Hiii, I love your, Of Dust, Dreams and Juno fic, and I was just wondering when you'll post part three? no rush or anything, just curious!<3
Heyy, I’ve recieved a few asks about this!! I am still currently in the middle of writing part three but it should be finished soon! Thank you for your patience, kindness and also for reading the story!! I’ll give more updates about where I’m at with it as I go along — I’ve been so lousy with updating recently and I apologise for that!! 🩷🩷
rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)
chapter: 9.6k
story tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.
a/n: Hey folks, I'm sorry for the delay. Rreal life has been AWFUL and if you have a few bucks to toss me on ko-fi I'd really appreciate it.
As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going.
PSA: I don't know shit about football.
For those requesting to be tagged Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates I also post most of my work on A03.
F*ck-It List masterlist here
You shouldn't be mad at Joel.
The two of you made this agreement when the list was created. That either one of you could pull out at any time. That there was no pressure on either side.
So why are you so angry the following days after the talk in his office?
Yes, he was rude about it and yes you didn't feel like you had a chance to add anything to the conversation, but surely you shouldn't still be this upset days later?
He's not worth my attention.
Your dad sails by, murmuring a hello before heading into his office. He's been really busy lately, you barely saw him this week. You give a distracted wave before you lick a stamp and pop it resolutely on one of the many envelopes scattered atop your desk.
"Good morning, lunch buddy."
Kathleen greets you with a warm smile, distracting you from your maudlin thoughts. She's wearing a pink cardigan today and it brings out the rose in her cheeks.
"Good morning."
"I wanted to tell you that I just loved that place we went to eat at the other day. I actually took my date and he loved the dragon rolls."
"Your date?"
Kathleen doesn't seem the type to go dating a lot so this surprises you and to your delight she blushes. "Yes."
"How long have you been seeing this guy?"
Kathleen licks her lips nervously, glancing around the room to make sure she's not overheard. She tilts forward, so close you can see the dark ring around her irises.
"About six months."
"What?" You nearly leap up from your rolling chair. "This isn't some random hookup?"
Kathleen wrinkles her nose, shaking her head jerkily. "No no. I'm not that... I'm not that kind of woman."
Something about the accusatory tone makes you internally wince. Not that kind of woman? Your smile dims a bit.
"He's normally the one that plans all our dates," Kathleen continues. "So thank you for the suggestion."
"My pleasure," you reply. "If I find any other cool places I'll let you know."
She thanks you again before telling you she and your father have been going through some of the client reviews and that perhaps you could help her brainstorm some ways for employee recognition. But you're not really listening; your mind is on what she said.
Not that kind of woman.
What's wrong with random hookups? What's wrong with chasing pleasure? Kathleen has a good twenty years on you but you'd never thought of her as repressed.
"I thought we could meet up early next month to narrow down our event ideas," Kathleen says. "I loved so many of your options and I'm looking into vendor costs and things. I want to run the finalized ones by your dad before May."
You glance at the desktop computer, eyes falling on a date next week. Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat.
"Are you okay?"
Kathleen has that open look that she sometimes wears when she's being extra empathetic. The kind reserved for crying staff or overworked interns. You wave it off before swallowing thickly.
"How does the 2nd work for you?"
Kathleen nods before telling you she'll touch base later next week. You click off the computer, eyes traveling up to see Joel and Tess chatting across the room. Joel has a file tucked up under his arm, his body stiff as he listens to her.
Tess on the other hand is all smiles, chatting animatedly. When her hand lands on his forearm mid-laugh you watch as he flinches.
Joel's eyes scan the office, clearly uncomfortable. When his eyes sail your way you're already looking down at the remaining envelopes you need to address.
Jacob sails by the two of them, giving you a wink as he nears. His figure is dashing, his suit fashionable and tailored.
Tess is still chatting animatedly to Joel, pointing at something on her phone as Jacob comes to stand beside your desk.
"You're picking the lunch spot today, yeah?"
"Mhm." You tap your finger on the desk, flashing your eyes to Jacob. "And maybe you can help me find someone new to mark more stuff off the list."
"What do you mean?"Jacob tilts his head slightly. "What do you need my help for? You have your sweet mystery man."
You nod, averting your gaze from Joel across the office. It's like you can feel him, heavy and oppressive. Jacob's smile dims as he scans your face.
"I wanna branch out, try it with someone new," you finally say with forced levity. "I want to experience someone new."
Jacob gives you a hard look before leaning forward on your desk, his voice dropping.
"Did something happen?"
You stare up at him before you have to drop your eyes to your cluttered desk.
There's so much that you want to tell Jacob, you want to admit how this has been going on with Joel, you want to ask his advice. But you know that you can't.
"No, nothing. You told me to put myself out there so that's all I'm doing."
Jacob is tilting even closer to you, his voice soft. "Honey, are you sure?"
You're still staring at the desk, terrified that if you make eye contact with Jacob it's all going to come spilling out.
"We not giving you enough to do, Milne?"
Your head jerks up in time to see Jacob's eyes go round. He jerks to stand straight, twisting around to see a scowling Joel behind him. Joel's arms are crossed, biceps bulging through the flannel as he stares Jacob down.
"Uh, no, no sir. I mean yes, sir. I have enough to do."
"Then why are you up here distracting other employees?"
"He's not-" you begin, voice catching when Joel's dark eyes flit to yours, his expression darkening.
Your face feels hot, your hands clammy. You shoot a look at Jacob but he's stricken, staring at Joel. Jacob is always so cool and collected, seeing him so anxious makes you apprehensive. A click of heels makes its way to the three of you.
"Joel, I forgot to ask, did the Wilson contract arrive yet?"
You watch as Tess comes up behind Joel, likely continuing the conversation they were just in. She sees your pinched face and Jacob's terrified one and her smile fades. "I'm sorry, have I interrupted something?"
"Nope," Joel mutters, his gaze locked on Jacob's. "Just chattin' with my employee here."
"Oh." Tess smiles at Jacob reassuringly.
"I was actually just on my way to finish the briefing for this afternoon," Jacob says with a squeak. "I'll see you later."
You give him a shallow nod, gaze drifting after him before sliding over to Joel who still stands there, only now his glare is directed at you.
"Last time I checked we pay you to work, not flirt."
If you could melt into the floor right this second, you would. Tess is still standing there watching this exchange, making it all the more excruciating.
“We were just making lunch plans.”
“Do it on your own time.”
Tess blinks, taken aback. You shrink into your chair.
"I-I apologize, Mister Miller."
Joel moves towards his door, not even bidding Tess a goodbye. She seems nonplussed by this, turning her smile your way. Your face is throbbing, so hot that tears are springing to your eyes. You want to disappear from the face of the planet at this very moment.
"I was hoping you could help me with the coffee machine," Tess says with a chagrined smile. "It's so fancy and I have no clue how to make anything. I always get Starbucks."
You go to acquiesce when a heavy hand lands on the back of your office chair, stopping you from moving back to exit.
"S'not her job."
Joel's voice is low and tinged with irritation. You can feel him hovering there behind you like some sentry.
"Oh I didn't mean...." Tess goes pink in the face, attention drifting between you and Joel. "I just thought..."
You know Joel's only standing up to her request because he can't stand Tess. It's not a real form of respect, not really. You're a pawn in his pissing contest. Irritated at this you push your chair backwards roughly, rising quickly. He takes a step back, eyes on the back of your head while you smile at Tess.
"I don't mind."
You don't look behind you as you move from the desk, ignoring Joel entirely as you and Tess make you way to the large coffee room.
Like the other spaces in the Mill Group, this room is beautifully designed with a floor to ceiling window overlooking the outdoors.
Beautifully crafted tables and chairs sit with fresh flower centerpieces. The coffee bar is long with white speckled granite countertops. Customized Mill Group mugs sit next to baskets of fresh fruit, pastries and bags of snacks.
You and test make your way to the shining metal coffee maker. It's wide and takes up a large portion of the counter.
"Okay you just program it here," you say tapping the screen. "You said espresso right?"
Tess nods, brows furrowed. "Yeah. I did that and it didn't do anything."
"You have to hit the cup size twice. I don't know why, it's really annoying," you explain as you hit the 6 oz number twice.
Tess makes a sound of approval as the drink starts to pour into the mug.
"Such an easy fix," Tess marvels behind you. "Thank you."
"You'd think for how much this thing costs it'd bring your coffee to you."
Tess gives a polite laugh, taking the mug from you with another thank you. You're about to walk off, shooting her a polite smile when she murmurs your name.
"Does Joel always talk to you like that?"
"Like what?"
She taps her heel absently as she searches for the right word. "So... Harsh."
"Not often." You shrug. "Think he's just having a bad day."
"Does he ever make you feel unsafe?"
You drop the spoon to the counter with a clatter. "What?"
You're suddenly very aware that it's only you in Tess in this break room, very aware that this line of questioning seems to have come out of nowhere. Almost as if she tried to get you alone to talk about it on purpose.
Joel is intense, even intimidating at times but you have a feeling that's not what Tess is referring to. You've definitely never felt unsafe with him.
"No."
Your eyes flick to someone passing by the door, heading to the copier machine before you glance back at her. She's still wearing that mask of concern. Her knuckles blanching around the mug handle.
"If he does anything to make you uncomfortable, will you promise to come to me?"
You scan Tess' eyes and take in the clear blue concern reflected back at you. You don't know this woman but she senses something in you, a familiarity, clearly. It makes you uncomfortable as much as it does comforted.
It seems motherly.
The thought sours your stomach. The remembrance of your father's late night texts, his desire to have Tess involved in so much of the company despite Joel's obvious disapproval. Have you really just been overlooking the most obvious thing? Is it possible that Tess is your father's mystery woman?
No. He wouldn't do that.
But just the thought that your father might be engaging in a secret romance with Tess makes you cringe away from her.
"Joel is passionate about his job," you say firmly. "Yes, he can be intense sometimes. But he's never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable."
Tess seems to falter at that, nodding and going to say something else when you give her a brief smile of a poorly concealed insincerity.
"Anyway, I should probably get back to my desk, busy day ahead."
"Right yeah," she not seeming to understand that she's overstepped in some way. "I'll see you at the Superbowl party."
"See you then. Enjoy the coffee."
///
"Okay, the betting pool is on, caterer should be here in an hour or so, drinks are chilled, margarita machines are working..."
Your father goes through his mental checklist walking around the parameter of your large living room. The theater sized screen displays the countdown to the super bowl in glorious HD.
It looks silly in your old home. Too big for the wall even though your dad customized cabinetry put in on either side. He's tried to update this home the best he could and to be fair it has all the splashy decor and appliances of any model show home.
He wanted to keep that familiarity for you and your brother, a landing place for you to return to. He thought just by keeping the home that he would do that, but he failed to understand that it was what was inside that mattered.
Memories in front of your old fireplace, the ugly carpet that you puked on after drinking too much grape juice. The memories were built in the little details and he stripped those away in favor of modern conveniences.
You don't fault him for it. Your mother's been gone for so many years and the previous decoration was much more her style; homey and warm. Your fathers’ is more sterile, more organized and geometric.
You watch him scurrying from place to place, adjusting balloon arches and putting finalized touches on h. He’s nervous. You’ve never seen him nervous at one of these things before.
You are not a fan of the Superbowl at all, but you are a fan of the commercials. Plus Jacob will be coming which means you two can chat about your list and how to properly check off the remaining items.
"Potato skins?" You ask with a grin as you move one of the balloon clusters over by the snack table.
"You got it, Trix."
"Perfect," you say snagging a pretzel. "Those are my favorite."
"Oh I know. Caterer is making extra." He gets a small smile on his face. "Your mama always loved them extra crispy."
Your dad mutters this to himself it seems, quiet and held close like a secret. He doesn't talk about your mom much, not in cruelty but because you think it hurts him too much.
As if realizing what he's said your father claps his hands together, breaking the moment.
"Okay the prize wall is set up in the back but I'm gonna make sure it's extra secured," your dad says to you, gathering several buckets full of darts and heading back there.
Your dad's idea to make this party one to remember was to have a huge wall of balloons, all colors and sizes. Everyone who walks through the door will have a Superbowl player randomly assigned to them.
Every time a player gets a point, the corresponding guest throw a dart. You think.... You kind of zoned out during your father explaining, bored out of your mind.
The balloons are filled with pieces of paper with numbers that correlate to the expensive prizes sitting wrapped and numbered on the nearby table. It overflows with boxes, your father intent on everyone walking away with something exciting.
"I'm gonna go relax a bit before everyone gets here," you call to him before sauntering to your bedroom where your phone is charging.
