gaze fixed firmly on the uneven soil in front of you. “It’s… complicated,” you murmured, the words heavier than you’d expected.
Maria didn’t back off. She shifted closer, her sharp gaze unwavering, her fingers pausing their methodical tugging at weeds. “So tell me,” she said softly, her tone gentle but edged with curiosity. “What’s so complicated about it?”
You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, the loose thread unraveling under your touch as you tried to find the words.
How could you explain it? How could you possibly articulate the way Joel made you feel—like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind catching your breath, thrilling and terrifying all at once? How every gruff word, every lingering glance, every unspoken act of care felt like something delicate and fleeting, something you were too scared to hold for fear it might break.
“I don’t know,” you sighed finally, the weight of your own uncertainty pressing down on you. “He’s… hard to read.”
Maria tilted her head slightly, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Even Tommy sees it. He brought it up last night, said he’s never seen Joel like that before.”
Your hands stilled, trembling slightly as her words settled over you, heavy and unrelenting. “What exactly did Tommy say?” you asked, your voice quieter now, betraying the nerves prickling at your skin.
Maria’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk curving at the corners. “He said, ‘Joel’s actin’ like a damn fool,’” she said, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with something deeper. “And when I asked why, he just shook his head and said, ‘Because she’s got him wrapped around her little finger, and I don’t even think she knows it.’”
You inhaled sharply, the words twisting in your chest, warm and fragile and terrifying all at once. “Maria—”
“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Maria said gently, cutting off your fumbling attempt at a response as she brushed the dirt from her hands with deliberate care.
Her gaze softened, though her voice held a quiet firmness that left no room for doubt. “But let me say this—Joel Miller doesn’t look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
Maria paused, a small, knowing smile flickering across her lips. “I think you made him soft,” she added, her tone light but carrying a weight that landed squarely on your chest.
“When I’m around him,” you said softly, your gaze falling to the soil as the words slipped free before you could stop them. “I feel… safe. Like nothing could hurt me. Like he’d do anything to protect me.” You paused, your voice faltering as your chest tightened. “I’ve never—” you stammered, swallowing hard. “I’ve never felt like that before.”
Maria didn’t respond right away, letting the weight of your confession settle in the quiet space between you. Her sharpness softened, her expression shifting to something tender, almost maternal, as she studied you. Finally, she spoke, her voice low but firm, carrying a truth you weren’t ready to face.
“Sounds an awful lot like love to me,” she said, the words landing with the force of something undeniable, wrapping around you in a way that felt both comforting and terrifying.
You shook your head quickly, the denial automatic, but it felt hollow, a reflex you couldn’t fully believe. The truth sat heavy in your chest, unspoken but undeniable, like a secret that refused to stay buried. You loved him. You had for a while now—longer than you cared to admit, maybe longer than you even realized.
You loved him with a yearning so deep, it scared you. A love that felt raw and all-encompassing, a love you couldn’t hide even if you wanted to. You loved him, you loved him, you loved him—and it was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
“Maria,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, as if speaking too loud might give too much weight to the feelings you were barely holding together. “Every time we get close, he pulls away.” Your voice broke, a tear slipping down your cheek before you even realized it. “Sometimes… sometimes I feel like he’s about to say something, or do something, to show me he feels the same way. But then he flips, like none of it ever mattered.”
“That man’s been through more than most of us can even begin to understand,” Maria said, her voice quiet but carrying a conviction that struck deep. “But listen to me—this isn’t about you being a risk he’s too scared to take. You’re not some passing thing. You’re the one thing he’s terrified of losing.”
Her words hit like a punch to the chest, knocking loose something you’d been holding too tightly. Because deep down, you knew she was right. Joel had told you himself—the words I’d die for you still echoed in your mind, raw and unshakable, like a vow you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t ignore.
“The other night…” you began hesitantly, your fingers twisting nervously at the hem of your shirt. “He came over.”
Maria’s eyebrows shot up, her entire face lighting with intrigue as she leaned in closer, the teasing lilt in her voice unmistakable. “Do tell,” she urged, her grin already forming.
You winced, immediately regretting opening your mouth. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” you said quickly, holding up a hand as if to fend her off, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “He was just… making me dinner.”
Maria blinked, clearly caught off guard, before a slow, knowing smirk took over her face. “Just cooking you dinner?” she repeated, dragging the words out, every syllable dripping with disbelief. “Uh-huh. Because Joel Miller is the kind of guy who goes around playing chef for just anyone.”
Your face burned, and you groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
“No,” Maria said with a laugh, shaking her head, her grin widening. “I think you’re not making enough of it. So? What else happened?”
You hesitated, your teeth sinking into your lip as your hands fumbled aimlessly with the nearest seedling. “Well… I… I gave him a massage.”
Maria froze mid-motion, her hand hovering above the soil, her eyes widening as her jaw dropped. “You what?” she asked, her voice pitching higher, loud enough to make you wince.
“Maria, keep your voice down!” you hissed, your gaze darting toward the greenhouse door as though someone might be lurking just outside, ready to overhear.
Maria’s hand clamped over her mouth, but it did nothing to hide the glint in her eyes. She looked ready to burst. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she leaned in closer, her expression a mix of pure disbelief and delight. “Hold on. You gave him a massage? Like, with your hands? On his bare back? Oh my god—did he take his shirt off?”
The words sent your stomach into a spiral. You groaned, your face falling into your hands, wishing the soil beneath you would swallow you whole. “It wasn’t like that,” you muttered, your voice muffled. “He was sore from patrol, and I offered because he looked like he was in pain. That’s it.” You paused, knowing there was no way to escape the next part. “And, yes… he took his shirt off.”
Maria’s mouth dropped open before morphing into the widest grin you’d ever seen. She let out a delighted squeak, clapping her hands together like a kid who’d just been handed the world’s juiciest secret. “So let me get this straight,” she began, her tone exaggeratedly slow, like she was savoring every word. “Joel Miller—Mr. Grumpy, Mr. Lone Wolf, Mr. Don’t-Get-Too-Close—was shirtless in your house, letting you touch him? Are you hearing yourself right now?”
You threw your hands in the air, the flush on your face deepening. “It wasn’t a big deal!” you insisted, though your voice betrayed you, rising in pitch as the memory of the moment came rushing back. “He was in pain, Maria. Pain. I was just helping him out.”
Maria leaned back, her arms crossing as she gave you a knowing look. “Sure,” she said, drawing the word out with enough skepticism to make you want to crawl under the nearest seedling. “That’s why your face is bright red and you’re stammering like you just got caught sneaking out after curfew.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” you muttered, barely above a whisper. “He probably didn’t even think twice about it.”
Maria snorted, “Oh, he thought about it alright,” she said, her voice ringing with certainty, “Hell, he’s probably still thinking about it.”
Your head snapped up, your brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Maria grinned, leaning closer like she was about to share some grand secret. “You know, late at night.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, her words loaded with meaning.
Heat flooded your face as her insinuation brought a wave of memories you wished you could forget—Joel’s visible arousal, the way his pants had tightened at the crotch, the strategic placement of the pillow he’d used to conceal it. You swallowed hard, determined not to let those thoughts, or Maria’s teasing, derail you. There was no way she was hearing about that.
“Jesus, will you stop?” you nudged her arm, heat prickling up your neck as the implications of her statement hit you.
“You’re so ridiculous sometimes, you know that?” she said, shaking her head as though she couldn’t quite believe the sight of you sitting there, a mess of nerves and denial.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you shot back, though your voice wavered, and the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.
Maria leaned in, her elbows resting on her knees, her eyes sharp and glinting with mischief. “It means,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, like she was explaining something painfully obvious to a stubborn child, “that he was probably using every ounce of self-control not to flip you over on that couch right then and there.”
“Maria!” you hissed, her name bursting out of you, sharp and scandalized.
“What?” she said, feigning innocence as she gave a casual shrug. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. He’s a man, after all. And let’s be honest—Joel Miller probably hasn’t had a woman’s hands on him in years.”
You let out a heavy sigh, dragging your hands over your face in frustration. “Ugh, I don’t know, okay?” you mumbled, your voice muffled behind your palms. “I mean… if he did feel that way about me, wouldn’t he have done something by now? At least kissed me or—or something?”
The words slipped out in a rush, unguarded and raw, trailing into a whisper like they might disappear if you spoke them softly enough. But they didn’t disappear.
Instead, they hung in the air between you and Maria, heavy and unrelenting. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, pinned you like a butterfly under glass. Her voice, when it came, was gentle. “You really believe that?”
"Yeah," you murmured, the word brittle. "I mean… wouldn’t he? If he wanted to?”
"Sweetheart," Maria began, her tone steady but kind, "Joel Miller is the most stubborn, self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated man I’ve ever met. You really think he’s just gonna march up to you, bare his heart on a silver platter, and hope for the best? That’s not how he works.”
You frowned, shaking your head as frustration prickled hot at the back of your neck. “So what?” you asked, your voice sharper now, brittle around the edges. “He’s just… never gonna say anything? Never gonna do anything? I can’t just wait forever, Maria.”
“No,” she said gently, shaking her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is Joel’s spent most of his life believing that caring about someone—really caring—is a weakness. Something that gets you hurt or worse. And then you come along and, well…” She paused, her gaze warm and steady. “You make him feel things he thought he’d buried a long time ago. But that terrifies him, probably more than you realize. Because letting you in? That means tearing down walls he’s spent decades building. That means risking everything.”
Your voice came quieter now, uncertain and aching. “So… what am I supposed to do?” Your eyes found Maria’s again, searching her face for guidance, for answers, for something—anything—that might untangle the knot of doubt tightening in your chest.
“Be patient,” she said simply, her voice a balm to your frayed nerves. “Joel’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He knows exactly what you mean to him. He’s just gotta figure out how to stop fighting himself and let it happen. And when he does?” Her smile widened, turning sly as she gave your knee a light squeeze. “Trust me, it’s not gonna be some half-hearted thing. That man will move mountains for you. Hell, he already does.”
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Winnie’s steady gait beneath you was a quiet balm, each step rocking you gently as you tightened your hold around Joel’s waist. Your hands rested over his ribs, rising and falling with his even breaths, the rhythm anchoring you more than you cared to admit.
The world here felt almost untouched, too peaceful for its harsh reality. Overhead, the canopy swayed like a living thing, the leaves whispering secrets to the wind. A bird trilled somewhere in the distance, its song rippling through the stillness like a pebble dropped in glassy water. It felt like the kind of day you could bottle up and save for when the world grew too dark again.
“So,” you started, your voice light, teasing, as you broke the quiet. “You’re really gonna teach me to shoot a deer today?”
Joel’s head tilted just enough for you to catch the edge of his profile—sharp, rugged, softened by the glow of the sun. “That’s the idea,” he replied evenly, his drawl as familiar as the creak of the saddle beneath you. “Long as you listen to what I tell you.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “For once.”
You gasped, overly dramatic, smacking his shoulder lightly. “Hey, I do listen.”
Joel hummed, a low, skeptical sound, and you swore you could feel his lips twitching even though you couldn’t see them. The small, almost imperceptible sound made something inside you warm, like you’d just struck gold.
Truthfully, you’d been surprised when Joel had offered. You’d been at the stables after patrol, brushing Winnie down when he approached and casually suggested you join him the next morning. Hunting, he’d said, like it was the most natural thing in the world to ask.
“Well,” you sighed now, letting the moment stretch as you leaned your cheek lightly against his back, “don’t get your hopes up. I have a feeling we’ll head back empty-handed.”
“Don’t matter,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “Good to be out here. It’s nice. We’ll make it fun.”
You froze, pulling back, your brows lifted, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Uh, excuse me? Am I having a stroke?”
Joel’s shoulders stiffened immediately, and he glanced back at you, brow furrowed, his tone rough with instinctive gruffness. “What?”
“Joel Miller,” you said, barely able to keep your grin in check, “talking about fun?”
His exhale was short, just shy of a laugh. “You’re a pain,” he muttered, the words carrying no real heat as he turned his attention back to the path ahead.
You laughed, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it. It felt light and unburdened, a sound that didn’t belong in this harsh world but fit perfectly here, in this pocket of peace—where the trees swayed gently overhead and the sun filtered down to warm your face.
Joel didn’t say anything, but you could feel him relax in front of you, like the sound had smoothed out the edges of him, loosening a piece of the armor he always wore.
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Joel walked ahead, his steps deliberate, his boots barely making a sound. You followed, watching the subtle tilt of his head every so often as he listened for sounds you couldn’t pick up. He was watchful, always, as though the forest could turn on you at any second.
“Stay close,” he murmured over his shoulder, his gaze flicked to yours for a heartbeat before shifting back to the trail ahead.
You nodded, your own steps careful as you matched his pace. Twigs snapped faintly beneath your boots, the crunch of dried leaves mingling with the faint rustle of wind through the trees.
Joel stopped suddenly, his hand lifting to signal you to pause. You froze mid-step, holding your breath as he crouched low. Without a word, he gestured for you to do the same. You sank into a crouch beside him, the earth cool beneath your palms as you balanced yourself.
“There,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was barely a breath, the heat of it brushing your ear. You followed his line of sight, your heart stuttering as you spotted it—a deer, grazing in the clearing just ahead. Its coat gleamed in the broken sunlight, rich and golden, and its ears flicked lazily as it chewed on the grass, oblivious to the two of you watching.
Joel turned to you, his expression calm but focused, “We’ll take it slow,” he said, inching closer. The warmth of him followed, settling like a weight around you as he crouched beside you. He reached for the rifle, his movements slow and deliberate, before he settled you against a fallen log.
His touch was gentle but firm as he adjusted your position, “Here,” he murmured, the word soft enough to almost get lost in the hush of the forest. His hands covered yours, guiding the rifle into place with a patience that made your pulse quicken.
“You remember, don’t you?” Joel asked quietly, his voice a low hum at your ear. “Keep your grip loose. Just enough to hold it steady. Like we practiced.”
You nodded, swallowing hard as your heart stuttered under the weight of everything—the rifle in your hands, the quiet between you, the solid feel of him so close. He leaned in more, his breath ghosting against your cheek as he tilted your aim slightly.
The deer grazed peacefully in the clearing, its movements unhurried, and you let your focus fall there—tried to drown out the way your skin burned everywhere Joel touched.
“Now,” Joel murmured, his voice softer still. “Take a deep breath. Steady. Slow. You don’t rush this.”
You inhaled, deep and deliberate, the air cool against the tightness in your chest. Joel’s hands stayed on yours, steadying, grounding, and you found yourself focusing not just on the rifle but on him—the way his presence felt like an anchor.
Your finger hovered over the trigger. The weight of the moment settled over you, a knot of nerves and something more twisting deep in your chest. “What if I miss?” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them.
Joel didn’t hesitate. He leaned in closer, his voice steady and sure as if it held the power to undo every doubt in your head. “You won’t,” he said, the confidence in his tone like a balm. “You trust yourself. And you trust me.”
You blinked, your breath hitching as his words sank in. Joel didn’t pull away, his face still close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the rough timbre of his voice lingering like an echo.
“Breathe,” he reminded softly, the word curling through you like an unspoken promise.
You exhaled slowly, your shoulders relaxing under his touch as you centered your aim once more. Joel stayed still, his hands steadying yours—not pushing, not pulling, just there, like he always seemed to be when you needed him. The world felt smaller somehow, narrowed to just the two of you and the stillness of the forest.
You exhaled, slow and deliberate, your heart hammering in your chest. And then—click. The sharp crack of the rifle firing shattered the stillness, the deer collapsing instantly to the ground.
The forest went quiet again, as if it, too, were holding its breath. You stared, wide-eyed, your pulse thrumming in your ears as the reality of what you’d just done settled in.
Then Joel’s voice broke through, low and steady, laced with something proud. “Hell of a shot.”
You turned to him, chest heaving, a grin spreading across your face—wide, uncontainable. “I did it,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a rush of disbelief and elation. “Joel, I did it!”
His smile was small but real, softening the sharp lines of his face. Pride flickered in his eyes, a quiet warmth that made your heart stumble. “Knew you could,” he said, his voice gruff but gentle, like he’d never doubted you for a second.
Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in—quick, impulsive—pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was fleeting, barely more than a brush, but it was enough to make him freeze. The world around you seemed to pause, Joel going stock-still beneath your touch, his breath catching as if the smallest movement might shatter the moment.
“Thank you,” you murmured softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. The words carried the weight of more than just this one moment, more than just a lesson with a rifle. “For helping me. For—” You hesitated, your voice faltering under the way he was looking at you. “For everything.”
Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something there—something soft and unguarded that he rarely let slip. His eyes darted away for the briefest second, a faint blush creeping up his neck and dusting his cheeks.
“Uh—yeah,” he muttered, clearing his throat as his hand went to the back of his neck. “You’re… you’re welcome.”
The gruff awkwardness of it pulled a laugh from you, light and unrestrained, cutting through the tension like a sunbeam breaking through the trees. Joel Miller—this man who stared down raiders and infected with unflinching calm—was blushing because of you.
He began to rise, his hand already extended to help you up so you could see your catch, but you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm.
“Wait,” you murmured, your voice quiet but sure. He stilled instantly, his gaze flicking to yours. Slowly, you set the rifle aside, your movements careful, deliberate. Then, you shifted, turning over to rest your head against the log, your eyes lifting to the canopy above.
The trees towered above you, their branches swaying lazily in the breeze, sunlight filtering through in golden streaks that dappled the forest floor. It was a moment that felt too perfect to disrupt, too rare to let slip away.
“Lay with me,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper, but the words carried weight, a quiet invitation that hung between you.
For a moment, he hesitated, and you thought he might pull back—say it was getting late or that you were being silly. But he didn’t.
Instead, Joel obliged with a quiet groan, sinking down beside you. He stretched out, his head coming to rest just near yours, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of him. His eyes followed yours to the canopy above, where the trees swayed gently, their leaves rustling in a soft, rhythmic whisper.
You stayed quiet for a while, letting the hum of the woods fill the spaces between breaths. Joel’s shoulder brushed yours with each small shift, a touch so faint it almost didn’t count—but it did.
“I have a question,” you murmured, your voice barely above the whisper of the wind through the trees.
Joel hummed softly, a low sound that felt like an invitation, steady and patient, as if he’d wait forever for you to ask.
You hesitated, teeth catching the inside of your cheek, unsure why your heart suddenly felt too big for your chest. “What was your first impression of me?”
Joel chuckled, the sound rough and warm, a quiet rumble that sent a shiver through you. You could feel his gaze shift toward you, even as you kept your eyes fixed on the swaying branches above. “First impression?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar, low drawl.
“Mhm,” you replied, your lips curving faintly as you tried to sound casual, though your chest tightened in anticipation.
“Let’s see…” He dragged the words out like he was savoring them. “Lazy,” he started, his tone laced with teasing. “Chatterbox. Stubborn as hell.”
Your head snapped toward him, and before you could think better of it, you swatted his arm. “Hey! Be serious,” you protested, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
Joel smirked, rubbing the spot like you’d actually hurt him, though his eyes had softened in that way they sometimes did when he wasn’t guarding himself so tightly.
“Alright, alright,” he relented, the teasing slipping away as he leaned back a little, his gaze drifting somewhere far off, like he was digging through memories he hadn’t let himself touch in a while. “I remember Tommy talkin’ about you before we were first partnered for patrol. Said you were a nice kid. Reliable. Good to have around in a pinch.”
He paused, his words settling into the quiet between you. You might have teased him for calling you a “kid” if it weren’t for the way his voice shifted then—lower, steadier, like he was choosing his words with care.
“But then… then I got to know you, and you’re... a hell of a lot more than that.”
“You’re a good girl,” he murmured, the words soft but heavy, landing squarely in your chest and taking the air right out of you. His voice dipped lower, roughened by something real, something unguarded. “Sweet… even when the world tried to take that from you. Didn’t let it. That’s somethin’.”
He let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his face like the next words were harder to admit. “You’re tough. Know how to stand your ground. Don’t let anyone push you around. But you’ve got…” His voice faltered, a slight hitch in his breath. “You’ve got a good heart. And that’s rare. You don’t see that much anymore.”
He turned his head toward you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you,” he murmured, his voice low and weighted with sincerity. “You’re... different.”
“Different?” you whispered, your breath catching.
“Special,” he replied, the word lingering in the air like a quiet confession.
The weight of his words settled over you, pressing against your chest in a way that made it hard to breathe. You blinked up at the sky, pretending the ache you felt was just from the cool air brushing against your skin. You didn’t trust yourself to speak—not now, not when your voice would betray everything you weren’t ready to admit.
Joel shifted beside you, clearing his throat like the moment had gotten too heavy for him too. “’Course, you still talk too damn much,” he muttered, his voice gruff, but it lacked the sharp edge of his usual teasing.
You didn’t swat him this time. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, the space filled with nothing but the sound of the forest and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you. Your shoulders brushed again, and this time you didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
"What did you…" Joel started, his voice low and halting, like he was pulling the words up from some place deep inside. He paused, his throat working as he forced the rest out. “What did you think about me?”
You blinked, his question catching you off guard. Joel Miller, asking what you thought about him. The man who could silence a room with a look, who walked through life with his walls so high you were sure no one could climb them.
And now, here he was, his voice so quiet and uncertain it felt like the wind could carry it away. It was so uncharacteristic, so achingly vulnerable, it made your chest feel like it was splintering under the weight of it.
He stayed still beside you, his gaze fixed upward on the swaying trees, but you could feel the tension in him, as though the question alone had cost him more than he was willing to admit.
You swallowed hard, searching for the right words. A soft laugh escaped you, unsteady and a little raw, the memory rushing in before you could stop it.
“I remember Maria warning me before our first patrol,” you said, your voice light but tinged with something deeper. “She told me, ‘He’ll probably ignore you, or say something that might hurt your feelings—but that’s just Joel.’” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and he let out a huff of air through his nose, shaking his head like he’d heard that before.
“And sure,” you continued, your tone softening, “the first few times, we didn’t talk much. You kept your distance, and I figured that was just who you were. But you weren’t mean. Not once. Never did anything to hurt my feelings. If anything…” You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “If anything, you were… thoughtful.”
“You let me eat half your food,” you said, your lips curving into a soft, wistful smile as you held his gaze. “You carried my pack even when I argued with you about it.” A quiet laugh escaped you, though it trembled under the weight of your emotions. “And you… you brought me a damn Christmas tree.”
Your smile faltered, the ache of those moments flooding through you—the quiet, selfless things he did without ever needing to say why.
Each one was tucked away in your heart, little treasures you’d clung to, but now they came crashing down all at once, sharp and overwhelming.
You loved him. God, you loved him. And all you wanted to do was tell him.
Your voice wavered, trembling as you pressed on, your chest tightening with every word. “You… you make me dinner. You bring me firewood when it’s cold, even when I don’t ask. You…” Your breath hitched, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut. “You take care of me, Joel. In a way no one ever has.”
You swallowed hard, the words I love you hovering on the edge of your lips, too fragile to speak but too real to ignore.
The silence between you stretched on, heavy and endless, the weight of what you’d just confessed hanging in the air like the low hum of the wind through the trees. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, each beat loud and uneven, as though it was trying to drown out the unbearable quiet.
For a moment, you thought you’d said too much, crossed an invisible line, shattered something that could never be put back together. And then, just as the ache of it became too much to bear, something warm and rough brushed against your palm.
You didn’t have to look down to know what it was.
Joel’s hand, strong and calloused, slid into yours with a gentleness that stole the breath from your lungs. His fingers intertwined with yours, hesitantly at first, as though he wasn’t sure you’d let him stay. But when you didn’t pull away, when your hand instinctively curled tighter around his, his grip steadied, solid and unyielding, like it was exactly where it belonged.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared to speak. The tension, the quiet, was no longer unbearable—like the spark of something long denied, long overdue. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at you; both of you kept your eyes fixed on the swaying branches above, as if the fragile balance between you would shatter if either of you broke the spell.
The warmth of his hand seeped into you, grounding you, anchoring you to the moment. It wasn’t just a touch—it was an admission, a promise, a vulnerability he’d never offered anyone else. Joel Miller, who had spent years building walls so high no one could breach them, had just let you in. And it was enough to make your heart ache in the most devastating, beautiful way.
You lay there together, the forest whispering around you, the sky shifting above. His thumb brushed your skin, almost imperceptibly, as though he couldn’t stop himself, as though he needed to remind himself you were still there.
And you stayed like that, wordless, motionless, the world around you slipping away until there was nothing but him, and the way his hand fit perfectly into yours.
₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊
The ride back to Jackson was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. The sound of Winnie’s hooves hitting the dirt was familiar and steady beneath you, grounding in a way that felt almost intimate. Your arms were wrapped around Joel’s waist, and though the cool evening breeze brushed against your skin, the warmth radiating from him was enough to chase it away.
Joel was the first to break the silence, his voice low and soft, meant only for you. “Told you you could do it,” he said, and there was a thread of pride in his tone, so pure it made your chest ache. “Your shootin’s gotten real good.”
The words sent a blush rushing to your cheeks, and you were grateful he couldn’t see the way you were smiling like a fool behind him. “That so?” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t answer right away, and the pause felt heavier than it should have. Then, without warning, his hand left the reins and covered yours where they were clasped around his waist. His touch was steady, deliberate—a quiet reassurance that made your heart stumble over itself.
“Steady hands,” he murmured, his voice even softer now. “Steady heart.” His hand lingered there for just a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
Your heart was thundering now, and you were sure he could feel it where your chest pressed lightly against his back. You let your cheek rest against him, the worn leather of his jacket cool beneath your skin. “Guess I had a good teacher,” you said, your voice quiet but certain, the words carrying everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say outright.
Joel let out a huff of air—a sound that might’ve passed for a laugh if it weren’t so gentle. You felt the rumble of it beneath your cheek, a low vibration that seemed to settle into your very bones. “That right?” he said gruffly, but there was no edge to it, only something soft and unspoken.
The silence stretched on, soft and comfortable, broken only by the steady rhythm of Winnie’s hooves against the dirt. The world felt small out here, just the two of you and the trail ahead, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“What were you like as a kid?” you asked, your voice soft, almost hesitant, like you were stepping carefully into a part of him he rarely shared.
Joel didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you thought maybe he wouldn’t. But then his voice came, low and thoughtful, “Grew up in Texas,” he said. “Spent most of my time outside. Fishin’, climbin’ trees, gettin’ into trouble with Tommy.”
You smiled at the thought, the image of a younger Joel flashing in your mind—sun-kissed and wide-eyed, a boy too good for the world he’d been handed. “Were you the troublemaker?” you asked, teasing, but there was a softness in your tone.
Joel let out a huff, more breath than laugh, but warm all the same. “Nah,” he said, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice. “That was Tommy. Always gettin’ himself in a mess. I was the one cleanin’ up after him. Still am, come to think of it.”
The corner of your mouth tugged upward, and you shook your head lightly, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sounds like you had your hands full,” you said, your voice laced with quiet amusement. “But it doesn’t sound like a bad way to grow up.”
“Could’ve been worse,” he said simply.
“And you were in construction, right?” you asked, your tone light, almost cautious, as if not wanting to disrupt the delicate quiet between you.
“Yeah,” he said. “Took on whatever jobs I could—houses, repairs, sometimes just fixin’ fences. Wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. Made sure Sarah had what she needed.”
There was something in the way he said her name, a warmth that softened the rough edges of his voice. It made your chest tighten, the weight of everything he’d carried alone for so long pressing against you. “Sounds like you worked hard for her,” you said softly, your words laced with admiration you didn’t bother hiding.
Joel glanced back at you briefly, his dark eyes catching the fading light of the trail. For just a second, his expression softened, the lines on his face easing. “Had to,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “She deserved that much.”
“And were you,” you started, hesitating for a moment as the words danced on the edge of your tongue. You glanced at the back of his head, at the way his shoulders shifted subtly with the rhythm of the horse. “Were you married?”
Joel’s posture stiffened at your question, just for a heartbeat, before he let out a quiet breath. “No,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “Well… divorced.”
“Oh,” you murmured, the word soft, instinctive. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly wishing he could see you nod, as if it might somehow convey the understanding you didn’t quite know how to voice.
You hesitated, unsure whether to press further, but the curiosity wouldn’t let you stop. “And after the outbreak?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
It felt like uncharted territory—dangerous, intimate. You and Joel didn’t talk about relationships. Hell, you hardly talked about the past at all, and now here you were, asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted the answers to. Or maybe you did.
Joel shifted slightly in the saddle, his shoulders tightening under your arms. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off, deflect the way he so often did. But then his voice came, quieter than before, weighted with a kind of honesty that made your chest ache. “No one after that,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, like he’d been carrying them alone for too long. “Didn’t have the time. Didn’t see much point.”
Relief washed over you, unexpected and sharp, mingled with something darker, something you didn’t want to examine too closely.
You weren’t sure why you wanted him to say no—why the thought of someone else knowing him the way you did, maybe even more, made your chest tighten.
It wasn’t fair, but you couldn’t help it. You didn’t want anyone to know Joel like you did, to see the cracks in his armor he let you glimpse, the moments of tenderness he seemed to reserve just for you.
“Some of us just… don’t get second chances. That’s all,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was speaking more to the shadows of his past than to you.
Some of us don’t get second chances.
The phrase knocked the breath from your lungs, a sudden, raw ache blooming in your chest. Your heart stuttered at the thought—the idea that he believed that.
That Joel, with his quiet strength and steady hands, thought himself unworthy of something so simple, so human. The idea of him carrying that weight, that belief, settled in your bones, cold and sharp.
You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to reach into the silence and pull him back, tell him he deserved more than he could ever imagine. But the words caught in your throat, tangled in the unspoken feelings you weren’t ready to say out loud.
Because the truth was, you wanted to be his second chance. You wanted to be his, in every way that mattered. You wanted to show him that even in a world as broken as this one, he was still worthy of love and light and everything he’d spent so long denying himself.
“What about you?” Joel asked suddenly, his voice breaking through the stillness. He glanced back, just enough for you to catch the flicker of something in his eyes. Vulnerability, curiosity, maybe even hope. “You got someone waitin’ out there?”
