Deeper
dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader
Part Two of Sitter
After nine months of no contact since the night Joel spent at your house, you run into him again over winter break.
Tags: Explicit MDNI, no outbreak, age gap, hurt/comfort, lots of feelings and tensions and arguing, which eventually lead to, car sex, unprotected penetration, fingering, first kiss (yay?!!)
Word count: 8.1k
You wake up disoriented.
The first thing your brain registers is how hot your face feels. After blinking a few times, you squint and look around. Sunlight is pouring through the window to the room, hitting you with what feels like a gigajoule worth of heat right on your cranium. You yank the blanket that is covering you away, cursing at how hot and sweaty you are under.
Supporting yourself up with your elbows, you plant your feet on the floor before sitting up straight, stretching your back and arms and groaning while doing so. You scare yourself hearing how nasally your voice is. Your mind runs, dissecting the events from the previous night.
Oh, right. You were sick last night. You slept in front of the TV after taking some medication. You remember the ache in your muscles and joints, the debilitating fever. How you embodied a person in Victorian times on their deathbed, pale and sickly, and all they wanted was to see the garden for one last time. You touch your forehead, and then your neck. Seems like the fever has gone away, leaving your skin sticky with sweat. Your nose isn’t stuffy anymore. And the sore throat is almost gone. You should send a love letter to Vicks headquarters.
While rubbing your face, you are hit by the sudden realization of this strangely vivid dream you had about Joel. It was definitely a wet one, on top of how it was obviously strange and came out-of-nowhere. The kind of dream only fever and probably too much Benadryl can produce. You remember that in the dream, you were watching TV with Joel, and it escalated to going down on him before he went down on you. Fuck, that was embarrassing. And so… porn-y. Straight out of a cheap adult video production company. Ooh, look at me, I’m sick and I’m alone and my dad’s hot friend came and ate my pussy out. What’s next, a plumbing guy? A pizza delivery boy?
Going upstairs is a chore. Your joints are stiff and the knob of the upstairs bathroom’s door gets stuck from time to time, and apparently today is the time. After almost kicking it down, you run the tap and give your face a good wash with cold water, resuscitating your brain cells from doxylamine-induced coma. After that, the very much needed teeth brushing.
You glance at the mirror, cringing at how disheveled your reflection looks. Maybe you should take a hot shower while you’re at it. Toothbrush still in mouth, you run your fingers through your hair, feeling the oily scalp under your fingertips.
And that’s when you find the proof of Joel’s visit. His release, not even fully dried up, is lodged between the strands of hair near your forehead. You pick at it and bring the sample to your nose, half hoping it’s snot. One whiff and it’s confirmed. The dreamy sequence of Joel Miller eating you out was, in fact, not a dream.
The realization hits like a truck. Your body is ahead of your mind and before you realize it, you’re already halfway downstairs, almost tripping and splitting your skull on the staircase. You turn the living room upside down, trying to find your phone. Eventually, you find it after digging in every crook and corner of the couch. It’s dead. You quickly plug it in and wait for the home screen to appear. 4 missed calls from your father, 2 from Amy. A bunch of texts.
Dad
Sweetie? I was asleep. I am so sorry you’re going through it alone. I called Joel. He should be on his way.
Is he there yet?
Didn’t hear from Joel and I can’t reach you. Please call me ASAP.
I hope you’re just asleep. Rest up and text me when you’re finally awake, okay 👍
Sweetie?
Amy
Your dad and I are worried sick. I hope you’re feeling better! Say hi when you’re up
Make some lemon ginger tea if your throat still feels awful
Ignoring the fact that you are pretty much shaking, you scroll until you find Joel’s contact, checking if he has left any message before leaving. The last conversation was from him last year on your birthday, to which you said thanks with a bunch of emojis. Nothing new. You check around the house, thinking maybe Joel left a note. Also nothing.
The house is eerily clean from his trace. In the kitchen you find everything is where it should be, and he even took the trash out. The front lawn seems unchanged, too. No tire marks on the driveway, no flattened grass, no dried mud in the shape of the sole of his boots on the porch. It’s like he was never here.
If you hadn’t found the remains of his semen on you, you would totally believe last night was just a dirty fantasy that somehow managed to override your brain while asleep.
You’re not sure what to do, or even how to feel. Guilt? Disgust? You guess it wouldn’t have bothered you that much if not for the fact that Joel tried his best to pretend he never visited. It makes your stomach churns.
Your phone rings. Dad.
“Sweetheart?”
“Dad,”
A relieved sigh from the other end. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. I can run a marathon.” you let out a breathy laugh. “Sorry I left you worried last night. I took some NyQuil and slept,”
That was technically not a lie.
“Yeah? I figured. Did Joel come? He said he would check, but we haven’t heard anything—”
Fucking pussy, you mouth. “Uh, I was probably asleep when he came. If—he came.”