You plop down at your desk, feeling melancholy. All the senior staff is going to come today (along with Jacob at your insistence to your dad) and you're not looking forward to navigating a sea of small talk. You get enough of that at work. Everyone is extra nice to the boss' kid.
You begin tugging at the sleeve of your team jersey, your hair decorated with matching bows. You wanted to dress up for today, to make your dad happy. You wonder how much of your life has been spent in that pursuit.
You look at some of the sketches on the desk that you were working on last night, ideas on sustainability in the nearby buildings. You'd always loved the sustainable forest of Milan and dreamed of something similar here in Austin.
Of course your dad would never want something like that. He's big on solid craftsmanship but he could give a fuck about the environment.
The sketch is rough and the lines need some work but you were satisfied with it before bed. You think about the green architecture programs offered in Italy, the chance to work with people who are passionate about the same things.
It's a two year advanced program thanks to your undergraduate studies and marks. It could be feasible with enough money but then you'd be abandoning your dad.
A sort of weight presses into you, holding you down by your shoulders. You feel it leeching into your body and you physically shake.
"Stop it."
You can hear your dad whistling in the backyard, clearly excited about the party today.
You wonder if Joel is actually going to show up considering he and your dad seem to be avoiding one another.
Joel. A topic you've been trying not to fixate on.
Without Joel now you're going to have to find someone new to help with your list. The thought should excite you, but mostly it makes your stomach twist. And there underneath the sketches is the wrinkled page attempted to be smoothed. The writing and doodles by the numbers.
The list.
You look at the few items you managed to check off, sighing at how it all went tits up.
What happened? Was he feeling guilty? Was he turned off? Did you do something offensive? Was he mad you fell asleep? You're so frustrated that you'll never know the answer. You'll always wonder what happened to make him pull back so viciously.
You grab your phone, frustrated that it's still only at twenty percent. You plug it back in and compose a text to Jacob.
I can't wait to see you.
Same here
Oh I had an idea about the list
Yeah?
????
Calm down fast typer. You know that club Elysium on Red River?
That haunted looking place?
Yeah. Tuesday is singles night. A perfect place to pick up a gentleman to knock off a number or two.
You’re a genius
A sexy one.
"Why can't you just be straight?" You say with a sigh, popping the phone back onto your desk. Your fingers trail over the well-worn list, face heating.
The doorbell rings.
"Can you get that?" Your dad calls through the sliding glass door. He sounds irritated, which is what he always is right before hosting a party when he feels rushed.
"Okay!"
You jog to the door hoping to see Jacob on the other side. You've barely been able to speak to him this week; Joel's been circling your desk like a hawk every time he comes near.
He always has some kind of excuse, correlating, stapling, photocopying. Sometimes it feels like busy work. But you don't understand why he's acting like that. Maybe he is just a stickler about fraternization. Maybe you and Jacob do seem unprofessional.
Well, there's nothing he can say today, you reason. This isn't work.
You smile in satisfaction, humming to yourself. When you open the door however, your smile dies immediately.
"Afternoon."
Joel stands there in a dark t-shirt with the home teams logo emblazoned on the front. His jeans are dark washed and his hair looks styled, like he went to some effort.
You hate that he looks so good.
You don't reply to him, you just stand back and take the door with you, looking at the floor. Joel slips out of his boots and walks inside and you notice he's holding a case of beer.
"My dad already has plenty."
"Yeah, that microbrew trash," Joel murmurs, "S'why I brought my own."
"Knock yourself out," you mutter back, walking away from him into the kitchen.
He walks after you awkwardly, his footsteps heavy and the scent of sandalwood and sweat catching up to you. You stand at the far edge of the counter, watching Joel move to the large fridge. His back is so broad under his T-shirt, biceps bulging...
Stop.
Your logical self tries to prevail. It's like an imaginary cartoon of yourself that shows up on one shoulder wearing thick, oversized glasses and looking serious.
Get yourself together. He's just a man.
But then another you pops up on your left shoulder wearing a clown nose.
Yeah a man who's cock you sucked!
"Shut up," you whisper to yourself.
"What was that?"
Joel is still there, loading his beer into the fridge with a puzzled expression. You figure it's a fair response given that you were just babbling to yourself.
"Nothing."
You want to leave but you also don't want Joel chasing you out of your own space. You grab a water glass and pour yourself some from the tap.
Joel pulls a beer bottle from his case, twisting the top off and flicking it into the trash.
“You want one?" Joel asks, holding a bottle out to you. You shake your head, opting for lemonade from the fridge instead.
You flinch as he clears his throat - a classic maneuver which means he's about to say something uncomfortable. Great.
"Hey, uh, you think we could talk?"
You turn to see him inches from you and your sardonic reply dies in your chest. He's so big, his mouth so pouty under that close cropped beard.
"I.. erm...”
His eyes bore into yours. He's intimidating even when he's not trying to be.
"Miller, you showed!"
Joel steps back from you as your father appears through the back sliding door with a smile on his face. He seems relieved to see his friend.
"Figured it was weird if one of the CEO"s was absent," Joel says before smirking. "Plus I had to make sure you were keeping tradition alive and making it one to remember."
“Lemonade?” Your dad says with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Not gonna try out the margarita machine, Trix?”
“Nah.”
"What's with the Trix thing?" Joel interrupts as he raises a brow in interest. "I've heard it a few times and I don't get it."
"It's nothing," you frown. Having Joel here talking about mundane things makes you feel insane.
“She wasn’t nothing,” your dad defends. “She had a pet bunny named Trixie.”
“Dad he doesn’t want to hear this,” you say with a cringe. You notice a twinkle in Joel’s eyes, a hitch to one side of his mouth that makes him smile crookedly.
“Sure do.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
"Uh, Trixie was a very big deal," your dad interjects, offended at your casual dismissal of a beloved pet. "You made us feed you carrots out of our hands. On Halloween you dressed up as her, you had bunny pyjamas... "
"For fucks sake," you mutter, head in your hands. "Next topic, please."
"I wanna hear more about Trix," Joel says and you can hear the laughter edging into his words.
"For a whole summer this one went around wearing bunny ears on a headband her mama made her, just so she could look like Trixie."
At the mention of your mother you bristle, frowning and pushing back from the table.
"I need..." You search your mind for some excuse.
"More carrots?"
You shoot daggers at your father and a chuckling Joel.
Could this be more embarrassing?
Joel peers outside the glass sliding door. "S' that a wall of balloons?"
"Sure is, c'mon and see what I cooked up this year."
Your father is like a child on show and tell, beaming and excited to show his friend. It's been quite a long time since you saw the two of them relaxed like this. A. Part of you is touched that your father looks so happy.
The caterers arrive shortly after and begin to get to work. You glance around at the decorations that were set up by the decorators last night, at all the effort your father went to.
It's not only to impress staff, you know that. It's also to give you everything he couldn't when your mom was alive. He wants you and your brother to live well.
It doesn't mean hand outs; it doesn't mean not teaching you the importance of hard work. It just means splashy parties and good food and birthday presents that make you dumbstruck. It means a father not stressed about making ends meet.
Your parents used to argue about money a lot. Of your mother's overspending or your father's late nights at the office. Perhaps that's why money has never sat well with you.
People start to arrive, the doorbell ringing constantly as your father ushers everyone in, urging them to grab margaritas and canapés.
Kathleen greets you a squeeze, looking around at the extravagance of the event.
"Seems like these parties get more and more over the top."
"Tell me about it."
"Best go see what you're dad's up to," she says, looking around the room for him.
You feel sympathy as you look at her, the way she feels she needs to be at your father's beck and call even off the clock. Is she just an older version of you? Never able to say how she feels? The thought sobers you.
"Kathleen, lemme show you the margarita machine."
Minutes later Kathleen has a margarita in her hand and is being brought into a conversation with Terry about who the cutest football player is.
In habit you go to message Jacob to see where he is when you remember your phone is charging in your room. You make your way through the crowd and walk in the room. You turn away from the door, phone raised to your face as you check the battery life. 35%. You need a new phone. You sigh.
"You got a minute?"
Joel's voice wafts from behind you low and husky. Startled, you drop your phone to the ground, cringing before picking it up.
"I'm just grabbing my phone."
He nods, hands stuffed awkwardly into his denim pockets. He's waiting for an invitation, like some flannel-wearing vampire. You don't want Joel in your home. You want him far away.
"Mind if I come in?"
To my childhood bedroom? Sure. Nothing embarrassing about that. I hope you like math-a-thon trophies and shitty movie posters.
"Sure."
Your room is a mausoleum containing the bones of your childhood self. The insecure smart girl, the outcast that never felt like she fit in. Back before the puberty fairy hit and helped you grow into all the things you hated about yourself. The damage was done, your brain chemistry stuck on the belief that you weren't sexy or confident.
You were the girl that yearned to be as pretty as her mom, as stylish as the girls at school, as confident as the women she saw in magazines and movies. But you just never quite got there.
Can Joel sense who you used to be? Can he look at your collection of hobbies and photographs and cobbler together something meaningful? You never could. You stand in silence watching as Joel shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes darting all around the room.
"S'Nice."
You can't help staring at the awkward man standing there in your bedroom. He stands out like a sore thumb, too tall, too broad, and too manly amongst your floral sheets and colorful hair ties.
You can both hear the party going on downstairs at full volume, the drinks clearly flowing. When you hear Kathleen shriek your father's name you can't help but smirk.
"Full house," Joel says. "More than last year I think."
Seriously? He wanted to talk about this? He came up to your bedroom to chat about party size?
"Uh yeah. Must've been dad's crab dip that sealed the deal. No one can say no to that."
Joel huffs a laugh but it doesn't translate to his face. He's still just staring at you with a strange look.
"You upset about not hosting, Mister Miller?"
Joel's lips thin at the honorific, face darkening. You have a feeling you know why. It makes your thighs press together slightly.
"We're not at work," he manages to mutter. "You don't have to call me that."
You scratch the side of your nose, unsure of what to say. You've always called him Mister Miller. You end up shrugging at him by way of response. The energy is weird in here now. You wish Jacob would stop being a social butterfly and show up already.
His eyes fall on your bed and you see his breath hitch in his chest. You look at it through his eyes; the light floral print, the haphazard way you folded it. Then there, near the edge of the mattress; a pair of panties you missed folding this morning.
They’re the scandalous sort, red and lacy that you bought back when you thought Joel would be seeing them. But not like this. You lurch across the room like some uncoordinated Frankenstein’s monster and grab them, shoving them into your back pocket.
Neither of you speak, but Joel does do that throat clearing thing that you despise.
“So what did you need, Joel?”
Joel clears his throat, clearly ready to start communicating about what he intended to.
Yeah, you were. You nod politely, too kind to rub it in.
"It's.... It's about what we talked about at work the other day," he says quietly, looking everywhere but you're face as he speaks.
Is he serious?
Irritation flares within you, arms crossing over your chest. Your voice is a little shaky when you reply to him, faltering in the face of being blunt.
"You mean the day you told me you didn't want to talk about it anymore?"
He cringes. "Yeah. That."
You watch his jaw wiggle slightly as he tries to get his point across. Clearly he's been thinking about this a while judging by the apprehensive expression he wears.
"You asked me if you did anythin' wrong in the hotel. And I just needed you to know that you didn't. You were great."
You stare at him, blinking slowly as you digest this. "Really?”
"More than great," Joel says with a nod. "You didn't do anythin' wrong. I got in my head when we... You know," his neck flushes. "And I was shitty about it. M'sorry."
You've never heard Joel apologize to anyone in your entire time knowing him. Even when you think he's been in the wrong. He's come to you with his proverbial hat in hand, sincere and apologetic. He's so human to you in this moment. It softens you immediately.
"Thanks Joel," you finally say softly. "I appreciate the apology."
The moment feels surreal, having Joel in your childhood bedroom, having him apologize, having him standing there not attempting to move.
"Is it just that?"
Joel squints at you, confused. "Huh?"
"Is that the only reason?" You step towards him, surveying his expression. "My dad doesn't have anything to do with it?"
His eyes give him away immediately, the subtle wince. "That's part of it. Yeah."
You're not stupid, you always thought it might be an issue for Joel but you never wanted to push it. You were content ignoring that part of the arrangement. Joel sucks at his teeth, exhaling through his nose as he continues to look at the floor.
"I need to tell you...I need you to know," Joel starts, speaking in a rush. "I offered to help you with your list because I was pissed off at your dad. I dunno, I guess it felt like payback somehow." He searches your face. "I'm really sorry about that. Fuck, feels like all I'm doing today is apologizin'. But I mean it."
He looks beside himself, this bear of a man taken down by an arrow of guilt to the chest.