The question sounded casual, almost offhanded, but you felt the weight beneath it—the way his words carried something deeper, something braced. Like he was preparing himself for whatever answer you might give, steeling himself for a name that wasn’t his. Boyfriend. Husband. Someone—anyone—out there waiting for you.
Your breath hitched, and you blinked, your brows lifting in surprise. A soft, startled laugh escaped before you could stop it, not because the question was funny, but because it was him asking. Him, who never asked things like this. Him, who you never thought would.
“Me?” you repeated, your voice higher, breathless with something you couldn’t quite place.
Joel’s shoulders stiffened slightly, his posture betraying the casualness his words tried to feign. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, rougher. “You. Someone back home, or… someone out there?”
You could see it then, how much he wanted you to say no, how much he needed you to say no. The thought made your chest ache, the quiet yearning in his question making your throat tighten. You shook your head, slow and deliberate, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “No,” you said simply, your voice low, steady, but tinged with something you couldn’t hide. “There’s no one.”
Joel’s shoulders eased—just slightly, just enough for you to notice—and the sound that left him was little more than a hum, low and thoughtful. “No one, huh,” he murmured after a moment, the words quiet, like he was turning them over in his mind. Then, softer, almost to himself, he added, “I find that hard to believe.”
Your heart stopped for a beat, the words sinking into your chest like a stone dropped into still water. The quiet conviction in his tone, the way he said it like it wasn’t a compliment but a fact, left you breathless.
“Why’s that?” you asked, your voice quieter now, a whisper carried on the soft afternoon air.
Joel hesitated, his hands shifting slightly on the reins. “A girl like you,” he began, his voice low, unsteady in a way that made your pulse quicken. “Could have anyone.” He shrugged, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “You’ve practically got all the boys in Jackson lined up. Toby. That Levi guy.”
You shut your eyes, shaking your head in frustration at how blind he was—how this man, so steady, so stubborn, couldn’t see that you loved him with every fiber of your being.
Slowly, carefully, your arms tightened around his waist, the movement deliberate, your grip firm as though you could somehow hold him together in a way no one else ever had. A secret message in your touch—silent, desperate, saying all the things you didn’t know how to put into words.
“I don’t want just anyone,” you said, your voice quiet but steady, trembling only slightly with the rawness of it. The words carried every unspoken truth you’d kept hidden, tucked away in the quiet spaces between your moments together.
You didn’t know if he’d understand—not fully—but you had to try. You had to give him this, even if it was just enough to plant the seed of something he’d been too blind to see.
Joel’s breath hitched, sharp and sudden, the sound cutting through the tension like a lightning strike. You felt it under your cheek where it rested against his back, the way his ribs rose and fell in a shallow, uneven rhythm. He didn’t speak—didn’t turn or shift—but the tension in his shoulders gave him away, his body betraying everything his words wouldn’t.
You let your eyes drift closed, the warmth of Joel’s back beneath your cheek grounding you, his presence steady in a way that made your heart ache. Winnie’s sure, rhythmic pace felt like it could carry you both away from the world, from everything, into a place that was just this. Just him.
I could stay here forever, you thought, the words unspoken but so loud in your chest it almost hurt. My cheek against his back. My heartbeat pressed into his spine. Safe.
The silence stretched, soft and full, until the thought finally broke free, escaping as a murmur that carried with it something raw and fragile as you spoke, “I think we would’ve gotten along back then.”
“I think we would’ve too.”
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
It was Christmas Eve.
You perched on the edge of Maria’s kitchen counter, swinging your legs idly as she moved around the room, her hands busy but her sharp gaze flicking to you now and then.
A Christmas hat dangled precariously on your head—your Christmas hat, patched together from mismatched scraps scavenged over the past few weeks on patrols with Joel. The red fabric had come from a faded curtain in a half-collapsed house, and the fleece trim? From an old jacket no one could use. The stitching was uneven, one side slumping more than the other, but it had heart.
Joel had never asked about it. Not outright. He’d just given you those raised eyebrows of his, paired with that low mutter—“Don’t know what the hell you’re plannin’ on doin’ with that.” And yet, not once did he stop you from stuffing another scrap into your pack.
Maria glanced at you as she slid a bowl of something fragrant onto the counter. “So,” she said casually, a smirk already tugging at her lips, “how was shooting with your man?”
“Oh my god,” you said, your voice rushing out in a flustered tumble. “He’s not my man.”
Maria leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms as her smirk widened, sharp and teasing. “Yeah,” she said lightly, dragging out the words, “but you’re almost there, though.”
You opened your mouth to shoot back some half-hearted denial, but instead, a soft sigh escaped. The fight left you before it even started. “It was sweet,” you admitted, almost to yourself, the edges of your lips curling into a small, unbidden smile. “He’s… sweet.”
The memory of him holding your hand lingered, unshakable.
You wouldn’t tell Maria that, though. No way. She’d have a field day with it.
“You’re in loooove,” she sang, dragging out the word like it was some cosmic revelation.
Your jaw dropped, heat flushing your face as you scrambled for anything, anything, to shut her up. “I—”
Nope. Nothing.
So, you did the next best thing. Reaching over to her cutting board, you snatched up a slice of carrot and popped it into your mouth before she could stop you. “Whatever,” you said around the crunch, waving her off as if her words hadn’t just hit you square in the chest.
“Hey! That’s for dinner,” Maria scolded, her tone caught somewhere between irritation and amusement as she shot you a sharp look.
“Relax, you’ve got like fifty more,” you said, waving a hand toward the mountain of chopped vegetables she’d already prepped.
“Yeah, and I’m counting on you to ruin at least ten of those by sneaking bites,” she quipped, her knife hovering over the cutting board as she gave you a mock glare. “Seriously, get out of my kitchen. I’ve got enough to worry about without you slowing me down.”
“I’m here to help,” you protested, raising your hands in exaggerated surrender, your grin refusing to fade. “I could chop something. Or, like… boil water? I’m a multi-talented individual.”
Maria snorted, her eyebrow arching skeptically. “Oh, sure. And if I wanted someone to set the kitchen on fire, I’d call Tommy.” She waved her knife at you for emphasis, her smirk cutting through the threat. “Go. Living room. Now.”
“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, sliding off the counter with an exaggerated slump of your shoulders. “But for the record, this is the last time I offer my expertise to this household.”
Maria didn’t even look up, her focus already back on the cutting board. “Expertise,” she muttered under her breath with a scoff. “God help us all.”
As you shuffled toward the doorway, dragging your feet for maximum effect, you couldn’t help but shoot a glance over your shoulder, your grin widening as Maria flicked a stray piece of carrot in your direction without looking. You caught it midair, popping it into your mouth with a crunch that echoed defiantly through the kitchen.
“Living room!” she barked, her voice sharp but laced with unmistakable warmth.
“Going, going,” you called back, retreating into the next room with a laugh, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks.
“Hello, baby,” you murmured as the living room couch came into view, the words half a sigh of longing. It practically called your name, and you didn’t hesitate, flopping onto it with all the grace of a potato sack. A groan escaped you, muffled by the cushion as you sprawled out, one arm draped dramatically over your eyes.
For a moment, you stared at the clock on the wall. 4 p.m. Two whole hours until dinner. Two hours until Tommy and Joel got back from patrol. Two hours of absolutely nothing to do but wait—and wasn’t that just the most unbearable stretch of time?
“Maria!” you called out, your voice loud enough to carry back to the kitchen.
“What?” came her sharp reply, tinged with her usual exasperation, followed by the rhythmic chop of her knife against the cutting board.
“Can I take a nap?” you asked, drawing the words out in a mock plea for permission, even as you settled deeper into the cushions.
There was a pause. You heard her muttering, low and unmistakable, and you caught just enough to know she’d said something like “lazy ass.”
You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Love you too!” you called back, but you didn’t bother waiting for her retort. Sleep was already pulling you under, warm and heavy, the couch a cocoon against the fading afternoon light.
Whatever meddling Maria had planned for the evening—whatever teasing or remarks or too-knowing smiles she had up her sleeve—it could wait. Joel would be back soon, and for now, that was enough.
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
You woke with someone poking your face. Actually poking your cheek.
Your eyelids fluttered open, the haze of sleep blurring your vision as you struggled to make sense of the looming figure above you. It was Joel, his hand hovering suspiciously close to your face, like he was about to do it again.
“You drool when you sleep,” he said plainly, his voice gravelly and low.
“Joel?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep, your mind still caught between dreams and the dim reality of the room.
“No, it’s Santa,” he replied dryly, a faint flicker of amusement in his tone as he stepped back and crossed his arms.
You pushed yourself upright, blinking around the room to find the clock. The arms of the clock stared back at you: 6:15 PM.
“How was patrol?” you asked, your voice soft and thick with sleep as you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, still trying to shake off the lingering haze.
Joel chuckled, the sound low and warm, sending a quiet thrill through you despite yourself. He dropped heavily onto the couch beside you, his weight making the cushions sag. His arms stretched out across the back of the couch, his posture relaxed but his presence anything but. You shifted instinctively, making room for him.
“Fine,” he said with a shrug, his voice as casual as ever. But there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes as he added, “Though we got things done faster ‘cause you weren’t there yappin’ my ear off.”
“Please,” you huffed, throwing him a look as you leaned back into the couch, trying to ignore how close his arm was to brushing your shoulder. “You love it.”
Joel shrugged again, feigning nonchalance, but his lips twitched upward in a faint, unguarded smile.
“Can’t believe you were sleepin’,” Joel muttered, tilting his head toward you, his voice thick with a faint yawn. “Shouldn’t you be helpin’ Maria?”
You groaned, leaning your head back against the couch, letting your frustration bleed into an exaggerated pout. “She practically kicked me out of the kitchen,” you muttered, your voice laced with mock indignation.
Joel turned his head, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, how’d I forget? Can shoot a man dead, but can’t even bake a potato.”
You snorted, rolling your eyes as heat flushed your cheeks. Without thinking, you reached for the nearest pillow, brandishing it like a weapon. “Ha-ha. Very funny,” you shot back, tossing it at him with little care for accuracy.
The pillow bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, and to your surprise, Joel laughed—a real laugh, deep and unguarded, rumbling low in his chest. It wasn’t something you heard often, and the sound caught you off guard, striking something tender inside you. You wanted to freeze the moment, hold it tight, and keep it for all the days when he felt a million miles away.
When the laughter faded, a quiet calm settled over the room. Comfortable, warm, and charged with something you couldn’t name. Joel’s dark eyes lingered on you, softer than you’d seen in a long time, his smirk mellowing into a faint, almost shy smile.
You felt yourself staring back, your lips curving into an answering smile before you could even think about it. There was something about him like this—unguarded, at ease—that made your chest ache, your breath hitching before you caught it.
He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his lap for a moment before returning to you. “You’ve got—” Joel chuckled, pausing mid-sentence like he was trying to stop himself. But then he reached over, his fingers brushing against your lip, and your heart stuttered.
“Drool,” he said, his voice low, tinged with something you couldn’t quite pin down. “All over your damn face, you silly girl.”
His touch was fleeting, so light it might’ve been nothing, but it left sparks in its wake, the warmth of his fingers lingering long after he pulled away.
Joel leaned back, shaking his head like he was fighting off a grin, but you caught it—the quiet fondness in the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.
For a moment, it was just the two of you. The world outside the living room melted away, leaving nothing but the low hum of the fire, the faint scent of Maria’s cooking drifting in from the kitchen, and the feeling swelling between you.
“Dinner’s ready!” Maria’s voice rang out from the kitchen, cutting through the quiet like a sharp blade, snapping the two of you back to reality.
Joel’s hand, which had lingered just a second too long near your mouth, dropped abruptly, as if he’d only just realized it was there. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and awkward, his gaze darting away from yours. “Better get movin’,” he muttered, his tone gruff, like he was trying to pull himself together.
He pushed himself up from the couch, his movements stiff and purposeful, tugging at the hem of his jacket like he needed something—anything—to do with his hands.
You stayed where you were, watching him as your heart thudded in your chest, the warmth of his touch still ghosting over your skin.
“C’mon,” he said, softer now. “Maria’ll have my head if we’re late.”
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
The dining room was warm, cozy in the way only Maria could make it. The table was set with care, adorned with steaming bowls of vegetables, a mound of golden mashed potatoes, a basket of fresh bread, and little details that made the world outside feel miles away.
“Maria, this looks incredible,” you said as you pulled out your chair, the scent of everything making your stomach rumble.
Maria smirked, hands on her hips as she surveyed the table with satisfaction. “Look how much work I got done without you sneaking bites of my veggies,” she teased, her eyes twinkling as she shot you a playful glare.
“You’re a naughty one,” Tommy quipped, his grin wide as he turned to Maria, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself, baby.”
Joel slid into the chair across from you, the scrape of wood against the floor almost lost in the hum of conversation. His gaze caught yours for just a beat—a quiet, fleeting connection—before he looked away, his attention falling to the food in front of him.
“So,” Tommy began, already reaching for the bread as if he hadn’t eaten in days, “Joel and I had quite the day on patrol.”
Joel huffed, his lips tugging into a wry smirk as he leaned back slightly in his chair. “If by ‘quite the day,’ you mean you spent half of it yappin’ and the other half tripping over your own damn feet, then yeah, sure.”
The comment drew a laugh from your lips. Joel’s gaze flicked toward you again, his eyes catching yours, and for a moment, his expression softened.
Tommy, oblivious as ever, was already grinning smugly as he tore into a piece of bread, slathering it with butter. “Hey, I didn’t hear you complainin’ when I saved your ass from that clicker,” he shot back, wagging the bread at Joel like a weapon.
Joel leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. “I had that under control,” he said gruffly, his voice carrying just enough edge to hold back Tommy’s teasing.
Tommy barked a laugh, clearly enjoying himself, but the word clicker lodged itself in your chest like a thorn. The lighthearted chatter around you blurred into static as the weight of the word pulled your attention elsewhere. Your fork froze midair, the food on your plate forgotten as your gaze snapped to Joel.
“Clicker?” you asked, your voice soft but taut with concern, your brows furrowing as your chest tightened. All the humor drained from your face, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Your eyes searched his, desperate for assurance, for some unspoken promise that everything was fine.
Joel’s jaw tightened as he saw the worry etched into your expression. “Yeah,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low and steady, smoothing the jagged edges of the truth. “Just one. It was alone. Nothin’ we couldn’t handle.”
His gaze locked onto yours then, steady and insistent, and the intensity of it made your heart falter. It wasn’t just words he was giving you; it was something more—a silent plea for you to believe him, to let him carry this so you wouldn’t have to.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” he added, his tone softer now, like he was trying to calm the storm he knew was already brewing in your mind. Joel wasn’t good at words, not when it came to things like this, but the way he leaned slightly forward, his shoulders tense, told you he felt it—the weight of your fear, your worry.
God, he thought, looking at you, his own chest tightening at the way you seemed to fold into yourself, worry so plainly written on your face. If he were half the man he wished he was, he’d reach across the table, take your hand, and kiss that fear right out of you. He’d tell you, I’ve got you, and make you believe it.
But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. Instead, his hand hovered over the table for a split second, as if it might defy him, before retreating to his lap.
You nodded slowly, but the tightness in your chest refused to ease. The weight of Joel’s words lingered, heavy and uneasy, the thought of him—your Joel—that close to danger settling like a stone beneath your ribs. “Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your napkin.
“I’m fine,” he said at last, his voice softer now, almost tentative. His eyes, though, carried the weight of a promise, silent but firm: I’m fine. I won’t let anything happen to me. Not when it would hurt you.
The moment stretched between you, filled with something unspoken but undeniable, before Tommy, blissfully oblivious to the tension, jumped back in with a teasing grin. “Yeah, well, I’m the one who made sure he stayed that way,” he said, tearing into another piece of bread with all the smugness in the world.
“Anyways,” Tommy said, undeterred, turning his full attention to you with his mouth still half-full of bread. “Joel was tellin’ me you shot a damn deer. That true, darlin’?”
Your cheeks warmed instantly, the heat spreading down your neck as you ducked your head. You nudged the peas on your plate with the tines of your fork, suddenly unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “Yeah,” you mumbled, biting your lip. “But Joel basically did all the work.”
“Not true,” Joel cut in, his voice steady and firm, leaving no room for argument. He set his utensils down and leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “She did it all herself,” he said, his tone softening, a quiet pride lacing every word. “Too modest for her own good, as always. She lined up the shot, kept steady, and didn’t flinch—not once. Clean hit, too. Not many folks can say they’ve got that kind of aim, especially their first time.”
Your cheeks burned hotter under his praise, and you dared a glance up, only to find him still watching you, his expression warm and earnest. “Really impressed me,” Joel added, his voice dropping slightly, almost as if the words were meant just for you. “Takes guts to do what she did. Can’t teach that. She’s a natural.”
Tommy let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, damn,” he said, grinning. “Sounds like you’ve got some real competition now, Joel.”
Joel didn’t even glance at Tommy, his focus still entirely on you. “She’s better than I ever was,” he said simply, the honesty in his tone making your heart ache in the best possible way.
Tommy let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with an appreciative nod. His gaze flicked between the two of you, a teasing glint in his eye, but for once, he didn’t say anything about it. “Well, I’ll be damned. Good job, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm, the smile he gave you full of pride.
You glanced up, catching Joel’s expression as he reached for his drink. His eyes lingered on you, softer than you’d ever seen, a quiet pride flickering in their depths. That’s my girl, you could almost hear him think, though the words never left his lips.
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
After dinner, the group drifted into the living room, the gentle crackle of the fire glowing steadily in the hearth lulling everyone into a comfortable rhythm.
Tommy and Maria claimed the couch closest to the flames, their silhouettes bathed in the warm amber light.
You lay sprawled out on the floor, propped up on your elbows, your feet swaying idly behind you as you flipped through an old scavenged recipe book Tommy had brought back for Maria on patrol. The room seemed to hum with an easy warmth, the golden light catching on the strands of tinsel Maria had strung up earlier in the week.
Across from you, Joel sat on the far couch, his posture deceptively relaxed, though the way his fingers curled around the glass of whiskey betrayed a quiet tension. The amber liquid swirled lazily as he tilted it in his hand, but his attention wasn’t on the drink—it was on you. You didn’t have to look up to confirm it; you could feel his gaze, steady and unwavering, burning into you with an intensity that made your skin prickle and your heartbeat quicken.
You swallowed hard, trying—and failing—to ignore the weight of his eyes, the way they seemed to see through every wall you’d so carefully constructed. Instead, you focused on the firelight dancing across the room, on the warm crackle of the wood burning low in the hearth, on the worn fabric of the book in your lap that you hadn’t turned a page of in far too long. Anything but him.
But it was impossible. He was impossible to ignore. His face, slightly pink from the fire’s glow and the remnants of the day’s sun, was achingly familiar yet disarmingly softened in this moment. His dark lashes, impossibly long, fluttered with every slow blink, as though time moved differently for him. You caught yourself wondering if he was thinking about you—or if he already knew you were thinking about him.
“Okay,” you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable lull in the room, your voice a touch too bright, betraying the nervous energy humming beneath the surface. You sat up straighter, tucking your legs beneath you, your arms crossing behind your back in a small, self-conscious gesture. “I have a surprise for everyone.”
Maria tilted her head, a flicker of curiosity lighting up her eyes. She raised a single brow, her tone a mix of intrigue and caution. “A surprise?” she echoed, drawing the word out like she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.
“You’re pregnant!” Tommy blurted out, a mischievous grin splitting his face as he leaned back, clearly pleased with his own joke.
“Tommy,” Joel said sharply, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade. The single word carried enough weight to make his brother immediately hold up his hands in mock surrender.
You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, crawling up your neck and settling there as a stubborn flush. But you didn’t look back, didn’t dare meet anyone’s gaze, least of all Joel’s. Instead, you crouched near the corner, your fingers diving into the bag you’d carefully stashed earlier. The familiar texture of the fabric met your fingertips, grounding you as you grasped it.
You turned back to your bag and pulled out the Christmas hats you had made for everyone, holding them up triumphantly with a grin that spread from ear to ear. “Ta-da!”
Maria’s eyes widened, and then her hand shot to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, God, you made more,” she said, though the amusement in her voice betrayed her words.
“Damn right I did,” you replied, your grin unstoppable as you shook out the cascade of red and white fabric, the soft material spilling over your arms like a dramatic reveal.
Tommy leaned forward, squinting at the hats like they were a personal insult. “Sorry, darlin’, but those are some ugly-ass hats.”
“Hey!” you shot back, clutching the fabric like they were precious cargo. “They’re not just hats.” You pointed a finger at him, your grin growing wider. “They’re Christmas hats. Festive, delightful, and mandatory.”
Before Tommy could even open his mouth to protest, you strode toward him and plopped one onto his head with an exaggerated flourish. The pom-pom flopped to one side, the whole thing slightly askew, and yet it was perfect—perfectly ridiculous.
“Maria, help me out here,” Tommy groaned, gesturing toward his head with his free hand like the hat was some great injustice.
Maria shook her head, her own laughter soft and warm. “Sorry, honey, but I think it suits you.”
You turned to Maria, handing her a smaller hat trimmed with red velvet and gold ribbon. “And this one’s for you.”
“Gosh,” she murmured, her tone half-teasing, half-genuine. “You shouldn’t have. Really—you shouldn’t have.”
Next, you turned to Joel. He was watching you.
The weight of his gaze was heavy, grounding, and it stole the breath right out of your lungs. Your steps faltered for a heartbeat, the oversized Christmas hat clutched tighter in your hands like it could shield you from the way his eyes bore into you.
The walk to the couch stretched longer than it should have, each step carrying the ghost of that night—the night of spin-the-bottle.
The memory slammed into you unbidden, vivid and searing: the heat of Joel’s lap beneath you, the solid weight of his thighs pressing against your own. You could still feel it, the way his breath had mingled with yours, warm and shallow, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own. You’d been so close. His breath had ghosted against your skin, and for one fleeting second, you’d thought—hoped—he’d kiss you.
“What you got for me, darlin’?” Joel’s voice broke through the haze, low and rough, his drawl curling around you like smoke. It was quiet, meant just for you.
Your heart stuttered, your fingers clutching the hat tighter as you stopped in front of him. His eyes hadn’t moved—not once.
“This one’s for you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling slightly as it escaped your lips. You hated the way it wavered, like a tightrope swaying in the wind, hated how exposed he made you feel. Like he could see everything—every soft, raw, guarded secret you tried so desperately to keep hidden.
Joel hummed low in his throat, a deep, quiet sound that thrummed through the room and settled heavy in your chest. His fingers reached up—not to take the hat, but to brush lightly over the fabric where it rested in your hands.
His dark eyes flicked from the hat to your face. Then, faint and almost reluctant, the corner of his lips curved into a smile.
It wasn’t the teasing smirk he reserved for Tommy or the polite, distant warmth he gave to Maria. This was something else entirely. Softer. Warmer. And it wrecked you because there was no hiding the truth in it—adoration, raw and unguarded, spilling from him like he hadn’t even realized it was there for the world to see.
From the other couch, Tommy leaned toward Maria, his voice low enough to think you wouldn’t hear. “Joel’d never be caught dead in somethin’ like that.”
But Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t glance in Tommy’s direction or roll his eyes the way you expected him to. Instead, he set his glass down on the small table beside him with deliberate care, his movements slow and measured.
“Well then,” he drawled, his voice low and rough, laced with something that made your breath catch. “Go ahead.”
Your hands trembled slightly,“You… want me to—?”
He tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking just enough to send your heart tumbling in your chest. “I ain’t puttin’ it on myself.”
The space closed as you stepped closer, your hands trembling as you raised the hat toward him. You didn’t notice the ridiculous green felt or the uneven trim. All you could feel was him. The way his hair brushed softly against your fingertips, surprising you with its texture. The way his shoulders loomed in your vision, broad and unyielding, steadying you even as your heart raced so fast it threatened to undo you.
Joel didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. He stayed perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on you, unwavering, as if this moment was as pivotal for him as it was for you.
Your heart pounded in your ears as the world around you disappeared entirely. All you wanted—all you needed—was to close the space between you, to sink down and kiss him, consequences be damned.
From the other couch, Maria’s hand darted out, smacking Tommy lightly on the leg, “Oh my God, look at them,” Maria muttered, her voice hushed.
When you finally stepped back, the hat perched crookedly on Joel’s head, you allowed yourself to take him in.
It was utterly ridiculous—the slouched green fabric and the pom-pom dangling lopsidedly made him look impossibly out of place, like he’d been roped into something far beneath his dignity.
But somehow, impossibly, it suited him. Or maybe it was just because he was him—Joel Miller, so rugged and handsome he couldn’t possibly look bad in anything.
Your lips quirked upward before you could stop them, the warmth in your chest blooming like the soft glow of the fire.
“Perfect,” you whispered, the word slipping out unbidden, your voice barely audible.
Joel tilted his head slightly, the faintest breath of a huff escaping him, low and rough. “You happy?” he asked, his voice gruff but quieter than usual, like the words carried a tenderness he wasn’t sure how to show.
“Yes,” you murmured, the word trembling as it left you. “Very.”
His lips pressed together in the faintest twitch of a smile, his gaze flicking away for a second before settling back on you. He shook his head, slow and deliberate, like he couldn’t quite believe himself. “Good,” he murmured, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.
And it ached—physically ached—because you knew. Deep down, in a place you rarely let yourself linger, you understood that there wasn’t a single universe where Joel Miller would wear something like this for anyone but you. It wasn’t for Tommy’s teasing or Maria’s amused approval, and it certainly wasn’t for the absurd cheer of the holidays. No, he’d done it for you.
Every glance, every quiet word, every second of stillness as he sat there with that ridiculous hat on his head—he’d done it because it made you happy. Because somehow, in a way neither of you dared to name, you mattered to him.
And it wrecked you. It wrecked you because Joel Miller—this man who had built himself out of iron and grit, who would rather face a swarm of infected or a pack of raiders than do anything to chip away at the unyielding, stoic image he’d crafted—had done this without hesitation. For you. The thought was staggering, dizzying, and when he looked at you again, his eyes softer than they had any right to be, you knew: he’d do anything for you. He’d endure anything. He’d die for you.
“Tommys gonna think I’ve gone soft,” Joel murmured, his voice low and meant only for you.
Your smile deepened, warmth pooling in your chest, and you tilted your head slightly, your voice just as soft. “Have you?”
You were still standing in front of him, looking down at where he sat on the couch, the firelight catching in his dark eyes, making them burn with something unspoken.
“D’ya think I have?” he asked, his voice rough, quiet, the rasp of it threading through your veins and anchoring you to the moment.
You swallowed, the tension tightening in your chest like a quiet ache, the words slipping out in a whisper. “Maybe.”
Joel’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile, though his eyes stayed on yours, unreadable yet devastatingly open all at once. “Then maybe,” he murmured, his tone dipping lower, softer, pulling you closer like a tide you couldn’t resist.
The heat in his gaze felt too much, too raw, and you turned, ready to claim your seat by the fireplace and retreat before it swallowed you whole.
“Hey.”
Joel’s voice stopped you mid-step, rough but not sharp, more like a tether than a command. Your breath caught as the word curled around you, pulling you back to him.
“Come sit with me.”
You turned slowly, the quiet invitation pressing against you like gravity. He was still sitting there, his hand resting on his knee, fingers loosely curled, the other gripping the armrest. His broad frame leaned slightly forward, like he couldn’t help but close some of the space between you—as if his body physically couldn’t bear the distance, even in the same room.
His expression was carefully unreadable, a mask you’d seen him wear so many times before, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—gave him away. A silent plea wrapped in his gaze.
“If you want,” he added, almost shyly, his voice dipping lower, like he didn’t want to push too hard.
If you want. The simplicity of it nearly broke you. Joel Miller, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint, who never asked for anything, was asking now—for you.
“Okay,” you said softly, your voice barely audible.
Slowly, you settled next to him on the couch, the heat of his body radiating toward you like a magnet pulling you in. Your thighs pressed together, neither of you daring to move away.
Joel shifted slightly, just enough to turn his head toward you, his dark eyes catching the firelight. “That’s better,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word like a warm ember slipping into the space between you.
The sound of his voice wrapped around you, soft but steady, and it seeped into your bones, settling somewhere deep in your chest. Your lips twitched, threatening a smile you couldn’t quite hold back.
“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, but the words carried everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say. “Much better.”
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
One drink turned into two. Two turned into three. And before you knew it, the edges of the world had softened, the flickering firelight blending into a warm, golden haze that wrapped around you like a blanket.
You weren’t someone who got drunk—it wasn’t your thing. You knew your limits, knew when to stop, how to keep control. But tonight… tonight felt different.
Tommy, with his easy grin and mischievous glint, was no help at all. Every time Joel told him to quit—his voice low, tinged with irritation—Tommy would wave him off with a laugh, saying something about Joel having a stick up his ass.
“C’mon, Joel. Live a little,” Tommy drawled, pouring you another drink with all the flair of a showman. And you, caught up in the warmth and ease of the night, shrugged and raised your glass in a tipsy cheer, obliging without a second thought.
Somehow, the night unraveled from there. You’d gone from sitting beside Joel, close enough to feel the subtle heat radiating off him, to sprawling across the living room floor, your head tipped back, your arms stretched wide. Your voice—off-key and full of enthusiasm—belted out Last Christmas like it was your personal anthem, each wobbling note echoing off the walls.
Tommy was in stitches, practically doubled over on the couch as he slapped his knee in delight. Maria shook her head, her smile soft and indulgent as she sipped her drink, her eyes crinkling with barely-contained amusement.
But Joel—Joel stayed quiet. He hadn’t joined in the way Tommy had, hadn’t pushed the bottle toward you or filled your glass with a mischievous grin. He sat on the couch, his broad frame hunched slightly forward, one hand resting on his knee, his dark eyes fixed on you with a quiet intensity.
He wasn’t laughing. His lips were pressed into a firm line, his brow furrowed just enough to make your chest tighten if you weren’t already too clouded to notice. It wasn’t disapproval exactly—not the kind you might’ve expected from someone like him—but something closer to worry.
His dark eyes stayed on you, steady and unflinching, like he was trying to gauge how far you were from the line, how much longer until he might need to step in.