Not only did he come figuratively, he also came metaphorically.
A faint ding sound, and your father pauses to read the notification. “Ah, there he is! Sorry… Car broke down… Phone died… Couldn’t find the damn charger. Ha!”
You chuckle dryly, heart sinking. “Yeah, it was storming last night, too, so…”
“Ah,” he gasps. “Well I sure do hope he wasn’t in the middle of the road when his car broke down! Did I tell you about that one time a chair—“
You can’t hear anything past that.
.
Joel is scared.
He hasn’t stopped thinking about what happened since the second he left your house. He doesn’t even remember driving home. One moment he was grinning as you skipped your way to the land of dreams, the next he was pulling on his jeans with shaking hands, and then he was standing in the middle of his kitchen staring at the microwave clock, heart thundering like he just ran ten miles.
What the fuck did I do? It plays in his head on a loop, over and over again. Not the way your mouth felt, not the way your voice cracked when you begged, not even the way you looked up at him with those wet, feverish eyes like you needed him more than air. No. None of the good stuff. Just the guilt. The sinking, oil-thick weight in his chest when he looked down at you and remembered who you were. Who your father is. What you meant to him before last night blurred all the lines.
At work, he drops a box on his foot. Snaps at someone who didn’t deserve it. Spends a full ten minutes staring at a power drill someone hands to him to fix, unable to remember what the fuck he’s supposed to be doing. His head isn’t screwed on right. It’s full of images he doesn’t want to replay, and feelings he doesn’t know what to do with.
You text him mid-afternoon.
Thank you for last night. I hope you have a good day at work.
He sees it pop up on his screen while he’s staring blankly at the schedule of the construction, unable to assess whether it’s on track or not. He doesn’t open the message. Doesn’t reply. Can’t.
Another one comes two hours later.
Can we talk? I was thinking maybe dinner. At my place, or yours, or anywhere you want. Please?
He turns his phone off and tells himself it’s the right thing. That not answering is kinder than… indulging you. That if he keeps quiet, maybe it’ll just fade. Maybe you’ll forget. Or at least catch the hint.
He spends the rest of the day in silence. Takes the long way home. Opens a beer and leaves it on the counter untouched. Stares out the window until the sun goes down and he’s just a silhouette in his own house. Feels like a coward. Because he is.
He knows he should regret it because it was wrong.
He does regret it.
But with each minute passing, it comes to his mind that he doesn’t regret making you come apart in his hands as much as he regrets—and realizes —how badly he’s wanted it for longer than he should have. How despite him trying so hard to deny and fight himself on it, the first word that came to his mind when you looked at him like that last night, all flushed and needy and trusting as he spent himself on you, was ‘finally’.
Back at your place, you sit curled on the couch with your phone in your hands, screen glowing against your knees. You check it every few minutes. Nothing. You start composing a message, delete it. Try again. Delete that one too. Eventually, you just set the phone down and bury your face in your hands.
You don’t even know why you’re crying. Maybe it’s the way he left. Or the way he’s pretending it didn’t happen. Or maybe it’s just that being sick and alone is already shitty enough without adding heartbreak to the list.
Heartbreak? You laugh at your own thoughts, but nothing comes out of your vocal cord.
You eat some stale bread over the sink for dinner that night, tears still running down your cheeks.
.
You make up your mind around noon, halfway through a cold cup of tea you never meant to finish. The ache in your chest hasn't dulled, not even after crying yourself to sleep and waking up three separate times just to check your phone like some pathetic addict. No new messages. No missed calls. You drive over to his house like a goddamn lunatic, cursing yourself when you keep checking yourself on the rearview mirror like Joel would care.
You wait. Hours pass. The sun shifts. You scroll. You text Amy some bullshit about feeling “a little better.” You rehearse what you're going to say and then un-rehearse it because you know damn well you’ll go off-script the second you see his face.
Every truck that drove by had your heart in your throat, but none of them were Joel’s until now. You see the familiar beat-up Ford come up the street, slow into the driveway. Your whole body goes still. His expression passes through surprise, confusion, resignation. Then he gets out, slams the door, and approaches.
“What are you doin’ here?” he says, cautious. Almost gentle.
You shrug like you just happened to be in the neighborhood. “Thought we could talk.”
Joel doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales through his nose and unlocks the door. “C’mon in.”
The house is dim, cooled by the late afternoon. Lived-in, but quiet. He toes off his boots at the entryway. You follow suit.
“Been out here long?” he asks, not looking at you.
“Just a bit,” you lie.
He nods like he knows you’re lying. Heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“I got leftovers. Chicken and rice. You could eat.”
You smirk, bitter and tired. “I gotta say, you have a very interesting modus operandi. Feed me, eat my pussy, then act like I don’t exist, and then feed me again. By the pattern I guess you’ll eat my pussy again after this? Can’t wait.”