"I've been sick about it," Joel confides. "You probably think I'm a piece of shit."
You can’t help but laugh loudly, drawing his brows to his hairline. You laugh so hard you snort, covering your mouth and feeling your face heat as he stares.
"I'm sorry, you're just so earnest. Joel, I don't care about that," you say once your laughter subsides.
"You don't?"
"Why would I?"
How can you possibly be upset? His motivation was shitty, sure, but was yours any better? You fucked around with Joel knowing he fired a good man like Brian. You fucked around with him that he denied his brother a respectable job even though Tommy was clearly desperate. But you didn't care; you just thought Joel was hot.
As far as you can tell you're both pieces of shit. Only Joel seems utterly devastated by his actions.
"It’s not like we were dating or anything," you say as you lean against the bedroom wall. "And it's not like either of us went into this with pure intentions."
Joel blinks. "We didn't?"
"You offered to help me for your reasons and I accepted for mine. It doesn't matter why to me." Your tone softens. "You were really kind and I enjoyed our time together. No regrets."
Joel looks relieved, but something else lurks behind the dark of his iris. Something you can't name.
"So we're good," you say with a reassuring smile. "All good. We can part as... Well, I feel like friends is pushing it. Acquaintances who've seen each other naked?"
Joel's grin suddenly appears, carving that small dimple into one blushing cheek. He chuckles softly at you, his broad shoulders lowering.
"I think after everythin', friends is a fair assessment."
Relief is warm and soothing as it runs through your veins, making you feel a thread of affection for Joel. Despite how things ended with you two, you'll always appreciate what he was able to show you.
You can't tell him that right now, that level of sincerity is too intimidating. Maybe one day you'll write him a letter.
"Good."
He nods, shoulders lowering. He's done what he came here to do. Joel continues to survey your bedroom with the quiet interest of a stalking animal, eyes scanning the space until they land on your desk. You figure it's time to leave. You spin around, hand reaching for the door when a low rumble sounds out behind you.
“You do these sketches yourself?”
You turn back to see Joel’s long fingers pressed lightly against the papers on your desk.
“Yeah.”
He slants a smile your way. “Damn. You’re good.”
You feel yourself flushing in a quiet sort of embarrassed pride. “Thanks.”
You think about offering your services, of seeing if Joel would consider letting you shadow him without your father’s knowledge. But then you see the amusement drain from his face, his lips thinning in displeasure.
“This what I think it is?”
In his desire to see more of your work he’s unearthed the wrinkled checklist. Wake Partner with Oral Sex can be seen from where you stand, a big red X through it.
You make a choking noise, lurching in his direction. You bump your hip into his as you cover the list with an old textbook on Gothic architecture.
"Nothing."
Smooth. Real smooth.
Joel's dark brows are still pulled, eyes flashing up to yours as he thins his lips.
"You're still doin' that?"
You shrug non-commitally, cheeks warm. Joel looks upset, rubbing the back of his neck and exhaling out his nose. You’re too embarrassed to reply to him so you decide to flee. You turn, hand raising to open the door.
"You can't do anymore of that list."
You blink several times at the door handle, not convinced that you actually heard him right. You turn around, your body slow.
"Pardon me?"
"I said you can't do' anythin' else off that list of yours."
You can only gape at him, shocked that this gauntlet has been thrown at your feet. "And why not?"
"You're my best friend's kid," Joel says dismissively. "I'm not gonna sit by while you put yourself in danger."
"Danger?"
"Completing the rest of that list with strangers?" Joel says slowly as if you're an idiot not to know this already. "One night stands with handcuffs? You're askin' to get hurt by some creep out there."
You begin to feel your temper flare at the way he's speaking to you. How dare he sit there acting like he's in charge of you? "I know how to take care of myself."
"Clearly you don't," Joel shoots back. His broad shoulders square. "You could get seriously hurt. That's why you can't do anymore 'a this."
He motions to the list on your desk. Your body feels tight, like your skin is too taut. You want to roll your shoulders, feeling an energy shift in you that is not at all pleasant. You move a step closer to him, feel sinking into the carpet.
"And if I do?"
The silence is deafening. You've never been one to speak to Joel like that. He tilts back, jutting his chin ever so slightly to look intimidating. That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold.
"I'll tell your Dad all about your little list."
Your head cocks, hands on your hips in defiance.
"Really Draco Malfoy? My father will hear about this?"
Joel squints, clearly not understanding the reference. Fucking boomer.
"When you do that, are you gonna tell him who helped me knock off some of those numbers?" You grimace. "Gonna tell him about our time at the hotel, Mister Miller?"
He visibly flinches.
Your face is so warm it almost hurts. You've never spoken to anyone like this, but Joel's treatment of you is frustrating.
"Because if you don't, I will," you continue. "But I feel like that might not go over so great for you."
If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me.
Joel doesn't move a muscle but you can tell by the slight widening of his eyes that he clearly never thought you'd defy him. He bares his teeth, about to bite back.
"Miller? You up there?"
Your father's voice breaks through the argument, causing you two to move apart as if you'd been embracing instead of standing toe-to-toe in an argument.
"Yep. Just using the facilities," Joel calls back, his eyes still on you. "Downstairs was occupied."'
"The games starting and I know you got twenty on kickoffs."
"Be right there."
The two of you haven't broken eye contact yet. Your body is buzzing, legs wobbly. You take another step forward, lowering your voice.
"It's fine if you don't want to do the list. I respect that," you tell Joel honestly, not wishing to escalate things further. "And I’m sure this is all a misguided attempt to be kind. But you don't have any say about what I do on my own time."
That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold.
"It's a bad idea."
"Thank you for your feedback," you reply flatly. "But Tuesday night is singles night at Elysium and I'm gonna knock off number two."
The two of you are inches from one another, breathing heavily with your pupils blown out. His eyes are flicking between your mouth and eyes, causing your pulse to spike.
A roaring cheer goes on downstairs and the two of you break apart, both gulping for air. You're embarrassed at how turned on you are right now just from this little spat.
You watch him leave; seething, all the while wishing his ass didn't look so fucking good in those jeans.
///
Joel shovels pretzels into his down turned mouth, casting sideways looks your way. You're perched on the edge of the sofa, scrolling your phone bored. Clearly football isn't the event of choice for you.
Despite this you wear a team's jersey over your jeans, your hair tied up in matching bows. You've tried to be festive despite not enjoying the subject matter.
He watches the small little pull of your mouth to one side. You're amused. Joel finds himself eager to know what about. Are you on tinder? Are you trying to find someone to go to the club with? Were you serious about that?
You cross your legs and Joel can’t help but trace the line of your ankle up to your thigh in those tight jeans. How can you be so sexy all covered up? Your dad is saying something to him and Joel replies with a ‘mhmm’ but his gaze is covertly on you.
He doesn’t know what happened up in your bedroom. One moment he was apologizing and the next he was furious and hard. You’d looked so intense, eyes bright, teeth clenched with this kind of confidence he’d never seen in you.
It turned him on.
He shifts in his seat now, willing his cock not to swell in his jeans as he recalls. He thinks he feels eyes on him and his gaze shifts your way again. But it’s not you staring at him, its Tess. She gives him a soft little smile as she heads into the kitchen. He frowns.
All of a sudden the doorbell rings and you jump up to get it. Joel watches you leave the room, hears you give a little squeak of delight when you see who it is. A familiar chuckle sounds out.
It’s Jacob Milne.
The Mill Group Casanova.
If Joel has to hear one more female intern in the break room giggling over how handsome he is Joel is going to vomit. He can’t stand the kid and doesn’t know when that started. He’d been the one to hire him on years ago, impressed with his work ethic and portfolio. But now just the sound of his laugh is like nails on a chalkboard for Joel.
The two of you walk back into the room, snaking between the bodies on chairs and couches, giggling. Your bodies are close, your movements comfortable with one another. Joel can feel himself growing more furious by the second.
And then salvation in the form of a long pass.
"Halftime!" Your dad announces, pushing himself up to stand. "Feeds on!"
The group gathers excitedly around the large spread. Snacks have already been served, but now its gourmet burgers, steak and lobster bites, shrimp pasta salad and more. The kind of stuff Joel always thought of as ‘too fancy’ when he and Tommy grew up with his single father.
Joel grabs a plate, absently listening to Kathleen chattering on beside him. But his eyes are stuck on you across the room, oblivious to the food.
You two look good together, similar in age, both very attractive. You look well suited and Joel can't understand why that pisses him off so much.
Your dad sidles up beside Joel, excusing his reach as he grabs one of the steak bites.
“Having a good time, Miller?”
“You bet,” Joel says forcing a smile. “Good food. Good company.”
“Sure beats our first one, huh?”
“Shitty beers and a couch with springs that dug into our asses.”
The two men smile toothily at the memory. Back when they thought they’d never get out of debt. Back when they were two widowers feeling alone. Time sure has changed things.
Joel’s eyes are back on you as he and your dad pile food onto their plates.
"That’s interestin’," Joel murmurs to your father.
Your dad follows Joel’s gaze, brows raised. "What?”
Joel takes a bite of burger as he looks to your father. To his extreme relief your dad is watching you and Jacob like a hawk. They both watch as you laugh at something Jacob says, your head tossed back as Jacob grins at you.
"Never realized they were so... close," your father hedges uncomfortably, taking a sip of his beer, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle.
Joel can see the tension there in his friend’s expression. Knows that if he plays his cards right there’s a chance for opportunity.
"He's a good kid. Smart too. Brian anyways really liked him. Makes me wonder if he should be brought into the Williams account."
Your dad frowns. "You don't think he's a bit wet behind the ears?"
"Naw, he's a quick study and worth the investment." Joel doesn't give recommendations lightly. "Plus if he's busy with that, his nights might not be as free..."
Your dad looks at Joel and then back at you and Jacob. You shift your hips and from this angle Joel and your father can see the lace of your red panties poking out the back of your jeans pocket. Joel nearly choked on his beer.
“Oh my fuck,” your dad whispers in horror, tugging Joel out of the food line and ushering him to the far wall for privacy. “You see that?”
“Uh… I do.”
“You think he asked her to do it?” your dad asks, looking from you to Jacob while he shakes his head.
“Maybe.”
“You think he’s some kinda pervert?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t think so,” Joel hedges. “Just young.”
“Not that young.”
“He treats her nice,” Joel insists, not wanting to get Jacob fired. “Always polite in the office. Always respectful.”
Your dad hums a reply but when Jacob runs a few fingers through your hair and your dad launches himself your way, Joel can't help but smile to himself.
///
"Your hair looks so good," Jacob marvels, dragging his fingers through your tresses once more.
"Thank you," you preen. "I did that reverse washing thing. And… you look like you've been busy," you say taking in the circles under his eyes. "Aki work his way back into your bed?"
"No, and keep your voice down," Jacob says casting a look around the crowded space. "Roxie ate my expensive lotion and I had to rush her to the vet."
Your smile dies. "Is she okay?"
"She's totally fine, she just smells like bergamot and cost me five hundred in vet fees."
You can't help but laugh loudly at this and he joins in.
"But while we're on the subject of casual dating, are we going to Elysium on Tuesday?"
You step a little closer, voice dropping. "Yes, I just need your help deciding what to w-"
"Milne, glad you could make it."
You both glance over to see your father approaching, beer in hand, a queer little smile on his face. You snap your mouth shut as your father appears, giving Jacob a swift handshake.
“Thank you for the invitation, sir.”
Jacob is always a bit tense around your dad and Joel and despite the frivolity of the event, you can still see the stricken expression he wears.
"We got lots of drinks and grub, so help yourself,” your dad says with a wan smile. “Both of you.”
"Thank you, sir."
You watch as Jacob takes off for the drink table not even waiting for you. You feel your dad's eyes on you and you raise a brow.
"What's up, dad?"
"He's a nice boy."
"Uh yeah, I guess."
"Ambitious, would you say?"
"Sure."
Your dad nods thoughtfully, eyes sailing over to Jacob who has been dragged into conversation with some of the marketing team. His phone beeps and you watch him take it from his pocket, holding it closely to his chest.
After halftime is over and you and Jacob have commandeered the comfiest couch for yourselves, you settle back and try to focus on the game but you’re distracted, nodding when Jacob mentions something about the players. He's intense about sports, especially football. He started the fantasy football League in the Mill Group.
You try to be interested, enjoying the warmth of his soft shoulder against yours, inhaling the expensive shampoo he uses. Jacob is a great comfort to you, especially now when you're still reeling after Joel's treatment of you.
You hear the chatting of those around the television, the crunch of salty snacks, the clink of ice. It looks like it's a hit so far which you know must delight your dad.