At one point, something small—a bottle cap, maybe—rolled under the coffee table. It didn’t matter what it was; in your tipsy state, it became an immediate priority. With all the single-minded determination of someone far too gone, you leaned forward, hands groping blindly under the table, muttering something about how “everything needs its place.”
You didn’t notice the sharp edge of the table creeping closer, didn’t feel the unsteadiness in your own balance as you reached further and further. But Joel did.
He moved before you even realized - his hand, warm and rough, settled over the crown of your head just as you were about to smack it against the edge of the table. The pressure was firm but careful, guiding you gently away from danger before you could even process it.
“Careful, baby,” he murmured, the words low and instinctive, slipping out before he even realized what he’d said.
You didn’t register it, your focus still entirely on the bottle cap beneath your fingers. “Got it,” you mumbled after a moment, your voice smaller than you intended as you pulled back, victorious and unaware.
When Tommy reached for the bottle to pour you another drink, Joel stepped in without hesitation. His hand closed over the neck of the bottle, firm and commanding, pulling it away before Tommy could even tilt it.
“All right, that’s enough,” Joel said, his voice steady but carrying an edge sharp enough to cut through the room’s hazy warmth.
Tommy blinked, caught off guard for a moment before his easy grin slid back into place. “Hey, man,” he started, his tone light but laced with the slightest edge of challenge. “The girl wants a drink.”
“Quit, Tommy,” Joel said, his tone dropping lower, heavier, leaving no room for argument. His eyes cut to his brother with a pointed sharpness that made Tommy sit back slightly, hands raised in mock surrender.
“Fucking child,” Joel muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch it.
Maria stood then, shaking her head as she picked up the nearest empty glass with a sigh. “Honestly, you two are worse than children,” she said, her voice exasperated but warm, her eyes flicking between the brothers like this was nothing new.
The haze in your mind started to shift then, softening into something weightier, more complicated. The room seemed quieter, heavier, and your cheeks burned—not just from the whiskey but from the weight of Joel’s eyes on you. He wasn’t laughing like Tommy, nor sighing like Maria. He was watching you.
You shifted slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans as a quiet embarrassment crept in. Not because of him, but because he could see the truth you weren’t ready to admit—not even to yourself. That you weren’t drunk for nothing. That this wasn’t just another night. Joel saw it, as he always did, and somehow, that made you feel both more vulnerable and more understood than ever.
“You’ve had enough,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he reached for your glass. Joel leaned back against the couch, his broad frame sinking into the worn cushions.
“I don’t… I don’t get drunk,” you mumbled, your voice unsteady, trailing off as you lay back against the carpet. Your eyes stared upward, fixed on the wall as if it held the answers you couldn’t find yourself. The words were soft, almost more to yourself than to him, but the slight slur in your tone betrayed you. “I’m not drunk,” you added, weaker this time, as if saying it aloud might make it true.
Tommy grinned from his spot on the couch, raising his hands in mock solidarity. “Me neither, sister.”
“Exactly,” you said, jabbing a wobbly finger in his direction as if he’d just made the most compelling argument of the night.
Joel’s voice broke through the room then, low and firm, slicing through the haze like a knife. “You’re drunk.”
Your head snapped toward him, narrowing your bleary focus on the man who’d barely spoken all night. Joel sat back on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His posture screamed patience, but the kind that was wearing thin.
“You’re grumpy,” you said, a weak jab, though the words stumbled on their way out. “And I am not drunk.”
Joel arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Right. That why you’re lyin’ there like you can’t tell which way’s up?”
Your brows furrowed, defiance bubbling up despite the haze in your head. “Alright,” you said, preparing to stand up. “I’ll prove it to you.”
Joel’s eyes narrowed just slightly, his brow creasing as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “No,” he said, his voice low, steady, and firm. “I believe you. Don’t gotta prove nothin’.”
“See?” you huffed, crossing your arms like you’d just won an argument. “That’s what I thought.”
Joel exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face like he was physically holding himself back from commenting. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Maria stood then, stretching with a soft yawn and giving Tommy a light nudge. “Alright, it’s way past my bedtime,” she announced. Her gaze shifted to you, her expression softening. “You can stay here tonight,” she offered, her voice resolute. “No sense sending you out like this.”
You opened your mouth to agree, but Joel was already moving. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw flexing as he stood abruptly.
“No,” Joel said, the word coming out firm, final, leaving no room for debate. His voice cut through the room with quiet authority, drawing all eyes to him. “I’ll take her home.”
Maria blinked, visibly surprised. Her gaze flicked between you and Joel, her eyebrows arching slightly as her lips curved into the faintest hint of a knowing smile. “You sure?”
“She’ll sleep better in her own bed,” he said gruffly, the words deliberate but carrying a weight that was hard to ignore.
Maria tilted her head, her brow lifting as if to say Oh, really? But she didn’t argue, just exchanged a quick glance with Tommy, whose grin threatened to break across his face.
Tommy stretched lazily, his grin lopsided as he turned to you with a look that could only be described as fond mischief. “Night, troublemaker,” he said, his voice brimming with affection. His gaze slid to Joel, and the grin widened, his tone taking on a teasing edge. “Be careful. This one’s feisty when she’s drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” you mumbled, but the slur in your words betrayed you, and Tommy’s chuckle made your cheeks burn.
“Sure you’re not,” he said, ruffling your hair like you were a kid. You swatted weakly at his hand, your protest too slow to land, and he laughed again, shaking his head.
He clapped Joel on the shoulder as he passed, the weight of it friendly but carrying a knowing edge. “Good luck,” he added, the words laced with that unmistakable Tommy charm.
Joel sighed, the sound low and heavy, threading with both frustration and a quiet sort of resignation. He didn’t bother responding to Tommy, didn’t even glance his way. Instead, his focus was on you, his dark eyes sharp and steady as he stepped closer.
“C’mon,” he muttered, his voice gruff but softer than you expected. His large hands reached for you, settling gently at your elbows as he helped you up, his grip firm and steady. You wobbled slightly, your balance faltering just enough to make Joel’s hold tighten instinctively.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, almost like a coaxing whisper. His hands shifted, one sliding to your lower back to steady you as you leaned into him without realizing it.
Together, you made your way toward the front door, Joel guiding you with a patience that felt like it shouldn’t belong to someone as gruff as him.
The boots by the door stared back at you, almost mocking in their silent challenge. You blinked down at them, swaying slightly, trying to figure out how you were supposed to get them on when the floor seemed to tilt every time you moved.
“Alright,” Joel said, nodding toward the boots. “One shoe at a time. Think you can handle that?”
“Obviously,” you muttered, though your fumbling hands betrayed your confidence almost immediately. You bent down to grab one of the boots, determined to prove him wrong, only for the room to tilt ever so slightly, the lazy spin of the world throwing you off balance.
Before you could topple forward, Joel’s hand shot out, his grip firm and steady as it curled around your arm. “Thought you said you weren’t drunk,” he muttered under his breath, his tone low but laced with exasperated fondness.
He guided you upright gently, his other hand bracing at your side. “Hold still, or you’re gonna end up kissin’ the floor,” he added, dropping down to one knee in front of you with a quiet sigh.
You froze, your breath catching in your throat as heat surged to your cheeks, spreading like wildfire through your chest. Joel Miller, kneeling in front of you, his broad frame grounded and steady against the backdrop of the room, sent your pulse into a frantic rhythm you couldn’t seem to control.
Joel laced the boot quickly, his movements efficient but deliberate, the steady brush of his fingers against the leather sending warmth up your spine. When he finished, his hand lingered for just a moment longer, giving your calf a light squeeze. It was subtle, almost absentminded, but achingly tender—like he couldn’t help himself, like the simple touch meant more than he could say.
“There,” he said softly once he finished, giving your leg another light pat before standing again. He stepped back with a groan, his dark eyes sweeping over you in a way that felt less like he was checking your boots and more like he was checking you, making sure you were steady, secure, okay.
You looked up at him, wide-eyed, your face flushed, hair sticking out in every direction, a picture of tipsy disarray. Joel’s gaze softened despite himself, his lips pressing into a line that didn’t quite hide the tenderness creeping into his expression.
“You’re a mess, y’know that?” he muttered, shaking his head with a soft huff. But even as the words left his mouth, he leaned closer, his hand lifting with a careful steadiness to brush a strand of hair from your face.
“I’m fine,” you argued weakly, even as your feet betrayed you, slipping slightly on the uneven floor.
He turned, grabbing your coat from the hook by the door, shaking it out before holding it open in front of you. “Arms up.”
You blinked at him, your mind struggling to catch up. “What?”
“Arms up,” he repeated, this time with more insistence. When you still didn’t move fast enough, Joel sighed, muttering under his breath as he stepped closer, already lifting your arms himself.
“Jesus,” he muttered, tugging the coat snug over your shoulders with a final, purposeful motion. “You’re worse than dealin’ with a kid.”
“Don’t be mean,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze as your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, your voice carrying the faintest pout.
Joel’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but just enough to send a flicker of warmth curling in your chest, cutting through the biting cold lingering beyond the door. “I’m not bein’ mean,” he murmured, his tone softening, though that familiar gruffness clung to the edges, giving his words weight. “Just tryin’ to get my girl home in one piece.”
The words slipped out so naturally, so effortlessly, that Joel himself didn’t even realize what he’d said. His focus remained on you as he adjusted the coat on your shoulders, his movements careful, deliberate, like you might catch a chill if he left even a corner undone.
You, too tipsy and too focused on fiddling with your gloves, didn’t seem to hear him. The weight of the moment passed unnoticed by you, but Joel froze for half a beat, his hands stilling against your sleeve as the thought settled into his chest.
It didn’t feel strange to him, calling you that—my girl—because somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
When you finally got home, Joel was all practicality. He unlocked the door with ease, nudging it open with his shoulder while keeping a steadying hand on your arm.
He turned briefly to shut the door, but when he looked back, you were gone. “Jesus Christ,” Joel muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the room until he found you.
You’d somehow made it to the living room, sprawled out face down on the rug like you’d decided it was the most comfortable spot in the world. Your muffled hums filled the quiet space, a nonsensical melody that made Joel sigh deeply, dragging a hand down his face.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, the words barely audible as he disappeared into the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned with a glass of water, his footsteps deliberate and steady.
“Hey,” Joel said sharply, his voice cutting through your tuneless humming as he stopped a few feet away. His hand rested on his hip, his broad shoulders framed by the soft glow of the kitchen light. “What the hell’re you doin’? Get up.”
You turned your head sluggishly, your cheek still pressed against the rug. Heavy-lidded eyes met his, and for a moment, you just blinked at him, the alcohol dulling the sharper edges of his tone. Despite his words, the concern etched into his brow softened the bite.
Joel let out a sigh, muttering something under his breath as he knelt beside you, the floor creaking faintly under his weight. He held out a glass of water, his hand steady and deliberate. “Drink this."
You reached for the glass, your fingers brushing his as you took it. You drank the water in a few large gulps, the cool liquid grounding you slightly.
“Alright,” he said firmly after you were done drinking, “time for bed.” He extended a hand toward you, palm open and waiting.
“I’m not tired,” you mumbled into the rug, though your traitorous body betrayed you with a yawn that slipped out before you could stop it.
Joel arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest shadow of a smirk. “Yeah?” he drawled, his tone thick with dry amusement. “Tell that to the yawn you just tried to swallow.”
His voice softened then, the edge fading as something gentler took its place. He crouched slightly, his hand still extended, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “C’mon. Up. Now.”
You groaned dramatically, burying your face in the rug for just a second longer, drawing out the moment like a child protesting bedtime. “Ugh,” you said, dragging the sound out with exaggerated flair. Finally, with a sigh heavy enough to shake the earth, you reached for his hand. “Fine.”
You reached up, slipping your hand into his as he helped you to your feet, “Atta girl,” he murmured.
Without thinking, without hesitation, your fingers instinctively intertwined with his. The movement was so natural, so effortless, that it didn’t register at first—not to you, and not to him. But then Joel’s gaze dropped to your joined hands, his breath hitching as his mouth opened slightly, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his face.
Joel swallowed hard, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours, unspoken emotions swirling there. He didn’t pull away—he didn’t dare. His hand stayed firmly in yours, his fingers curling around yours like letting go wasn’t an option he’d even considered.
You blinked up at him, your mind sluggish from whiskey and the creeping warmth of exhaustion, but his steady presence anchored you. “What?” you asked softly.
“Nothin’,” Joel muttered, his gaze fixed on your joined hands. His voice dipped lower, softer, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Just… don't usually hold hands.”
The quiet admission hit you like a ripple in still water, gentle yet profound. Your chest tightened, a wave of something achingly tender washing over you. “Oh,” you whispered, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sorry.” You started to pull your hand away, the movement hesitant, reluctant.
But his grip tightened, firm but careful, like he was afraid to let go. “No,” Joel said quickly, his voice rough but urgent, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in the faintest, most deliberate motion. “Don’t.”
He didn’t look at you then—couldn’t—but the tension in his jaw and the quiet plea in his tone said everything he couldn’t.
“Alright,” he murmured after a beat, his voice softer now, gentler. “Let’s get you to bed.”
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
When you finally reached your room, Joel reached out with his free hand, twisting the doorknob and nudging the door open.
He led you to the edge of the bed, your hand still firmly clasped in his. You swayed slightly as you stopped, the whiskey and exhaustion making your balance unsteady, but Joel’s steady grip kept you upright.
He guided you gently to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand still wrapped around yours, steadying you. His grip lingered, his fingers flexing slightly as if testing the moment, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile thread was holding you together.
“Time to let go, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice impossibly soft. Slowly, reluctantly, you let your hands part, the absence of his touch leaving a faint, lingering ache. You sank into the mattress with a soft sigh, your body sagging into the familiar comfort as Joel stood by your side, his presence steady and grounding.
His movements were careful as he reached for the blanket, pulling it up over you with the kind of gentleness that made your heart flutter even in your sleepy haze. He tucked it around your shoulders, his hand lingering for just a moment before he straightened.
“Go to bed,” Joel said softly, his voice gentler now, though still firm enough to leave no room for argument. As your eyes dipped shut, his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, the touch so light it barely registered but sent a warmth blooming in your chest.
“You’ll feel better in the mornin’,” he added.
He turned toward the light switch, his hand halfway there when your voice cut through the quiet, soft and desperate. “Wait,” you said, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. “Don’t leave.”
Joel froze mid-step, his broad shoulders stiffening. He didn’t turn right away, but when he did, his expression was carefully guarded. “You need to sleep,” he said, his tone gruff, his walls snapping back into place. “No more games. Go to bed.”
“I will,” you promised quickly, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying an edge of pleading that you couldn’t hide. “I will, I swear. Just… stay. For a little while. Please.”
Joel’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward the door as though he was considering making a quick exit. But then his shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t catch. How could he possibly say no to you?
“Fine,” he said at last, the word carrying the weight of reluctant surrender. He moved toward the chair in the corner of your room, sinking into it heavily, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back. “But only for a little while.”
“No,” you said suddenly, the word slipping out before you could stop it. You sat up in bed, the blanket pooling around your waist as you blinked at him.
Joel frowned, his brows furrowing as he turned to look at you. “What now?”
“Not there,” you murmured again, your voice softer now, hesitant but insistent as you patted the empty space on the bed beside you. “Here.”
Joel blinked, his mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His brow furrowed deeply, his jaw tightening. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head like he needed to convince himself as much as you. “Not happenin’.”
You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows with an exasperated huff. “Jesus, Joel. Do I have to beg?”
“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended, his knuckles whitening as his hands gripped the arms of the chair like it was the only thing tethering him to resolve.
His gaze flicked to the bed, to the empty spot you’d been patting, and you could see the war raging behind his eyes. It was written in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, in the way his chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. The push and pull of wanting and resisting.
“Please,” you whispered, the single word soft, breaking through his defenses like a crack splintering through glass. Your voice wavered, your gaze locking onto his. “I’ll sleep better if you’re close. That’s all.”
Joel’s eyes softened, the fight in them faltering for just a moment. He sighed deeply, his head tilting back like he was asking the ceiling for patience. His shoulders sagged slightly, and you could see the exact second he gave in. Slowly, deliberately, he stood, his steps heavy as he crossed the room.
He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze dropping to yours. For a long moment, he just stood there, torn between holding his ground and giving in completely. His jaw clenched, his hands flexing at his sides, before he let out another long sigh and sat down on the edge of the mattress.
The bed dipped under his weight, and you watched him. He sat stiffly, awkwardly, like being this close to you was something he hadn’t quite prepared for.
“Joel,” you murmured softly, almost unsure, almost hesitant. “Lay down. Please.”
He sighed again, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the sound of your voice alone had unraveled him. “Alright,” he muttered, the word rough but softer than before.
With slow, deliberate movements, he shifted onto the bed, laying down beside you. His posture was stiff, his head resting on his folded arm, as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. “You happy now?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind, a quiet exasperation bleeding through.
You hummed softly in response, a sound of contentment as you scooted closer, the blankets rustling softly around you. Without thinking, you rested your cheek against his chest, the steady warmth of him seeping into you like sunlight through a window.
Joel froze, his breath catching for just a moment. Christ, he thought, glancing down at you. His arm hovered awkwardly for a beat before it came to rest at his side, his hand brushing against the curve of your back like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
“You comfy?” Joel asked finally, his deep voice breaking the quiet.
“Yeah,” you murmured, your smile soft as your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Are you?”
He hesitated for a second, his gaze lingering on you like he was trying to memorize something he couldn’t name. “Yeah,” he said eventually, though his voice was quieter now. He nodded faintly, his expression softening.
“Not gonna get much sleep with your eyes wide open, though,” he added, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You laughed, the sound quiet and airy. Tucking the blanket higher over your shoulders, you tilted your head slightly to look at him. “You know, for someone so serious, you actually have jokes.”
Joel shrugged, the faint smirk fading into something softer, quieter, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment. “There’s more to me than bein’ old,” he muttered.
“You’re not old,” you said instantly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. You shifted onto your side to face him more fully, your expression earnest, a small crease forming between your brows. “Quit saying that.”
Joel huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, his gaze dipping away from yours like he was trying to brush off the warmth creeping into his chest. “It’s the truth,” he said simply, his voice low, though the rough edges softened when he glanced back at you. Got more years behind me than ahead,” Joel said quietly, almost offhand, his voice dipping low like it was just a fact of life.
The words hit you harder than he probably meant them to, sinking into your chest like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward and unraveling the easy warmth of the moment.
You froze, staring at him as the ache that bloomed in your chest caught you off guard. Slowly, you pulled back just enough to see his face more clearly, your gaze searching his, the playful ease from before slipping away entirely.
“Don’t say that,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with a quiet urgency that surprised even you. Your hand moved instinctively, coming to rest lightly on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm only deepened the ache.
Joel glanced down at you, his brow furrowing as he caught the way your brows knit together, your expression tightening. He hadn’t meant for it to land like that, hadn’t thought it would hit you so hard.
“I mean it, Joel,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to make him pause. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
His lips parted, the words caught in his throat as he stared at you, unprepared for the way the emotion in your voice clawed at something deep inside him. The thought of him not being here—of losing him—was like a sharp blade pressing against the edges of your mind, and you couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t let him dismiss it so easily.
“Hey,” Joel murmured after a moment, his voice softer now, the sharp edges smoothed by the weight of your words. His hand lifted instinctively, covering yours where it rested over his heart, as if to anchor both of you.
Your hand fit perfectly beneath his, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm a subconscious reminder that this was real—he was real. He was here. He was alive.
Joel’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, the movement slow, deliberate, pulling you back from wherever your mind had wandered. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmured, his tone low, filled with a quiet kind of tenderness he rarely let surface. His dark eyes flicked to yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that made your chest ache. “It’s just… the way things are.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper but laced with a quiet intensity.
Joel’s jaw tightened, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “Alright,” he murmured after a beat, his voice low and tender, stripped of the usual gruffness he used as armor.
“Shit, sweetheart,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gentle, grounding motion. “I’m sorry. Promise I won’t say it again—sorry, darlin’.”
You nodded, letting your head sink back against Joel’s chest, his hand moved without thought, slipping into your hair and threading through it gently.
“You gettin’ sleepy’?” Joel hummed, his voice low and soft, vibrating through his chest where your cheek rested.
“No,” you said quickly, your voice just a little too sharp, your body shifting slightly against him. You weren’t ready—not for the moment to end, not for him to leave, not for the fragile warmth that wrapped around the two of you to slip away.
Joel huffed a soft laugh through his nose, his hand pausing in your hair for a brief second before continuing its gentle rhythm. “Don’t sound so sure,” he muttered, his voice laced with quiet amusement.
You tilted your head up, your gaze finding his, and he glanced down at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Quit staring at me,” he said, his tone gruff but devoid of any real bite.
“Can’t help it,” you murmured, your lips curving into a small, playful smile.
His brows knitted further as he looked at you, his lips parting like he was about to say something, but you beat him to it. “Pretty,” you whispered, the word barely audible, so soft it almost disappeared into the space between you.
Joel’s brows knitted further as he turned his full attention to you, his gaze heavy and intent. “You know I got a bad ear,” he said, his tone gruff but tinged with a faint trace of amusement. “Gotta speak up.”
You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as hesitation gripped you for a brief moment. And then, as if the alcohol had burned through the last of your reservations, the words spilled out, clear and bold, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I said… pretty. You’ve got pretty eyes and a pretty smile.”
Joel froze. You paused, your heart racing as a grin, small but sincere, tugged at your lips. “Handsome,” you added, softer but no less certain. “You’re handsome, Joel.”
Joel’s face dropped, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at you. His mouth opened, as if to respond, but no words came out. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against your hand like he needed something—anything—to ground himself.
Joel finally shook his head, a sharp exhale escaping him as he muttered, “You’re drunk.” The words came out fast, like a reflex, a shield he threw up to deflect the blow before it could land. But his voice betrayed him, the rough edges fraying with a faint tremor that he couldn’t quite hide.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned in just slightly, your gaze steady and unwavering. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.
Before he could deflect again, you broke the silence, your tone softer now but still certain. “Joel, I have a question.”
Joel sighed, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to gather what little patience he had left. “What happened to sleepin’?”
“Joel…” you began, your voice quiet, fragile. “Why didn’t you kiss me? At Tommy’s birthday.”
The air shifted instantly, heavy and stifling, as if the room itself had stopped to listen. Joel froze, his body going completely still. The hand that had been absently stroking your hair stopped, his fingers hovering like they didn’t know where to go.
His other hand, which had been resting over yours on his chest, slowly withdrew, falling to his side as though retreating from the weight of your question.
The teasing light in his eyes vanished, replaced by something darker, something harder to read. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he stared at the ceiling, his gaze fixed like he might find the answer buried in the walls.
He didn’t say anything, but the silence spoke volumes. It felt like a door that had been cracked open was now slamming shut, and you weren’t sure whether to step forward or back away.
“I—” he started, but his voice caught, faltering before he could finish. Joel wasn’t expecting this. The weight of your words hung in the air between you, pressing down on him like a physical force.
He ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his beard, his shoulders stiffening as though he was bracing himself for a blow that hadn’t yet come.
“It’s okay,” you said, though the words felt like they were breaking you apart from the inside. “If you don’t… if you don’t find me pretty, or if you think I’m annoying, or if you just didn’t want to. I just…” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it harder to breathe. “I just need to know why.”
Joel moved instantly, sitting up straighter as his arm pulled away from you. His head snapped toward you at that, his eyes locking onto yours with a sharpness that stole your breath.
They were brimming with something raw, something unspoken and fierce. “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough and firm, the single word cutting through the space between you like a knife.
Your brows furrowed, confusion and hurt twisting in your chest, the ache blooming into something unbearable. “Don’t what?” you asked, your voice softer now as you sat up, mirroring him, the distance between you suddenly feeling vast despite your closeness.
Joel’s fists flexed at his sides, his knuckles white as the tension in his body radiated off him in waves. His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped for the briefest second before snapping back to yours. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, his voice low and strained, trembling with the effort of holding something back. The look in his eyes was fleeting but sharp—like he was fighting himself, fighting you, fighting the weight of the moment.
“Shit,” Joel muttered, shaking his head as if trying to wrestle with the storm in his own mind. “Why’re you askin’ this now?” he murmured, his tone rough, defensive, but there was something else beneath it—something raw, like the weight of the question was almost too much to bear.
“Because I need to stop thinking about it all the time,” you said, your voice trembling as the words tumbled out, unguarded and vulnerable. “I need to stop replaying it in my head.” You hesitated, your breath hitching as you fought to steady yourself, but the truth burned too hot to hold back. “You said, ‘Not like this,’ and I—” The words broke off, catching in your throat as the ache you’d carried since that night threatened to overwhelm you.
Your eyes searched his face, desperate for something—anything—that might explain the way his words had stayed with you, carved into your heart like a scar. But Joel wouldn’t look at you. His gaze stayed fixed on some indeterminate point, his jaw tightening as if he were bracing himself for the blow he’d already dealt.
“What did that mean, Joel?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of longing and hurt.
His head shook, sharp and almost violent, like he was physically trying to shake the question away, to shove it into some dark corner where he wouldn’t have to deal with it. “You’re drunk,” he muttered, the words rough and uneven, cracking under the weight of his own defenses.
“I’m drunk, but I’m not stupid,” you fired back, the frustration slipping into your tone, making it wobble. “I’m asking you what you meant.”
Joel’s jaw clenched, his muscles twitching under the strain as his hand raked through his hair, his exhale shaky and unsteady.
“What do you think I meant?” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse.
“I don’t fucking know, Joel,” you said, your voice rising as your words cracked under the pressure. “That’s why I’m asking. You confuse the hell out of me.”
His hand flexed against his knee, restless and agitated, but his face remained locked in that tight, unreadable mask he wore when the stakes felt too high.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” you said, the confession tumbling out in a whisper that wavered on the edge of breaking. “I wanted you to kiss me so badly that night.”
Joel froze, his whole body going rigid as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Slowly, painfully, his eyes lifted to meet yours, and what you saw in them made your heart twist painfully. It was like he was searching for something—desperately, almost frantically—as though hoping to find some small lie buried deep in your gaze. Because if you were lying, if this wasn’t real, it would destroy him.
“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” he said, his head shaking almost imperceptibly.
“Did you think,” you began, your voice softer now, quieter but no less resolute as your hand reached for his arm, resting lightly against the warmth of his sleeve, “maybe I got this drunk because it’s the only way I can tell the truth?”
Joel’s eyes followed your hand, lingering where it rested against him like he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or hold on. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head slightly, the motion almost imperceptible. “That ain’t somethin’ you’re gonna wanna say in the mornin’,” he said, his voice rough and uneven, frayed at the edges like he was already bracing for the fallout.
Why? The thought clawed at your chest. Why can’t he believe me? Why won’t he let himself accept that he’s worth loving? The ache swelled, raw and heavy, pressing against every unspoken word between you.
“But it’s true,” you countered softly, your tone steady, carrying none of the sharpness his did—only quiet, unyielding conviction. “Even if I don’t say it tomorrow, it’s still true tonight.”
“Stop,” Joel said, his voice firmer this time, but there was something in it—a thread of desperation, raw and unguarded. It wasn’t an order. It was a plea. “You don’t mean it. You’re just—”
“I do, Joel.” You interrupted him, your voice trembling with the effort to keep steady. Your hand tightened slightly on his arm, grounding both of you in the moment. “Look at me.” The words fell with quiet insistence, steady despite the tremor in your chest. “I mean it, Joel. I’ve always meant it.”
His breathing faltered, his eyes flickering toward yours like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know how. The silence was unbearable, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, each one carrying a piece of the ache you’d held back for too long. “Fuck, Joel, I care about you,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I more than care about you. I love—”
“Don’t.” The word came sharp and sudden, cutting you off like a knife. Joel’s voice was hoarse, rough, like gravel scraping against stone. It hit the space between you with the force of a blow, making your breath hitch.
His gaze darted to you, his dark eyes stormy with something raw and pained, before he looked away again, like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. “Don’t say it. Because you don’t mean it.”
The words crushed something in your chest, the weight of his denial suffocating. “Joel—” you began, but he shook his head again, his hand lifting to run through his hair, his movements jerky, restless, like he was trying to hold himself together.
“You don’t mean it,” he repeated, quieter this time, his voice barely more than a rasp. “You can’t. Not about me.” His shoulders sagged slightly, and for the first time, you saw it—the cracks in the armor he always wore, the fear in his eyes that no amount of gruffness could hide. “Don’t do this. Not for me.”
Your breath caught, your chest tightening as if a fist had wrapped around it, squeezing until it was hard to breathe. The tears welled in your eyes, hot and stinging, but they didn’t fall.
Your mouth parted, a soundless gasp escaping as your mind reeled. You silly girl, the thought screamed. He doesn’t feel the same. He’s letting you down easy, and you’ve ruined everything. The silence between you stretched, suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest until you thought it might break you.
Then, slowly, Joel stood. His shoulders sagged, his head dipping low as though the act of leaving was as heavy as the words left unsaid. His voice, when it came, was quiet—so quiet it was almost a whisper, but it carried the finality of a closing door.
“I’m leavin’. I’ll lock up.”
You stared at him, frozen, the world tilting beneath you as his words settled in. He didn’t look back. He didn’t stop. And as the sound of his footsteps faded, the tears finally spilled over, carving silent paths down your cheeks.
it's finally here!!! she's a long one pookies i apologise so grab your popcorn!! also warnings !! no explicit smut, but contains very sexually implicit context so 18+ only!
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
All my work here :)
❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎
Since your fight with Joel—though calling it that didn’t feel right, not with all the unspoken weight hanging between you—it seemed like an uneasy truce had settled. It wasn’t something you talked about, and it wasn’t something either of you dared name. But there was something different now, something that felt like slow, careful mending, like stitching a torn seam with hands that weren’t sure they could hold steady. The mess with Tiffany and Toby felt distant now, like a shadow cast by someone else’s life.
But even still—today was different. You felt it in your bones, a tension that twisted sharp and restless in your chest as you stood in the stables, readying Winnie. Your hands moved out of habit—tightening straps, adjusting saddlebags—but your mind was somewhere else, stuck on the way Joel had stood silently beside you, checking his rifle with that same quiet intensity.