Joel closes the fridge, slow and quiet. Doesn’t move. “Quit it, kid.”
“Quit it, kid,” You parrot him, leaning against the counter, trying to keep your cool. “Oh sorry, you know, for having the balls to talk to your face.”
His face doesn’t shift, not even the tiniest bit, and it only pisses you off more. “The way you were just, gone, and all. Didn’t even leave a note or something. Lied to my dad, saying you didn’t even come over. Like it was so disgusting you don’t even want to remember. Like I was disgusting.” Each word is delivered sharper than the last without you meaning to.
He sighs. Deep, guttural. Like this whole thing is dragging something out of him he’s spent years trying to bury. He finally looks at you, and you wish he wouldn’t. There’s too much in his eyes. Grief, guilt, something like longing, but dulled at the edges.
“It was a mistake,” he says, low.
You hold your arms across your chest like they might catch you if you fall. “You didn’t stop me. You could, but you didn’t. You wanted it as much as I did, Joel.”
“I know.” He takes a small step toward you, then stops himself. “And I ain’t proud of that.”
“Why?” Own it, Joel, don’t take it back, you want to say, but your voice cracks before you can voice the rest of it out loud.
“Because you’re you,” he echoes, pain blooming in every syllable. “Because I’ve known you forever. Because I used to sit on that porch with your dad talkin’ about you. Because I care about you and that means I shouldn’t want you the way I do.”
You blink fast. The weight of it lands too heavy in your gut, and you both stand in silence for what feels like years.
“You know,” you say, forcing levity. “It’s not like I was about to ask you to marry me.”
Joel exhales through a tired, pained laugh. “Didn’t think you were.”
Joel looks at you for a long, long moment. And when he finds you silent, processing, his voice softens again—dangerously soft, like the floor’s about to give way.
“You’re beautiful. You’re strong. One day you’re gonna have someone who sees you and knows exactly what you need and gives it without all this…mess.”
“But it won’t be you.” you look at him, fighting the feeling of barbed wire closing around your throat.
“No. It won’t be me.”
The way he said it. Soft. Like he was trying not to scare a stray duckling away. Like he was mending pieces of a broken vase and loud noises would make it shatter again. He knows you. You know he’s not trying to hurt you. But it still stings, opening an old wound somewhere that you can’t locate.
The silence after that is unbearable. You hate that he said it kindly. You wish he’d screamed, or thrown something, or just been a dick so you’d have a reason to stay angry. But no. He just says it with that same sad softness that makes your chest cave in.
You force a brittle laugh. “Well. I guess I’ll go let someone else ruin my life, then.”
Joel’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
You move to the door. “Take care, Joel.”
“You too, kid.”
“And. Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t. My fault as much as yours.”
“Yeah. I hope you, uh, go find someone that’s not… uh,”
“My friend’s kid?” Joel cuts, filling in the blank.
“Yeah,” you laugh dryly.
“Right,” Joel concurs. “Someone that’s not, uh, affiliated with me, I guess.”
.
You don’t see Joel again after that. You don’t tell a soul about what happened, either.
After that conversation with Joel, you drive your blue Pontiac Vibe back home, all teary and snotty. Two days after that you spend in front of the TV, eyes pointed at the screen but mind elsewhere. Your tears dry soon after, and you ridicule yourself for reacting so strongly over the whole thing like you are going through a divorce or something. You blame it on the hormones.
Your father and Amy come back home later that week, all tanned and radiant. They bring back a vintage jewelry dish for you and a leather wallet for Joel, plus a couple bottles of artisan wine. Your father suggests inviting Joel over for dinner before you go back to school, but before you get to find a convincing excuse to not have to participate in said dinner, Joel declines the invite, saying he is busy handling a big project. While setting the jewelry dish on your vanity, you lament how you should’ve probably gone to Italy instead of staying home.
That weekend you drive back to college. Nothing really changes. Same old routines of going to class and the library, occasional hangouts with friends. By three or four weeks, you have forgotten how seemingly serious the whole ordeal was. The days stretch out, lazily unfolding into summer.
Your father proposes to Amy in July. They send you pictures of the ring and them smiling. Amy cries tears of happiness on the phone, and you discuss the best time to hold the wedding and where, what color and theme, which friends and acquaintances should get invited, and if you’d bring a special someone. You laugh it off.
One day late summer your father sends pictures of him and Joel fishing. Joel is wearing a baseball cap in the picture, biceps flexing as he’s holding the biggest bass you had ever seen, its green scales glistening under the sun. God, he is insufferable. Isn’t bass hard to catch during this time? Even a fish finds Joel irresistible, it seems like. Your father puts his classic goofy smile while having his arms out, holding a phantom fish. In the other picture is Tommy with a catfish. “Day out with the boys 👍” your father captions.
.