You steal a look his way, seeing how he quietly chats to a smiling Tess, her eyes on his face, enraptured. You feel your lip curl in disgust. Jacob is muttering to you now, trying to get you into the game despite your obvious apathy.
"So, it’s a cover-2 shell, right? Safety’s creeping up, linebacker’s shading inside and everyone’s thinking it’s a run. But Jenkins reads it instantly, like, pre-snap, he hits his back foot and fires between the hook defender and the dropping safety...."
It's like another language you have no desire to learn. A Rosetta Stone for sport bros. You keep nodding with a polite smile on your face. Jacob darts his eyes between the screen and your face.
"...this perfect seven-yard pivot, just enough separation. The ball arrives just when he turns and it’s textbook quarter- YES GO!!!."
Jacob jumps from his seat next to you arms raised and cheeks pink as he cheers along with the rest of the group. Your dad is pleased, clapping loudly and whooping.
Loud applause goes everywhere, hiding the yelp you let out when Jacobs’s beer lands in your lap. Of course it does. Making you look like you've wet yourself.
You think you feel eyes on you but a quick scan of the bustling room let’s you know that it's just your paranoia. You wince, standing as the cheers continue and head into the kitchen to wash up, telling everyone you pass that its beer and not urine.
To your surprise Tess is in the kitchen texting, her hip balanced against the counter. She looks up surprised to see you as you enter and she hastily shoves her phone into her purse.
"Hey there. Are we allowed to smoke in here?"
"Backyard," you say pointing out the window. "By the shed. Dad smokes his cigars out there. He doesn't know I know."
Tess flashes you a smile and laugh, thanking you. She squeezes your upper arm as she passes, leaving her citrusy perfume in her wake. It mixes with the hoppy smell of the beer which really adds another level of gross to the experience.
You go to the sink, running it and exhaling softly. This day is really turning into one massive headache. You feel a hand at your shoulder and turn to see Kathleen there with a packet of wet wipes extended to you.
"Don't think those will cut it," you laugh weakly. "I think he spilled the whole bottle."
Kathleen tuts in that mother hen way of hers, looking at the stain. "You got it early so make sure you blot. Don't rub."
You run a hand towel under the sink, blotting at the stain as she watches.
"I don't think he even realized he did it," Kathleen chuckles. "He’s still out there cheering with an empty beer bottle. Men and football, I'll never understand it."
"Me neither," you agree. "My mom used to take me out for ice cream or a movie when Dad hosted games.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, she hated it even more than I did."
You surprise yourself with your open candor about your mother. You don't really enjoy talking about her much, but there's something about Kathleen that just encourages you to open up.
"My kinda lady," Kathleen says, blotting your jeans with the other hand towel. "I'm just here for the free margaritas."
You laugh with her, the two of you trying to tidy the beer from your clothes the best you can.
"Think I'm just gonna have to change into something," you eventually frown. "But that's okay. The jersey material is so itchy."
Kathleen nods, watching you strip off the jersey to reveal a tight white t-shirt. She’s looking at you with a heavy look, one that you know from therapists and compassionate friends from over the years.
"So, can I ask something real inappropriate?"
"Sure."
"How're you doing this month?"
Your smile is frozen, brow raised as you try to parse what she's talking about. When it hits you, your stomach drops.
"You mean because of my mom."
"Yeah." Kathleen's eyes widen when you take a moment to compose yourself. "Oh shoot. Was that.... Should I not have-"
"It's fine," you lie. "Just .. I didn't know a lot of people knew."
As a longtime employee and your father's right hand it's no surprise that Kathleen would remember your mother's birthday. A time of year that you try to push from your mind as often as possible.
The day your father always takes off work to visit her gravesite.
The day you pretend doesn't exist.
"It’s been ten years this week," you offer quietly.
"Wow."
"Yeah. My dad hasn't said anything but I think it's hard for him..." You shuffle, feeling her eyes on you. "He, uh, I think he blames himself. For not getting her to the doctors in time."
Kathleen says nothing, but her eyes tell you that she's here, she's listening.
"Your mom was a special lady," Kathleen observes. "Your dad tells some amazing stories about her."
"Really?"
Your dad never talks about your mom in great detail and you always thought it was because it hurt him. But here he is sharing it with one of the employees? That hurts.
"He said that you and your mama went to the fair all the time?"
"Yeah." You smile at the memory. "Ate enough popcorn to kill us, topped off with cotton candy."
Kathleen smiles wide. "My kinda lady."
You grin over at Kathleen, heart warming. "Yeah. She was. I actually think the two of you would have gotten along really well."
It's true. Kathleen and your mother both have that sweet warmth that just draw people into their orbit. If you close your eyes now you can still see the crinkling of her eyes as she smiled, that one tooth that slightly overlapped the other, the way her head fell back when
"Her favorite was riding the rollercoaster’s." You smile to yourself. "I was always too scared to go on them. I kinda regret it now."
"How come?"
"I was always too afraid, too cautious," you murmur, eyes on the floor. "Ever since she died I've just been ... Scared of everything."
You used to be brave. You know you did. But you can't grasp that feeling anymore, it slips through your fingers each and every time you try to cling to it.
You feel it sometimes though, in those quiet moments with Joel. In the unknown, heart pounding, body tingling but thrumming with this dormant bravery.
"I get that," Kathleen says and there's a tinge to her voice that suggests something deeper, something that hurts to remember.
You look up at her, seeing the sheen to her dark eyes and flinching when a roar goes up in the next room.
"Guess we scored," she says blinking away the sadness. "I'm gonna go see how we're doing."
She gives your shoulder a squeeze, a soft smile shot your way before she's gone, slipping into the next room. You watch her go, missing the warmth of her presence. This conversation has left you feeling vulnerable, aching in a way that brings bile to your throat.
"You okay?"
You jolt when the low voice reaches you, yelping and turning around. Joel is standing there at the edge of the kitchen and despite your previous animosity, you don't scowl. You're a housecat, declawed and weak. Your stomach churning, chest tight. You hate this feeling.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Doesn't look it."
He doesn't say it cruelly or with that arrogance he had in the bedroom earlier today. He says it concerned with his dark eyes big and entreating.
There are no words so you just shrug. Another roar sounds from the next room. You wait for Joel to leave and join them. He's always been a dedicated fan of the team. But he lingers, long muscled legs slowly making their way to you. One hand rests in his jeans pocket, the other holding a sweating beer in his long fingers.
"Didn't know it was your Mama's birthday this week."
"Yeah, well," you shrug. "Probably why dad wanted to host the game this year."
Joel looks contemplative, like something is settling in his mind. A realization perhaps. He nods, exhaling so hard you feel it on your cheeks. He's close to you, closer than you realized. Your eyes are stuck on his mouth, a perverse desire to shake this moment of its solemnity.
Joel senses it; he must, because he moves a little closer.
"Hey, I-"
You wait for those plush lips to form an apology for his outburst in your bedroom but one doesn't arrive. Maybe it would have if Jacob hadn't entered into the kitchen at that very moment, his laughter following him from the other room.
At the sight you and Joel spring apart guiltily, your back hitting the sink so hard you cringe. Jacob's smile drops as he sees Joel's frame come into view. Joel's eyes are on his beer.
You try to give a nonchalant smile. "Hey Jacob."
"Sorry," Jacob says, anxiety in his voice, "I didn't mean to interrupt-'
"Not interruptin' anything," Joel insists with a casual shrug. "Just talkin' shop."
He tilts his bottle to you by way of farewell, nodding to Jacob as he passes. You watch him go, savoring the pinch of his waist, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his exposed forearms.
"So,” Jacob says in a low murmur. “When were you gonna tell me your mystery man is Joel Miller?"
i hope you enjoy as always my angels - warnings - this chapter contains themes of blood/violence/death, please read with caution!
Maria and Tommy stood near the front of the hall, heads bowed together in low conversation—half debrief, half strategy—voices laced with fatigue and the grim edge of planning for a war they weren’t sure they could win. The room had long since emptied, the last of the patrol teams filtering out one by one, the echo of their boots fading into silence. But Joel stayed.
He hadn’t moved.
He sat like stone, hunched forward at the edge of the table, elbows planted on his knees, fingers knotted tightly together like he was holding something fragile—something that might fall apart if he dared to let go.
His eyes were fixed on the scuffed floorboards, unmoving, unseeing, as if the ghosts of something lost had taken shape in the woodgrain and he couldn’t look away.
He looked... older, here. Not in the lines of his face or the silver at his temples—though those were there—but in the weight of his stillness. Like time itself had settled across his shoulders and he was too tired to keep shrugging it off.
Maria’s voice was low and measured, threading through the silence as she spoke to Tommy in that clipped, tactical cadence—formations, fallback points, terrain shifts, how to retreat if the headcount dropped too fast.
Neither of them looked back at Joel. Maybe they thought he’d already left. Or maybe they knew he hadn’t, and just chose to let him sit there in the quiet ruin of himself.
But then, without warning, he spoke.
“Take her name off the list.”
It took a moment for the words to register, for either of them to realize he’d spoken at all. Tommy’s head turned first, his brow furrowed with a flicker of confusion. Maria stilled beside him, her spine straightening, the numbers and maps and contingencies pausing mid-air.
Joel didn’t lift his head. Didn’t look at them. Just sat there, unmoving.
Maria’s voice cut softly through the quiet. “What was that?”
Joel’s voice didn’t change. “I said take her name off the list,” he repeated, slower this time. “She doesn’t go out there.”
Maria crossed her arms. “Joel, we’ve got limited—”
“I don’t care.”
He looked up now. His expression was carved from something immovable—brow low, jaw set tight, eyes dark and steady.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t need to. The words landed heavy anyway—like a blade drawn slow across the room, not to wound, but to warn.
“Find someone else. Split the damn groups again. She’s not goin’.”
Maria turned her head, her eyes flicking to Tommy in a silent question, her brows drawn tight. Tommy shifted beside her, discomfort settling in his posture like a weight.
Tommy sighed, a long breath laced with weariness. “Joel…”
“Tommy,” Joel warned, not loud, not sharp, but final. The kind of voice that didn’t leave room for argument.
Tommy met his brother’s eyes anyway, trying to stay steady. “You know I can’t pull her from the roster,” he said, voice low. “She’s one of the only ones who knows the whole perimeter, and she’s solid on the trail—fast, steady, smart. Karl’s still out sick, Lucy just had her baby, and we’re already short.”
Joel shook his head once, sharply, like the words didn’t matter. His breath hitched in his chest, and when he spoke again, it came out hoarse, like it was dragging itself out of him without permission. “It’s too dangerous, Tommy.”
His voice broke just enough for it to show. Not much. Not loudly. But Tommy heard it. Maria did too.
Maria exchanged another glance with Tommy—one that said let him have this, let him feel it out. Then she turned, silent as always when she knew better than to interrupt a storm that wasn’t hers to manage, and stepped quietly out of the room.
Joel’s shoulders slumped just slightly, just enough to show the weight sitting heavy in his chest, the way his body betrayed him when he thought no one else was watching.
“Please,” he murmured then. Not to Tommy. Not really. The word barely made it past his lips—quiet, frayed, like something sacred. “Please don’t make her go out there.”
Tommy watched him for a long moment, his expression softening. Then, slowly, he pulled out the chair opposite Joel and lowered himself into it with a sigh.
“What if I put her with you?” Tommy offered gently. “That way, you can keep an eye on her. That way she’s not out there without you.”
But Joel was already shaking his head. “No,” he said, voice catching. “She won’t—she won’t want to.”
He looked up then, eyes glassy, his jaw locked hard like he was holding something in. His fingers curled into fists against his knees, like he could stop the ache from rising if he just held on tight enough.
“She doesn't wanna be near me. You should’ve seen her face, Tommy.” His voice cracked—just enough to make Tommy’s heart sink. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“You don’t gotta fix it all at once, Joel.” Tommy’s voice was quiet now, soft in a way he rarely let it be, especially with his brother.
“I gave her the letter,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Slid it under her door.”
Tommy’s eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, he didn’t speak—just nodded slowly, letting the words sink between them.
“Good,” Tommy said eventually, not like it solved anything, not like it made everything better—but like it mattered. Like it was enough for now. “That’s all you can do. You gave her the truth. You let her know what’s real.”
Joel’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze still locked on his hands like he was afraid to look up and see something already gone. “And now?” he asked, rough and low, not really wanting the answer.
Tommy shrugged gently, his voice soft but steady. “Now you give her time.”
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
The air near the gates was thick with a kind of tension that didn’t need to be named—tight and humming, quiet but unmistakable.