This patrol wasn’t routine. You weren’t headed to the outskirts of town or to some half-cleared route. This was farther—farther than you’d ever gone. The task was simple enough on paper: sweep a remote lodge and its surrounding area, catalog supplies, bring back anything Jackson could use. Tools, medicine, ammo. It didn’t matter. If it could help, you took it.
But nothing about today felt simple.
You could handle the infected—there was something almost methodical about their terror. A pattern to their madness. A predictability to their hunger. You’d learned how to read them, how to anticipate the movement of their broken bodies like reading the lines on a map. That small sliver of control made it easier to push through the fear.
But men? Men were different. Men could be quiet in their cruelty, their malice deliberate and personal. There was no pattern to their violence. No way to predict what they might do or who they might become when the world showed them it no longer held consequences. You’d seen it before—too many times to count—and the thought of it made something curl tight in your stomach.
The water crisis was worsening, stretching everyone dangerously thin. Resources were depleted, manpower spread too far, and urgency growing like a storm cloud on the horizon. Normally, a task like this would demand at least four, maybe five people—more hands, more eyes, more safety in numbers. But now, it was just you two.. Joel hadn’t said it outright, but you knew—he wouldn’t be taking you out this far unless there was no other choice.
Now, he stood across from you, his presence filling the quiet of the stable like a shadow that had always been there, steady and immovable. The faint light leaking through the wooden slats fell unevenly across him, catching on the lines of his face and the tousled disarray of his hair—soft in a way that clashed with the sharp edge of his gaze.
His arms were crossed tight over his chest, a tension in his posture that told you everything you needed to know: this wasn’t routine. This mattered.
“Alright,” Joel started, his voice low, the rough timbre of it carrying the weight of every unspoken warning. “This ain’t a normal sweep. It’s an overnight run—further out than we’ve gone. We can’t afford to mess around.”
His words landed heavy, final, cutting through the stale air of the stable. The rhythmic rasp of the brush in your hand was the only answer at first, the quiet sweep against Winnie’s coat grounding you more than you cared to admit. You paused mid-stroke, the bristles hovering just above her flank as your gaze drifted back to Joel, lingering longer than it should have.
“I understand,” you said finally, breaking the silence. You gestured toward the modest bag slung over your shoulder, forcing your voice to sound even. “I packed light. Just extra clothes, some rations. Not much else.”
Joel’s gaze flickered down to the bag, his brow furrowing slightly as though he were running calculations in his head—weight, distance, the chances you’d both make it back in one piece. He nodded, short and curt, but didn’t look away, his eyes lingering like he was searching for something he hadn’t quite found.
“Good,” he said at last, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “You don’t want more than you can run with.”
It sounded practical enough on the surface—just another piece of advice, one of the many Joel had given you over the years. But something about the way he said it made the words land differently, like they carried more than just instruction. No more than you can run with.
Joel took the brush from your hand with a movement that was firm but not rough, his calloused fingers grazing yours for the briefest moment before he set it aside. There was no room for softness now, not with what lay ahead. He stepped closer, close enough that the space between you felt tight, close enough that the faint scent of him—leather, woodsmoke, something unmistakably Joel—crowded your senses. His voice cut through the quiet, low and clipped, each word carved out with purpose. “Say it back.” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his stance unyielding.
The demand hung in the air, sharp and immovable.
You exhaled sharply, the weight of his voice pressing down like a hand on your chest. The words were bitter on your tongue, a promise he’d drilled into you too many times this morning. Your gaze flicked to Winnie, as if the horse might somehow pull you out of this moment, but her dark eyes watched you, unbothered and unmoved, a silent witness to the tension that hung between you.
Still, Joel waited. His stare was relentless, pinning you in place like a blade to a board.
“I listen to what you say,” you murmured finally, the words quiet but clear. You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “If we’re in danger, I…” The rest of it caught, refusing to come. Your chest ached with the effort of holding onto it, of refusing to let the final piece fall, but Joel didn’t waver.
“Go on.”
His voice was gentler now, but that only made it worse—like it cost him something to say it, too.
You forced yourself to look at him, meeting those dark, unrelenting eyes. The words slipped out like splinters, each one sharper than the last. “I leave you and go get help.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the soft sound of Joel’s boots shifting against the straw. He stepped even closer, the crunch of it grounding and disorienting all at once. When he stopped, there wasn’t much space left between you, and the line of his jaw was tight, like he was holding back more than he wanted to say.
“And?”
It was one word, soft but unyielding, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
Your shoulders stiffened, rebellion sparking somewhere deep inside you. You hated this—you hated him for making you say it, for forcing you to promise something you weren’t sure you could give. But Joel was staring at you with that steady intensity of his, like he could see right through you to the parts you tried to bury.
“And I don’t argue,” you bit out, the resistance lacing your voice clear despite your best efforts to hide it. The words tasted bitter, your jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might snap.
Joel’s gaze stayed on you, unwavering. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the air coiling tighter and tighter. “That last part’s not negotiable,” he said, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Out there, you listen. You don’t think twice. You don’t second-guess. Not if it’s between your life and mine.”
“I know, Joel,” you murmured, your voice small and subdued.
“Do you?” he pressed, his voice rough and edged with something that wasn’t just frustration. It was sharper, heavier, laced with the kind of urgency that came from experience—from loss.
“Do you really get it? Because this ain’t just somethin’ I’m sayin’ to piss you off.” He stopped, just shy of touching you, his eyes burning into yours as though the sheer force of his stare could make you understand. “If somethin’ happens out there, you don’t get to argue. You don’t get to waste time thinkin’ you know better.” His voice dipped lower, softer, but no less intense. “You leave. You get help. You survive. That’s the deal.”
The bluntness of it hit like a blow, scraping against every fragile edge you’d been trying to hold together. Your throat tightened, your pulse stuttering beneath the weight of his words. You looked away, the floor suddenly far more interesting than Joel’s face, his eyes too sharp, too knowing. “I get it,” you whispered, the words barely audible, the tremor in your voice betraying you.
Joel’s silence was heavy, stretching like a thin wire between you, so taut it felt ready to snap. You braced yourself for more, for another sharp command or a biting remark, but when he spoke again, it was quieter. Gentler.
“I’m not sayin’ it to be mean,” he murmured, his voice steady now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I’m sayin’ it because I need to know you’ll make it back. That’s all.”
The quiet plea in his words was enough to make you look up, your gaze meeting his again despite yourself. Joel didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Hell, he barely asked for anything. But here he was, asking—with words, with that rawness he rarely allowed to show.
Your chest ached with something unnameable as you swallowed hard, steadying your voice. “I’ll make it back,” you said, stronger this time, every word laced with quiet resolve. “I promise.”
For a long, tense moment, Joel held your gaze. His eyes searched yours, looking for cracks, for hesitation, for anything that might betray you.
Finally, he nodded, slow and gruff, the tension in his shoulders easing—just enough to make you breathe a little easier. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping back and motioning toward Winnie. “Let’s get movin’.”
The spell broke, but something lingered in the space between you as you climbed into the saddle. Joel mounted his own horse without another word, and the two of you rode out into the chill of the early morning, the sky painted pale with dawn.
The cold bit at your skin, sharp and merciless, but it wasn’t the wind that made your hands tremble around the reins. It was the fear that burrowed deep and refused to let go.
Fear of what might happen out there.
Fear of what it would mean to live in a world where Joel didn’t come back.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The hours stretched endlessly as you and Joel rode through the dense, untamed woods. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried a certain gravity—a weight that seemed to echo in the hushed whispers of the forest. No one from Jackson had ventured this far in years, and the wildness of the terrain felt as much a challenge as it did a threat.
He rode ahead, his shoulders broad and sturdy beneath the leather of his jacket, his frame bent slightly forward with the kind of quiet focus that only came from years of surviving. His sharp eyes never stopped moving—darting between the overgrown trail and the treeline, watching, waiting, always searching for something he’d never let take him by surprise.
Occasionally, his voice broke the stillness—gravelly and low, delivering a curt instruction or muttering an observation. Each word, clipped and measured, was so distinctly Joel that it filled the silence in a way that steadied you, though you couldn’t explain why.
“We’ll stop here,” Joel said abruptly, reining in his horse. “They’re tired.”
You glanced down at Winnie, her steps sluggish and uneven, her breaths heavier now, her coat dark with sweat. Concern flickered through you, and you leaned forward to press a soft kiss against the side of her neck. “Good job girl,” you whispered gently, your voice low and soothing.
When you looked up, Joel was watching. His gaze lingered, flickering with something that disappeared too quickly for you to catch, before he dismounted in one fluid motion. His boots hit the dirt with a thud that seemed louder than it should have been in the stillness, and he reached for his pack, already untying supplies from the saddle.
Sliding off your horse, your legs hit the ground stiff and aching from hours in the saddle. You stretched briefly, then sank down against the nearest tree, your back pressing into its rough bark. As you settled, a soft groan slipped free, the ache in your muscles easing just slightly. The earth beneath your boots felt unfamiliar, solid and strange after so long riding, but the air here—cooler, gentler beneath the shade of towering oaks—was a quiet relief. You closed your eyes, leaning fully into the tree, letting the hush of the woods settle over you.
When you opened them, Joel was close by as he sorted through supplies.
“Water.” His voice broke the quiet, low and rough as he held a canteen out toward you without looking up. The canteen was cool against your fingers as you took it, your throat burning with relief as you drank. “Thanks,” you murmured, handing it back. You had your own water in your pack—he knew that—but still, he offered you his, as if yours were somehow too precious to waste, as if the effort to keep you going outweighed his own needs.
Joel didn’t answer right away. He capped the canteen and stood, his gaze moving over the clearing with that practiced vigilance you’d come to rely on. And then, just for a moment, his eyes landed on you.
“You cold?” he asked suddenly, his tone flat but edged with something softer. “Too hot?”
You shook your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I’m fine,” you replied softly, though your chest felt tight at the way he was watching you, like he needed to see the answer, not just hear it.
He’s sweet, you thought, the words catching on something tender and fragile inside you, something you couldn’t quite name. It was the way his care came without flourish, without asking for anything in return, that made it linger—made it ache. It wasn’t fair, the way he did this, leaving pieces of himself in small gestures that stayed with you long after.
Joel’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his brow furrowing slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The woods were quieter here, almost serene. You stood, brushing the dirt and stray leaves from your pants, and let your gaze wander. The afternoon light filtered through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in patches of gold and green. It was breathtaking in a way that made your chest ache—a fleeting moment of untouched wilderness, fragile and rare. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen something so still, so utterly removed from the chaos of survival.
Joel was nearby, crouched low, fussing with his rifle. His brow was furrowed in that familiar look of concentration, the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fall away. He hadn’t spoken in a while, his attention entirely consumed by the task at hand, and for a moment, you let yourself watch him—drawn to the way his hands moved, precise and practiced, the lines of his face set in a look of quiet determination that you knew well.
Your attention drifted, though, drawn to something else—a cluster of dark, plump berries growing just a few feet away. They stood out against the underbrush, rich and inviting. Curiosity tugged at you, pulling you closer. You wandered over, crouching down and plucking a small handful, the berries cool and smooth as you rolled them between your fingers.
“Hmm,” you murmured, holding them up to the light. A smile tugged at your lips, you raised one halfway to your mouth, your tone light as you added, “Yummy.”
“Stop.”
Joel’s voice cut through the stillness like a gunshot—sharp, commanding.
You froze, the berry hovering inches from your lips. His head snapped toward you, his rifle abandoned as he stood, moving toward you with a purposeful stride that made the leaves crunch like brittle glass beneath his boots.
“What?” you asked, blinking up at him, startled by the intensity etched into his features.
“Show me.” His tone left no room for argument.
You sighed, shooting him an exasperated look before opening your palm, the berries resting innocently there. Joel crouched slightly, his shadow falling over you as he inspected them, his sharp gaze narrowing like they were a threat to be neutralized.
“Open your mouth,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.
You pulled back slightly, incredulous. “Seriously?”
His glare flicked to yours, and you realized he was serious.
“Fine,” you muttered, sticking your tongue out in a dramatic show of obedience. “Ahh,” you said, exaggerating it, hoping it might earn you some amusement.
It didn’t. Joel just stared at you, his jaw tight, the muscle there ticking as though he was fighting to keep a lid on something darker, something far less restrained. His gaze lingered a beat too long on your tongue, the way you’d held it out for him without hesitation, obedient to his command. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that left his thoughts wandering where they shouldn’t—where they couldn’t—imagining that same mouth, soft and ready, offering him something far more intimate. His hand twitched at his side, as if warring with the urge to reach for you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.
“Good. Now throw ’em out,” he said, the gruffness in his voice doing little to disguise the way he avoided looking at you as he turned away.
“What?” You gawked at him, utterly indignant. “Joel, they’re blueberries. They’re not gonna kill me.”
His arms crossed over his chest, his stare harder than stone. “Could be poison berries. They look the same. You don’t know the difference, so don’t pretend you do. Toss ’em.”
You held his glare for a moment, your fingers curling defensively around the berries, but there was no arguing with Joel when he looked at you like that. With a dramatic sigh, you dropped the berries, watching them tumble unceremoniously to the ground.
“Happy?” you muttered, brushing your hands off against your pants.
Joel didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, his gaze flicking briefly to the trees before landing back on you. “Stay close,” he said, his voice gruff, tinged with that familiar note of exasperation. Then, quieter, muttering more to himself than you, “Do I gotta put a leash on ya or somethin’ to keep you outta trouble?”
The words were barely out of his mouth before you snorted, the laughter escaping before you could stop it. A grin tugged at your lips as you leaned against a nearby tree, playful mischief alight in your eyes. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you teased, your voice dipping low, your tone laced with challenge. The insinuation hung there, bold and undeniable, a spark igniting the air between you.
Joel froze, his body going rigid. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, his expression stuck somewhere between surprise and frustration. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding faintly as he glanced at you, then away, then back again—like he was trying to find words that refused to come.
And then, it happened. The faintest flush crept up his neck, blooming at the collar of his shirt and spreading up to the tips of his ears. He swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping to the forest floor like the answer might be buried there.
“Christ,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, almost a growl.
You watched him turn sharply, shoulders squared as he moved back to his things, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. The corners of your mouth curled up as you pushed off the tree, following after him with a bounce in your step that hadn’t been there before.
Joel didn’t look back, but his ears were still red.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The sound of the horses’ hooves echoed steadily beneath you, a rhythmic cadence that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heartbeat. The trail had narrowed as the hours dragged on, with Joel riding ahead of you, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the dimming light. The trees on either side stood like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching longer and darker as the sun dipped lower. The sunlight, once warm and golden, now barely pierced through the dense canopy, casting everything in muted shades of green and gray.
Every rustle of leaves or sudden snap of a branch had your hand twitching instinctively toward your weapon, your gaze darting into the underbrush as if the trees might shift and reveal something waiting there. Unease clung to you, winding tight in your chest and mingling with the steady rhythm of the ride.
“You’re quiet,” Joel’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, low and rough, like gravel against steel.
The sound startled you, yanking you sharply out of your thoughts. You blinked, your grip on the reins tightening for just a moment before your gaze lifted to his back. He sat tall in the saddle, his movements steady and sure as he guided his horse down the narrow path.
“So are you,” you shot back, your tone light but edged with something defensive. It was easier to focus on the banter than to acknowledge the gnawing knot of anxiety that had been building in your chest.
Joel huffed out a sound that was almost a chuckle, low and dry, the faintest tug of a smirk visible as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to soften the bite, “I’m not the chatterbox.”
Any other day, you might’ve rolled your eyes. Maybe tossed a sharp quip back at him—something to tease out that rare flicker of dry humor.
But today, the woods felt heavier.
The isolation pressed too close, the silence too vast. Laughter felt out of place. Even the air seemed thinner, harder to pull into your lungs. You didn’t smile. Didn’t even try.
Joel noticed. Of course, he noticed.
Without a word, he tugged gently on his reins, slowing his horse until it fell into step beside yours. The sound of their hooves merged into one rhythm, steady and constant, but the quiet between you was anything but still.
He looked over at you then—really looked—his gaze dark and probing. Joel had a way of watching people that made it feel like he was peeling them apart, pulling back layers you’d much rather keep to yourself. His eyes flicked to your face, studying every shadow, every line of tension, and for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.
His voice broke through the suffocating quiet, softer now, gentler in a way that made your breath catch. “Hey.”
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the reins until your knuckles turned white, the leather biting into your palms. You didn’t want to look. Didn’t want him to see whatever it was clawing at the edges of your composure, threatening to spill over. But Joel’s voice—steady, unrelenting—left no room for refusal.
“Look at me.”
So you did.
And it hit you like a punch to the gut.
His eyes weren’t just steady—they were heavy with something raw, something stripped bare and unguarded that settled deep in your chest, stealing the air from your lungs. There was no mask this time, no shadow of distance in his expression. It was just Joel—staring at you, open and unhidden, and for once, you saw everything he wasn’t saying. Worry. Frustration. Something deeper, sharper, that you couldn’t name.
“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that wrapped around you like armor. “You hear me? We’re fine. You’re fine.”
You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to—but the creeping shadows in the trees, the silence that stretched too long, whispered otherwise. They sank their claws into your chest, cold and unshakable. “You don’t know that,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Joel’s jaw flexed, his gaze hardening, though not at you. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he looked past you, scanning the treeline like he might fight off the invisible threat himself.
“I promise,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less steady, each word deliberate, like he was forcing them out against his better judgment. His eyes met yours, unrelenting in their certainty, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to that look—like nothing else mattered but the weight of what he was saying.
Joel Miller didn’t make promises. Not like this. He knew better than anyone that the world didn’t care about promises, that it didn’t hesitate to tear them apart, leaving nothing but regret in their place. He’d learned that lesson too many times, carried the scars of it. Promises were dangerous—they were traps, liabilities in a world where survival demanded detachment.
But this wasn’t about logic, and it wasn’t about the world’s cruelty. It was about you. About the way fear clung to you, raw and unspoken, written in the tightness of your shoulders and the way your hands trembled just enough to make him notice. He couldn’t bear to let you sit in that fear alone, to let it eat away at you when he could say something—do something—to make it stop, even for a moment.
So he broke his rule. For you. Because you needed to hear it, even if he couldn’t control what came next. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you,” he said again, the quiet steel in his voice daring the world to prove him wrong, daring himself to make it true.
Your head shook instinctively, the words a hollow comfort, because the truth—the real, aching truth—had already slipped past your lips before you could stop it.
“I’m not worried about myself, Joel.”
His expression shifted, like you’d reached inside and knocked the breath out of him. The words sat heavy between you, tangled with everything you hadn’t said before now. Joel stilled, his fingers flexing against the reins as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
And for a moment, the silence stretched out again, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick—with fear, with understanding, with something else.
“Hey.” Joel’s voice softened, a quiet plea that pulled your eyes back to his. He leaned forward just slightly, his presence grounding you as he held your gaze like it was the only thing keeping you both steady. “Nothin’s gonna happen to me either. You hear me?” He let the words settle, his brow furrowing like he was daring you to disagree. “Neither of us.”
The quiet stretched again, but it felt different this time.
Safer.
Joel watched you, his eyes searching, patient, waiting until you gave him even the smallest nod, until the tension in your grip loosened just enough for him to see the edges of your fear start to soften.
“I’ll make you dinner when we’re back,” he said suddenly, his tone quieter now, almost teasing, the rough edges smoothed by something gentler. He leaned back slightly in his saddle, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth—small, but real. “How’s that sound? I’ll even let you pick what I make. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You nodded, the movement small but feeling monumental, like handing over a piece of yourself. Joel didn’t look away, his gaze holding yours, dark and steady. It wasn’t just a look—it was a promise, a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Good girl,” he murmured, so soft it was almost lost to the stillness.
The words hit you like a spark catching fire, sudden and uncontainable. Your breath faltered, catching in your throat as heat flooded your cheeks, spreading like a slow, uncontrollable burn.
You felt it down to your bones, something raw and visceral that left you stunned, reeling. Joel must’ve noticed—how could he not?—but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze lingered for one beat longer, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly before he nudged his horse forward.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice low, rough in that familiar way that grounded you, even now. His horse moved ahead, the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth filling the quiet he left behind.
You nudged Winnie forward, falling in line just behind him, your gaze lingering on the back of his broad shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his frame as he rode. The woods stretched endlessly ahead, the shadows still thick, the danger still lurking unseen—but for the first time, it didn’t feel so close.
You couldn’t explain it, not even to yourself, but it was there. The safety. The trust.
The quiet understanding that as long as Joel was there—this close—you would be ok.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The dense forest finally opened into a clearing, the trees pulling back to reveal a lodge at the edge of the horizon. The last rays of daylight stretched thin and golden across the landscape, pooling in the long shadows that crept toward the building. The lodge loomed, weathered and tired, its sagging wooden frame darkened by years of rain and neglect. It stood like a forgotten relic, its emptiness heavy, as if waiting for something—or someone—to disturb its silence.
Joel pulled his horse to a halt first. The shift in him was subtle but clear—the way his shoulders squared, his spine went ramrod straight, his jaw set in that way you’d come to know so well. He said nothing at first, his sharp eyes sweeping the clearing in a calculated rhythm, scanning for threats like he could feel something lurking just beyond the edge of sight. The air around you seemed to thicken, every rustling branch and distant creak amplified by the stillness.
“We’ll walk the rest,” Joel said finally, his voice low, the gruff edge leaving no room for discussion. Without waiting for your response, he swung off his horse, landing in a crouch with a practiced grace that belied his size.
You followed suit, sliding down from Winnie’s saddle. Your legs wobbled slightly, stiff and sore from the hours of riding, but you steadied yourself quickly, reaching for the straps of your pack. Before you slung it over your shoulder, your hand lingered on Winnie’s mane, your fingers brushing through the rough strands in slow, absent motions. There was something soothing about it—the rhythm, the warmth, the small bit of comfort she offered without knowing it.
“Bye, girl,” you whispered, the words hushed and raw, like you were leaving more behind than just your horse. Winnie let out a soft whinny, her dark eyes meeting yours with a quiet patience that settled somewhere deep in your chest, even as it made your throat tighten.
When you turned back, Joel was watching you. He stood a few steps ahead, the rifle slung across his back, his pack heavy over one shoulder. But it wasn’t the readiness of him that stopped you. It wasn’t the rifle or the sharp lines of his posture or even the way his fingers flexed restlessly at his side. It was his eyes.
There was something in them—something unspoken, unreadable, but unmistakably there. Worry, maybe. Or caution. Or something deeper. The amber light caught in their depths, softening the edges, but his gaze remained locked on you, unmoving.
Joel stepped closer, closing the space between you in an instant. The shift was so deliberate, so him, it made your breath catch. His hands came up to settle on your shoulders, grounding you with a steadiness that you didn’t know you needed until it was there. His grip was firm but not harsh, his palms rough against the fabric of your jacket, calloused from years of work and survival.
But it was the way his thumbs brushed the material—soft, fleeting, almost unconscious—that sent a shiver through you. A gesture so small, you might’ve missed it if you weren’t so attuned to him.
“Yes, Joel,” you said quickly, the frustration already seeping into your voice before he could even open his mouth. “I’ll do what you say.”
It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. His lips pressed into a hard line, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he studied you. He didn’t speak right away, and the silence between you became heavy, dense. His shoulders shifted just slightly, like he was bracing himself, and his eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something closer to disbelief.
Like he didn’t trust you to listen. Like he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.
He shook his head, the smallest motion, full of resignation. “Listen to me,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly, a steady edge that made it clear he wasn’t giving you room to argue. “You follow me. You stay quiet. If I say run, you run. You take Winnie, and you leave. You don’t look back. Got it?”
You blinked, unable to speak, the weight of them clawing tight at your chest. Run. Leave.
The very thought of it felt like ice splintering through your veins. You couldn’t picture it—couldn’t imagine a world where you turned your back on him, where you left Joel behind in the dark while you ran ahead.
Your throat tightened painfully, and you shook your head, your voice cracking as you whispered, “Joel, I—”
“Got it?” he pressed, his voice soft but edged with steel. He stepped closer, close enough that the fire in his eyes became undeniable, that the space between you disappeared entirely. Joel had always been unyielding, but this? This was something more. A desperation failing to hide beneath the surface.
You swallowed hard, the words scraping against your throat like they didn’t belong there. “I’ll run,” you said finally, though it felt like a betrayal to even admit it aloud. “I’ll take Winnie. I’ll… leave.”
Joel didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, his eyes locked on yours with a searing intensity that made it hard to breathe. His gaze wasn’t just searching—it was prying, deliberate and unrelenting, peeling back the walls you’d built to keep yourself steady. And under it, you felt seen—exposed in a way you didn’t quite know how to protect yourself from.
Because he wasn’t looking at the stubborn mask you wore, the one you threw on when the world demanded you be strong. No, Joel was looking deeper, into that part of you that screamed a truth you refused to say aloud: You wouldn’t leave him. Not really. Not ever.
“Promise me,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but quiet, threaded with something you weren’t used to hearing from him. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Something that cracked at the edges, barely holding together.
“Joel…” you started, your voice faltering, thin and soft like you might shatter right there.
“Promise me,” he said again, firmer this time, though it trembled just faintly at the edges. Like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
The ache in your chest deepened, spreading through every inch of you like a poison. He was breaking his own rules, showing too much, and it was undoing you piece by piece. Joel didn’t let his guard down. He didn’t falter. But here he was, standing in front of you like this—raw, exposed, and asking for something he needed.
Joel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable as he pulled his hands from your shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. But his eyes—steady and unrelenting—gave him away. He didn’t believe you, not fully. You could see it in the way his gaze lingered, searching your face like he was trying to etch your promise into something solid, something he could hold onto when the time came.
You stayed rooted in place, frozen as you watched him move toward the lodge. Every step he took was deliberate, every turn of his head precise as he scanned the tree line, his hand hovering near his rifle. Ready for anything. Always ready.
And that’s what gutted you—truly gutted you—because you knew, with a clarity that scraped against your ribs like glass, that Joel wouldn’t hesitate. If it came down to you or him, he’d throw himself into the fire, step in front of the bullet, let his body be torn apart before he’d ever let harm come to you. And he’d do it without question. Without pause.
As you began following him, the words echoed in your head, unspoken but deafening. Don’t ask me to run, Joel. Don’t ask me to leave you behind. Each step felt heavier, the thought pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. Because I won’t. I can’t.
You knew he felt it, even if neither of you said it aloud. He felt it in the way your pace never strayed, your steps falling in line just behind his, close enough that he could hear the faint crunch of leaves beneath your boots. He felt it in the way your breaths synced with his, steady but strained, like you were holding something back. He felt it in the moments you lingered too long when his gaze flicked over his shoulder to check on you, your eyes locking with his for a beat too long before darting away.
He felt it in the way your fingers clenched the strap of your pack, white-knuckled and trembling, as if anchoring yourself to the promise you hadn’t meant to make. In the way you hovered just behind his shadow, always there, always ready, like you were silently daring the world to try and take him from you.
And maybe that’s why he didn’t look back to meet your gaze.
Because he knew. Knew what you couldn’t bring yourself to say.
Knew the truth that tore at you with every step closer to the lodge—that no promise, no command, no amount of pleading would ever change it.
You’d rather die than leave him.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The lodge emerged from the shadows of the trees like a ghost, its silhouette jagged against the fading sky. Joel crouched low, signaling for you to do the same, his movements fluid and deliberate as he wove through the underbrush with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You mirrored him without question, your weapon clutched tightly in your hands, though the prickling sensation crawling up your spine refused to settle.
The building was a monument to ruin—ivy clawed greedily at its sides, creeping through splintered boards and shattered windowpanes. The roof sagged under the weight of neglect, and its walls seemed to lean in on themselves, like they couldn’t bear the burden of holding anything upright anymore. Every creak of the structure, every shift of the wind, sent your pulse hammering against your ribs.
Joel moved closer, crouching low to inspect the ground near the lodge’s entrance. His fingers brushed over the dirt, scanning for prints or disturbances, but there was nothing—just layers of leaves and twigs undisturbed by anything more threatening than the wind. He glanced back at you, his expression unreadable but wary, before tilting his head toward the lodge.
You both edged forward, your eyes darting to the windows for movement, though the shattered panes reflected only the fading light. Joel stopped by a section of the wall, brushing aside ivy to check for signs of tampering or recent use, but the wood was damp and untouched.
He raised a hand, the gesture sharp and commanding, and you froze mid-step, holding your breath as his gaze swept the clearing with hawk-like precision.
Nothing stirred—not in the shadows, not in the lodge, not in the quiet woods that stretched around you like a living trap. Still, Joel’s hand hovered near his weapon, his muscles taut as he nodded for you to follow.
“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, just loud enough for you to hear.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, your breath shallow as you fell into step behind him.
The front door hung crookedly on rusted hinges, groaning in protest as Joel nudged it open with the barrel of his rifle. The sound scraped through the silence like a knife, too loud, too exposed, and you couldn’t stop the way your fingers tightened around your weapon.
Joel stepped inside first, his silhouette a wall of quiet strength against the dim light leaking through the cracks in the boards. You followed, forcing yourself to move with the same care, though your heart thundered loud enough that you swore he could hear it.
Inside, the lodge was a shell of its former self. Dust blanketed the warped floorboards, and the air hung heavy with mildew and rot. Furniture lay upturned and broken, a chair leg splintered like a bone. The stillness was oppressive, a silence so deep it felt wrong.
Joel stopped, raising his hand again—split up, the flick of his fingers said. Be careful.
You hesitated, your chest tightening as your eyes locked with his. You didn’t want to split up—he could see it, clear as day, in the way your gaze lingered, pleading silently even as your jaw set with determination. But you were a big girl. That’s why you were here. You were his partner, and partners pulled their weight, even if the fear inside you threatened to tear you apart.
Joel’s expression shifted, his own hesitation flickering just beneath the surface. For a moment, it looked like he might say it—that you could stick together, that he’d shoulder this for both of you. But before he could, you forced yourself to speak.
Joel held your stare for a second longer, his eyes sharp and searching, as if making sure you were ok. Finally, he gave a short nod and disappeared down the far hallway, his boots making the faintest creak against the wood.
Then he was gone, and you were alone.