Summer goes by, and fall doesn't stay long. You don’t go home for Thanksgiving, opting to take a few small jobs around the school while taking care of your roommate who landed on her ankle wrong trying to copy a girl from the cheer team.
When winter break starts, she’s picked up by her family and you drive back to your hometown, the two hour trip spent singing and pointing at things around the highway to yourself.
You hug your father and Amy first thing after stepping out of the car. The first meal you have together is warm, fun, familiar. You do the dishes and plan to catch up with old friends in town before Christmas.
The next day, you go out to go Christmas shopping. You have secured a really nice silk scarf for Amy after seeing a same one worn by a friend in school that you think would totally go well with her purse, but nothing yet for your father. He’d be satisfied with a tie or a pair of socks, but maybe you’ll get some air dry clay and sculpt something to keep on his nightstand.
After copping some art supplies, wrapping paper, and ribbons from a chaotic Hobby Lobby, you walk around the mall and get a few books your father might like. Next stop is a makeup store, and you swatch some lipstick on the back of your hand before checking out two, one for yourself and one to fill Amy’s stocking.
You catch up with an old friend in the afternoon, drinking smoothies instead of margaritas because she’s apparently pregnant. Baby Daddy? Your crush in middle school. They didn’t know each other until last January, when she hit his truck trying to parallel park and exchanged numbers to give him her insurance information and they allegedly “fell in love at first sight”. It’s not like you and this guy had ever progressed past stealing glances in the hallway, but it still hurts your ego and quite possibly starts a premature existential crisis. Quarter-life crisis, if you will.
You say goodbye and decide that you need a drink. In the area is a sports bar, and for a brief period you think any kind of bar will do as long as they got liquor. But inside the bar there are far too many people occupying a limited space waiting for the game to begin on large TVs mounted over the bar, and it doesn’t seem suitable to drink and maybe cry while people are cursing over a missed field goal. You quickly go back to your car, feeling suffocated, and flee the scene.
The road was surprisingly clear, as is the sky, but the radio plays the most obnoxiously ill-sounding songs that get to your temper. You smash the buttons, almost hitting the curb. Twenty curse words don’t satisfy you and you turn the car and rear into an empty parking spot in the back of a bar that looks quieter than the one you previously visited. You ditch your sweater, leaving out a padded tank top that shows your outline in the best way, thinking maybe you can at least get somebody inside to notice—maybe even fuck the feeling of being left behind out of your brain in the parking lot. Anyone. Anything, really. Maybe the universe will feel bad and throw a fall-in-love-at-first-sight there for free, too.
Your eyes sweep the vicinity upon entering. It’s quiet inside. Even the jukebox is playing on a low volume. Under ten people are scattered around the tables and bar, some of them conversing, a tall man playing pool by himself, the bartender straightening bottles on the shelf.
A familiar figure is sitting alone on the stool by the bar, his shoulders stretched to the front, posture almost slumped, but it doesn’t hide the broad that his frame is. Your heart sinks when you realize who it is.
“Joel,” You call from behind him. Upon hearing his name, he slightly turns his back and his eyes find yours.
“Kid!” He raises his eyebrows in surprise, teeth showing behind his almost-too-long beard that he likes to grow out every winter. He stands up and almost opens both of his arms to embrace you before he visibly realizes something, pulling you into a side hug instead, giving a couple pats to your arm.
“Been a while,” he says as he sits back down. You take a seat on the dark wooden stool beside him, placing your purse on the bar.
He asks what you want to drink and gestures to the bartender after you tell him you’ll have what he’s having. He then slightly faces you before asking when you arrived in town.
“Couple days ago,” you fidget with the bottle just set in front of you. It’s cold under your fingertips, and you can feel the condensation forming. “You looked so gloomy. Can’t find someone here that is not affiliated with you to take home?” You gently nudge his shoulder, teasing.
Joel chuckles, shaking his head before taking another swig of his beer.
“Eh, just usual shit day at work,” he shrugs.
“People still renovate this time of the year?” you furrow your brows.
“That’s the thing—They’re pushin’ for everythin’ to be done in one night before family comes over like I'm a genie in a lamp.”
You chuckle sympathetically before taking a sip of the beer. The smooth rounded glass mouth touching your lips, your lip gloss staining the already foggy surface. You feel Joel staring, and you would prefer it if it wasn’t true. But you don’t check to confirm. The carbonation is sizzling weakly on your tongue. Hops and malt are not exactly your favorite. But what wouldn’t you give to appear more relatable in Joel Miller’s eyes? When you set the bottle down on the bar, Joel is looking at his own bottle.
“How’s the old man?” he asks, shifting in his seat.
“Oh, the usual.” You smile. “Did Dad invite you over for dinner on Christmas Eve, yet? If not, you’re invited.”