You could feel it in the way no one spoke louder than necessary, in the clipped tones and furrowed brows, in the way gloved hands checked and re-checked weapons like prayer. Even the horses were restless, hooves shifting over packed dirt, tails flicking at dust that clung to the morning light.
You stood beside Winnie, her flank warm beneath your palm, your hand brushing along her side in slow, absent strokes. Not to calm her—though it helped—but to anchor yourself. Your fingers moved without thinking, without rhythm, just something to do while you listened, trying to keep your face unreadable.
There were ten of you total, gathered in a loose semi-circle inside the gates, just beyond the safety of Jackson’s walls. The perimeter fencing loomed at your back, tall and unforgiving, the gates themselves cracked slightly open—just enough to show the road stretching into the trees beyond. The unknown. The threat.
Tommy stood at the front, his voice steady, but firmer than usual, sharp around the edges like he was trying to cut through the weight pressing down on the group.
“Alright,” he said, eyes scanning across the faces before him, “we’re splitting into two teams. Group A cuts east—checks the southern ridge, sets eyes on the treeline near Old River Pass. Group B loops west along the perimeter fence, all the way down to station eight. We don’t stop. We don’t linger. If you see movement, you fall back. No heroics.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. Even the birds had quieted. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.
“This ain’t like before,” Tommy continued, his voice carrying across the tension-thick clearing with a firm edge that left little room for misinterpretation.
“There’s been signs. Tracks, disturbed brush, maybe even a camp. We don’t think it’s infected. We think it’s people—raiders, maybe. Scavengers with nothin’ to lose. Probably armed”
You swallowed hard, the familiar heat of unease curling at the base of your spine.
“So listen,” he went on, pacing slowly in front of the line of patrol members. “Gear’s gotta be tight. Radios on and checked. Keep your eyes open, keep your goddamn mouth shut unless you see somethin’. We ain’t splittin’ up unless I say so. You see anything off, you speak. No guessin’. Got it?”
There was a soft murmur of agreement—tired voices, restless boots shuffling, the low creak of saddle leather and tightening belts.
Maria stood off to his side, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over the group like she was already calculating casualties she didn’t want to have.
“Alright,” Tommy said, flipping a page in his worn little notepad. “Group A—Maria, me, Mark, Riley, and Luca.”
There were nods, a few steps back as the first group began drifting toward their horses.
“Group B,” he went on, slower this time, glancing down before saying it out loud, “Joel. Toby. Oscar. Kev. And—” his eyes lifted to you just briefly, barely a pause—“you.”
You froze.
Your brows pulled together sharply, and your heart dropped like a stone in your chest. Before you could stop yourself, your head was already shaking—just once, instinctive and tight—and the words slipped out fast.
“Tommy,” you said, your voice cutting through the morning air. “That’s not the group you said this morning.”
For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just turned a page, like you hadn’t spoken at all. Then, without looking up, he said flatly, “Change of plans.”
You blinked, lips parting, but the words wouldn’t come. Your pulse hammered. You felt the heat creeping up your neck, that horrible blend of confusion and panic, the sense that something was happening to you and you weren’t allowed to stop it.
Maria met your gaze across the space between you. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes said enough—don’t fight it.
Behind you, near the farthest edge of the group, Joel stood still as stone. His rifle was slung over one shoulder, the other hand curled around the reins of his horse, but his grip had gone tight—too tight. His knuckles had turned white. The leather creaked in his palm. His body didn’t shift, but his eyes were locked on you, tracing the outline of your silhouette with the kind of brutal quiet that said everything he couldn’t say out loud.
And when he heard your name fall into his group—fall into his orbit again—he didn’t let it show. Not much. But his breath caught. Just once. And something in him broke the way it always did when you were near and hurting and he wasn’t allowed to touch you.
He hadn’t seen your face from where he stood—hadn’t dared look—but he imagined it anyway, because that was worse: the not knowing, the endless guessing. He pictured the way your brows must’ve drawn together, soft and hurt and surprised, the way your mouth might’ve tightened to keep from showing too much, that faint flicker of disbelief you were never quite able to hide. And God—it gutted him. Tore through his chest like something feral, something sharp and old and aching.
Because he remembered.
Once, you would’ve turned toward him immediately—soft and curious and just a little bashful, like you hadn’t yet figured out how obvious it was that you adored him. Maybe you’d lift your hand in a small wave you always made seem accidental. Maybe you’d tilt your head, biting the inside of your cheek to hide how flustered you got when his eyes lingered too long.
Maybe you’d mumble, “So… what’re you cookin’ tonight, Joel?” like it wasn’t the fifth time that week you’d asked just to hear him grumble, “Whatever you want.”
Once, you would’ve asked if he needed help with the feed or if he remembered to bring your favorite muffins from the dining hall, always fussing in your quiet, tender way. Once, you would’ve lingered just a second longer when brushing past him, fingers brushing against his arm like a secret.
But not today.
Today there was nothing—no glance, no silly wink, no shy laugh thrown over your shoulder—and Joel felt the loss of it like a phantom limb.
Now, your hands were clenched. Your shoulders were rigid.
And Joel just stood there in the shadows, his heart splintering all over again, clutching the only thing left he could still hold onto—his silence.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
The groups divided quickly, bodies shifting with the ease of practiced movement, but your feet stayed rooted to the dirt, your gaze fixed low, refusing to lift from the space just ahead of your boots.
You watched dust swirl with each step, let the murmur of names and orders buzz past your ears like background static. You didn’t look at Joel. Couldn’t. But you felt him—felt the weight of him behind you like a shadow you’d been carrying for weeks.
Oscar and Kev moved to your right—older, more experienced, their presence steady in that unshakeable way men grow into when they’ve seen too much. Oscar was already checking the walkie strapped to his vest, lips pressed in a firm line, his buzzed hair catching the low sun. He had the look of someone who didn’t speak unless he needed to, and when he did, it was with authority earned the hard way.
Kev was different—softer around the edges, though no less capable. Broad-shouldered and quiet, he carried himself with the calm of someone who’d seen the worst and still chose to be gentle. His dark beard was streaked with early grey, his eyes warm but worn, the kind that held stories he’d never tell unless asked the right way. You remembered him from the dining hall once, handing out trays and cracking a quiet joke to ease the tension in the line. The kind of man who made you feel safe without ever needing to say it out loud.
You half-expected Joel to speak—to take charge like he always did, not out of arrogance, but because people naturally deferred to him, because that calm, unspoken command lived in the way he held himself, in the way he moved like he’d already calculated every threat twice. But today, he said nothing. His eyes stayed low, his mouth tight, his body tense and unreadable.
Without realizing it, you mirrored him. Your shoulders pulled in, your arms folded across your chest, and your eyes dropped further, trying to ignore the pulse that thrummed painfully beneath your ribs.
“Same team,” Toby said beside you, nudging your elbow like it was a joke only the two of you shared. “Can’t stay away, huh?”
You nearly recoiled. The bile rose in your throat so quickly it almost surprised you, and it took everything in you not to visibly flinch, not to let it show on your face. You forced your jaw to stay shut, your expression neutral, but your stomach turned violently at the sound of his voice, at the sheer smugness of it.
Oscar’s voice broke through the tension like a dull blade through thick rope. “Group B’s takin’ the west trail,” he said, his tone brisk, no-nonsense. “We follow the outer perimeter, keep eyes on the ridge and fence lines all the way to station eight. No stops unless you see something. You got somethin’ to say, use your radio. Otherwise, we move clean.”
There were nods. No one questioned it.
You could feel Joel behind you—close but not close enough—and the space between you felt like it had teeth.
And still, he hadn’t looked at you.
And you hadn’t looked at him.
But your whole body was aching with the effort not to.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
The team rode out in a staggered line, Oscar at the front with his posture stiff and upright, every movement economical, precise—the mark of a man who’d done this too many times to romanticize it anymore.
The rhythm of hooves against the trail was steady, muted by the dampness in the air and the moss-softened ground. The forest loomed on either side, branches arching overhead like the crooked ribs of something ancient and watchful. The morning light struggled to cut through the thick canopy, casting everything in a pale, haunted hue.
No one spoke much.
Even the horses moved differently that morning—quieter, more deliberate, like the world around them had taken one deep breath and held it. Their snorts were low and infrequent, the usual idle clatter of hooves against earth strangely absent. Ears twitched and turned like satellite dishes, catching sounds that hadn’t yet reached you. And beneath you, Winnie shifted restlessly, her gait uneven, tail flicking with agitation. You knew her too well not to notice. Her breaths were shorter, sharper, her chest rising just a bit quicker than usual.
She was alert—uneasy—and so were you. You leaned forward slightly, hand brushing gently along her neck in slow, familiar strokes, the way you always did when she was spooked. “It’s alright, girl,” you murmured, though your own voice sounded hollow in the stillness, a lie you wished you believed. Because something was wrong. You didn’t know what—but Winnie felt it. And so did you.
Toby sidled up beside you after a few miles, his saddle creaking with every sway of movement. He leaned slightly toward you with that too-easy grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “This trail’s quieter than Maria after two glasses of wine,” he joked, voice low, as if trying to get a laugh out of you like old times. “What, you think we’ll see any action today or just—”
Oscar didn’t even turn his head.
“Will you shut your damn mouth for five minutes?” he barked from the front, his voice sharp as cracked ice.
Toby blinked, startled, and pulled back slightly in the saddle. His jaw twitched like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. He muttered a quiet “sorry” and dropped behind you without another word.
Joel hadn’t spoken once. He trailed a few paces behind, close enough to hear if you said something but far enough to feel like a wall was wedged between your horses, between your breaths.
You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. But you felt him—like gravity tugging at your spine, like a storm stirring just behind your shoulder blades. Your hair was pulled back, and he could see the slope of your neck, bare and delicate in the late afternoon light. The breeze didn't touch you the way his gaze did—hot, unrelenting, reverent.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
The further you rode, the heavier the air seemed to grow.
It was subtle at first. The way the wind shifted. The way the usual birdsong dulled into absence. The way even the trees seemed to lean in just slightly, their branches crowding the trail like they knew something you didn’t. It pressed in against your skin, prickling along your arms beneath your clothing, crawling up the back of your neck. That deep, instinctive kind of wrongness you couldn’t name—only feel.
You swallowed hard, trying to will the sensation away, to chalk it up to nerves or sleep deprivation, but it clung to you like smoke—insistent, sour, and rooted too deep to ignore.
Your fingers hovered over the radio clipped to your belt, brushing the button with just enough pressure to feel the texture beneath your skin—not to speak, not yet, but to steady yourself. The air had shifted around you, gone heavy and strange, and even the trees felt unnaturally still, as if the world was holding its breath.
You didn’t hear Joel speak behind you—he hadn’t. But somehow, you knew he felt it too.
Your head turned before you could stop it, drawn by instinct, and there he was—already watching you. His face mirrored your own, brows drawn, mouth tight, eyes fixed on yours like they were searching for something unsaid. He didn’t need to ask. He could read it in your breathing, the tension in your jaw, the way your hand hovered just a little too close to your saddlebag. You could see the silent question in his eyes, carved beneath the worry: What is it?
You didn’t answer. Just turned back, your gaze narrowing as it swept across the trail ahead.
That’s when you saw it.
The brush near the fence line had been disturbed—not by hoofprints or boot tracks, but by something dragged. The earth was torn in messy patterns, uneven and careless. A smear of weight where it didn’t belong.
And half-buried in the dirt—just barely catching the light—was the glint of metal. Not rusted. Not weathered by time. It was clean. Sharp. New.
Your fingers curled slowly at your side, tension crawling beneath your skin. “I think we should stop,” you said quietly, your voice carried off too easily by the breeze. It landed softly, unheard—lost before it ever had the chance to reach anyone.
Oscar didn’t respond. He stayed ahead of you, focused and composed, his posture unbothered as he scanned the horizon with the easy precision of someone who’d done this too many times to doubt his instincts.
Your breath was beginning to pick up, light and uneven. You looked down again, and something in your chest tightened. The ground had been disturbed. Not trampled. Dragged. A long, uneven impression, the kind that comes from something heavy being pulled where it shouldn't be. And there, almost buried in the mud, was the broken shaft of an arrow—splintered at the tip, freshly snapped.
You sat up straighter, eyes sweeping the treeline now, and you didn’t try to hide the urgency in your voice when you said, louder this time, “I think we should turn around.”
Oscar finally reined in his horse and twisted around to glance at you, irritation flickering in his expression. “Unless you give me a damn good rea—”
He never finished.
There was a sharp sound—thin, sudden, slicing through the air. It wasn’t the snap of a branch or the crunch of a footstep. It was cleaner than that. Tighter. A wire. Stretched taut just above the trail, so fine it caught the light for a split second before it snapped.