You turned toward what looked like the kitchen, your steps slow, deliberate. Every movement felt amplified, the sound of your boots on the floorboards bouncing off the walls like a warning. The cabinets hung open, their hinges rusted and warped, shelves stripped bare save for a few unidentifiable cans buried under layers of dust. Drawers yawned empty, their contents long since ransacked, and the grime clinging to the countertops filled the air with a damp, sour tang that made your nose wrinkle.
You pressed on, your breathing shallow as you opened door after door, each creak of the hinges slicing through the silence like a threat. Each room you entered felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to pounce the moment you let your guard down. But all you found were shadows and decay.
When you stepped back into the main room, your heart thudded as Joel appeared from the opposite hallway, his rifle still raised, his shoulders squared and tense. His sharp gaze swept the room first, scanning every corner, lingering a second too long as if he expected something to emerge from the shadows. Finally, his eyes found yours.
“Clear,” you whispered, your voice tight but steady, the tension in your chest easing just slightly under the weight of his presence.
Joel nodded once, his reply a low murmur. “Same here. No signs of infected or raiders.”
The stiffness in his shoulders loosened—just a fraction—but it was enough for you to catch. He lowered his rifle, the grip of his hand softening, though his gaze stayed sharp, cutting through the dim light as he glanced toward the darker corners of the lodge. The faint furrow in his brow lingered, betraying the quiet calculations still turning behind his eyes.
“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “Grab what you can. Then we move.”
You didn’t argue. There was no room for debate, just the quiet understanding that lingered between the two of you. With a sharp nod, you turned back toward the shadowed remnants of the lodge, splitting up again, each step deliberate as you scoured opposite sides for anything that might help you survive.
The finds were sparse but not useless. In the back of a closet, buried beneath a heap of moth-eaten fabric, your fingers brushed over something cool and familiar. You pulled out a small, dusty box of bandages—the edges frayed, but the contents inside still sealed and intact. “Bingo,” you murmured, though the sound barely broke the silence. In a drawer, you found a small box of ammo, the label faded but legible, and a pair of rusted scissors, their edges dulled but still functional with some effort.
Across the room, Joel worked with practiced efficiency. He knelt, his hand closing around something tucked behind a fallen shelf. Holding it up to the faint light filtering through the shattered windows, he revealed a hunting knife, its blade dulled with age but still capable of damage. Joel turned it over once in his hands, inspecting it with his sharp, calculating eye before tucking it into his pack without a word.
You met back in the main room, the eerie silence of the lodge pressing in around you.
“Not bad,” Joel said when he found you again, his voice steady and grounding, cutting through the quiet like a steady anchor. He turned a wrench over in his hands, the faint light glinting off the tarnished metal as he inspected it, then stowed it with the tools he’d collected. “Could’ve been worse.”
His eyes flicked to your pack. “What’d you find?” he asked, nodding toward it.
“Bandages, some ammo, scissors,” you shrugged, shifting the weight of your pack slightly. “Not a lot, but…”
“Good job,” Joel interrupted, his tone gruff but sincere. The simple words settled something in your chest, the heaviness easing just slightly as he gave a brief nod.
“Alright,” he said, his gaze shifting to the staircase that loomed ahead, its warped wood groaning faintly under the weight of the silence. “I’m gonna check upstairs quickly. You stay here—I’ll be ten minutes tops.”
“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes landed on you then, steady and searching, and you felt yourself stand a little straighter without realizing it. It wasn’t a look that checked for injuries or exhaustion—it went deeper, something quieter, something anchoring. His gaze carried a weight that pressed against you gently, like he was grounding you in a way words never could. It made the world seem to pause, holding its breath for just a moment.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, the gravel softened by a note of concern he didn’t manage to hide in time. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t just protocol—it was real, slipping through the cracks of his usual guarded demeanor.
You hesitated. “Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. It wasn’t a full lie—you were fine enough. But there was something about the lodge, the way the air felt wrong, like it wasn’t meant to be this quiet. It stayed with you, tugging at the edges of your nerves. Still, the steadiness in Joel’s gaze was enough to hold you upright, to keep the words from cracking. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
Joel’s eyes lingered on you a moment longer, his brow furrowing just slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you but didn’t see the use in pressing further. He gave a small, tight nod. “I’m here,” he said simply, like it was a promise—because it was. It always was.
Before you could answer, Joel turned toward the stairs, his boots creaking softly against the worn wood as he began to ascend, his figure fading into the dim shadows above. You stood there, rooted in place, your fingers tightening instinctively around your weapon.
The lodge still felt wrong.
The air still felt thick.
The room too quiet.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
You stood planted for a few minutes, your ears straining to track the faint sound of Joel’s footsteps overhead as he maneuvered through the rooms. The steady rhythm of his movements was oddly comforting, a reminder that you weren’t completely alone in this place. Still, the unease gnawed at you, curling tighter in your chest with every creak of the old wood.
You sighed, turning reluctantly. If you were waiting, you might as well keep looking for something useful.
As you moved deeper into the lodge, the air seemed heavier, like the walls themselves were pressing in. Your boots crunched softly over the debris littering the floor, your eyes scanning each corner with wary precision. A collapsed shelf caught your attention, leaning crookedly against the far wall, its splintered remains scattered like an afterthought. But it wasn’t the mess that made you pause—it was what was behind it.
A door.
Half-hidden, almost like it didn’t want to be found. The frame was warped, its paint chipped and peeling, the edge barely visible against the shadows.
You froze for a heartbeat, instincts tugging at you, warning you to wait for Joel. To call him. To let him take point, like he always did. But something—curiosity, stubbornness, or maybe just the restless hum of adrenaline in your veins—made you step closer instead. Your hand brushed the debris aside, and the door groaned faintly as it gave way under your touch.
A rush of stale, frigid air met you, sharp and sudden, crawling against your skin like unseen fingers. You swallowed hard as your gaze fell to the narrow staircase leading down into the basement. It was steep, shrouded in darkness, the light from above barely brushing the first few steps. Something about it felt wrong, ancient in its silence, like the lodge itself had buried it for a reason.
You lingered there, the weight of uncertainty pinning you in place. You could turn back. Go find Joel.
Just a look, you thought, forcing yourself to believe it.
Your fingers curled around the grip of your weapon, the metal cold and grounding against your palm. You took the first step down. The wood creaked under your weight, loud enough that you winced. Quiet, you told yourself. Be quiet.
The silence was unbearable, so thick and oppressive it almost buzzed in your ears. Without realizing it, you began to hum softly under your breath—a faint, wavering melody that meant nothing and everything, a trick to steady your pulse and force the tension back into something manageable.
Then you heard it.
Voices.
They slipped through the darkness, muffled and low, with an edge to them that turned your blood to ice. You stopped cold, your breath catching in your throat as your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You couldn’t make out the words, but they were unmistakably human. Not infected—humans. That realization did nothing to settle the nausea twisting in your gut. If anything, it made it worse.
You strained to hear, your head tilting slightly, every muscle in your body coiled tight. The voices were distorted by the walls and distance, but they were close. Too close. Your grip on your weapon tightened until your knuckles ached, sweat slicking your palms.
Turn back.
The warning flashed through your mind like a flare in the dark, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. You flattened yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding like a war drum in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you peered around the edge of the doorway, and there they were.
Three men stood clustered near a ring of dim lanterns, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the crumbling basement walls. The tallest of the three—a wiry figure with gaunt cheeks and a scar bisecting his right brow—commanded the space, his voice cutting through the stillness like the scrape of a blade against bone.
“She was a fuckin’ bitch,” he spat, his knife twirling restlessly between his fingers. The blade caught the flickering light, winking like a predator’s eye. His movements were sharp, erratic, as though violence lingered just beneath his skin, waiting for an excuse to break free. “Got what was comin’ to her.”
“Jesus, Tom,” the broad one muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. He leaned against the wall with a forced laziness, one hand brushing the edge of the handgun strapped at his hip. Everything about him—his stretched vest, his patchy beard, the sneer that seemed permanently carved into his face—radiated menace. Even his stillness felt dangerous, like the coiled pause before a snake strikes. “That was your girlfriend.”
“Ex,” Tom snapped, his voice dripping venom, the scar over his brow twisting with his sneer. “Skank.”
The youngest of the group lingered just outside the lantern’s glow, his presence twitchy and uncertain. His rifle was clutched tightly to his chest, the whites of his knuckles visible against the stock, his eyes darting constantly toward the shadows as though they might swallow him whole. He wasn’t built for this. You could see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he flinched every time Tom’s knife flashed.
“How far’s the settlement?” the kid asked finally, his voice thin and hesitant, as if he already feared the answer.
Your stomach dropped like a stone. Jackson.
“A few hours,” Tom said, flicking his knife toward some vague point in the distance, his tone dismissive, almost bored. “If we don’t hit any patrols.”
The broad man scratched his beard, considering. His sneer deepened into something uglier, the edges curling with grim satisfaction. “They’ve got guards,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring them. “Ain’t no easy pickings. We wait. Arm the rest of the crew first. Then we hit ‘em.”
The floor felt like it shifted under your feet. Ice pooled in your veins, spreading outward until you couldn’t feel your fingertips wrapped white-knuckled around your weapon. They weren’t scavengers. They weren’t drifters looking for a warm corner or forgotten scraps. These men were here for blood.
Jackson—your home —was in their sights.
The kid shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the concrete. “You sure this is a good idea?” he muttered. “We don’t know what they’ve got. What if it’s more than we can—”
Tom rounded on him in an instant, the knife snapping to a stop in his hand. The kid flinched as Tom stepped close, his scar twisting with his sneer. “What, you scared?” he hissed. “Gonna piss your pants, kid? You signed up for this, remember? Or you wanna end up like the bitch we left back there?”
The kid’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his knuckles somehow tightening even more on his rifle. “No,” he murmured. “I’m good.”
Tom turned away, a sharp, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s what I thought.”
Your heart hammered so loudly you swore they could hear it. You couldn’t stay here—couldn’t listen to another second. The world around you narrowed to the single, desperate thought pounding through your mind.
Get out. Find Joel.
You moved, forcing yourself back a step, slow and deliberate. Another step. The floor beneath your boots creaked—loud, impossibly loud—and your breath caught in your throat.
The kid’s head snapped up. “Did you hear that?”
Shit.
You froze, pressing yourself hard into the shadows, your pulse so frantic it was a miracle you didn’t pass out right then.
The broad man sighed, disinterested. “Probably rats. Place like this, I’m surprised we ain’t wading through ‘em.”
Tom grunted, but his gaze lingered on the dark edges of the room for a beat too long before he turned back to his knife, twirling it once more. “We move at first light,” he said flatly, his voice sharp as flint. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
They didn’t notice you. Somehow, they didn’t notice.
You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself up another step. And then another. Every nerve screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t risk it—not yet. You climbed the stairs, each step a slow, deliberate fight against panic.
When you reached the top, the cold air of the lodge hit you like a slap. You pushed the door closed with trembling hands, the sound of your breathing ragged in the stillness. For one long moment, you stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide as you fought to push down the panic clawing at your throat.
Find Joel.
That thought broke through the haze, sharp and clear. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, and turned back toward the main room. Each step felt deliberate, your movements careful as you attempted to stay as quiet as possible.
Joel. You needed to find Joel. Now.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
Joel appeared out of the shadows like a ghost, his presence so sudden and silent that you didn’t register him until he was right there. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and startling in the suffocating quiet, his concern clear though he had no idea what you’d just witnessed.
You reacted instinctively—without thinking. Your hand shot out, fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t know you possessed. The other hand pressed firmly over his mouth before he could say another word. Wide-eyed, trembling, you stared up at him, your silent plea screaming louder than any sound ever could.
Joel stilled. Completely. His body went rigid beneath your touch, but his gaze—sharp as ever—locked onto yours. His expression shifted as he took you in, reading you the way only Joel could: the panic in your eyes, the tremble in your shoulders, the urgency of your grip. Then, as if following some invisible thread, his eyes flickered over your shoulder, narrowing on the dark, half-open basement door.
The change in him was instant. His entire frame tensed, his jaw tightening until you swore you heard his teeth grind. The flicker of soft concern vanished, replaced by something colder, harder—Joel the protector, Joel with the sharp edges and the deadly calm.
“How many?” he mouthed, his lips barely moving, his eyes locked on yours.
You swallowed hard, your breath catching as your trembling hand rose slowly. Three fingers. Three.
He nodded once, sharp and precise. They see you? his expression asked, his brow lifting just enough to push the question.
You shook your head, the words stuck somewhere in your throat, fear silencing you.
Joel’s eyes sharpened, calculating. His hand shifted slowly toward his rifle, every movement deliberate, measured, a man preparing for war.
He didn’t need to speak—his body said it all. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.
He gestured sharply, flicking his hand toward the wall behind you—a command, clear as day. Get out of sight. His eyes pinned you, unyielding, daring you to argue. Let me handle this.
But your body didn’t move. You couldn’t move.
Your feet felt glued to the floor, your fingers twitching against the grip of your weapon, your chest so tight it hurt to breathe. The idea of Joel walking toward that basement alone—that black hole of danger—sent ice shooting through your veins.
Joel turned back just in time to see you still standing there, your eyes flicking between him and the door. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. He adjusted the strap of his rifle, the motion sharp, almost angry, before his voice cut through the quiet like a whip.
“No,” he said flatly, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re not coming.”
“Joel—” You didn’t mean for it to sound so small, so pleading.
His head snapped toward you, his glare pinning you in place like a physical force. “No,” he repeated, harsher now, his voice a low growl that reverberated in the small space. “You said you’d do what I told you. You promised.”
Your lip trembled as you looked at him, your fear laid bare in a way you couldn’t hide. It wasn’t for yourself—you knew that. It was him. The idea of Joel walking down there alone, of you standing helpless while something happened to him—it gutted you. You couldn’t let that happen.
Joel saw it. Of course, he saw it. His eyes flickered to the whiteness of your knuckles around your weapon, to the way your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the tears brimming but refusing to fall. His jaw tightened, his shoulders coiled like a wire pulled too tight, but when he exhaled, it wasn’t anger that bled through. It was something quieter, rawer—something meant for you alone.
“Stay here,” he said again, but this time, his voice had gentled, as though he knew he was asking for too much. He paused, and then—just as you thought he might turn and leave—he stepped closer.
Before you could process it, his hands were on your face—broad and calloused, cradling you as though you were made of glass but still the only thing keeping him steady.
His thumbs hovered, the faintest pressure brushing your cheeks, anchoring you, grounding you. His presence overwhelmed everything, the lodge, the danger—it all faded away until there was only Joel.
“No matter what you hear,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with something so desperate, it made your stomach turn. “You do not come down. You hear me?”
His eyes bored into yours, dark and unyielding, as if he could carve the command straight into your soul. It wasn’t just a warning—it was an order, sharp and desperate.
You nodded, small and mechanical, because your throat was too tight to speak. Your eyes burned, blurring the lines of his face, but you couldn’t look away.
Joel didn’t move. His fingers stayed where they were, his palms warm against your skin, and his brow furrowed like he was trying to memorize you. Like some part of him was begging for more time. Then his thumb traced your cheek—so soft, so fleeting that it almost didn’t feel real.
His next words fell like a blow.
“If I don’t come back…” Joel hesitated, his voice breaking like he hated every syllable he was forcing himself to say. His grip on you tightened—barely, but enough to steady himself. “You take Winnie. You leave.”
“Joel—” you choked out, the crack in your voice making him flinch, but he didn’t let you finish.
“You leave,” he repeated, the word a command, a plea, everything in between.
“You get back to Jackson, and you don’t stop. You don’t look back.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he wrestled with something unspoken. “You don’t wait for me.”
You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over, hot and silent as they ran down your cheeks. “Don’t talk like that,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.
Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut for the briefest moment like he couldn’t bear the weight of you breaking right in front of him.
“Promise me,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, his words breaking apart with the effort it took to say them. “Promise me you’ll go.”
Your chest ached, torn apart by the desperation in his voice, by the way he held you like you were the only thing left in the world. You couldn’t breathe past the tightness in your throat, but somehow, you found the words. Barely.
“I promise,” you whispered, the lie slicing through you like a blade.
Joel stilled, his gaze lingering on you—memorizing you, you realized—until you thought the weight of it might crush you. His eyes were dark, burning with everything he couldn’t say, everything he wouldn’t allow himself to feel. It was more than care. More than duty. It was him, all of him, tangled up in that look like a confession carved into silence.
He pulled back just enough to let you go, his hands dropping away with a slowness that made your heart seize. It felt wrong, like he’d taken something with him when he stepped back.
And then, without another word, he turned. His shoulders squared, his rifle steady, every step deliberate and heavy as he moved toward the basement door. He looked invincible, unshakable, a fortress built to protect—but you saw it. You saw the way his steps faltered, just slightly, right before he disappeared from view.
It was so small, so fleeting, but you caught it—the hesitation. The doubt.
And when he was gone, swallowed by the dark, you were left with nothing but the sound of your pulse pounding in your ears, the echo of his voice, and the truth you couldn’t ignore
You’d made him a promise.
But you already knew you’d break it.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
You stood frozen, your weapon clutched so tightly your knuckles ached, staring at the empty space where Joel had been just moments ago. Your breath hitched as your chest caved inward, a frustrated whisper escaping you before you could stop it. “Fuck,” you murmured, wiping the tear that streaked down your cheek.
The silence that followed was suffocating—thick, heavy, pressing against your skin until you felt like it might crush you.
You strained to hear something—anything—beyond the shallow rhythm of your breathing. A voice, the creak of a floorboard, the sharp crack of a rifle.
But there was nothing.
You trusted him. God, you trusted him. Joel was the sharpest, most capable man you’d ever known, his movements precise, his instincts lethal. If anyone could handle this—three men, armed, their voices dripping with cruelty—it was him. But trust didn’t stop the fear.
Your mind spiraled, unbidden. Joel alone in that basement, the shadows creeping too close. Joel outnumbered, surrounded. The scarred man’s knife glinting in the flickering lantern light. Joel going down, because you—because you—
No. You shook your head sharply, forcing the thought back. Joel had told you to stay. Had made you promise. You clung to the memory of his hands on your face, his words—steady, pleading—cutting through the fear like a tether.
“Stay here.”
And then it began.
The first shot shattered the silence like glass, the sound so sharp it felt like it had punched straight through your chest. You sucked in a ragged breath, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind filled in the image: Joel, calm, unflinching, taking the first man out with lethal precision.
Then came the shouting, frantic and chaotic, movement as they realized they weren’t alone. The second shot cracked through the air, echoing with brutal finality, followed by the clang of metal hitting concrete. A rifle? A knife? You didn’t know. Another one down.
Joel was fast. He was sharp. He was—
But then the rhythm changed.
The sounds turned messier, louder. Boots scraping. A grunt—low, pained. The thud of bodies colliding, struggling. Your blood ran cold. Every nerve in your body tensed as you heard it: Joel’s voice. A noise that was undeniably him—guttural, strained, torn from somewhere deep.
Stay here. Joel’s voice echoed in your head, the quiet plea from earlier ringing like a hammer against your skull. You owed him this. He’d trusted you with this. You’d promised.
But that sound—his sound—kept replaying in your head, pulling tighter around your throat, suffocating you. Joel was down there. Fighting. Alone. And you were here. Frozen.
No. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, instinct screaming louder than any promise you’d made.
You couldn’t. You wouldn’t stay here while he fought for his life. If something happened to him—if you let something happen to him—you wouldn’t survive it.
The old stairs creaked under your weight as you descended, slow at first, your boots deliberate against the wood. But then your pace quickened, reckless and raw, urgency pushing you faster than reason could hold you back. Each sound below sharpened with terrifying clarity as you drew closer: the crash of something breaking, the thud of heavy footsteps, the ragged cadence of Joel’s breathing.
When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you flattened yourself against the wall, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The cold concrete pressed hard against your back, grounding you even as your mind screamed at you to move, to act. Slowly, you edged around the corner, just enough to see—and the sight that met you stopped your heart cold.
Joel was locked in a brutal, desperate struggle with Tom, the leader. The raider’s knife gleamed wickedly in the dim lantern light, a wicked arc of steel that seemed to catch the room’s shadows and pull them with it. Tom lunged, his aim sharp and merciless, the blade slicing toward Joel’s ribs. Joel twisted at the last second, his hand snapping out like a vice to clamp around Tom’s wrist, halting the strike before it could land.
The two of them slammed into the wall with a thud that reverberated through the basement, bodies straining, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. Joel deflected the knife again, his forearm cracking hard against Tom’s, the impact loud and jarring. But Tom was quick—too quick—and he broke free with a snarl, his lip curled into something vicious and ugly.
“Come on, old man,” Tom taunted, his voice drenched in mockery, his grin sharp and mean. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”
Joel didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
His focus was absolute, his movements deliberate, honed by years of surviving men just like this. But you could see the wear creeping in—the slight falter in his step, the way his breath came shorter, sharper. The next swing of the knife was too quick, too cruel. It slashed across Joel’s side, the tear of fabric punctuated by a sickening bloom of red that spread dark and fast against his jacket.
Your breath caught in your throat, the sound choked and ragged as you saw him stumble back a step. Joel grunted, the pain flashing across his face before he swallowed it down, straightening with that same unrelenting resolve. But the blood—his blood—dripping onto the floor sent a bolt of panic through you, sharp enough to shatter any instinct to stay hidden.
“Joel!” The word tore from your lips, loud and unrestrained, a burst of desperation you couldn’t hold back.
Joel’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in shock—“No!” he barked, his voice hoarse—but the warning came too late.
Tom’s grin twisted into something crueler, something darker, as his gaze swung to you. “Well, look at this,” he sneered, his knife glinting as he straightened. “Didn’t know you brought a partner. Real sweet.”
He moved fast—too fast. Before you could blink, he was closing the distance, the blade flashing as he lunged. You fired, the crack of the shot splitting the air like a whip, but it was too close, too rushed. The bullet skidded off the concrete near his feet, sending up a burst of dust but leaving him unharmed.
“Too slow,” Tom hissed, and then the knife was slashing toward you.
Pain ripped through you, hot and searing as the blade bit into your thigh. You gasped, stumbling back, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.
But you didn’t let go. Your grip on your rifle tightened, and with every ounce of strength you had left, you swung it hard. The butt of the weapon crashed into his shoulder with a dull, heavy thud, the force of it making him stagger to the side.
But he recovered too quickly, his movements fueled by something feral and unrelenting. His eyes found yours again, narrowed with ruthless intent. He came at you once more, his steps predatory, the knife gleaming red.
You didn’t hesitate this time.
You steadied your breath, your hands trembling but sure as you raised the rifle again. Time slowed as you lined up the shot, Joel’s warning, the chaos, the fear—all of it fading into the steady pull of your finger on the trigger.
The shot rang out, louder than thunder in the small space, and Tom jerked back, the force of it ripping through him. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor as his body crumpled. His eyes were still open, vacant and unseeing, as he slumped against the concrete.
The silence that followed was deafening.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
Silence stretched thin, broken only by the ragged, uneven gasps tearing from your chest, the weapon still trembling in your hands. The sharp sting of the cut on your thigh barely registered, drowned out by the aftershocks of adrenaline flooding your veins. You sank against the wall, its cold, unyielding surface pressing into your back like an anchor, keeping you upright when your body felt like it might fall apart.
Across the room, Joel cursed—a low, guttural sound, tight with pain and something darker. When he moved, his steps were heavy, deliberate, like he was holding himself back, like he didn’t trust himself to close the distance without breaking something.
When he finally stopped in front of you, the air itself seemed to coil tighter, pressing down on your chest until it was impossible to breathe.
You looked up, your stomach twisting as his dark eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze hit you like a physical blow, heavy and unrelenting, and you couldn’t stop the small flinch that followed.
“What did I tell you?” he bit out, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. “What did I make you promise me?”
Your back hit the wall as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Joel—”
“No,” he snapped, cutting you off. His palm slammed against the wall behind you, the sharp crack ringing out and making you flinch. “You don’t get to talk right now.”
The anger in his voice was volcanic, but there was something else beneath it—a crack, a tremor, something raw that made it hit twice as hard. He bent down so he was eye-level, his face inches from yours. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break, his dark eyes burning into yours with an intensity that sent a chill down your spine.
“You promised me,” he ground out, his voice shaking now. “I said don’t come down here. I said no matter what you heard—no matter what, you stay put.” His voice cracked on the last word, his brow furrowing like it was taking everything in him not to lose control. “Why is that so goddamn hard for you to understand?""
Your jaw tightened, the tears that had been burning in your eyes threatening to spill over. The knot of fear and frustration that had been choking you since this all started finally snapped, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them. “Joel, he would’ve killed you!”
“I don’t care!” Joel roared, the sound like thunder in the small, suffocating room, shaking the air between you. His voice wasn’t just loud—it was broken, raw, splintered with something too jagged to contain.
The sheer force of it made you flinch, but not because it scared you. It was what you heard in it—his anguish, his desperation, all of it bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, his breaths ragged and hard, like the words had been ripped from someplace deep and untouchable. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!”
“Well, I care!” you screamed back, your voice cracking under the weight of it all as the tears finally spilled free, hot and relentless. The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping what poured out now, no holding back what had clawed its way to the surface.
“I care, Joel! You think no one does? You think no one gives a damn what happens to you? I fucking care!”
The last words hit like a gunshot, reverberating through the space, leaving the air thick and choking.
Joel stilled, like you’d physically struck him, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of what you’d said. The fire in his eyes dimmed—just a little—but something else flickered there, something darker and heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even shame.
His hands flexed at his sides, restless and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotions you’d unleashed in him. His lips parted slightly, like he was searching for something to say, something to give back to you, but nothing came. His face softened in the slightest way, his fury tempered by the truth you’d thrown at him, but it was still too raw—you were still too raw—for either of you to move past it.
The silence between you pulsed like a heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting, until you swallowed hard, forcing down the sob lodged in your throat. Your voice trembled but carried a quiet, cutting edge as you pressed on. “And you—you—promised me.”
Before he could stop you—before you could stop yourself—you reached for him, your fingers curling around the edge of his coat. “You promised me nothing would happen to you,” you said, quieter now but no less fierce, no less shattering.
The torn fabric gave way easily as you pushed it aside, revealing the steady seep of blood from the shallow cut along his side. Your hands trembled as you let the coat drop, the image of the blood burned into you.
“So let’s just call it even,” you said finally, your voice small but heavy with the kind of exhaustion that only came after fear. You sank back against the wall, your head falling back to rest against the rough wood as you squeezed your eyes shut, like shutting out the world might hold you together for just a moment longer.
Joel’s gaze flicked down to the blood staining your jeans, the dark patch spreading too quickly for his liking. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek, and he let out a sharp, uneven breath through his nose—like he was trying to hold something back, something he didn’t trust himself to let out.
His hands hovered near your thigh, close but not quite touching, his fingers twitching at his sides. They curled and uncurled, restless and aching, as if he were caught in some invisible war with himself.
“You’re hurt,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, quieter now, like speaking it out loud might make the wound worse. He wasn’t looking at you—he was staring at the blood, his expression so tight it looked painful.
“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” The last part was barely above a whisper, more to himself than to you, as though he couldn’t reconcile it—like the fact that you were bleeding was something he couldn’t forgive.
“It’s just a graze,” you replied quickly, your tone sharper than you intended. It wasn’t just dismissive—it was defensive, a knee-jerk reaction to the way he was looking at you. Like the blood on your leg was his fault, like it was a wound he’d put there himself. “Joel, I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”
But Joel didn’t look fine.
His dark eyes stayed locked on the stain spreading across your jeans, heavy and unrelenting, as though he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t anger in his gaze now—it was something else. Guilt.
“That don’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low, gruff, but you could hear it—feel it—just beneath the surface. He wasn’t angry at you. He was blaming himself. “It don’t matter if it’s a graze or worse. I shouldn’t’ve let it happen.”
Joel crouched, pulling his knife free and slicing through the hem of his shirt without hesitation. “Hold still,” he said, pressing the clean fabric to your leg, his hands firm but careful.
He wrapped the strip tightly around the wound, securing it with a knot. His fingers lingered briefly, checking the tension before he leaned back, his sharp eyes scanning your leg.
“This’ll hold for now,” he murmured, quieter this time. “We’re goin’ to the safe house,” his voice dropping into that tone that left no room for argument. Commanding, but not unkind.
You tried to push yourself upright, to stand on your own, but your legs betrayed you, shaky from adrenaline and exhaustion. Joel was there immediately, his arms slipping around you with the kind of ease that made you think he hadn’t even considered letting you fall. One arm looped around your waist, steady and unyielding, while his other hand hovered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you wavered.
“Easy,” Joel murmured, his voice softer now, though the crease between his brows stayed etched deep, carved by worry so heavy it made your chest tighten.
You let your eyes drift around the room then, your breath hitching as the scene unfolded in jagged snapshots: the lifeless bodies, the chaos Joel had waded through alone. Your heart clenched, a surge of guilt and helplessness rising in your throat.
“Don’t look,” he said, his voice a quiet command, his tone gruff but layered with something protective. It wasn’t just the violence he was shielding you from—it was the truth of it all, the weight of what survival demanded.
Your knees wavered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him—more than you wanted to, more than you meant to. But Joel didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch. You turned to him, burying your face against his shoulder, your sobs spilling out in jagged waves you couldn’t control.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here,” Joel murmured, his voice rough but low, steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around you like a shield. His hand slid up to the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, grounding you with every careful touch.
You pulled back reluctantly, tears streaking your cheeks, your chest tight with the vulnerability you hated showing. You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen, voice breaking as you asked, “Are you mad at me?”
Joel froze. It was barely a second—a hesitation so fleeting you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching so closely. But his hands betrayed him, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, grounding himself as much as you. He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw working, chest rising and falling with an uneven rhythm. The question had shaken him; you could see it in the way his eyes flickered away for just a moment, like he needed time to collect himself.
“You’re mad,” you said again, your voice trembling, words spilling out unbidden, raw and unsteady. “Aren’t you?”
That pulled his gaze back to yours. His eyes—sharp, searching—locked onto you, and you braced for it. The anger. The storm. The hard words that would push you away.
But they didn’t come.