Joel smiles. Your father did, and he said no, but he lets himself enjoy your courtesy, avoiding declining your invitation blatantly. He then asks if you’re on track to graduate next year, to which you spoil him with the stories of things that had happened to you during the nine-months of no contact with him. He listens intently, chuckling as you go, at one point supporting the side of his head using his hand with elbow on the bar. You look so lovely under the warm overhead light, and Joel suppresses the urge to focus on how your eyes gleam instead of your story.
You don’t change at all, he thinks. Still as sweet as ever. He’s amused by how you seem unaffected by whatever happened between the two of you. The cheerful optimism, almost naive way of thinking that is only wasted on the youth. Or maybe it just didn’t mean that much to you, he reckons.
Somehow the thought breaks his heart.
In this new angle his eyes catch the pool player eyeing you before moving to him. Joel’s pretty sure the stickman furrows his brows before looking at you again, an unreadable expression on his face. Like questioning.
Like accusing.
Suddenly he becomes hyper aware of how this looks again, of his age, of your age, of how he’s betraying the only person he can call a friend, of how he’s ‘preying’ on the young or something. His shoulders are getting tense, his spine leaning ever so slightly away from you.
He’s being paranoid. He’s not even touching you. The last time his skin touched your skin was almost a year ago. But he can’t help himself.
“…and they said they are probably gonna get married next year when the baby’s here, and it’s not like I’m angry, or jealous, you know? It’s just—“
“Sorry, I’m gonna, uh, use the restroom.” he clears his throat before scurrying away. You mutter a quick ‘okay’ before fidgeting with your bottle again, wondering if you killed the vibe by telling him the old friend old crush situation. Maybe that kind of story is best reserved for a person like your roommate and not a fifty something year old contractor that you fucked once. Well, you didn’t exactly fuck him. But.
You sigh and stare into the neck of your bottle. The soft hum of the jukebox continues, a Teddy Pendergrass song now drifting in like fog. You tap your nail absent-mindedly against the glass, annoyed at yourself for rambling, for oversharing, for hoping too much again. Not to mention how acutely aware you are of how cold your shoulders feel now, how your exposed arms—meant to be a silent dare to the universe—now just make you look lost. Just a sad and lonely fool looking for some quick-relief, when you know deep inside that’s not what you want at all, now that you’ve seen him again.
You feel... stupid. Joel might not even come back—he probably has left the bar now for all you know, not being able to handle this again. You reach for your purse, pretending to search for something to stop yourself from thinking.
A voice interrupts.
“Trouble in paradise?”
You turn slightly. The pool player—tall, maybe late twenties, shaggy hair and a smirk that tells you everything you need to know—has approached and is now leaning one elbow against the bar. Too close. To think that you would’ve been waiting for this moment if not for meeting Joel…
And, god, he’s not it. Not even close. All you can see now is how un-Joel he is. You’re offended you almost let yourself settle for this. You straighten a bit. “Excuse me?”
He gestures loosely toward the empty stool beside you. “Mind if I sit?”
“I do.”
That makes him chuckle, but he sits anyway. “Didn’t mean to overhear, but sounds like you and your... old man had a disagreement.”
You blink slowly, then roll your eyes. “He’s not my dad.”
“Oh,” the guy replies, his eyes shifting a little like he’s just caught the scent of blood. “So... that older guy isn’t your father. Interesting.”
“Not really,” you say coolly. “He’s just someone I know.”
“Sure. Someone you know.” He lets the words hang in the air, thick with implication. “Well then. I was gonna say, it’s a shame someone like you is wasting your night sitting next to—what is he, your boss or somethin’?”
You push your bottle away, now entirely uninterested in the drink or the conversation. “Do you want something or are you just trying to see how many wrong assumptions you can fit into a minute?”
He leans in just a touch, eyes gleaming like he thinks this is all flirtation. “How about we step outside? Get some air. I know a place not far from here where you can actually hear yourself think.”
“I don’t need air,” you reply evenly. “I need you to get lost.”
The guy’s smile falters for a second, just enough to show what’s underneath—the entitlement, the ugly little bruise of a rejected ego.
“You sure? Doesn’t look like that guy’s coming back anytime soon.”
You don’t get to answer.
“She said she’s good.”
You both turn. Joel’s standing just behind the man now, tall and still, a hand resting loosely at his side. His expression is deceptively calm, but his eyes are hard, unblinking.
The pool guy sizes Joel up for half a second, like he’s thinking of saying something else—but he doesn't. He just shrugs and backs off.
“No harm meant, man,” he mutters, walking off toward the tables again.
Joel waits until the guy is fully gone before he turns to you. “You alright?”
You nod once, your face hot. “Yeah. I was fine.”