And then the world vanished.
Not fire. Not bullets. Not yet.
Just smoke—thick, choking, immediate—rising all at once in a grey wall that swallowed the trail, the trees, the sky. It hit fast, a flood of movement and nothingness all at once, erasing every shape, every edge, every sound. The sting came next—chemical and sharp, flooding your nose, your throat, burning behind your eyes. You reached blindly, breath caught in your chest, coughing, choking, trying to make sense of anything through the sudden blur.
Horses screamed. Hooves thundered and skidded wildly on gravel, metal bits clinking in panic as saddles shifted and reins slipped. Winnie reared hard, her front legs kicking into the air as her ears pinned flat and her body twisted beneath you. You clung to the saddle for half a second too long before your grip gave out and your body hit the earth with a dull, punishing thud.
Pain bloomed hot in your shoulder as you hit the ground hard, your breath knocked clean out of your lungs. You rolled, instinct taking over, gravel and dirt biting at your palms as you dragged yourself toward the nearest thing that resembled cover—an old, gnarled tree just off the path, half-swallowed by overgrowth. You ducked low behind it, coughing, eyes burning, your heart a war drum in your chest.
Voices tore through the smoke, fractured and inhuman, slicing the air in sharp, panicked bursts. “Down! Down, down, down!” Oscar—his voice hard with command, already fading, scattered by the rolling haze.
Then came something else.
Your name.
Not shouted. Not barked like the others. But torn from a throat already fraying. A voice rough and low, cracked wide open by fear. Joel’s voice. It hit you like lightning splitting bark—sudden and shattering, tearing through the chaos in a way nothing else could.
He said it again—your name—hoarse, broken, pleading.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, your palm slipping in the damp earth, lungs seizing as you coughed through the chemical sting. Smoke curled thick around you, swallowing the forest, turning trees into ghosts. You blinked hard, gasping against the burn in your throat, eyes scanning for anything—any shape, any movement—but the world had dissolved into shadow.
“Joel!” you cried out, your voice catching on his name like it was the only thing tethering you to your body.
There was no answer. Only the distant groan of a horse, the sharp crack of gunfire muffled by smoke, and the sound of your own heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. The silence where his voice should have been hollowed something out in your chest.
You tried to move again—crawling this time, one hand clutched to your side, the other fumbling blindly for the radio clipped to your belt—but your fingers were trembling too hard to hold anything steady. You could feel your pulse in your teeth, in your spine, in the way your breath stuttered out in short, burning gasps.
The smoke had begun to thin, curling away from the trees in soft grey ribbons that left behind a trail of shattered breath and scattered noise, like the world was just now exhaling after holding itself still too long.
The air stung in your throat, and your ears still rang faintly from the blast, like the trees were humming with leftover tension. Everything looked smeared—muddy and surreal. The ground was torn in places where hooves had slipped, the trail churned up like something violent had passed through and left the earth gasping in its wake.
You were deep in the tree line, flung wide from the blast’s shock. It was impossible to know how far the others were—just silhouettes in the distance. But now, shapes began to reemerge.
Oscar came into focus first, crouched behind a split log with Kev beside him. Oscar’s face was tight, smeared with ash and blood, eyes narrowed in sharp assessment. Kev's jaw clenched so tightly it pulsed beneath his skin, hands trembling faintly around the grip of his rifle.
And then movement to your right.
A shadow cut through the haze. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The shape of someone who could never be anyone else.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
The faint, urgent rhythm of boots brushing through gravel and pine needles, quick but measured, deliberate. Not running. Not reckless. Searching. Careful in a way that told you he was trying not to draw attention—trying to get to you without giving himself away.
Then Joel emerged—pushed out of the haze like a ghost made real again, breath ragged, eyes sharp and scanning until they landed on you. And the moment they did, you watched him shift entirely.
His shoulders, drawn tight with tension, dropped all at once. His jaw unclenched. His hands fell from where they'd hovered near his gun—ready for a fight, ready for blood—as though seeing you let the violence drain from him.
He crossed the distance fast, silent and sure, crouching low as he moved, his boots barely making a sound as he closed the space between you in three long strides. Then he was dropping to his knees beside you like gravity had yanked him down—like the second his eyes found yours, the world stopped needing anything else.
His hands found your face like a prayer—trembling slightly, calloused palms brushing over ash and sweat as if touch alone could convince him you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to protect.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice rough at the edges, hoarse from smoke and shouting, but quieter now. Lower. Like speaking any louder might shatter you both. “You hurt?”
You blinked up at him, still stunned, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, and without thinking, your hand lifted to curl around his forearm. Your fingers tightened in the thick fabric of his sleeve like it could tether you to something solid.
“I’m fine,” you whispered.
But your voice cracked, just barely, and he didn’t believe you. Not yet. His eyes had already dropped again, scanning your body like a checklist—your limbs, your face, the tear in your jacket sleeve, the dirt smudged across your cheek. He shook his head once, fast, like he couldn’t take the way your voice had wavered.
“Jesus,” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re sure? You’re really—”
“I promise,” you cut in, firmer this time. Your fingers tightened around his arm, grounding yourself in the heat of him, the strength of him, the sheer realness of him crouched there in the smoke. “I’m okay.”
Joel’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, and in that breath of stillness, something unspoken passed between you—something hot and heavy, thrumming in the air like static before a storm. His eyes moved over your face like he was trying to etch you into memory, like part of him still didn’t believe you were really here, really safe. His mouth parted, like he might say something—something bigger, something that would shift the ground beneath you both—but then he blinked, jaw tightening as he turned. That look was gone.
Back to soldier. Back to survivor.
His shoulders straightened, and he scanned the treeline with sharp, practiced precision. You followed his line of sight, saw his eyes catch Oscar’s through the thinning haze. A single nod passed between them—silent, sure. A language forged in fire.
You turned with him, exhaling slowly. Your lungs still burned, but for a moment, your breath was steady. The smoke had thinned just enough to see a few feet ahead.
Then a voice cut through the clearing—uncertain, stumbling.
“Guys? Where are you? I can't see shit—”
Your heart stopped. Your whole body lurched forward before you even realized you were moving.
“Toby—”
But the word barely left your mouth before Joel’s hand was over it—swift, firm, covering you completely.
“Don’t,” he breathed, voice low and dangerous against your ear.
His other arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you flush against him, his body locking around yours like armor. He moved with the instinct of someone who’d lived through too many ambushes, who knew how fast the world could turn. But it wasn’t just training—it was you. It was you.
You felt the weight of his chest against your back, the press of his ribs as he breathed shallow through smoke, and underneath it all, the pounding of his heart—steady, relentless, like it was trying to shield yours with its rhythm. His head ducked low beside yours, close enough for his stubble to graze your temple, close enough that your entire body pulsed with the heat of him.
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the base of your spine, as Toby stumbled into the clearing, arms raised in surrender, head turning side to side like he was still waiting for someone to call his name, still searching for a face he trusted in a place where there were none. His mouth opened—just a breath, just enough to form a sound that never came—and then the shot rang out.
One shot. Precise.
So clean, so fast, it barely made a sound at all.
His body jerked once—sharp and sudden—before crumpling forward, his face collapsing into the dirt first, the rest of him folding after like the earth had reached up and swallowed him whole. A single bullet. A single second. And he was gone.
You gasped—reflexive, panicked—but the sound never made it past Joel’s hand. His palm was already there, steady and warm, covering your mouth before the scream could tear its way free. You turned into his chest without thinking, your eyes squeezing shut, trying—failing—to erase the image already burned into your mind, one you knew you’d never be able to forget no matter how many times you blinked it away.
Joel didn’t speak.
He didn’t loosen his grip or let the moment pass.
He just held you—arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you closer like instinct, like devotion, like prayer. Your hands fisted into the thick fabric of his jacket, gripping hard, needing something to hold that wasn’t death or smoke or the sound of that shot echoing in your skull. And still, he didn’t let go. Didn’t flinch. His breath caught above you—just once, ragged—but his touch never faltered. One hand stayed firm across your back while the other rose to cradle your head, fingers weaving into your hair, guiding you gently into the warm crook of his neck like you belonged there—like you’d always belonged there.
You shifted, just barely—head lifting like you needed to see for yourself, to make sure this was real, to confirm that what had just happened wasn’t some nightmare you could blink away—but Joel stopped you with a gentle, anchoring pressure, his palm against the back of your head, guiding you back into the curve of his neck before your eyes could catch even a glimpse of the blood on the ground.
“Don’t look, baby,” he murmured, the words rasping out low and hoarse, tight with something broken and breathless, like saying them cost him something. “Don’t look. Just breathe, alright? C’mon now… breathe for me.”
You tried but your throat was a knot pulled too tight to loosen, your lungs full of smoke and fear and grief, and your heart wouldn’t stop its wild, stuttering rhythm.
There were no commands now, no gunfire, no screaming through the static of panic. Just you and him, wrapped in the slow, aching quiet that follows after everything’s gone wrong, your breathing sharp and unsteady until it wasn’t, until it started to slow, pulled down by the rhythm of his thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles at the base of your skull—soothing, grounding, the only thing tethering you to the moment.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Maybe it was two minutes. Maybe twenty.
Every now and then, he would whisper something low against your ear—soft things, broken things, things he probably didn’t even realize he was saying, like “I’ve got you,” and “You’re safe,” and “I’m right here, baby, I aint goin’ nowhere”.
But even as he whispered those broken reassurances—soft things meant to calm, to soothe, to keep your panic from blooming again—his eyes never stopped moving. Sharp and precise, they flicked over your shoulder, past the sanctuary of your body pressed against his, toward the treeline where Oscar and Kev had taken cover just beyond the clearing.
There were no words. No gestures. Just a look—quiet, practiced, full of history. The kind of silent agreement shared between men who had seen too many exits covered in blood. The kind that didn’t need to say we can’t stay here because everyone already knew.
Oscar gave the slightest nod.
Kev was already moving, slipping westward into the trees, low and careful, boots silent over moss and soil.
And Joel—he exhaled then, slow and tight, like the breath was pulled from someplace deep inside him, from the part of him still trying to stay calm for your sake, still trying to keep it all stitched together.
His hands came up slowly, cupping your face with a kind of care that bordered on reverence, rough palms warm against your skin, thumbs brushing gently over the tear-tracks still drying along your cheeks. They were trembling—just enough for you to feel it, just enough to betray the wreckage underneath the calm. He tilted your face up to his, not forcefully, just enough to see you, to really see you, and his eyes searched yours like he was committing you to memory. Like he wasn’t sure he’d get to see you like this again.
And still, even with the fear knotting in his chest and the tension coiled so tightly in his spine he could barely breathe, Joel’s voice stayed quiet—tightly controlled, rasped raw from smoke and worry, but steady in that way only he could be when everything else was falling apart.
“Look at me,” he whispered, so close now that your noses almost brushed, so close you could feel the uneven cadence of his breath against your lips. “Right here. Eyes on me.”
And you looked.
God, you looked.
And the expression on your face just about undid him.
The sheer, unfiltered fear swimming in your eyes. The tears caught in your lashes. The way you leaned into his touch without even realizing it, pressing into his palms like they were the only place you’d ever felt safe.
“I need you to listen to me, alright?” he said, his voice firmer now, “This ain’t up for debate.”
You blinked, chest still rising too fast, breath shaky, adrenaline humming through every inch of your body like static—but you nodded. Small. Fragile. But you nodded.
Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, and he tilted your face gently, his hand still cradling your cheek like you were something breakable he couldn’t afford to lose. “Kev and Oscar are set up just behind that ridge, six o’clock,” he murmured, glancing only once over your shoulder before pointing—subtle, precise—to a narrow gap in the dense brush. “You see that break in the trees? That’s your opening.”
His eyes locked back on yours, steady, burning.
“When I say go, you run. Fast as you can. You don’t stop, you don’t look back, and you don’t wait for me. You hear me?”
“Joel—”
“No.” The word cracked through the air like a whip, hard and final, slicing through the space between you. “Don’t argue with me.”
You flinched, not from the volume—he hadn’t raised his voice much at all—but from the way it sounded like he was barely holding it together. Your hands fisted tighter in the front of his jacket, fingers trembling where they clung to him like you were afraid that if you let go, he’d disappear into the smoke. “I’m not leavin’ you here,” you said, voice breaking. “I can’t—”
“Yes,” he cut in, and this time, his voice wavered—not from doubt, but from the weight of his need. His eyes burned, not with anger, but something far more dangerous: desperation, tangled with fear. “Yes, you are. You are, ‘cause I need you safe. You understand me? We’ve had this talk too many times—you don’t get to be stubborn now.”