“No,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I ain’t mad at you.” The words hung in the air, weighted with a sincerity that made your heart squeeze. He hesitated again, his thumb brushing the edge of your jacket, the touch so light you weren’t sure it was real. “Could never be mad at you.”
Joel’s hand lingered a moment longer, his fingers twitching like he might reach up, like he might cup your face and hold you still, make you look at him, make you understand. But instead, he pulled back, his hand curling briefly into a fist at his side, as if he had to physically stop himself from touching you.
Joel nodded once, a sharp, subtle motion, like he was giving himself permission to believe you.
With a quiet sigh, Joel shifted, pulling you closer against his side, his movements gentle but decisive as he helped you toward the stairs.
You let him, your body too tired and your heart too heavy to argue.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The ride to the safe house was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt heavy—thick with all the words neither of you could bring yourselves to say. The rhythmic crunch of hooves against the dirt road was the only sound that filled the space between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
Every few minutes, Joel glanced back over his shoulder, his brow furrowed deep, his expression hard to read but unmistakably Joel. Protective. Unrelenting.
Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Joel, you’re gonna break your damn neck,” you called out, your voice cutting through the stillness, sharp enough to make him slow.
“Ride beside me,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. It was a command, sure, but you heard the care threaded beneath it.
You sighed, nudging Winnie forward until you were riding alongside him. Joel’s horse matched your pace easily, the two of you falling into a quiet rhythm together. He didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes drifted over you again, scanning you from head to toe with that maddening focus of his—like he was trying to convince himself you were still in one piece, like he could find a hidden injury just by looking hard enough.
“How’s your leg?” Joel asked after a long beat, his voice softer this time, the edge of his usual gruffness dulled by something heavier—something tender.
“Fine,” you replied quickly, maybe too quickly. You sat straighter in the saddle, biting back the wince that wanted to pull at your features. The throbbing beneath the bandage hadn’t eased, but you weren’t about to let him see it.
Joel’s jaw worked tight, his fingers flexing briefly around the reins, knuckles pale. He didn’t look convinced, though he held himself back, his voice dipping low as he muttered, “Should’ve stayed put.” The words came out soft, almost defeated, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “You didn’t need to come down there.”
“Joel,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we really gonna do this again?”
The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with the weight of unspoken things. His eyes lingered on yours, then followed your gaze as it drifted to the dark stain where his blood had seeped into the fabric of his jacket.
“I’m fine,” he said when he caught you looking. The words were clipped, dismissive, like brushing it off might make it disappear entirely.
“Sure,” you replied, raising a brow, the disbelief clear in your voice. “You’re bleeding, but you’re fine.”
Joel let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a sigh and a growl, frustration mingled with something else—resignation, maybe.
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.
“So have I,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The safe house was as bleak as you expected: four walls, a fireplace barely clinging to life, and a draft that made your skin prickle.
It didn’t matter. It was shelter. It would keep you alive tonight.
Joel gritted his teeth as he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a wobbly chair. His rifle clattered softly onto the worn table nearby, within arm’s reach, always within reach.
The room seemed smaller with him in it, his broad frame commanding the space even as he knelt by the fireplace. You could hear the low rumble of his voice—soft, agitated muttering—lost beneath the crackle of kindling catching flame.
You sank onto the faded couch, its springs groaning beneath you as your body gave way to exhaustion. The pull of sleep was strong, the ache in your leg reduced to a dull throb—manageable, but not forgotten.
You let your head tilt back against the threadbare cushions, your eyes slipping closed for what felt like the first time in hours. The warmth of the fire began to spread, chasing the cold from the air and unraveling some of the tension from your limbs.
“Let me see that leg.”
You blinked, the haze of near-sleep lifting as you tilted your head toward him. He was standing there, bottle of alcohol in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other.
“It’s fine,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.
He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, a groan escaping him as he set the supplies on the dusty coffee table with a deliberate thud, the sound cutting through the silence. He didn’t look at you, his attention fixed on unrolling the bandages, his movements methodical.
“Didn’t ask if it was fine,” he muttered.
His hands were steady and deliberate as he reached for your leg, lifting it with a care that felt almost out of place against his usual rough exterior. He settled it across his lap, his touch firm but gentle.
Joel didn’t say anything as he began peeling back the bloodied makeshift bandage he'd tied earlier. The fabric clung stubbornly to the dried blood, and when the wound was finally revealed, he let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat—a noise caught somewhere between relief and disapproval.
“Could’ve been worse,” he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers hovering near the edge of the gash but never quite touching. His voice dropped lower, as though he were speaking more to himself. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
“It’s not a big deal,” you said softly, your voice catching as you tried to wave him off.
“Don’t.” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. “Don’t act like this ain’t a big deal.”
Joel shifted, pouring alcohol onto a scrap of cloth, and the sharp scent of it filled the small room. When he pressed it to your leg, the sting came quick, searing and unforgiving. You sucked in a breath through your teeth, your fingers curling tightly into the worn fabric of the couch.
“Shit,” you hissed, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.
“Easy,” Joel muttered, his voice dipping softer, gentler now in a way that made something catch in your chest. “I know it stings. Just—” He paused, his hands steadying your leg, his thumb brushing absently against your skin. “Just stay still. I’ve got it.”
It was such a small thing—his touch. Thoughtless and unintentional, but it lingered, warm against the ache spreading through you, grounding you in a way that made your breath hitch. Joel didn’t notice; he was too focused, his brow furrowed with that familiar look of concentration, like the world could burn down around him and he’d still finish what he started. But that only made it worse. Or maybe it made it better. You weren’t sure which.
“You don’t have to fuss, Joel,” you said finally.
“Yeah, I do,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “S’my job.”
“Your job?” you echoed, raising a brow in faint disbelief. “Don’t remember signing a contract for that.”
That earned you a huff from Joel—a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t buried beneath layers of frustration and weariness.
He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, just barely. “You’re a fuckin' smart-ass,” he muttered, the words gruff but not unkind, and there was something almost fond threaded through the irritation, like he couldn’t help himself.
Joel’s hands slowed as he secured the bandage, his touch careful, deliberate, but heavy with exhaustion. When he finished, he leaned back with a quiet sigh, the sound deep and tired, like it carried the weight of more than just today.
He didn’t move your leg from where it rested across his lap. He didn’t push you away. So you left it there. His thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns against the fabric of your jeans, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
“Even though you didn’t listen to me…” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, trailing off into a sigh. His hand scrubbed over his face, and when he dropped it, the lines of his features seemed deeper, etched with something too raw to name. “Never fuckin’ listen,” he added under his breath, but the edge in his tone was missing.
He turned his head to look at you then, “You did good back there,” he said, “Real good.”
Your throat tightened, and you dropped your gaze, your hands fumbling aimlessly at the hem of your shirt. “That was…” you started, but the words faltered, catching in your throat before you could finish.
“What?” Joel asked, his voice soft but firm, laced with that quiet insistence of his—the one that made it impossible to hide. His brow furrowed as he studied you, his sharp gaze narrowing like he could see right through you. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” you lied, the words slipping out too quickly, too softly to sound convincing. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, instead leaning forward, focusing on the task at hand.
Your fingers busied themselves with his jacket, brushing aside the torn fabric and smudges of dried blood as you dabbed gently at the wound. The quiet scrape of the cloth against his skin filled the silence, and you hoped—foolishly—that the distraction might be enough to make him drop it. But the weight of his gaze lingered, steady and unyielding, like he could see right through you.
It wasn’t.
“Hey.” Joel’s voice broke through the silence, low and steady, the sound grounding in a way that made your heart stutter. His hands moved to your wrist, his grip firm but careful, stilling your movements with the gentlest pressure.
The warmth of his skin against yours made your breath catch, and you froze, your eyes locked on where his fingers wrapped around your own. He didn’t let go. He didn’t move. “Look at me,” he said softly.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice impossibly gentle.
“That was really fucking scary,” you whispered, barely able to force the admission past your lips.
Your eyes dropped immediately, your hands twisting nervously in your lap as you added, quieter still, “I thought… I thought I was going to lose you.”
You braced yourself for the gruff dismissal that always seemed to follow moments like this—Joel waving off fear like it wasn’t worth the air it took to name it. But instead, he stayed quiet, so quiet you thought for a moment he hadn’t heard you.
“Yeah,” Joel said softly, “It was scary.”
Your head snapped up at the admission, your breath catching in your chest. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—an argument, a dismissal, maybe even some clipped comment about how it was all fine now. But there was none of that. Joel’s expression was open in a way that made your heart ache, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen, the firelight painting the lines of his face with hues of gold and shadow.
He dragged a hand slowly over his face, the gesture weighted, as if trying to erase the tension coiling in his jaw. When he finally spoke again, it was quieter, rougher. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared.” He paused, his gaze flickering to yours, dark and steady, like he was trying to hold you there with just his eyes. “That kinda thing…” His voice dipped lower, softer, as if the admission was meant just for you. “It should scare you.”
You nodded faintly, unable to form words, though your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything. But Joel wasn’t done.
“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, the bluntness of it landing like a blow. It was unpolished, unfiltered, and so distinctly him that it made your throat tighten. He shook his head, his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more of a grimace. “When I saw your dumb ass comin’ down those stairs…”
You let out a shaky laugh—small, unsteady, but real. “My dumb ass?” you repeated, the words trembling on the edge of humor but not quite making it there. “That’s how you’re gonna put it?”
“Seriously,” he murmured, and the laughter fell away completely. . “You scared me.”
The words hit harder the second time, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the way his voice cracked, just barely, on the last syllable. And when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the unspoken weight of how close you’d come to losing each other. It wasn’t just his usual guardedness—it was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.
“I’m not scared for myself,” Joel admitted, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. His hands curled into loose fists, his knuckles pale, like he needed to hold on to something solid just to say it out loud. “I’m scared for you.”
Your breath hitched, the confession sinking into you like a stone. “Scared one day I won’t be there,” he continued, his voice rougher now, like the words were being dragged out of him. “Or I’ll be too slow. Or someone’ll slip past my bad ear.”
“And as much as I’m still pissed off that you didn’t listen to me…” he started, the gruff edge of his voice undercut by the quiet, worn-out softness beneath it.
“…you saved my life back there.”
“Joel—” you whispered, your voice cracking, but he shook his head, cutting you off with a small, quiet movement.
“No,” he said softly, his voice low and rough but impossibly steady. “Don’t.” He swallowed, his jaw clenching faintly before he spoke again. “Not right now.”
His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, searching, like he was trying to commit you to memory, as if even blinking might make you disappear.
“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmured, his tone dropping even lower, the rasp of it pulling at something deep inside you. “You don’t even know.”
Joel wasn’t a man who admitted his fear. He buried it, pushed it down, locked it away behind walls of steel and silence. But right now, he wasn’t hiding anything. Not from you. Not in this moment.
Joel didn’t move, didn’t speak, and for a long moment, the world outside the safe house ceased to exist. There was no fire crackling softly behind him, no distant wind howling against the windows—there was only him, his hand on your leg, his eyes on yours, and the quiet, unspoken truth settling between you like a promise.
The tension was too much—thick and heavy, pulling at your resolve until a teasing grin tugged at your lips, breaking the silence like a spark cutting through the dark. “So,” you started, “since I saved your life, you kinda owe me, huh?”
Joel’s lips twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might brush it off, might retreat behind that stoic wall he wore like armor. But then it happened—a soft chuckle, low and warm, rolling through the room like a balm against the weight lingering between you. He shook his head faintly, his hand still resting on your leg as he squeezed it slightly. “That so?” he drawled, his voice rough around the edges, but tinged with something lighter, softer.
You nodded, settling back against the couch with mock seriousness, exaggerating the lift of your chin as you pressed on. “Mm-hmm. Now you’ve gotta do whatever I ask,” you said, letting the teasing lilt in your voice linger just a little longer than necessary. “You know, since I saved your life and all.”
Joel huffed softly, shaking his head again, but there it was—the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of a grin. It was barely there, so fleeting you almost missed it, but it made something flutter low in your chest all the same. When his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, the firelight catching just enough to make them gleam, the teasing warmth you’d tried to ignite wavered. His gaze softened, though it didn’t lose its intensity, and you felt yourself sink under it, your breath hitching without permission.
“Thing is,” Joel said finally, his voice dipping low—low enough to send heat curling through your ribs, low enough that it felt like a secret meant just for you—“I’d already do whatever you asked.”
The words landed like a fist to your chest, knocking the air clean out of you. Your teasing smile faltered, disappearing entirely as the meaning of what he’d just said settled in. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t playing along. He meant it.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath, like they’d escaped before he could stop them. He shook his head, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet with the sharp precision of a blade.
Before you could respond, Joel exhaled hard, the sound tight, his chest lifting as if the next words were being torn from somewhere deep inside him.
“I’d die for you.”
The words sat there, heavy and unshakable, like they couldn’t be taken back. Joel wasn’t flippant—he never was—but this? This was something else entirely. It wasn’t said for comfort, wasn’t offered as reassurance. It was fact. Truth. Something that lived in him, unspoken until now, but so deeply woven into who he was that you couldn’t tear it out if you tried.
Your breath left you, a shaky exhale as you stared at him, unmoored and speechless. Your throat felt tight, the weight of his confession pressing against your chest until it ached.
Joel watched you, his dark eyes softening, as though he could see the effect of what he’d said written plain as day on your face. The flicker of vulnerability in his expression knocked you off balance all over again—like he wasn’t just offering the truth but handing it to you, placing it in your trembling hands, hoping you wouldn’t drop it.
Joel straightened slightly, breaking just enough of the tension to let you breathe. His gaze dropped to the floor as he gently moved your leg from his lap and stood, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Alright,” he said, the word clipped, as if he’d said too much, come too close to showing what he really felt. His tone dipped back into practicality, trying to mask the faint, unsteady edge that lingered, betraying him.
“You need rest,” he added, his voice quieter but firm. “I’ll take watch. We leave first thing.”
You frowned faintly, the heaviness still wrapped around you like a second skin. “You’re tired,” you said softly, trying to thread some sense of concern through the tension. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, like the fire’s quiet crackle might drown it out. “You need sleep too, Joel. I’ll take watch.”
He was already shaking his head, firm and unyielding, before you’d finished speaking. “No,” he said, the word final, resolute in a way that told you arguing was pointless.
“Sleep,” he murmured, the word gentler this time, almost like a plea.
“I need you to rest.”
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The next day, you stayed home, cocooned in your little room. Normally, on your days off, you’d wander around Jackson, soak in the closest thing to normal life you might ever get again—listen to the kids laughing on the street, visit the stables, maybe stop by the tipsy bison and sit in the comforting buzz of other people’s voices. But after your yesterday, the thought of stepping outside felt overwhelming.
The weight of what could’ve gone wrong sat heavy in your chest. One misstep, one second slower, and Joel might not be here. You might not be here. That thought had rooted itself somewhere deep, growing heavier with every passing hour until it felt impossible to leave the bed.
So you didn’t. The hours passed in a haze of restless sleep, your aching muscles sinking deeper into the mattress every time you tried to drift off.
It wasn’t until a sharp, abrupt knock at your door broke through the fog that you stirred, groaning softly as you forced yourself to sit up.
You shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of pants and the cleanest top you could find before dragging your hair back into something that vaguely resembled order. Anything to look a little less like you’d spent the day wallowing.
“Coming,” you muttered, your voice hoarse as you padded toward the door. You caught a glance at the clock in the hallway. 7:30 p.m. What the hell?
When you opened the door, you blinked in surprise. Joel stood there, his broad frame filling, he was holding a neat pile of firewood, the lines of his face unreadable as ever but his presence unmistakable, grounding.
“Joel?” you said, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and something you didn’t want to name. “What are you doing here?”
Joel tilted his head toward the firewood. “Brought you some extra,” he said simply, his tone casual, like he’d just happened to pass by. Then his eyes flicked back to you, lingering a beat too long as they swept over you, taking in the slump of your shoulders, the faint tiredness in your face. “Was gonna leave it, but…” He shifted slightly, his boots scuffing against the wood floor. “Figured I’d check up on ya.”
You forced a small smile, hugging your arms around yourself as you leaned against the doorframe. “That’s… sweet. I’m fine, Joel. Just tired, I guess.”
He nodded once, though his expression stayed skeptical, like he wasn’t quite convinced. “You eat yet?” he asked abruptly, his tone clipped but not unkind.
You blinked, thrown off by the question. “No,” you admitted, maybe too quickly.
Joel’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You plannin’ on it, or just gonna starve?”
“Joel,” you groaned, exasperated, but before you could finish, he was already stepping inside, brushing past you and heading straight for the kitchen.
“Hey!” you called after him, your voice rising in disbelief as you turned to follow. “What are you doing?”
“Making dinner,” he muttered, the words gruff and final, like they left no room for argument. He rolled up his sleeves as he opened one of your cabinets, pulling out pots and pans with an ease that suggested he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Why?” you asked, baffled, hovering uselessly near the door as you watched him root around your kitchen.
Joel paused, his hand braced on the counter, turning just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His gaze was sharp, a little too knowing, and it pinned you in place. “Because you don’t eat,” he said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, quieter, with a subtle edge of irritation he didn’t bother masking, “And you wonder why you’re tired all the time.”
He turned back to the counter, resuming his task, but not before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised you yesterday I’d make you dinner.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Fine,” you said, your tone clipped as you turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to go shower.”
But as you reached the bottom step, an idea sprung to mind, and before you could think twice, the words tumbled out. “Can you make pancakes?” you blurted, your grin already forming.
Joel’s brows lifted, his expression somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Pancakes? For dinner?”
“Yeah,” you said, unfazed, the prospect of pancakes more exciting than his skepticism. You didn’t catch the way his eyes darted toward the pantry or how he muttered under his breath, “Baby, I don’t think you even got the stuff for pancakes.”
“What?” you called, already halfway up the stairs, a skip in your step like you’d already decided it was happening.
Joel shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “God help me” as he crossed to the fridge, pulling it open with a sigh. You could almost hear him grumbling, counting the odds that there’d be eggs or flour or anything remotely pancake-adjacent in your kitchen.
From the landing, you glanced down, catching the faint clink of bowls being moved around, the shuffle of Joel’s boots against the floor. “So?” you called, leaning over the railing with a teasing lilt in your voice. “What d’ya say?”
He didn’t look up, but you could hear the smirk in his reply. “Go shower. You’re stalling.”
You sighed dramatically, “Fine,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “You… figure it out or whatever.”
Joel chuckled low, the sound curling warm in the space between you. “Go on,” he said, flicking his wrist to shoo you off, his voice laced with that familiar gruffness that somehow always felt like home. “Ain’t gonna burn the place down.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at your lips as you turned away. His voice followed you upstairs, the faint sounds of the kitchen already coming alive—clattering pots, the scrape of a knife on a cutting board, all as if he belonged there.
And maybe he did.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The bathroom was a quiet refuge, the steady rush of the shower drowning out the noise in your head. You tilted your face up to the water, letting it pour through your hair, down your back, washing away the ache in your muscles and the lingering tension you hadn’t been able to shake.
By the time you’d dried off and tugged on an old sweatshirt and soft, worn sweats, the scents drifting from the kitchen had completely chased away the last of the day’s haze.
Padding downstairs, you were greeted by the faint clink of a spoon against a pot, Joel standing with his back to you at the counter. His sleeves were pushed up, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he worked—familiar, steady, like he’d done this a thousand times.
“Smells good,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet as you pulled out a chair at the table.
Joel turned slightly, his gaze flicking over you—first the clothes, then the damp strands of hair sticking to your cheeks. His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it softened him all the same. He didn’t say anything at first, just picked up a steaming dish and set it in front of you.
“Eat,” he said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate.
You smiled despite yourself, your lips quirking up as you reached for your spoon. “Yes, sir,” you teased, a playful lilt in your voice as you tilted your head, your eyes flicking to the plate. The corners of your mouth tugged higher as you raised an amused brow. “This doesn’t look like pancakes.”
Joel scoffed, his brow raising just enough to make the gesture feel pointed. “If you’re gonna complain, I can take it back,” he said, his hand moving to grab your plate with mock seriousness.
“Hey!” you yelped, smacking his hand lightly, your grin widening despite the way you tried to keep it in check. “I’m joking, geez. Don’t you dare.”
Satisfied, Joel settled back into his chair, his own plate sat untouched in front of him, but his focus wasn’t on the food. His gaze lingered, steady and intent, watching you as you took another bite.
“You’re like…” You paused, swallowing down a bite before gesturing vaguely at your plate. “The stew king.”
Joel’s spoon froze midair, his brows knitting together as he shot you a skeptical look. “What now?”
You grinned, shrugging one shoulder like it was obvious. “The stew king. This is the best stew I’ve had since—well, probably forever. Better than the shit they serve in the dining hall, that’s for damn sure.”
Joel let out a low, exasperated huff, shaking his head. “Didn’t know I was competin’.”
“You’re not,” you said, all matter-of-fact as you shoveled another bite into your mouth. “It’s an uncontested victory.”
He muttered something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you heard the word ridiculous and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your chest.
Joel stilled. He didn’t look at you—not at first. His hand tightened around his spoon for just a moment, like he was trying to keep himself steady. But then you saw it: the corners of his mouth twitched, a small, quiet smile breaking through despite his best efforts to hide it.
He ducked his head, pretending to focus on his plate, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders eased, the way his usual guarded edges softened just a little.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
After dinner, you settled on the living room floor, the cool wood grounding you as you leaned back against the edge of the couch. You thought he might leave after dinner, but he didn’t, and that spoke louder than anything he could’ve said. A glass of whiskey sat in your hands, the amber liquid catching the flicker of the fire Joel had just lit.
He sank onto the couch above you with a low groan, the kind of sound that came from tired muscles and too many years spent carrying the weight of the world. Without a word, you passed him his glass, your fingers brushing his as he took it.
Joel nodded in thanks, his grip firm on the glass.
“You full?” he asked after a moment, leaning back into the worn cushions with a sigh, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on the flames licking up from the hearth.
“Stuffed,” you replied, satisfaction curling your lips into a small smile.
“Good.” His voice was low, almost content, a deep hum that vibrated through the quiet. “So… pancakes, huh?”
You turned your head to look at him, caught off guard. A small smile tugged at your lips. “They used to be your favorite or something?” he asked, his tone lighter than usual, almost teasing.
“One of my favorites,” you admitted, resting your glass on the floor beside you. “Pancakes, sushi, pizza—oh, my God, pizza. I miss pizza.”
A low chuckle escaped him, rough but genuine, and the sound caught you by surprise. “You’re easy to please, huh?”
“What was your favorite food?” you countered, curious now, leaning in just slightly.
Joel shrugged, the movement casual but somehow carrying a weight you couldn’t quite name. “Didn’t really have one.”
“Jesus, Joel,” you scoffed, fully turning to face him, an incredulous smile breaking across your face. “Surely there was something.”
He paused, his eyes distant, lingering somewhere in a memory you couldn’t see. “Maybe…” A faint smile curved his lips, faint enough you almost missed it. “Barbecue. Tommy used to drag me to some hole-in-the-wall joint. Meat so good it’d fall off the bone.”
You smiled softly. “That sounds good.”
“It was,” he said, a note of nostalgia creeping into his voice. His expression softened, his gaze warming, but behind it was something heavier, a shadow of loss that never quite left him. “I remember Sarah…”
You froze. He’d mentioned her only once before, and even then, it had felt like he was handing you something delicate, something fragile and sacred. Hearing her name now felt the same—a glimpse into a part of him he kept locked away.
“I remember Sarah,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Tommy and I’d go, and she’d…” He paused, his lips twitching with a faint, bittersweet smile. “She’d have sauce all over her face. Every damn time. Couldn’t eat a rib without wearin’ half of it.”
A smile tugged at your lips, though your chest felt tight. “Sounds like she had good taste.”
“She did,” Joel said, his voice steadier now, though his eyes glimmered with something the firelight couldn’t explain. “Always wanted the biggest plate. Thought she could finish it all.” He shook his head, the smile lingering but faint. “Never could.”
You didn’t know what to say, so you said nothing, letting the moment hang between you. It wasn’t a silence that demanded words; it felt sacred, like it would break if you spoke too soon.
Joel glanced at you then, his gaze meeting yours with a flicker of vulnerability you hadn’t expected. “She’d have liked you,” he murmured, so quiet it was almost lost in the crackle of the fire.
The most cherished person in Joel’s life, and he believed she would’ve liked you—it was a thought that wrapped around you, warm and profound, settling in a place you didn’t even realize needed it.
“I think I would have liked her too,” you offered, a small smile tugging at your lips.
Joel nodded, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache, before you turned back to the fire, letting its flickering warmth fill the quiet that lingered between you.
You sipped your whiskey, the burn familiar, grounding, as the silence stretched between you. It wasn’t heavy, not at first, just there—the kind of quiet that only existed between two people comfortable enough to not fill the space with words. But then, as if the fire itself drew it out of you, you broke it, your voice soft and thoughtful, eyes still fixed on the shifting orange glow. “I was in bed all day.”
Joel tilted his head slightly, a subtle movement but enough to catch your eye. His gaze shifted down to you, a faint glimmer of teasing in the way his lips almost quirked. “Really? Couldn’t tell,” he said, the dryness of his tone laced with just enough warmth to make it feel light. You knew exactly what he meant—the half-tangled hair, the tired eyes, the oversized sweater that swallowed you whole when you opened the door earlier.
“Ha, ha,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes as you took another sip. The corner of your mouth twitched, threatening a smile that you quickly tucked away. “I just… didn’t feel like leaving. Seeing people. Couldn’t do it.”
Joel’s expression shifted, that guarded softness breaking through for just a moment. He didn’t rush to fill the space this time, letting your words hang in the air, safe and untouched. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, steadier, like he’d weighed each word before giving it. “I get it,” he said, the rough edges of his tone smoothed by understanding. “Sometimes you just… need to sit in it.”
He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand catching the light as his fingers tightened around it. “I’m sorry if me comin’ by was—”
“No,” you interrupted, the word escaping you with a firmness that surprised even yourself. His brows pulled together slightly, his gaze sharp and searching, but you pushed through, needing him to hear this. “You’re…”
The words caught in your throat, and for a moment, you hated how vulnerable they felt. You hated how much it mattered that he understood, but you couldn’t let it sit there, unsaid.
“You’re the only one who could’ve come by,” you admitted, softer now, but no less certain. Your eyes flicked to his, the weight of his attention steadying you. “I didn’t mind. I needed…”
A pause, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe, but you swallowed past it, your voice quiet but resolute. “I’m glad you did.”
Joel’s gaze lingered on you before returning to the fire, the flames reflected in his dark eyes as he spoke, his tone low and deliberate. “You gotta take care of yourself.”
You turned to face him now, drawn by the weight in his voice. He glanced at you, his brow furrowed just slightly. “First thing,” he said, leaning back against the worn cushions, “you gotta start with eatin’ some damn food.”
“I just ate dinner,” you protested, setting your whiskey glass down with an exaggerated huff.
Joel’s gaze slid to you then, steady and unrelenting. “And if I hadn’t come by?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Would you have?”
You blinked, your retort catching in your throat. Damn. He’d clocked you there, and you both knew it. A flicker of something soft and self-deprecating crossed your face as you looked away, your lips twitching. “Well,” you said finally, your voice quieter, “I’ll just have to hope you always come by then.”
Joel shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward before meeting your gaze again, this time holding it with a seriousness that made your chest ache. “I’m not always gonna be around to check in on you,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something that felt like regret. “You gotta promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
The words hung between you, not a demand but a plea, simple and raw. You swallowed, the lump rising again, and nodded. “I’ll try,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Not try,” Joel pressed gently. “Promise.”
A weak smile tugged at your lips. “I think we both know we’re not great at keeping promises,” you teased, your voice wavering slightly.
His eyes didn’t leave yours, sharp and unyielding, ignoring the deflection. He searched your face, his gaze cutting through your hesitation until you felt it crack. Without thinking, you nodded again, this time with more conviction.
“Okay,” you said finally, your voice firmer now. “I promise.”
Joel nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, before leaning forward to set his whiskey glass on the coffee table. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the curse slipping out low and rough.
His other hand moved to the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscle there with practiced ease. His jaw tightened as he twisted his head faintly to one side, a quiet grimace flickering across his face.
“You alright?” The question came instinctively, concern threading through your voice before you could stop it. You set your whiskey aside, shifting onto your knees as you turned to face him more fully.
“Yeah,” Joel muttered, the word clipped but gruff around the edges. He leaned back against the couch again, exhaling a breath long and slow. His hand stayed at the back of his neck, rubbing absently like the ache had been there for days. “Just gettin’ old.”
“Joel,” you pressed gently.
He froze mid-motion, fingers still kneading the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as his dark eyes flicked to yours. For a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to decide whether to give you the truth or deflect it like he so often did.
“Just my back,” he said finally, the words slipping out reluctantly, rough and low as though admitting it made it worse. His fingers stilled for just a second before rubbing over the spot again, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “Probably from pullin’ that damn horse outta the mud the other day… and, well, yesterday.”
Yesterday.
The word landed like a blow, heavier than he intended. Your breath hitched, the memory flashing unbidden across your mind—Joel, pinned and struggling, his face pale with strain, the sound of his ragged breaths tearing through the air. The raw desperation in his eyes as you’d fought to pull him free. You swallowed hard against the ache in your throat, forcing the image back down.
“Hm,” you murmured softly, as though the quiet sound could soothe him as much as yourself. Your eyes drifted over him—the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand lingered over his neck.
You hesitated, the idea flickering faintly in your mind, tentative and uncertain. The fire popped in the silence, embers snapping softly, but the moment stretched, and before you could stop yourself, the words were already tumbling free.
“Well,” you started, fumbling as you sat up straighter, suddenly hyperaware of how close you were to him. “I could, um…” You hesitated, heat blooming in your cheeks as you met his gaze. “I mean… I could maybe… give you a massage?”
Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brows lifting slightly, the expression on his face caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief. “A massage?” he echoed, like the word itself was foreign to him.
Your cheeks burned under his stare, but you pushed forward, trying to keep your voice steady even as your hands twisted nervously in your lap. “Yeah,” you said, quieter now but no less resolute. “To help. With your back. Since you’re so…” You paused just long enough to let a teasing smile pull at your lips, hoping it might soften the moment. “Old.”