Joel doesn’t say anything. He just settles back onto the stool beside you and places his bottle down, fingers wrapping around the glass with a quiet tension.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
You glance over. Joel’s jaw is clenched. His thumb moves idly over a drop of condensation on the bottle. You want to say something to lighten the moment, but your throat is tight. There’s something about the way he’s sitting—close but not too close. Like if he touches you he’ll lose the reins completely. But still, he stayed. Still, he came back.
“Thanks for stepping in,” you say softly.
Joel turns his head to you then, eyes meeting yours with that unbearable softness he reserves only for the moments where he’s too tired to hide it. He looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to do it.
“I’d do it again.” he says.
The jukebox changes to a quieter track. You wonder if he knows what he just said. If he knows what he means.
“Ain’t you cold in that?” Joel gestures toward you with the heel of his bottle. He takes a quick gulp right after, like the words tasted too vulnerable coming out and need to be drowned fast.
You blink at him. “Oh—this?” You look down at yourself, arms bare, chest rising in the tight tank top. Suddenly you feel exposed, and not in the sexy, power-holding way you imagined when you ditch the outer layer of the outfit. “Left my coat in the car. Thought it’d be warmer in here.”
Joel’s mouth presses into a line. He nods like he accepts that, but it bugs him. You can tell. He drains the rest of his bottle and taps the bar for the check.
You step outside a few minutes later together, the door shutting behind you with a low mechanical thunk. The cold hits instantly. You cross your arms in front of your chest, trying to fake composure, but it bites through the fabric quick. Joel walks beside you in silence, hands deep in his pockets, his boots heavy against the pavement.
“You sure you’re alright to drive?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah. Only had the one.” You shrug, still not looking at him.
The parking lot’s near empty. His truck and your car sit apart, like siblings who got into a fight and were told to face opposite corners. Nine months, wasted down the drain. You could’ve lived a very different life if he didn’t push you away—maybe today would’ve been an illicit date instead, your arms linking, his jacket on your shoulders. Alas.
“Guess this is where we say goodbye again,” you mutter, half-laughing, but it lands bitter and brittle in the cold air.
Joel exhales, annoyed. “Don’t start.”
“What?” You turn to face him now, jaw set, but the disbelieving scoffs can’t stop making their presence known, and you’re halfway to freeze to death yet the glacier encasing your anger, your sadness, is melting down out of nowhere. “You don’t like hearing how it felt like shit?”
Joel blinks. “That’s not what I—”
“No, I know what you said,” you snap, stepping closer, heat rising in your throat. “You said it wasn’t right. You said it shouldn’t have happened. I heard you the first time, Joel, pretty much the only thing I could think about for the past nine months, by the way.”
He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s trying to shut it out. “Shut up, for god’s sake, just, cut it, it’s not—” He stops himself, lips pressing into a hard line.
“It’s not right? Yeah, it’s not fucking right alright, Joel. Sorry I manipulated you into agreeing to get your dick sucked or something. My fault.” You throw your hands in the air, desperate to leave, to drive and step on the gas, yet your feet are unbudging.
“Kid,”
“I’m not a kid!” you snap, eyes burning. And you fucking hate how much you’re the only one ‘furious’ and ‘emotional' here, essentially proving yourself to be as immature as Joel probably thinks. It makes your head spin with rage. He says something, but you keep shooting. “Stop calling me that. I came into that bar tonight thinking maybe, maybe, I could move on—and then I saw you, because of course, of course of all places and all fucking time in the entirety of Austin County you had to be there—and I knew. I can’t.”
“You’re bleeding,” he says again, clearer, louder.
You blink. “What?”
“Your nose. It’s—shit—” He fumbles in his coat pocket and pulls out a napkin, stepping forward to press it into your hand. “Here.”
You touch your nose and wince at the warm stickiness trickling down your lip.
“Goddammit,” you mutter, tilting your head back, suddenly humiliated. You swipe at it, annoyed, feeling foolish and hot all over. The cold, maybe. Or your body just caving under the weight of it all.
“Get in the truck,” Joel says.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, eyes stinging.
“Get in the goddamn truck.” he says again, and you finally move.
The inside of the truck is still warm. You climb in stiffly, heart still pounding from the fight, blood still trickling into the damp napkin. Joel gets in a second later, slamming the door, rummaging through the console for something better than the now-soaked paper.
The silence is thick.
You sit there, breathing hard, your throat tight. Joel shifts in his seat, jaw ticking, hands clenched on the wheel like it's the only thing keeping him tethered. You dab at your nose with a fresh tissue, watching the red smear dull across the paper. You're still simmering, blood still hot, even as your face feels cold and clammy.
“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “But you can’t blame me for feeling.”
He turns then. Slowly. Like if he moves too fast, he might break something. His eyes are molten, locked on yours, full of restraint barely holding.
“You think I don’t feel?” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel sliding down a slope. “You think I don’t—every fuckin’ day—I try not to think about it. About you.” His chest rises like he’s swallowing a scream. “You walked in that bar tonight and I swear to god—”
The air goes taut.