And you had. Too many times on patrol. Too many quiet warnings hissed through gritted teeth when things got bad. If it goes south, you run. If I go down, you keep movin’. But it had never come to this. Not like this.
“You go,” he said again, voice lower now, rough and raw like it had been dragged over gravel. “You run straight for ‘em. Kev’ll pull you behind cover. I’ll be right behind you, but I need you to move when I say it. If you freeze—if you hesitate—they’ll shoot. And I…” He stopped again, jaw clenching hard enough to tremble, his breath shaking like it hurt to let it out. “That ain’t gonna happen. You hear me?”
His thumb swept gently beneath your eye, catching a tear that hadn’t quite fallen, then hovered at your cheekbone, trembling—just slightly, just enough for you to feel the truth of it.
“Don’t make me lose you, sweetheart,” he murmured, and the words cracked at the edges, something old and raw stitched into every syllable. “Not here. Not like this.”
Then, almost too quietly to catch, he let out the softest huff of breath—half a laugh, but hollow, like it hurt. “We still got too much shit to sort out,” he added, and it almost sounded like a joke, except you could hear the grief in it. Like he already knew he wouldn’t get the time.
Your chest pulled tight.
Your breath caught somewhere in your throat, stuck between a sob and a plea, and even as your head shook, even as your hands curled tighter in the fabric of his jacket, you whispered, “I don’t wanna leave you.”
Joel leaned in—slow and careful—until his forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, like he was pouring everything into the small space between you. His fingers threaded through your hair, grounding you, steadying himself. For a moment, the world disappeared. There was only the soft scratch of his stubble, the rise and fall of his breath, and the ache that pulsed like a heartbeat beneath your skin.
“I know,” he whispered, and the words sounded like they cost him everything to say. Like they were carved from something deep and ancient inside him—something he hadn’t let anyone touch in years. “I know, baby. But I need you to do this anyway.”
And when he pulled back—just far enough to see your face again, to look into your eyes like he was memorizing them one last time—his voice dropped lower, softer, almost too fragile to carry.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
You nodded—barely, just the smallest tremble of movement—but it was enough.
“Then run when I say run,” he whispered, and as he spoke, his forehead pressed to yours again, anchoring you in place, his voice low and broken and so close it might’ve been your own heartbeat. “And don’t you dare stop ‘til someone’s got their hands on you. You hear me? Not until you’re safe.”
Your fingers curled tighter into the collar of his coat, clutching at the worn fabric like the ground itself was dissolving beneath you, like letting go of him would send you straight into the abyss.
“Fuck,” you breathed, voice catching, panic starting to spill into the edges of your words. “Joel, I’m scared.” the reality of it crashed down mid-sentence, cutting off your breath, and the words tumbled out in a whisper, broken and scared.
Your gaze flicked toward the path he’d told you to run—no more than fifteen meters, but it looked like a mile through the smoke and chaos—and you could just barely see the tops of Kev and Oscar’s heads where they were crouched behind cover. You didn’t know where the others were, didn’t know how many were watching, or waiting, or aiming.
And neither did he.
Joel’s eyes slipped shut for a moment, just one, and when they opened again, you saw it—the tight clench of his jaw, the muscle twitching beneath two days’ worth of stubble, the way his breath dragged heavy through his nose like he was trying to keep something from breaking loose inside his chest. He was scared, too. You saw it. Felt it.
“I know you are,” Joel said softly, his voice just above a whisper, and then he leaned back just far enough to look you in the eye again, “But I’m watchin’ you,” he murmured, the words rough but steady, “You understand? I’m not takin’ my eyes off you—not for a damn second.”
He nodded toward the trees, toward the fractured silhouette of Oscar just visible through the smoke, crouched and waiting, already locked into place. “I’ll be coverin’ you. He’s already got position. You run like hell sweetheart and you don’t stop ‘til someone’s got their hands on you. You don’t look back. You don’t wait. You just go. You hear me?”
His gaze flicked back toward the ridge—sharp, trained, relentless—and then he moved, finally letting go, his hands steady as he guided you into a crouch, his body shielding yours as he turned you gently toward the open stretch of path ahead.
And then—so soft, so hesitant it barely formed a sound—you whispered, “Wait,” the word trembling on your lips as you turned back toward him, the breath you took catching in your throat like it wasn’t sure it was allowed.
He didn’t speak at first, but his hand moved gently to the back of your head again, fingers curling into your hair with the kind of care a man like him didn’t offer easily. He pulled you close, cradling you into his chest, and bent down just far enough to press his lips into your hair—just once. A soft kiss. A goodbye that didn’t want to be one.
“We’re outta time, baby,” he whispered into the crown of your head, the words warm and ragged and final. “You gotta go.”
Your heart thundered in your chest. Not just fear—no, it was everything.
Your throat burned, and suddenly, the need to speak, to say it, clawed its way up from your chest like a scream.
“Joel, I—” you choked out, the words cracking as they left your mouth, unraveling under the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you weren’t sure you’d ever get to say. Your hand found his face—your fingers trembling as they pressed against the scruff of his jaw, as if the warmth of his skin could tether you to this moment, this breath, this heartbeat that might be your last together.
Your body trembled, but it wasn’t just fear—it was love, feral and desperate, clawing its way up your throat like a prayer you couldn’t voice, like a confession you’d swallowed for far too long. You didn’t say it out loud. But it was everywhere. In the way you looked at him. In the way your hand shook on his face. In the way your eyes burned with everything you never meant to keep hidden.
I love you, your hand whispered.
I love you, your silence cried.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
And Joel—Joel felt every syllable like a blade sliding beneath his ribs. His breath caught, his chest tightened, and for a second, the world went quiet. His hand came up slowly, reverently, covering yours where it cupped his cheek, holding it there like he didn’t trust the world to let him feel this again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles—once, twice—like he was memorizing you by touch.
“I know, babygirl,” he said, voice rough and ragged like he’d had to drag it out from somewhere deep in his chest, the place where he kept all the things he never said. “Me too. Always.” And then he turned his face, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his lips to the inside of your palm—slow, deliberate, aching. Like the kiss was a promise.
And for a heartbeat more, he let it live there between you.
But then, the world came rushing back.
His body stiffened, shoulders squaring, breath sharpening—not with fear, but resolve. The softness bled from his features, leaving only the man who had survived a lifetime of war and loss. He stepped back half a pace as his hand slipped from yours. His fingers found his rifle like muscle memory.
His voice changed. No less tender, but edged now—steel wrapped in honey.
“Now run,” he ordered, gaze locked to yours, unwavering. “Go.”
previous chapters (lol if you need a refresh - i sure did)
SURPRISEEEEEE 💌 The long-awaited Chapter 8 is here, finally. If you need a refresh (honestly, same), previous chapters are linked above! Hope this one breaks your heart in the best way. Let me know what you think in the comments, I’m begging 💔📝 xx
⋆˚✿˖°❀
You hadn’t seen Joel since he’d come back—not in passing, not across the street, not even a glimpse of his broad frame disappearing into one of the community buildings like some half-dreamed shadow. But you’d heard the whispers. Low, clipped murmurs passed between residents at the gates, or trailing behind Maria’s bootsteps in the main hall—talk of Tommy and Joel’s return from their overnight patrol, of what they’d found beyond the river bend, closer to the highway, where the ground revealed tracks that shouldn’t have been there. Too many. Too fresh. Not infected this time—people. Strangers. Raiders, maybe. Survivors, possibly. Desperate men with sharp eyes and nothing to lose.
There was concern in their voices, edged and brittle, but you barely heard it. None of it stuck. Not the danger, not the unease rippling through Jackson like a gust of cold wind, not the quiet urgency that had begun to tighten Maria’s shoulders whenever she passed you in the halls. None of it mattered.
Because he was back.
Joel was back.
Here. In Jackson. Breathing the same air as you again.
And the moment you realized it, your breath caught. The kind of catch that lives deep in the ribs, that steals into the lungs and refuses to let go, tight and sharp and aching. You felt it in the marrow of your bones—the tangled knot of relief, unexpected and uninvited, curling around your spine like something both soft and sickening. He was back.
He was okay. He had made it.
⋆˚✿˖°❀
Joel sat hunched in the back corner of the Tipsy Bison, half-hidden in the shadows like he was trying to make himself smaller, like if he curled into himself enough, the ache might let up for a second. The half-drunk glass of whiskey sat untouched in front of him, amber liquid catching the glow from the hanging lights above, warm and golden—but untouched. Forgotten. His knee bounced beneath the table, restless, a steady tremor that betrayed just how tightly wound he was.
In front of him, folded and creased and slightly smudged from the drag of his calloused thumb, lay the letter. Just your name scrawled across the front—nothing more. No embellishment, no fancy words. Just your name, centered like it meant everything. Because it did. And because Joel Miller was not the kind of man who wrote letters, not the kind who spilled his heart on paper, not the kind who said anything he didn’t absolutely have to. But this—this he’d done for you. Only for you.
He dragged a hand down his face, the scrape of his palm rough against the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, fingers flexing as he stared at the damn thing like it might bite. The paper was soft now, worn at the corners.
He’d read it too many times. Rewritten parts. Crossed out lines. Added more. Three full pages, front and back. The truth he hadn’t been able to say the night he should have. The words he owed you. Still, it felt too little. Too late.
The booth creaked as Tommy slid into the seat across from him, boots dragging against the wooden floor, shoulders heavy from a long day. He took one look at Joel—the slumped posture, the untouched drink, the storm behind his eyes—and sighed, dropping another glass onto the table with a dull thud.
“Jesus, Joel,” Tommy muttered, frowning. “You look like hell.”
Joel huffed, his voice dry, unbothered to respond with words.
Tommy leaned back, arms crossed, gaze flicking to the letter. “You wrote it. That’s the hard part. All you gotta do now is give it to her.”
Joel shook his head slowly, jaw working. “Don’t know,” he murmured, voice low and gravel-worn. “Still don’t feel like enough.”
Tommy scoffed softly. “Ain’t supposed to be perfect. It’s a damn start—that’s what it is.” He pushed the untouched whiskey toward him. “Drink somethin’ before you pass out from bein’ dramatic.”
Joel let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. He reached for the glass, fingers curling around it without lifting it yet. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he opened the letter just enough to see the first line. The handwriting was messy, uneven—the kind of penmanship that came from a man who’d never been taught to write pretty things, who didn’t know how to soften his edges even when he wanted to.
The first line read:
“I’m sorry this is comin’ to you on paper. You deserved to hear it with my voice—while you still wanted to listen. But I ain’t ever been good at sayin’ the right thing when it matters most. I’ve been carryin’ you around in my chest for longer than I’ll ever admit out loud, and I figure it’s time you knew that. Ain’t got many things left in this world that make sense—but you always did. You still do.”
Joel stared at it, the words bleeding into his bones like a bruise blooming slow. He read it again, then shut the letter carefully, folding it like it was something sacred. His thumb lingered on the crease, chest heavy.
Joel looked up, tired eyes meeting his brother’s. “Yeah?” he asked, voice rough. “Know what?”
Tommy shrugged, but there was something certain in the way he said it, “That you still think about her every damn second. That it’s her. It’s always been her.”
Joel didn’t answer—not with words. He didn’t need to. The silence that followed between them wasn’t empty, but thick and full, stretched taut like a wire pulled to its limit. It vibrated with everything he couldn't bring himself to say, and the truth of it sat heavy in his chest, behind his eyes, etched into the fine lines of his face like something long-carved. Tommy had known him a lifetime. He didn’t need the confession spoken aloud to see it.
Joel didn’t notice the shift behind him until Tommy cleared his throat, a short, deliberate sound that lacked any of the casual ease from before. Joel blinked, instinctively following his brother’s gaze as it flicked upward—past him, over his shoulder—and just like that, the air changed.
Footsteps. Light, practiced. Too confident.
Toby.
The younger man approached with the kind of easy swagger that was all for show, the kind of movement made by someone who wanted to be seen, who had never learned the difference between charm and intrusion. His mouth curled into a friendly shape, but his eyes were too sharp, scanning too quickly, landing where they didn’t belong. And though he kept his voice light, Joel could feel the quiet smugness rolling off him before a word was even spoken.
He didn’t speak right away, but Joel saw it—just for a moment. The way Toby’s gaze flicked down to the letter still on the table. Barely a glance. Barely a second. But enough. Enough to clock the paper, the worn edges, the name on the front. Enough to catch the way the fold had loosened just slightly, revealing the first line of Joel’s tight, slanted handwriting. Not long enough to read the whole thing. But just long enough to understand that it mattered.