For a split second, he didn’t react. Then, Joel let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that broke through the tension like a wave crashing onshore. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” he muttered, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe you, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Just offering my services,” you quipped back softly, trying to keep the teasing light, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest. You wanted to help. You wanted to ease some of the burden he carried, even if it was something as small as this.
The humor faded quickly, though, replaced by something quieter, thicker, as Joel’s expression settled. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than it should have, dark and searching, like he was trying to find the catch in your words—like he didn’t quite believe you could mean it.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You don’t gotta do that for me,” he said, almost gruff, but there was no bite to it. His hand flexed faintly on his thigh, the tension in his shoulders pulling tighter. “I’m fine.”
“Joel,” you said again, softer this time. You leaned forward just slightly, closing the space between you, your hand slipping to rest on his thigh. The fabric beneath your palm was worn and rough, but his warmth bled through it, steady and grounding. You squeezed gently, almost instinctively, your touch a silent plea.
“Something’s better than nothing,” you murmured, your voice soft but certain, coaxing. “And I want to. I want to make you feel good.”
The words hung in the air, You could see the fight in his eyes as he stilled, his jaw tightening, his gaze narrowing as though he was fighting a mental battle. The warmth of your palm on his thigh, your fingers curling ever so slightly, made his skin hum with a longing he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
His thoughts dipped lower, filthier, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He imagined those fingers trailing higher, your lips murmuring words he shouldn’t want to hear, your touch unraveling him completely. His breathing hitched, a low, uneven rhythm he couldn’t quite control, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away before he let the fantasy swallow him whole.
If Joel was a good man—if he was honest, whole, and decent—he’d stand up right now. Put some distance between you. Tell you that this couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t right, that you deserved better than what he had to give.
His eyes betrayed him, sweeping back to you almost involuntarily—quiet, considering—lingering just a moment too long. You were sitting so still, your damp hair framing your face in soft, loose strands that shimmered in the firelight like something out of a dream. The glow caught on your skin, kissed your cheeks, and made you look like you didn’t belong in this world, like you were something holy, something untouchable.
God, you looked like an angel.
And he wanted to ruin you.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his voice thick and rough, like he was cursing himself for even considering it, for teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t take back. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t crave it—didn’t crave you. And now, you were offering it to him, your touch, your care, your everything, on a silver platter.
Who the hell was he to deny you? To deny himself?
“Alright,” he said finally, the word escaping with an exhale, low and reluctant. He cleared his throat, refusing to meet your eyes again. “But only if you’re sure.”
The corner of your mouth lifted into the smallest, most unassuming smile, the kind that made Joel’s heart stumble in his chest before he could pull himself together. “I’m positive,” you said softly.
He sighed again, muttering something about “pushy” under his breath, but there wasn’t any real heat to it. Slowly, with the careful stiffness of someone who didn’t trust their own body, Joel lowered himself onto the couch, bracing his weight on his arms before settling with his stomach against the cushions.
His broad shoulders shifted as he adjusted, arms folding beneath his head. The soft creak of the couch was the only sound for a moment, punctuated by the faint hiss of Joel’s breath as his body sank into the cushions.
You stood up and hovered for a second, nerves buzzing beneath your skin as you watched him settle in. Then, without meaning to, you spoke—your voice cutting through the quiet. “Wait.”
Joel’s head lifted slightly, his face half-turned into the cushion. “What?” he asked, his voice muffled but carrying that familiar edge of impatience.
You froze under his gaze, your hands twisting nervously in front of you, your courage faltering under the weight of what you wanted to say. “Would you… can you… if you don’t mind—” The words tangled on your tongue, awkward and shaky, and you cursed yourself for not just spitting it out.
Joel shifted, turning his head enough to look at you with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. “What’re you mumblin’ about?” he grumbled, his brows furrowed as his dark eyes scanned your face.
You exhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Just say it.
“Can you… take off your shirt?”
Joel froze.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you—already too small—felt suffocating now. Joel’s back, which had just begun to relax under the promise of your touch, went rigid again.
Slowly, he turned, his shoulders tense as his head tilted just enough for his dark eyes to find yours. His hair was tousled, falling forward in a way that made him look softer, but his expression was anything but. It was unreadable—his brow furrowed, his gaze sharp and searching, as though he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.
“What for?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough, cutting through the stillness like gravel underfoot.
Your cheeks burned under the weight of it, of him. “I just—” You swallowed hard, hating how shaky you sounded. “It’s harder with the shirt. I mean, it’d be easier if—” Your hands gestured vaguely toward him, helpless as the words tangled and fell apart.
“Forget it,” you blurted, your voice flimsier than you intended, a weak attempt to recover some semblance of dignity. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.” The words tumbled out too quickly, and you winced internally, wishing desperately you could rewind time. Erase the last thirty seconds, undo the heat climbing up your neck, and take back the way you’d all but unraveled in front of him.
Joel didn’t respond at first, just looked at you. Then he exhaled, a long, quiet breath that sounded both frustrated and resigned. His head dipped slightly, his eyes falling shut for a beat before he muttered, “Christ.”
Without another word, Joel shifted. He pushed himself up just enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was giving you time—giving you a chance to stop him. To tell him it wasn’t worth it. To look away.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
The fabric rasped softly as it peeled away from his skin, loud in the stillness of the room. He tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders flexing beneath the firelight before he stilled, holding the shirt in his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. For a moment, you thought he might change his mind—might pull it back on—but then he tossed it aside, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony.
He settled back onto the couch, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his face into the crook of his elbow.
You didn’t see the flush that crept up his neck and into his cheeks, the way his jaw tightened with something close to self-consciousness. Joel hadn’t bared himself like this in years—not to anyone, and certainly not to you. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it now. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him when you asked—so open, so earnest. Or maybe it was something deeper, something he didn’t want to name—the way you’d quietly carved out space for yourself in parts of him he thought had long gone numb.
But even as he lay there, back bare and unguarded, he couldn’t stop the worry gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What if you saw him differently now? What if you looked at the scars, the weathered skin, the way his body—so strong once—now bore the weight of a lifetime? What if it was too much, and you turned away?
But you weren’t thinking any of that.
You were staring.
Helplessly, shamelessly staring, your breath caught somewhere in your throat as your eyes moved over him, taking in every inch, every detail, every moment of him completely bare before you.
The firelight danced across his skin, casting flickering shadows that seemed to embrace the planes and ridges of his back. It was like watching something sacred, something meant to be admired but never touched—broad, powerful shoulders tapering into the graceful curve of his spine. That line, so achingly perfect, made your stomach twist tight, heat curling low and deep inside you.
Your gaze caught on the scars scattered across his back, each one like a whisper of a story he hadn’t told you. Then your eyes drifted lower, and everything shifted.
There, at the small of his back, where his skin softened, the faint dimples just above the waistband of his jeans made your breath hitch. They were so unexpected, so disarmingly tender, that they hit you like a fist to the chest. Your lips parted as your gaze lingered there, following the curve of his body where denim clung to his hips in a way that made your pulse hammer.
And then you saw it—the faint glimpse of his side where the firelight caught the gentle slope of his stomach, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
It wasn’t just the sight of him; it was the intimacy of it, the way he seemed so unaware of how devastatingly beautiful he looked in that moment. That single glimpse struck you like a match to gasoline, the heat rushing through your veins so fast it left you lightheaded.
You wanted him. God, you wanted him.
You wanted to press your lips to the curve of his spine, to trace the path of those scars with your tongue, to kiss your way down his chest, his stomach, lower—until there was nowhere left to go.
You wanted to feel the weight of him beneath your hands, the heat of his skin, the way his breath might hitch if you let your lips linger in all the places that were his undoing.
Him. You wanted him. All of him, in every possible way, until nothing else existed.
You wondered what he was like when he came undone— was he loud, or did he keep it all locked inside, biting back every sound, every moan, like he was too proud to let go completely? Did his hands grip the sheets like they might anchor him, or would he let himself give in, surrender to the feeling? The thought made your pulse quicken, your panties growing damp as your imagination ran wild, unrestrained.
You wondered when the last time was that he let himself feel good—really good. When was the last time someone touched him with care, with reverence? Had it been years? Decades?
And then, unbidden, the thought came: Does he think of me?
The question burned through you, igniting something reckless, something needy, that you couldn’t quite smother. Late at night, when the world fell silent and the weight of the day pressed heavy, did his thoughts drift to you? Did he let himself imagine you in those moments when he chased the edge—your hands, your lips, your body guiding him there?
The thought left you breathless, heat flushing through your body as your heart raced. You could almost picture it—his head tipped back, jaw clenched, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he gave in to thoughts of you.
Your cheeks burned as the images flooded your mind, vivid and unrelenting, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. Because the truth was, you didn’t just want him to think of you—you wanted to be there. You wanted to touch him, to make him feel things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. To make him forget everything else, even if it was only for a moment.
God, you wanted him. And you wanted him to want you just as badly.
You wondered if he’d make you wait, if he’d tease you until your breath hitched and your body ached with the need for him. If he’d draw it out on purpose, his voice low and rough as he asked you to say it, to tell him just how much you wanted him. And you knew you’d beg if he wanted you to. You’d let the words fall from your lips, trembling and raw, if it meant he’d touch you the way you craved.
And God, how would he taste? Would his skin taste of salt and heat and Joel, the flavor of him lingering on your tongue like something you could never get enough of? Would his hands tighten in your hair, his breath hitching against your mouth as you kissed him deeper, harder–
“Hope you’re not charging by the minute,” Joel muttered suddenly, his voice muffled against the cushion.
The comment jolted you back to reality, snapping you out of the haze you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen into. You’d been standing there, still as a statue, lost in the illicit fantasy of Joel Miller—of him touching you, holding you, taking you. A rush of heat climbed up your neck, settling in your cheeks as your thoughts scattered into disarray. “Oh,” you stammered, voice higher than you intended. “Right. Sorry.”
Joel huffed softly, the sound more of a low, gravelly exhale than a laugh. He didn’t lift his head, but you noticed it—the faintest movement in his shoulders, the ripple of tension that suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by your hesitation.
He stayed there, though. Waiting. Trusting.
Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to focus, to gather your frayed thoughts and channel them into steadying your hands. You hovered for a moment, brushing lightly over his shoulders, your fingertips barely skimming his skin as you fought to steady your pulse.
God, he was warm. Almost too warm, the faint heat of him seeping into your palms. Your hands began to move again, pressing carefully into the firm muscles beneath your touch. You could feel him—really feel him—the tautness of the knots woven into his shoulders, the quiet strength beneath the surface.
But you weren’t doing a very good job—you could feel it, your hands faltering as you tried to work against the unyielding knots in his shoulders. Your stance was off, your angle awkward, and Joel’s frame was just too much—too solid, too broad, his muscles stubborn beneath your touch like they’d been built for this kind of tension.
You pressed harder, determined, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you focused, but your movements still felt clumsy, too light, like you were trying to push against a wall that wouldn’t budge.
And then Joel’s voice, rough and gruff, snapped you back to reality. “Let me know when you start,” he said, the faint teasing lilt in his tone sending a jolt through you like a live wire.
Your gaze snapped to the back of his head. The nerve of him.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, narrowing your eyes even as your cheeks burned. Your hands pressed back down, firmer this time, your movements more deliberate. “Shut up, Joel.”
Joel chuckled low in his throat, a rumbling sound that vibrated through your hands where they touched him, and damn if it didn’t do something to you.
“Just sayin’,” Joel drawled, voice rough and faintly teasing, but there was something beneath it—something that made your pulse skip. “Feels like you’re petting me, not fixin’ me.”
“I know that,” you muttered, frustration threading into your voice as you shifted awkwardly on your feet. You hesitated, your fingers curling into your palms as if anchoring yourself against the words caught on your tongue. “It’s just… the angle. It’s awkward. It’d be easier if…”
Joel shifted, a subtle movement that made your breath catch.
God, why did he have to look so handsome? His face, so rugged and worn by time, somehow managed to soften in the light. His brown eyes, deep and warm, carried a tenderness that cut through the tension like a knife. Puppy-like, almost, but still so distinctly him. And his lips, pink and full, slightly parted like he might say something else—or like he was just waiting for you to close the gap.
“If what, darlin’?” he asked, his voice low and slow, the word rolling off his tongue with a warmth that sank straight into your chest.
Darlin’.
Joel Miller didn’t say things like that—not to you, not like this. You were used to the exasperated “kid” when you annoyed him, or maybe the clipped “missy” when you pushed his limits. But this?
The way he said it was enough to make your knees feel weak, enough to send a shiver up your spine that you couldn’t control. Was he trying to kill you? Because it sure as hell felt like it. You could’ve let out a whimper if you weren’t fighting so hard to keep it together, to stop yourself from falling apart under the weight of his gaze and the slow, deliberate cadence of his voice.
Oh God. Now a new wave of thoughts flooded your mind, unbidden and unstoppable. Would he say that again? Would he call you something softer, something sweeter, if you were beneath him, breathless and trembling? Would he murmur baby, sweetheart, darlin’ in that same low, gravelly drawl, his lips brushing against your skin, his hands gripping your hips as he made you his?
The thought sent a flush of heat racing through your body, pooling low in your stomach as your heart pounded in your ears. You couldn’t stop it now, couldn’t stop picturing the way his voice might hitch, rough and wrecked, as he whispered your name like it belonged to him.
Joel’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, you swore he saw right through you. That twitch at the corner of his mouth—barely there but unmistakable—felt like something he was trying to hide. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d slipped on purpose, just enough to let you catch a glimpse of what he was keeping locked away.
His voice broke through the haze of your spiraling thoughts, cutting clean and sharp. “You alright there? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, but your voice wavered, too quick, too thin. Your cheeks burned hot, and you cursed yourself for letting your mind wander there again. Were you really that wound up? Had it been so long since you’d felt someone else’s touch that the smallest bit of attention from Joel Miller had you unraveling at the seams?
He tilted his head slightly, studying you, the weight of his stare making your stomach twist. He wasn’t buying it. “What were you sayin’?” he asked, his tone low, steady, but threaded with that edge of authority that left no room for escape. “Finish your sentence.”
You looked away quickly, heat climbing up your neck as your voice stumbled out. “If I could, um… maybe… get on your back?”
The words tumbled into the room, rushed and awkward, like you were trying to rip off a bandage.
Joel stilled. Completely.
His body didn’t move, not even the rise and fall of his chest, like he was processing what you’d just said—every syllable replaying in slow motion. His head turned slightly, enough to catch you in his gaze, one brow lifting so slowly it sent a thrill through you. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—steady and intense—made you feel like he was peeling you apart, word by word.
“You wanna…” he started, his voice low, disbelieving, “…straddle me?”
The way he said it—rough, incredulous, and yet tinged with something dangerously close to amusement—made your heart stutter.
“Yes—I mean—it’d just be easier!” you blurted, the words spilling out in a rushed, frantic tumble. “You’re too big for me to—” You flailed a hand at his back, gesturing vaguely, as if it could explain the absurdity of the situation. “It’s just practical, Joel. That’s all.”
Joel blinked at you, deadpan, his face impossibly still except for the faintest twitch of his mouth. “Practical,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue slow and deliberate, like he was testing it out.
And then, he chuckled.
It was low and brief, more of a quiet rumble than a laugh, but it sent a shock straight through you—warm and dangerous, curling low in your stomach like smoke. He turned his head back into the cushion, shaking it faintly like he couldn’t quite believe this conversation.
Your face burned, and you crossed your arms defensively. “Joel,” you groaned, the sound of your exasperation only making him huff out another low, gravelly laugh. “If it’s weird, we don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his voice gruff but steady. “Just go on. Get it over with.”
“Are you sure?” you asked softly, quieter now, your voice uncertain, like you were afraid of pushing him too far.
“I said it’s fine,” Joel muttered, the words clipped and rough, but the faint flush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed him. His face turned further away, burying against the shelter of his folded arms, as if retreating might somehow shield him—from what, you didn’t know. From the moment? From you? But the tips of his ears, dusted pink in the firelight, gave him away, whispering the truth that his gruff exterior wouldn’t allow.
Slowly, carefully, you climbed onto the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of him, bracing your hands on his shoulders for balance. The motion was awkward and clumsy.
Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his broad back coiling tight beneath your hands, like his body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flee. It wasn’t resistance, not exactly—it was more like instinct, like even now, with you above him, his guard refused to drop completely.
“You alright? I’m not too heavy, am I?” you murmured, your voice barely above a breath, the quiet intimacy of the moment making you afraid to speak louder.
“Heavy?” Joel grunted, his voice rough and low, though his hands flexed briefly against the couch, his grip tightening just enough to make the leather creak faintly beneath him. “Don’t be fuckin’ ridiculous.”
“Okay,” you whispered, your voice faltering slightly as your fingers hovered uncertainly above his back. “Just… let me know if I hurt you.”
Joel let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Ain’t likely,” he muttered.
You started slow, cautious, your fingers pressing into the firm muscles knotted beneath his skin. Joel didn’t relax—not yet—but as you worked, your touch finding a rhythm, you felt his breaths shift beneath you, deepening just slightly, like he was letting out something he hadn’t realized he was holding.
You pressed your thumbs along the edges of his shoulder blades, tracing the lines of tension there. The silence stretched around you, warm and heavy, the crackle of the fire filling the space where words might’ve been. You let it linger, let it be, your hands working lower along his spine, kneading the hard knots hidden there.
It was intimate, so intimate. The kind of closeness that shouldn’t feel this profound but did. You wanted to press down and kiss his skin, tan and golden from years in the sun, warmed now by the flicker of the firelight.
Slowly, deliberately, Joel was letting go, loosening piece by piece, as if surrendering was a language he’d forgotten how to speak. And maybe it was.
“Christ,” Joel muttered, his voice rough, muffled against the couch cushions. “You’re good at that.”
The compliment hit you like a physical thing, stealing the breath from your lungs. He sounded wrecked already, and you weren’t sure how to handle the way it made you feel—how it set your nerves alight and sent heat pooling low in your belly.
“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, breathless with the weight of his words. “That feel good?” The question was soft, almost tentative, but there was something else there too—something daring. Like you wanted to see just how far you could take him, how much you could unravel him under your hands.
Joel didn’t answer with words—just a low, drawn-out hum, deep and gravelly, vibrating through his chest and into your hands. The sound felt intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn, your thighs pressing together instinctively as something heavy curled low in your stomach.
Tension coiled in him—not the kind you were kneading away, but something else, something darker, more primal. He shifted subtly, his hips pressing into the cushion as if to ease the ache building there, but you weren’t naïve. You couldn’t stop the flush creeping up your neck, your lip caught between your teeth as you dared to imagine it. Joel Miller, gruff and unshakable, hard under your touch—and it was you who had done that to him.
You imagined how he’d react if your hands dared to drift lower, past the curve of his belly, your fingers slipping beneath the barrier of his waistband to explore the heat waiting there. Would he gasp, sharp and guttural, as your touch made contact? Would his hips lift instinctively, pressing into your hand, his body betraying just how much he wanted this—how much he wanted you?
Your fingers moved carefully, deliberately, tracing the tension along his shoulders and finding a particularly stubborn knot beneath your palms. You pressed deeper, slower, and Joel shifted under you. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, the word rough and guttural, unfiltered in a way that made your stomach twist with want, the ache in your chest spreading like wildfire.
God, you wanted more of that. You wanted to pull more of those sounds from him, to know what they’d feel like when they weren’t muffled against the couch, but pressed against your skin.
Your hands trembled as you pressed into the knot again, harder this time, like you couldn’t stop yourself from testing his limits. Joel groaned, the sound deep and rough, and it sent a ripple of electricity through you, hot and consuming. Your body screamed for relief, the ache so deep it nearly pushed you to grind against his back, consequences be damned. Your breaths were ragged, your chest rising and falling, and the slick heat pooling between your thighs had already soaked through.
“Right there,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but no less wrecked. The way he said it—low and thick, like the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him—made your breath hitch. “Yeah, just like that,” he added, the rasp in his voice laced with something almost dangerous.
“Jesus, Joel,” you murmured under your breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. But even as the words left your lips, you wondered if it was more a prayer or a curse.
What would his voice sound like if you leaned down and kissed the scar along his shoulder blade, your lips dragging slowly across his skin? If your hands slipped lower, teasing, inviting him to lose control? Would he moan your name, low and ruined, the sound breaking apart as your touch consumed him? Would he groan against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust into you, his words filthy and breathless, begging you to take everything he had to give?
And then you heard it.
“Good girl,” Joel muttered, the words barely audible, low and gravelly, like they’d slipped out unguarded—rough, raw, and utterly devastating.
You froze. Completely.
Your hands stilled where they rested on his back, trembling slightly, and you felt the heat rush up your cheeks, down your neck, down to your aching core in a way that made it impossible to focus.
You couldn’t stop yourself from imagining what it would sound like if he said it again—what it would feel like if he growled it against your ear, his hands gripping your tits, his breath hot against your skin.
Finally, when you were satisfied with your work—or maybe just too overwhelmed to keep going—you eased off Joel carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you pushed yourself to stand beside the couch.
Joel let out a low, deliberate grunt, his shoulders rolling as he pushed himself upright, his hands gripping the cushions like he needed a moment to steady himself. H
He reached for his shirt, tugging it back on in one swift motion. The fabric stretched over his broad shoulders as he avoided your gaze. His focus stayed fixed somewhere just past you, as though he couldn’t trust himself to look at you directly.
But little did he know, you weren’t meeting his eyes either. Against your better judgment, your eyes betrayed you. They drifted down, hesitant but hungry, until they landed exactly where you knew they shouldn’t.
Your breath caught in your throat.
The worn denim of his jeans was taut, straining against the undeniable evidence of his arousal. There was no mistaking it—the hard outline pressing against the fabric, the way he shifted slightly like he was trying to find relief but didn’t want to make it obvious. Your stomach flipped, heat flooding your cheeks and slick pooling between your thighs as you realized what you’d done to him.
He wanted you.
That knowledge hit you like a freight train—overwhelming, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. You couldn’t look away, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself to. The sight of him, hard and straining against his jeans, burned itself into your mind, your heart thundering so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him clear his throat.
Your breath came faster, your chest heaving as the thought consumed you. You wanted to help him. God, you wanted to. Wanted to take away that tension, to make him feel good in a way you knew he hadn’t let himself in far too long. The idea of his release—of you being the one to give it to him—had your thighs clenching, a needy heat coursing through you.
What would he do if you sank to your knees right now, positioning yourself between his thighs? Would his body tense in shock, his breath catching as he looked down at you, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer? Would he mutter something low and strained, about how this couldn’t happen, how it shouldn’t?
Or would he give in? Would his breath hitch as he whispered your name, rough and almost reverent, his hands tangling in your hair, guiding you with a quiet desperation? Would he let you take control, let you explore him at your own pace, or would he seize it, the tension breaking as he pressed you deeper, showing you exactly what he wanted, exactly how he needed you?
Joel must have noticed the faraway, dazed look in your eyes, the way you lingered in the heavy silence between you both. “Well,” he said finally, his voice quiet and rough, almost hesitant, as though he was testing the waters. “Thanks. That was… that was good.” His hand dragged through his hair, mussing the curls even further.
You forced a small smile, your chest tight and aching as you tucked your hands behind your back, hoping it might steady you somehow. “No problem,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. Your eyes flicked to his, and then, almost without thinking, you added, “I like making you feel good.”
The words hung in the air, soft but deliberate, their weight landing squarely between you. Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching audibly as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a sharp gulp.
Fuck, Joel thought. You were making a damn mess of him. He should leave—really leave—go home, take care of the growing ache in his pants, and swear off ever talking to you again. It would be the right thing to do. The smart thing. But, of course, he didn’t.
How could he, when you looked like that? Wide-eyed, red-cheeked, lips slightly parted like you were holding back something that could ruin him completely.
“Did you…” He trailed off, his voice rough and hesitant, his fingers rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was unsure.
“Did I what?” you asked softly, your tone careful, coaxing, almost gentle.
Joel sighed heavily, shaking his head like he regretted even starting. His hand dropped back to his knee, his jaw tightening as though he was debating just walking out. For a moment, you thought he might.
But then, finally, he said it.
“Did you want me to… y’know, help you out?” His voice was quieter now, gruff and uneven. His eyes darted to you briefly, then away, like he couldn’t quite face whatever was stirring between you.
“Your back,” he clarified after a beat, clearing his throat. “I remember you said somethin’ about it the other day, when you were ridin’ Winnie. Twinge, or somethin’.”
Joel cleared his throat again, the faintest pink creeping up the sides of his neck as his gaze flicked to you and then away. “But, uh, no big deal,” he added gruffly, his voice rough and low, like he was backpedaling, trying to give you an easy out. “I can just head out.”
He was trying to play it off—acting like it didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just offered to touch you, to take care of you in a way that mirrored what you’d just done for him. But the way his voice faltered, rough and quiet, told you everything. He cared—more than he wanted to admit.
Finally, you managed a small smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.”
Joel stilled for a moment, his hand dropping away from his neck to rest in his lap. He hesitated, his dark eyes flicking back to yours. “You sure? I can leave if you—”
“I don’t want you to leave,” you interrupted, your voice soft but steady.
Joel inhaled deeply, the sound heavy and deliberate, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. The movement made him seem taller, broader, as if he took up all the space in the room at once.
“Uh… can’t promise it’ll be any good,” he muttered, a faint vulnerability beneath his words that made your chest ache.
“That’s okay,” you replied quickly, too quickly, your voice rushing out as you offered him a small, nervous smile. You hesitated for half a second, biting the inside of your cheek as your heart hammered in your chest. Then, finally, you asked, “How do you want me?”
The words left your lips before you could stop them.
How do you want me?
God - If only you knew. If only you understood the way those four words hit him—hard and unrelenting.
Joel’s chest tightened, his cock hardening as his thoughts spiraled, unbidden and entirely indecent, leaving him gripping for control. He pictured you asking that question with a different tone, a different look in your eyes, and it wrecked him. On your back, your legs tangled with his. On your knees, your hands gripping his thighs as you gazed up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. Bent over the arm of the couch, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.
He swallowed hard, his throat working against the heat rising in him, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms in a desperate attempt to stay grounded. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?
“I, uh…” His voice was rough, strained, his words catching as though they didn’t want to leave. “Just, uh… wherever you’re comfortable. On the couch, or… wherever.”
You nodded, though you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes darkened, his lips parting as he muttered a low, almost inaudible fuck under his breath. The sound sent a ripple through you, your body buzzing as you followed his direction, sinking slowly into the cushions with your back to him. You angled your body slightly away to give him space, though the air between you felt anything but distant.
“Uh… keep your shirt on,” he mumbled, his voice rough and uneven, like he was struggling to get the words out.
“Oh,” you replied, the disappointment creeping into your tone before you could stop it. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. Maybe he didn’t want to see you like that. Maybe this wasn’t what you thought it was.
But God, were you wrong.
Joel knew the truth—knew it with every ounce of restraint he was clinging to. If he saw you topless, in nothing but your bra, he’d lose it. Completely. If he saw your breasts, the curve of them rising and falling with each unsteady breath, if his eyes traced the slope of your bare shoulders, your bare back, he’d be done for. His control would snap like a thread pulled too tight, and he’d ruin everything—you.
So, for now, you had to keep your shirt on. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he wanted you too much.
“I, uh…” Joel started, his voice low and faltering, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, twitching slightly with hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.
Without thinking, you reached up, gathering your hair and sweeping it over one shoulder, baring the curve of your neck to him. The movement was small, simple, but it felt intimate—like offering something unspoken. Your skin prickled with anticipation, the charged air between you thickening as you turned your head slightly, glancing back at him with wide, steady eyes.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, the words threading through the heavy stillness between you. “You can touch me.”
Fuck. Joel’s chest tightened, his mind spiraling as the words echoed between you. Touch you. God, he wanted to. More than he should. More than he could admit to himself.
He stared at his hands—rough and calloused, worn by years of work and hardship—and for a moment, he faltered. These weren’t hands meant for softness. Not for you.
Finally, slowly, Joel lifted his hands, each movement deliberate, as if he was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. The hesitation was written in every breath, every twitch of his fingers, a quiet war waging inside him even as he reached for you.
When his hands settled on your shoulders, they were tentative at first, his palms warm against your skin, rough but somehow gentle. Joel’s thumbs pressed carefully into the tight muscles of your shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate circles.
A soft, unbidden sound escaped your lips, barely audible, but enough to make his hands falter mid-motion. His grip loosened slightly, and his breath hitched audibly, like the sound had caught him off guard.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, every word dragged out as though speaking them took effort. His hands hovered, poised to pull away if you gave even the slightest indication of discomfort.
“No,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper as your eyes fluttered shut. The tension in your shoulders began to melt under his touch, leaving you pliant beneath him. “You feel good.”
Joel exhaled then, a quiet, shaky sound that carried the weight of something unspoken—something he didn’t know how to put into words. His hands settled back into their rhythm, more assured now, his thumbs sliding down the line of your shoulder blades with purpose before gliding back up, tracing the curve of your neck with a reverence that sent your pulse skittering.
It was steady, methodical, almost too careful, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, like he was learning you, memorizing you with every pass of his hands. His jaw tightened, his thoughts spiraling as the weight of your words replayed in his head—you feel good.
You let your head tilt forward as Joel’s hands found a tight spot at the base of your neck, your body instinctively yielding under his touch. Relief washed over you, a soft sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Joel froze, his hands hesitating, until you murmured hazily, “Fuck, Joel…”
His hands slid lower, kneading the muscles along your upper back with careful precision. “Feels good,” you murmured, the words slipping out, soft and dreamlike, unbidden. You melted further into the couch, into him, your body pliant under his touch, like you were made for it.
Joel clenched his jaw, his hands faltering for the briefest moment before finding their rhythm again. He wanted to tell you to quit it. To stop saying all these things to him—these words that wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing until he could barely breathe. To stop making those noises that made his resolve waver, that made him ache in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years.
But how could he?
How could he tell you to stop when the sound of your voice, soft and wrecked, was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard? When the way your body leaned into his touch, so trusting, so vulnerable, felt like the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known?