Something in him snaps.
One hand reaches across the console, rough fingers curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, hauling you over the center divide like the whole world is breaking under him and you’re the only thing he needs to hold onto.
And then he kisses you.
His mouth crashes onto yours with months of hunger behind it, years of guilt and need unraveling all at once. It’s not careful or measured—it’s needy, punishing. Teeth clashing, lips bruising, breath stolen. You gasp into his mouth and clutch the front of his jacket like you’ll die if he pulls away.
Your legs are halfway in his lap now, the cold forgotten, the bloody napkin crumpled under your thigh. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head just how he wants it, deepening the kiss until your moan slips free—and he lets out a low sound from his throat, like he’s been starving and just remembered what full tastes like.
When he pulls back, just barely, your lips are slick, swollen. You chase him, whimpering, desperate for more, but he’s just looking at you.
“This is wrong,” he murmurs, voice shaking.
“Then stop,” you whisper back, eyes locked on his.
His breath stutters. His mouth opens. But the words don’t come.
Because he can’t.
The second kiss is worse—worse because it’s better. Hotter. Deeper. There’s no hesitation in it now. No breath between. Joel’s hand cradles the back of your head as your mouth parts under his, teeth catching on his lip before he swallows the sound you make. It’s a kiss meant to punish both of you—for the months you lost, for the things unsaid, for the heat neither of you dared acknowledge until now.
You shift closer, knee on the seat, hands fumbling for his jacket to drag him closer. Joel grunts, half in surprise, half in surrender, pulling you practically across the console. His large hands span your back like he needs to anchor himself to your body or else spin out.
When you roll your hips forward, testing the waters, he chokes out a low, broken noise that sounds like something breaking in his chest.
“Jesus, kid—”
“I’m not a kid,” you breathe. “Not with you. Never was.”
He exhales sharp through his nose, forehead still pressed to yours like he’s trying to restrain himself. But the restraint is dying fast. He palms your waist, thumbs dragging along your ribs like he’s memorizing them.
You kiss down the side of his jaw, your breath warm against his scruff, the beard tickling your lips. He smells like old leather and pine, like beer and smoke and winter air. It’s dizzying.
“Fuck,” he murmurs when you nip at the sensitive spot beneath his ear. His fingers twitch on your skin. He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you back in—no more space, no more questions. Just mouths and hands and breath. The kind of kiss that’s nearly a collision, like two storms crashing into each other.
You don’t even remember when your legs end up straddling him in the seat, your thighs bracketing his, but suddenly he’s beneath you, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, and you grind down on him with a gasp you can’t swallow.
Joel curses, low and rough and reverent. His head falls back against the seat as your lips trail down his throat, and he lets you, lets you taste him, own him, just for a moment. His hand slides down your lower back, wiggling its way through your almost-too-tight pants, trembling just a little as it curves over the swell of your ass. You reach down to unclasp the button and give him more space to work with.
His mouth finds yours again, sloppier now, breathless. Your nails scrape his chest through his flannel, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him. And maybe it is.
You rock against him again, slower this time, deliberate. Joel exhales like he’s in pain. Not from you, never from you—but from everything else that makes this wrong when all of it feels so, so right.
You tilt your hips again, more confident now, and feel the press of him through his jeans, thick and straining. Your tank top clings to you in places now, damp from the heat growing between you, and Joel’s hand slip up beneath the hem, palms callused and warm as they coast up your spine and then over the swell of your chest, the other still fondling your ass. He breathes in sharply as his thumbs brush your nipples, and you arch into him like a lit fuse.
It’s quiet in the truck except for the rush of your breath and the sharp inhale he takes when your hands find the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers tremble only a little as you pop the button and lower the zipper. You feel him hard against your palm, feel how he flinches when your hand grazes him through his briefs.
“Jesus,” Joel murmurs against your shoulder, voice hoarse. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
You smile into his neck, nipping lightly at the stubble there. “I think I do.”
His laugh is strained, like it’s breaking on the way out. His hand dips lower, over your ass, fingers curling under the waistband of your pants. “These gotta come off,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You rise up just enough to shimmy your pants down—tight denim making the motion graceless, awkward even—but Joel helps, dragging them over your thighs with a touch far gentler than it has any right to be. You tug the fabric from your ankles and throw them to the backseat. Joel reaches down, kissing your lower abdomen as he pulls your panties down, almost impatient.
“Jesus,” he says again when you’re bare from the waist down, pulling you back into his lap, one hand palming your breast through the thin cotton of your top, the other settling between your thighs like it belongs there. You’re already soaked, and he groans when he feels it, followed by your own gasps and restrained moans.
“You’re killin’ me,” he whispers against your collarbone, and then you kiss him again—messy, open-mouthed, full of teeth and need. He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he wants to memorize every corner of your mouth. Like he doesn’t want to ever come up for air.
You both know this can’t last. That this little world, this heat and ache and dizzying need, exists only for now. That when it ends, things might not be the same. But none of it matters when he finally pushes his briefs down and you both freeze for just a moment—because this is the point of no return.
You meet his eyes. They’re wide and dark and a little scared, same as yours.
Then you sink down.
A gasp breaks from both of you, raw and involuntary. His hands clench hard at your hips as your bodies connect, slow but sure, the stretch pulling a sound from your throat that you try to smother against his shoulder. Joel swears again, under his breath, grounding himself in your skin, your heat.
He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in like a man on fire finally finding water.
You move in a slow rhythm. Not rushing, not taking, just being. Registering the shape of his cock inside you and the sweet symphony of squelch every time you sink back into him. His hands map your torso, breath uneven like he’s three inhales away from dying, but he’s smiling.
“Can’t believe you’re here,” he mutters. “Can’t believe I’m…”
You shush him gently, fingers threading through his hair, tugging. “Just feel. Don’t think.”
But he does think. You can feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he kisses the base of your throat like an apology and a promise all in one.
He doesn’t last long. The build-up, the months of repression, the way you move over him, how warm you are, how soft. It’s all too much.
You feel it before he does: the subtle tremble of his legs, the catch in his breath. He comes with a low, guttural sound against your neck, holding you to him like the act alone might stop time. It’s filling you up, warm and strange and by all means should make you panic, but it doesn’t. Instead, you impossibly feel the organs inside your ribs soften, the muscles of your walls clenching around him greedily, as if trying to hold onto him forever.
You go still, still joined, breath shallow and skin damp. His eyes close, jaw tight.
“Shit,” he says, guilt setting in immediately. “I—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…”
“It’s okay,” you murmur, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead. “It’s okay, Joel.”
He doesn’t look at you as he lifts you up and turns your back to face him, your cunt already missing his softening cock. You position yourself on his lap, cheek touching his equally sweaty cheek as he holds your frame with one arm in place, the other reaches down to the still pulsing, overall sensitive skin.
“I got you,” he whispers, voice strained, remorseful, full of something you can’t name.
His fingers are slow and sure, working with grit and determination despite the narrow space and nearly awkward angle, and you reach to grab his arm.
“Joel, Joel,” you whine. The pleasure builds up, stronger this time, like it’s an arm reach away. He pins you into place, the pad of his thumb not losing its steady pace on your clit, the others somehow pushing, slightly curling inside you, covered by his own spend and your juice. You buck your hips forward, swallowing screams, it feels hot, hot, hot, your legs twitching and kicking and—
It’s like a blitz, showering you with bliss and pleasure and your body arches, chasing it like a bow.
The next thing you know, you’re limp against Joel, sweat and cum pooling on the seat.
.
“Safe trip, sweetie,” Amy hugs you one more time while your dad asks if you didn’t miss anything for the fourteenth time.
“Yes, Dad,” you sigh. “Print a checklist next time so we can both check and spare me the headache and anxiety, okay?”
You kiss his cheek and pat him on the shoulder. “Bye, guys.”
You’re releasing the clutch when you hear your dad shouts again, “Did you say goodbye to Joel?”
“Do I have to?” you laugh lightheartedly, putting your best acting attempt to look nonchalant.
Your dad shrugs. “He did give you a nice Christmas present. Be nice.”
“Yeah, alright.” you tap the steering wheel. “I’ll send him a text.”
.
The sun’s barely up when Joel shuts the trunk of your car.
Your duffel sits heavy against the bumper, almost not being able to zip up from yesterday’s clothes you crumple on top of the folded pile. The car breathes cold in the early morning air, engine idling low, your playlist queued up but not playing yet. It’s quiet. Too quiet for a goodbye, but maybe that’s the point.
You hand him his coffee back and he leans against the side of his own truck, arms folded. He’s got his jacket on, but his collar’s still turned wrong. You almost fix it, but you don’t.
It was definitely a crime to say goodbye to your unsuspecting parents and drive your car straight to Joel’s driveway, but you don’t really care about that right now. Neither does Joel, apparently.
God, you can still feel the ghost of his hands, how they held you close this morning, the fine arm hair you traced under your fingertips.
“You got everything?” he asks.
“Yeah. Got what I need.” you nod. “But if I did, I’d have a good excuse to come back.”
He chuckles. Finally, he sets the coffee on the truck bed and steps toward you.
“You drive safe, alright?” his voice is soft and almost impossible to hear as he pulls you for a quick hug.
“I will.”
His hand hovers near your waist for a second too long, like maybe he wants to pull you in again, kiss you senseless in the driveway—but doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you like he’s memorizing something he can’t say out loud.
“Call me when you get there,” he says.
You smile. “You know I will."