You held your breath, heart pounding wildly as Joel’s thumbs pressed—just slightly—into the tight muscles near your lower back. The pressure was perfect, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, unbidden moan escaped your lips.
Joel froze instantly, every muscle in his body going taut, coiling like a live wire as that sound echoed in his head. It hit him hard, sharp and visceral, sinking deep into his chest and sparking a fire he couldn’t control.
That moan—soft, breathless, and so fucking sweet—was seared into his memory now, unraveling every thread of restraint he’d been clinging to. Would you whimper for him? The thought tightened his chest, his jaw clenching hard as his hands faltered against you, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to ease up.
Would you gasp his name, needy and wrecked, if his lips pressed to the curve of your neck? If his hands slid lower, over the gentle slope of your hips, past the thin fabric separating him from you? Would you beg for him? For him?
If he touched you now—if his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding lower to feel the heat of you—would you be wet?
God, would you be ready for him? The question burned through his mind, relentless and vivid. He could almost feel it—the way your body might arch into him, the way your breath would hitch when he touched you there. Would you moan again, that same soft, wrecked sound, but this time louder, fuller, edged with need?
The images came faster now, vivid and impossible to suppress. He could see it so clearly: your body trembling beneath him, your lips parted in a breathless plea, your eyes half-lidded, hazy with the kind of need he didn’t deserve but craved all the same.
Joel took a deep breath, sharp and ragged, before abruptly pulling his hands away from you, dropping them into his lap like they’d burned him. “That’s all I got,” he said finally, his voice low and strained, the edge to his words making it sound almost like he was angry—at himself, at you, at the fragile control he was barely holding onto.
Your eyes fluttered open slowly, as if waking from a dream you weren’t quite ready to leave. Turning just enough, you caught sight of him leaning back against the couch, a pillow now strategically draped over his lap, his hand covering his eyes as though shielding himself from the sight of you—maybe from the way you made him feel.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice soft, still tinged with the haze of his touch, the weight of his hands lingering on your skin like a memory. “It was good. Really good.”
Joel’s only response was a single nod, curt and clipped, his jaw tight as though he didn’t trust himself to say more. “Yeah,” he muttered, the word rough, almost bitten out, as though forcing it past his lips was a battle. “Glad it helped.”
The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Joel cleared his throat, shifting as if to stand, his voice low and hesitant. “Look,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, like he was trying to steady himself. “I should… I should really get going. I—”
“Wait,” you interrupted, turning fully toward him now, your voice soft but insistent.
Joel turned to you slowly, his movements deliberate, like he was fighting every instinct telling him to stay right where he was. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything in him seemed to fray at the edges. Please don’t ask me to stay, his mind begged, the words unspoken but screaming in his head. Because I don’t know if I can control myself any longer.
You faltered, suddenly shy, your gaze dipping for a moment before finding his again. “I wanted to ask you something I noticed earlier… when your shirt was off.”
Joel’s brow twitched, the lines on his forehead deepening as his eyes sharpened. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the weight of your words settling over him.
What was she gonna say?
Was it about the way his stomach wasn’t as flat as it used to be, softened by the years and the hardships he carried? Or maybe the way his body groaned with every movement, the weight of too many fights, too many scars etched into his bones? Or was it the silver streaking through his hair, glinting in the firelight, betraying just how much time had carved itself into him?
The look he gave you was cautious, expectant—like he was waiting for you to confirm the insecurities he worked so hard to bury. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, softer but guarded. “Yeah?”
Your fingers moved before you could stop them, trembling slightly as they reached out, grazing the edge of his shirt near the collar. Joel went utterly still, his breath slowing, like he was waiting—letting you. You hesitated, your heart pounding, before gently tugging the fabric down just an inch, revealing a little more of his skin.
Your gaze caught on it immediately: the scar.
It was jagged and pale, stark against the warmth of his skin, carved into his collarbone like a brand from another life. Your breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping as your eyes lingered on the mark. Your fingers hovered close, just near enough to feel the heat of him, but you didn’t dare touch.
“What… what happened?” you asked finally, your voice soft, trembling.
Joel’s gaze followed yours, his face unreadable. He expected the worst—a comment about his body, about the way time and hardship had worn him down. But how could he expect that from you? You, the sweetest woman he’d ever met. This was almost worse, though. Because you cared. And that care, that softness, felt like it would undo him completely.
Slowly, he leaned back, putting a sliver of distance between you as if he needed the space to steel himself. “Knife,” he muttered, his voice rough and clipped.
Your eyes flicked to his face, searching for something in his expression—a trace of the story written into that scar, an emotion he didn’t want to reveal. But Joel didn’t look at you.
“Some guy,” he continued after a beat, his tone measured but guarded. “Long time ago. Tried attackin’ me.”
You hummed softly, the sound filled with a quiet empathy you didn’t know how to put into words. For a moment, you pictured him—Joel, younger but still so unmistakably him. Less gray in his hair, more fire in his eyes. Sharper around the edges, all raw survival and steady hands that had learned how to do what was necessary.
“Had to stitch myself up,” Joel added after a long pause, his voice low, each word deliberate, like it cost him something to say.
Your chest ached with the weight of it, and when you spoke, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “Ouch.”
He huffed a quiet, humorless sound, his lips twitching for the briefest second before settling back into a thin line. Without thinking, you shifted closer, the space between you narrowing until your knees brushed his. Joel stilled at the contact, but he didn’t pull away.
And then, quietly, carefully, your hand reached out.
Your fingertips grazed the edge of his temple, tracing the faint curve of a scar that rested just above the bone. It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but now that you’d seen it, you couldn’t look away.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked to yours, his jaw tightening as though he wasn’t sure if he could let himself breathe. But you saw him—really saw him. You always did.
“And this one?” you asked softly, your voice low, reverent, as if afraid to shatter the fragile stillness of the moment.
He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, but when he spoke, his voice was rough and uneven, your name slipping from his lips like a plea. “Don’t.”
The word was soft, almost broken, and the way he said it sent a pang of something deep and aching through you. There was no bite to it, no command—just Joel, asking for something unspoken.
“What?” you whispered, your hand stilling but refusing to pull away. Your eyes searched his face, lingering on the tight line of his jaw, the way his lashes brushed his cheekbones as he closed his eyes.
“It’s nothin’,” Joel muttered gruffly.
“I want to know,” you urged gently, your voice steady but soft, carrying the kind of quiet insistence that could slip past defenses. “Please.”
“Took a hit to the head,” he muttered finally, the words clipped and bitter. “Made a dumb mistake. Should’ve seen it comin’.”
Slowly, you pulled your hand back, the motion deliberate, leaving a trail of phantom heat in its absence. Joel’s hand twitched, halfway between you, like it wanted to reach for you but couldn’t quite make it.
“Why d’you care ‘bout this?” Joel asked finally, his voice low and rough. It wasn’t an accusation. It was confusion, like he genuinely couldn’t comprehend why anyone would care enough to notice, let alone ask.
His dark eyes flickered over your face, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.
You stared at him, your lips parting as you tried to find the words, but nothing came at first. How could you explain it? How could you tell him that every time he let his guard slip, even just a fraction, it felt like he was handing you something sacred, something no one else had been allowed to see?
How could you tell him that you cared because he mattered.
How could you tell him that you cared because you loved him?
“Because it’s you,” you said softly, the words slipping free before you could stop them.
His expression faltered—just for a second. His eyes flickered, dark and searching, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, like he was holding something back—something too big, too fragile to name. Then he shook his head, the motion slow, deliberate, like he was trying to will the moment away.
“Don’t say somethin’ you don’t mean,” he muttered, the words rough and low, swallowing against the literal pain that burned in his throat as he forced them out.
Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening as you shifted closer to him, the air between you thick and charged. “Joel you told me a while ago,” you began, your voice steady despite the thrum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, “that you cared about me.”
Joel’s gaze snapped up at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, almost wary intensity. He looked like a man cornered, searching for an angle, a way out of a conversation he hadn’t realized he’d walked straight into. But there wasn’t one. You both knew it.
Finally, after a long, loaded silence, he nodded once. It was curt but deliberate, his jaw tightening as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a reluctant swallow. “I do,” he said, his voice gravelly, like the words dragged themselves out of him against his will. “Course I do.”
"Then why can't you believe me when I say I care about you too?" The words spilled from you before you could stop them, your voice softer now, trembling with the mix of pleading and frustration that had been building inside you. Vulnerability bled through, and your chest ached as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Don’t look away.
"Why is that so hard for you to accept?"
Joel's jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. His eyes flicked down, unable to meet yours. His hand moved absently, rubbing the worn denim of his thigh, the restless motion betraying the storm brewing just beneath his skin.
"It ain't..." he started, his voice faltering, so low it felt like a confession. "It's not the same."
"Not the same how?" you pressed, leaning forward. Your voice was steady now, firm, as if the calmness might coax him into staying—into answering. "I don’t get it, Joel. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to just… let me care about you."
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to face you.
You couldn’t take it any longer. Slowly, you reached out, your hand finding his face, gently tilting it toward you. The contact was soft, tentative, but the gesture felt like an unspoken plea, like you were begging him to let you in.
"I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone like I trust you." Your voice cracked, just barely, as you took a breath, searching for the courage to say what you hadn’t said aloud. "You make me feel safe. Joel... I don’t know what I’d do without you."
Joel’s head snapped up at that.
“Look,” you began softly, leaning forward, your voice threading through the heavy quiet between you. “I’m not fighting you on this. It’s not a battle, Joel. It’s just the truth. Whether you believe it or not, I care.”
“And I know you’re stubborn,” you added, your lips quirking in a small, fleeting smile, an attempt to lighten the moment before it swallowed you both whole. “Maybe even more stubborn than me.”
That earned you something—a tilt of his head, just barely, his brow furrowing as his eyes flickered to you, guarded but curious. “I’m the stubborn one?” he asked gruffly, his voice rough and low, though the faintest thread of incredulity cut through it.
“Yeah,” you replied, letting the smile tug a little wider as you leaned back, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You can be just as bad as me. Maybe worse.”
“But it’s true,” you pressed gently, the teasing giving way to something deeper, something unshakable. Your gaze caught his, steady and unyielding, holding him there even as you saw the flicker of resistance in his eyes. “I care, Joel. I really do. And it’s not gonna change just because you’re too damn stubborn to believe it.”
Joel’s head lifted fully then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus so intense it made your breath catch. The walls he’d fortified so carefully, so stubbornly, seemed to waver, crumbling at the edges. And for the first time, you didn’t just feel like you were talking to Joel—you felt like you saw him.
The space between you felt smaller, sharper, like gravity was pulling you together. You became acutely aware of how close you were, your knees brushing his as the firelight flickered against his face. And then, his gaze dipped—to your lips.
Oh my god. Is he going to kiss me?
The thought slammed into you, leaving your heart racing in your chest. Time seemed to slow, his gaze lingering there just a beat too long. The air felt charged, thick with something unspoken. Your breath hitched, and for a split second, you thought he might.
But then Joel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping abruptly to his hands. He shifted against the couch, the movement slow and deliberate, like he was forcing himself to break the spell. “Well,” he said finally, his voice rough and uneven, cutting through the fragile quiet. He cleared his throat, his hands smoothing over his jeans in a nervous, practiced gesture. “I should probably get goin’.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve, a sharp pang settling in your chest. “Oh,” you murmured softly, the sound escaping before you could stop it.
“Yeah, okay.” Your lips curved into a small, fleeting smile, the best you could manage. “Thanks for, uh…” You gestured vaguely toward the kitchen, your voice light but thin. “…the dinner. And the firewood.”
Joel nodded once, his eyes flickering anywhere but you—the door, the fire, his boots—like looking at you might undo him entirely. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “No problem.”
He hesitated, the pause stretching longer than it should’ve. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, the familiar, disarming motion drawing your attention to the tension still coiled in his frame. His bicep flexed subtly, and you hated how that flicker of movement sent heat curling in your stomach even now, when all you wanted was for him to stay.
“And… thanks for, uh… the back thing,” he added gruffly, his voice a shade quieter, more uncertain.
The words caught you off guard, and a soft, unsteady laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “The back thing?” you echoed, arching a brow at him, the teasing edge in your voice betraying the weight pressing on your chest. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
Joel’s lips twitched—just barely—a flicker of something lighter that tugged at the corners of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it came. His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, warmer now but still guarded, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to let it linger. “You know what I mean,” he muttered, the words rough but softer this time.
“You’re welcome,” you said gently, the teasing fading from your voice as you watched him.
When he stood, you followed him toward the door, the sound of his boots against the floor punctuating the silence between you. Every step felt heavy, the space around you thickening with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say. He reached the door and paused, his hand resting on the knob, his broad shoulders shifting just slightly like he was caught between leaving and staying.
For a beat, he didn’t move. And then, slowly, he turned back to you, his dark eyes flickering to yours with an uncertainty that made your heart stutter. “Good night,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, but there was something in it—something more—that he didn’t let himself say. His fingers curled tighter around the knob, knuckles pale from the tension. “Lock up after me, yeah?”
You nodded, your voice steadier than you felt. “Good night, Joel.”
But you wanted to say more.
Don’t leave.
Don’t walk out that door. Stay. Stay here with me.
Let me show you that I care.
Let me show you that I love you.
For a moment, you held your breath, your pulse pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Please. Just say something. Stay.
But he didn’t.
He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his face shadowed in the soft glow of the firelight, and turned away.
The door creaked softly as it opened, the cold night air rushing in, biting against your skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the room. For a heartbeat, you saw the stars outside—endless, distant, uncaring—before the door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden stillness.
You exhaled shakily, the sound unsteady as you pressed your forehead lightly against the door, your eyes fluttering shut. The house felt too big without him, the fire behind you too quiet to chase away the chill that crept into your bones now that he was gone.
“Don’t go,” you whispered, the words breaking like a secret in the empty room—soft and fragile, meant for him but swallowed by the night.
Outside, the stars stretched on forever, distant and silent, but you stayed there, rooted to the spot, the ache of all the words you hadn’t said pressing heavy against your chest.
And you let them linger.
─── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ───
The next day, you found yourself trudging toward the dining hall with Maria, trying—and failing—to suppress a yawn. Sleep hadn’t come easy after last night. The weight of Joel’s touch, the sound of his voice murmuring your name, lingered stubbornly in the quiet of your mind, replaying like a song you couldn’t shake.
“Late night?” Maria asked, her tone teasing but curious as she nudged you gently.
“Something like that,” you murmured, rolling your shoulders in a vain attempt to shake the ache that still clung to them.
Stepping into the dining hall, the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays greeted you, a comforting sort of chaos that momentarily distracted you from the exhaustion curling behind your eyes. Maria stopped short and turned to you, motioning vaguely.
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the back. “The boys are over there.”
At her words, your gaze followed her subtle nod—and your heart stilled.
As you made your way toward them, it was Tommy who spotted you first. His face split into a wide grin, his arms already opening before you reached him. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawled warmly, his Southern lilt wrapping around the word like it belonged there, soft and easy. “Joel was just tellin’ me how you saved his old ass the other day. You’re somethin’ else, you know that? A damn badass.”
Your heart gave a sharp skip at the mention of Joel, your gaze flicking instinctively to him. He stood just a step behind Tommy, his tray in one hand, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. He was watching you—quiet, steady—but there was a softness in his eyes, the kind he reserved only for you. Without a word, Joel reached for an extra tray and handed it to you, his movements deliberate but natural, like it wasn’t even a question.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice quiet and shaky, betraying you. The faintest blush crept into your cheeks, and you watched Joel’s jaw tighten as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze dropped, flicking away shyly—a softness so uncharacteristic of him that it pulled at something deep in your chest.
“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice low, quiet enough that it felt like it was meant only for you.
You nodded quickly, gripping the tray a little tighter as you found your words. “Yeah. Your, uh… back thing helped, I think.”
Joel hummed, the sound deep in his chest, approving but subdued. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, his eyes flickering up to meet yours again—and then lower, to your lips. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but enough to make your breath catch.
Tommy’s brow furrowed, his tray hovering in mid-air as he looked between you both, confusion clear on his face. What the hell are they talkin’ about? he wondered, his lips twitching as if he might interrupt.
Before you could even process it, the moment shattered.
“Hey, lady,” a sharp, abrasive voice cut through the air behind you.
Startled, you turned sharply, the tray wobbling slightly in your hands as you found yourself face-to-face with someone you didn’t recognize. He was large—towering, broad-shouldered, with a head shaved so close it gleamed under the lights. His scowl was deep, a permanent mark etched into his face, and the way his eyes raked over you felt dismissive, hostile.
“Oh,” you stammered, caught off guard as your pulse quickened. “Hi.” Did you know this guy? No, you decided, swallowing hard. He was new—one of the recent arrivals who hadn’t yet settled into Jackson’s quiet rhythm.
You felt it before you saw it. Joel.
He hadn’t moved, not yet, but you could feel the change in him—subtle but unmistakable. The air between you shifted as if the temperature had dropped, the warmth of his earlier softness disappearing in a heartbeat. His posture stiffened, shoulders squaring, and Tommy turned too, his expression darkening as he registered the tension.
“Not sure what you think you’re doin’, cuttin’ in line like that,” the man sneered, his voice rough, laced with something sharp and ugly. His eyes flicked over you again, dismissive in a way that made your stomach twist. “Think you’re special or somethin’?”
“I’m—” you started, flustered, the words sticking in your throat. “I didn’t realize—”
You felt Joel move before you saw him.
“Hey,” Joel’s voice cut through the hum of the dining hall like the edge of a blade—low, deliberate, and unyielding. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.
Joel stepped forward, his broad frame eclipsing yours completely as he inserted himself between you and the stranger, shielding you with a movement so instinctive, so deliberate, it made your chest tighten. Without turning his head, his hand found your waist—firm but gentle—as he nudged you back toward Tommy.
Tommy let out a quiet, resigned “Oh boy,” under his breath, his grip on your arm steady, like he already knew where this was headed. Around you, the energy shifted. Conversations dimmed to nervous murmurs, trays clinked against the tables, and chairs scraped as people turned to watch.
Everyone in Jackson knew better. They knew Joel Miller. His name carried weight—a reputation forged in blood and grit, etched into every line on his hardened face. He didn’t need to bark orders or shout threats; his presence alone did the talking. Joel was a man who didn’t bluff, and everyone who’d lived here long enough understood that much.
But this man didn’t. Or he was too new—too reckless—to realize what kind of line he’d just crossed.
“She’s with me,” Joel said, his voice quiet and cold.
The stranger scoffed, his lip curling as he stepped forward, puffing out his chest in a challenge that only made him look smaller next to Joel’s unflinching presence. “Does it look like I care?” he spat, his tone dripping with mockery.
You flinched instinctively, but Joel didn’t react—not at first. He stood stock-still, his profile unreadable except for the faint tick in his jaw, the slow curl of his fingers into a fist at his side. His stillness was terrifying, the kind that signaled restraint—restraint that could snap at any moment.
When Joel spoke again, his voice dropped lower—deadly and cold, each word a warning wrapped in a promise. “It does,” he said, and his eyes sharpened like twin shards of glass. “If you wanna keep breathing.”
The newcomer didn’t take the hint—or worse, he did and chose to shove it aside with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. He rolled his eyes, his scowl twisting into something cruel and sharp, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, man. Tell your brat of a girlfriend she can’t just go around cutting in line. That’s not how things work.”
Brat.
The word struck like the crack of a whip, each syllable biting deeper than the last. A flare of heat surged through you—anger, humiliation, a wild tangle of words clawing their way up your throat. Who does this guy think he is? Brat? Your mouth moved on instinct, the retort already forming, sharp and searing: “Who do you think you’re—”
But the words never landed. Tommy’s hand found your arm, firm and grounding. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it carried weight, his presence a tether against the storm building inside you. His voice was low, a quiet murmur meant only for you, but the warning in it was unmistakable.
“Don’t,” he said, his tone a weary drawl laced with a hint of something heavier. Experience. Resignation. “Trust me. Don’t.”
It happened in a flash—so fast you could barely process it. One moment, Joel stood beside you, his presence solid and unyielding like a dam holding back a flood. The next, that flood broke.
Joel surged forward with a force that was all precision, controlled fury, and raw intent. His hand shot out, gripping the man’s collar with a strength that sent him stumbling back. The motion was seamless, deliberate, like the inevitable force of a storm bearing down on its target. The man’s back slammed against the nearest wall, the impact reverberating through the dining hall like a clap of thunder.
“What,” Joel growled, his voice low, dangerous, and deadly, “did you just say?”
It wasn’t a yell. Joel didn’t need to raise his voice. The menace in his tone—the quiet, simmering fury—was far more terrifying. His grip on the man’s collar was ironclad, his knuckles white against the fabric.
The man squirmed, his bravado already cracking like thin ice. “Get the fuck off me!” he barked, shoving weakly at Joel’s chest. His hands trembled with effort, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Joel didn’t budge—not even a flicker of motion.
“Say it again,” Joel snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper that coiled through the room like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He yanked the man closer, their faces level now, his grip tightening like a vice. “Go ahead. Say it again. And see what happens.”
“I didn’t—” the man started, his voice hitching, but Joel slammed him harder against the wall, the sound louder this time, sharp enough to make a few people in the crowd flinch.
“You don’t talk to her like that,” Joel snarled, his voice low and venomous, each word laced with a fury that could melt steel. “Hell,” he growled, his breath steady but deliberate, like he was holding back a storm, “you don’t talk to her ever. You don’t look at her like that.” His grip tightened on the man’s collar, knuckles white, and with a sharp shove, he slammed him against the wall again. The dull thud of the man’s head meeting the surface reverberated in the tense silence.
Joel leaned in, his face inches from the man’s now paling one, his voice breaking through the quiet like a crack of thunder. “And you sure as hell don’t get to call her—” His voice cracked, raw and seething, but he pushed through it, his hand jerking the man forward only to slam him back again, harder this time, the impact leaving no room for argument.
“Anything but her goddamn name.”
The man’s bravado shattered completely. His eyes widened in panic, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps. “I—I didn’t mean it, okay? I didn’t mean—”
“That doesn’t sound like an apology,” Joel cut him off, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. His gaze burned into the man, and his grip didn’t falter. “Try again.” He yanked him closer, the venom in his words unrelenting. “And look her in the eye while you do it.”
The man’s head jerked toward you, his movements jerky and frantic, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out, the words spilling over themselves in his panic. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry!”
The dining hall felt like it had frozen in time. Conversations had ceased, forks hung mid-air, the faint crackle of the fire in the corner the only sound to break the silence. Joel was unyielding, a pillar of unrelenting fury. You could see the man squirm beneath his grip, his panic rising with every second that passed.
And then Joel’s gaze shifted.
His head turned slightly, just enough to look at you, and it was like the air shifted entirely. That sharp, cutting edge in his expression softened—not fully, but enough that you felt it like a physical thing. His dark eyes searched yours, asking a silent question, his brow lifting just slightly in that way only you knew meant he was waiting. Not for the man’s apology. Not for Tommy to intervene.
For you.
The vulnerability in that look was enough to unravel you. Joel wasn’t questioning whether he should let go, wasn’t trying to justify the raw, unyielding force behind his actions. He was asking you—quietly, silently—trusting you to decide if the apology was enough, if you were satisfied.
It was such an intimate thing, so deeply personal, completely at odds with the way his knuckles had gone white from the force of his grip, his forearm trembling with restrained fury. The contrast was stark—his quiet deference to you and the raw, unrelenting protectiveness that radiated off him, daring the world to push him further.
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you held his gaze. “Joel,” you said softly, your voice steady but laced with something tender. “It’s okay. Let him go.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, like he needed to be absolutely certain. His shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, deliberate breath, the tension rolling through him in waves before he exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then, finally, his hand loosened. It wasn’t abrupt—it was deliberate, controlled, as though every motion carried weight. Joel released the man with enough force to send him stumbling forward, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
The man’s breath came in quick, panicked bursts as he scrambled to steady himself, his trembling hands clutching at his shirt like it might protect him. But Joel didn’t even look at him now. His gaze stayed on you, his eyes still softer, still yours.
“Go,” Joel said simply, his voice low, quiet, but no less commanding. The word carried the same weight as if it had been shouted, and the man didn’t hesitate. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, his steps hurried as he all but fled the dining hall. The door swung shut behind him with a sharp creak, the sound punctuating his retreat.
Joel turned fully to you now, his broad shoulders relaxing by degrees, though you could still see the tension coiled beneath his skin. His gaze softened further as it met yours, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away. There was a question there, unspoken but loud enough to feel in the air between you: Did I do right? Are you okay?
Joel’s voice broke through the hum of the dining hall, rough but quieter now, carrying an edge of concern so sharp it sent a pang straight to your chest. “You good?” he asked, his gaze fixed on you in a way that felt like the rest of the room had disappeared. There was something about the way he stepped closer, his body angled toward you as though nothing else mattered—like the entire world could crumble around him, and he’d still be here, making sure you were okay.
You nodded, swallowing against the lump forming in your throat. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Joel didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned your face, his jaw tightening as if he could will the truth out of you, even if you didn’t want to give it. His chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate breaths, but his hands flexed at his sides like they were still fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you behind him and keep you safe.
Behind him, Tommy let out a low whistle, the sound breaking through the suffocating quiet like a crack of thunder. “Damn, Joel,” he muttered, shaking his head as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Didn’t know you still had that in you. Hell, remind me not to get on your bad side.”
But Joel didn’t react. He didn’t turn. Didn’t even flinch. His focus remained on you, unwavering, like he couldn’t spare even a second to acknowledge anything else. And when he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter, almost tender in its roughness. “You should sit,” he said, nodding toward a table in the far corner of the hall. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”
“Joel” you started, your voice trailing off as you searched for the right words. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did,” he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He motioned toward the table again, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as if to guide you. “Sit.”
Joel turned back to the line without another word, his broad shoulders tense and Tommy’s chuckle following him like a low rumble of thunder. You noticed the way the people behind Joel in line stood a few paces back now, their movements cautious, like they were navigating the aftermath of a storm.
You exhaled slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax as you glanced around the dining hall. The noise had returned to its usual rhythm—a soft din of clinking trays and overlapping conversations—but the weight of what had just happened still lingered in the air. Without waiting, you slipped toward the back of the hall, seeking the solace of a quiet corner where you could collect yourself.
Sliding into the farthest seat, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The tension in your chest eased, though the moment was short-lived. Maria appeared almost out of nowhere, her movements fluid as she took the chair beside you. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing on you. Her brows arched in silent curiosity, but her expression carried an edge of amusement.
“What did I miss?” she asked, “Why’s everyone looking at you like you just threw the first punch?”
You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped you, bubbling out unexpectedly, light and tinged with disbelief. Maria’s brow furrowed deeper, though her lips twitched as if fighting back a smile. “What?” she pressed. “What’s so funny?”
“Joel,” you said, shaking your head and gesturing vaguely toward the front of the hall where the line stretched out. “He… handled a situation.”
Maria’s brow arched higher, her interest visibly piqued. “Handled a situation?” she echoed, leaning forward like a cat ready to pounce on juicy gossip. “Do tell. What kind of situation are we talking about here?”
You hesitated, the memory of Joel’s fury still fresh in your mind. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the wood grain of the table as you searched for the right words. “There was this guy. New, I think. He said something, and Joel—” You paused, the image of Joel pinning the man against the wall flashing in your mind. “Joel made sure he regretted it.”
Maria tilted her head, her lips quirking into a knowing smirk. “Made sure, huh?” she said, her tone teasing. “Let me guess—intimidation, maybe a little bit of his special brand of physical persuasion?”
You smiled despite yourself, the corners of your lips tugging upward. “Something like that,” you admitted quietly. “He grabbed the guy, slammed him against the wall… scared the hell out of everyone watching.”
Maria’s eyes widened slightly before a grin spread across her face. “Classic Joel,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head. But her expression softened as she watched you, her gaze turning pointed. “And I’m guessing it wasn’t just for show.”
Before you could respond, movement caught your attention. Joel was weaving through the dining hall, two trays balanced carefully in his hands. His face was set in that familiar stoic expression, his jaw tight and his steps deliberate. But then his eyes found yours, and for the briefest moment, they softened.
“Here,” Joel said simply, setting the tray down in front of you with the kind of care that felt oddly out of place in the bustling, noisy dining hall. “They didn’t have any more of that cornbread you liked, so I grabbed you this instead.” He slid a warm muffin onto your tray, its golden top glistening faintly, the scent of honey and cinnamon wafting up.
“Oh,” you breathed, your fingers brushing the edge of the tray, feeling the lingering warmth of the muffin. You glanced up at him, the words catching in your throat before finally tumbling out. “Thanks, Joel.”
He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a slight nod. Joel lowered himself into the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud in the quiet corner you’d tucked yourselves into. His knee brushed yours briefly under the table as he adjusted his seat, but he didn’t move away. Neither did you.
Tommy arrived seconds later, sliding into the chair next to Maria with his tray in tow, his face lit up with a grin that was equal parts amused and mischievous. He stabbed a fork into the potatoes on his plate, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh.
“Well,” Tommy drawled, glancing between you and Joel, “guess we’re sittin’ at the safest table in Jackson now.”
Joel’s head snapped toward his brother, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that signaled his patience was wearing thin. “Knock it off,” he muttered, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth like he could end the conversation by sheer force of will.
Tommy chuckled, undeterred. “Can’t help it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an unapologetic grin. “I mean, I’ve seen you get protective, Joel, but that back there?” He gestured vaguely toward the line where the earlier incident had unfolded. “That was somethin’ else.”
“Tommy,” Joel growled, his voice dropping into a warning. But instead of snapping, he glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly before his gaze darted back to his tray.
Maria finally chimed in, her voice carrying that same sharp amusement. “Well, Joel, if nothing else, you’ve definitely set the tone for how new arrivals should behave.”
Joel let out a soft huff, his head dipping as he dragged a hand over his face. “For the last time, I don’t wanna hear about it,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.
Then you felt it—his hand, warm and solid, squeezing your knee under the table.
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. The weight of his hand, the silent reassurance in the way his fingers pressed gently but firmly against you, said everything he couldn’t. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a message. I’m here. I’ll always be here. I’m yours.