“You two made it back alright, huh?” Toby said, his tone casual, almost too casual, like he was trying to mask the fact that he was already three steps ahead in whatever game he thought he was playing. “Heard it’s not looking too good out there. Scary times.”
He clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder in that overly familiar way people used when they were trying to pretend friendship. A pat like they were close. Like he had permission. Like he’d earned it.
Joel stiffened immediately, his body coiling tight. His hand moved without thought—swift, almost protective—gripping the letter as if it were something fragile, something precious, and sliding it into the inside pocket of his jacket in one smooth, guarded motion. The gesture was instinctual. A reflex. But even as he tucked the letter away, he knew—Toby saw.
Tommy, who had remained silent until now, looked between the two of them with a wary eye and said, “Yeah. We’ll have to make a few changes around town. Things’re getting messy out there.”
Toby nodded slowly, the gesture loose, almost lazy—too casual to be innocent. His gaze lingered on Joel a beat too long, drifting not toward his eyes, but lower, over the faint bruising at his jaw, the dried cut beneath his temple, the still-healing scrapes that curved along his cheekbone like the aftermath of something feral. A knowing smirk tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth, calculated and cool.
“Right,” he murmured, tone light but laced with something sharper, eyes scanning Joel’s battered face with mock sympathy. “I can see that.”
Joel didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the rim of his glass, his fingers loosely wrapped around the base like he needed something to hold onto, something to keep him tethered while the earth shifted underneath him. His shoulders were tense. Still. The letter burned like a brand inside his jacket.
“What were you writing?” Toby asked, tilting his head like the question was innocent. Like he hadn’t already seen too much.
Joel’s brows furrowed, slow and cold. “’Scuse me?”
Toby lifted his hands, feigning nonchalance. “Oh. Just saw a letter, is all. Didn’t know you were much of a writer.”
“I ain’t,” Joel said, the words clipped and flat.
Toby smiled at that. A practiced smile. Polished at the edges, but hollow in the middle. “Guess we all surprise ourselves sometimes,” he said. He stepped back, one hand already raised in mock farewell. “I’ll see you two around.”
Joel didn’t look up as Toby finally turned and walked away, the echo of his boots fading into the low hum of bar chatter and the muted clink of glassware. He stayed exactly as he was—shoulders hunched, spine rigid, jaw clenched tight like he was bracing for impact that hadn’t come yet but would, eventually. His hand hovered, then rested flat over the inside pocket of his jacket, the pressure of it instinctive, protective. The letter sat beneath the worn fabric like a secret heartbeat—creased, hidden, fragile. Something living. Something too sacred to be seen.
Tommy didn’t speak for a long moment. He just watched his brother with the kind of patience only years of shared grief could build. Then, slowly, he leaned back against the booth with a dry scoff, not quite a laugh, “Subtle much.”
Joel’s jaw ticked, his hand curling tighter around the base of the glass in front of him, the amber liquid trembling inside from the tension in his grip. He let out a slow breath through his nose, low and gritty, like it scraped its way out of his chest.
“Can’t fuckin’ stand that kid,” he muttered. “Somethin’ about him—just gets under the skin.”
Tommy didn’t argue. Didn’t fan the flame. He only gave a small nod, as if he agreed but wouldn’t give the thought any more air. His hand moved instead, lifting from the table and pressing—slow and deliberate—against the center of his own chest, right over his heart. A steady touch. A reminder.
“Then stop thinkin’ about him,” he said, quiet now. “Focus on what’s important.”
Without realizing, his hand lifted and pressed against his chest, mirroring Tommy’s gesture. A subtle movement, gentle. As if he needed to feel that it was still there—the reason he wrote the letter in the first place. The reason he was still holding on. You.
He gave a single nod, small and quiet, but full of weight.
The kind of nod that said I hear you.
The kind of nod that said I’m trying.
⋆˚✿˖°❀
The sun was setting low behind the houses across the street, bleeding soft amber light through your windows and turning the walls of your living room a dusky gold, the kind of color that made everything feel a little suspended—like time itself had slowed, like the air had thickened into honey and silence. You weren’t a smoker. Never had been. You didn’t like the smell, the taste, the way it clung to fabric and hair and memories that didn’t belong to you. It had always seemed like something other people did to fill the quiet, something they reached for when they couldn’t reach for the person they really wanted.
And yet there you stood, barefoot on the hardwood floor, staring down at the crumpled cigarette pack in your hands as though it might offer you answers, or at the very least, a distraction. It wasn’t even yours—someone had left it behind after a late dinner a few weeks ago, forgotten at the edge of the windowsill, and you’d meant to throw it out, you really had, but you hadn’t. And now here it was, the only thing between you and the stillness you couldn’t stand anymore.
“Fuck it,” you murmured under your breath, and with a soft flick of your thumb, you pulled one free, pressing it between your lips like it was second nature, like you weren’t already anticipating the regret.
The match struck shakily, the flame small and fleeting, but enough to light the tip before it burned too close to your fingers. You took a breath, tentative, experimental, and the smoke hit your throat like a curse—sharp, acrid, unforgiving.
You coughed immediately, doubling forward with a hand to your chest, your eyes watering as your lungs rejected the intrusion with full-bodied revolt. It was awful. The taste, the feeling, the heat curling up into your sinuses like punishment. Still, you held the cigarette for a second longer, letting the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, letting it fill the room with the scent of something destructive, like a secret you didn’t want but couldn’t let go of.
You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you wanted to feel something. Maybe you just wanted to see what kind of person it turned you into—one who wasn’t waiting around, one who wasn’t thinking about a man who hadn’t knocked on your door, who hadn’t looked at you, who hadn’t said a word since coming back. A man you loved, despite it all—despite knowing better, despite everything he didn’t say, despite the way he kept you waiting.
And still, when the knock came, your heart leapt.
Two short, clipped taps against the wood. Your breath caught before you could stop it, and you stubbed the cigarette out in the nearest candle, the wick sputtering in protest beneath the weight of the ash as you quickly ran a hand through your hair, your pulse suddenly thunderous in your ears. There was no reason for it to be him. None. But some stupid, soft, traitorous part of you still hoped—still wanted.
You walked to the door with slow, careful steps, half-expecting the silence to stretch long enough that you could pretend you’d imagined it. But it hadn’t been your imagination.
The knock had been real.
And so was the man standing on the other side.
It wasn’t Joel.
It was Toby.
He stood there with his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his coat, his weight tilted just slightly to one side, and a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes—too practiced, too easy, like he’d been rehearsing it on the walk over. You blinked once, the disappointment hitting you so hard and fast you barely had time to mask it.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and friendly, the sound of it scraping against the edge of your nerves.
“Hi,” you replied, your brow furrowing before you could smooth it out, the confusion bleeding through in your tone despite your best efforts. You didn’t bother to pretend you were happy to see him.
“Can I come in?” he asked, and his smile didn’t waver.
You hesitated, one hand still resting on the doorknob, your body angled like a barrier. “I’m… kinda busy,” you said, though even as the words left your mouth, you knew how ridiculous they sounded. Busy. Sure. Busy standing in your living room smoking a cigarette like a teenager who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Busy being pathetic. Busy missing someone who didn’t miss you back. Busy wallowing.
“I’ll be quick,” Toby said, his tone dipping into something gentler now—measured, coaxing. Like he could feel your hesitation and knew just how to edge around it. “Promise. It’s important.”
You hesitated, eyes scanning his face for something—anything—that might give you reason to turn him away. But the part of you that wanted to say no was too tired to fight with the part that just wanted this over. So you gave him a tight, brittle smile—thin and insincere—and stepped back, wordless, motioning him inside.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Come in.”
But before he crossed the threshold, your gaze drifted past him—out to the street—and that’s when it hit you.
You saw it all.
The echo of all those nights Joel walked you home, one hand hovering at your lower back, protective even in silence. The warm autumn afternoons spent laughing on the porch, his flannel rolled to the elbows as he dropped off split wood and stayed longer than he needed to. The quiet clink of dishes in your kitchen, the way he lingered too long in the doorway after cooking you dinner, like he didn’t want to leave—but always did.
You saw the ghost of a man who never knocked, and yet somehow haunted every corner of this house.
And then Toby stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound, and something in your chest pulled tight—just the faintest, reluctant ache.
⋆˚✿˖°❀
Toby stepped inside your house with the kind of confidence that didn’t belong to him, like he’d been here before, like he thought he might be welcome.
His eyes moved lazily over the room, scanning the space as if it told him something personal, something he wasn’t entitled to, and then—without asking—he dropped himself onto the couch with an ease that turned your stomach, like he owned the place, like he belonged in a way you hadn’t invited.
You didn’t move at first. You just stood there, watching him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, your body tense with something you couldn’t quite name—discomfort, irritation, dread, all of it tangled up tight behind your ribs.
“Place is a little messy,” Toby said with a quiet laugh, glancing around like he was trying to be casual, like that kind of comment was endearing instead of rude. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, and something about the way he said it made your skin crawl.
You blinked slowly. The audacity was almost impressive.
“Yeah,” you said, flatly. “You said something was important?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together like he was winding up to say something hard, something serious. “Yeah,” he said, and his tone dipped lower, more solemn. “Shit. There’s not really a good way to say this.”
Your stomach tightened, and you tilted your head slightly, voice guarded. “What is it?”
He sighed, drawing it out like he didn’t want to be the one to tell you, like it pained him to say it. “I saw Joel today.”
Your heart stuttered in your chest. Just for a second.
“Oh,” you said, and the word came out too soft, too quick, like it had surprised you. You straightened your posture immediately, trying to smooth over the sharp drop in your gut, trying to regain whatever composure you could before he noticed. “Okay. And?”
Toby’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he’d caught the shift in your voice, the little tremble you hadn’t meant to reveal.
“You two are friends, right?” he asked, feigning curiosity, tilting his head like he didn’t already know the answer.
“Yeah,” you said slowly, wary now. “Why?”
He exhaled again, heavier this time, his shoulders lifting in an exaggerated shrug, his expression tight with manufactured concern.
“Toby,” you said, voice firmer now. “What is it?”
“We were at the Tipsy Bison,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing away like the memory unsettled him—though you suspected it was all part of the act. “He was drinking. Not crazy drunk or anything, but enough that he was… loud.”
You didn’t say anything. Just watched him, carefully.
Toby looked back at you, his expression shifting into something softer—something that almost passed for pity if you didn’t know better. “He was talking,” he said. “Saying things he probably shouldn’t have said.”
Your chest went still.
“What kind of things?” you asked, trying to sound detached, but your voice wavered just slightly at the edges.
“Called you clingy,” he said finally, quietly. “Said you were desperate. Look, I feel awful even repeating it—I didn’t want to say anything, really, I didn’t. I know you two are close. I just thought… you should know. Honestly, I was shocked. Didn’t expect it from him. But he just—he said it like it was nothing. Like he meant it.”
You stared at him, unmoving, every muscle in your body pulled tight beneath your skin like you were holding yourself together by sheer will alone. Your heart thundered in your chest, loud and clumsy, the sound of it crashing into your ears as your breath stalled somewhere between your ribs and your throat, caught on the jagged edge of disbelief.
You weren’t sure what you were feeling—anger, maybe, or embarrassment, or something heavier, something more poisonous. Doubt. Shame. That slow, creeping ache that comes when your worst fears begin to sound a little too much like truth.
You swallowed hard, your voice thin and quiet when it finally slipped out. “Are you sure it was him? You didn’t mishear or—maybe you just… got it wrong?”
“No,” he said, voice steady, almost gentle. “It was him. He was with Tommy—they were drinking. Not, like, wasted or anything, but… buzzed. Maybe he didn’t mean it. I don’t know.” He shrugged, his hands lifting like it pained him to say it, like he was carrying a burden he didn’t want. “He just said it like it was a joke. I guess some people get mean when they’re drunk.”
Your throat burned. You felt the heat rising behind your eyes, tears pressing forward with slow insistence, the way grief sometimes crept up quietly before it broke. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to stay upright, to not fall apart in front of him, to not let Toby see just how deep it had landed.
“Okay,” you said, the word hollow, barely there. “Thanks for telling me. I—” You turned slightly, blinking hard, voice cracking despite your best effort to keep it even. “I really have some stuff to do.”
Toby stood up from the couch slowly, like he knew the conversation was ending but still wasn’t ready to leave. He took a step toward you.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low, the kind of softness meant to sound comforting. “Come here.”
And before you could stop him, before you could even register what was happening, his arms were around you—tight, too tight, suffocating in a way that made your skin crawl. He hugged you like you belonged to him, like this was his role to play now, like your heartbreak had opened a door that he had every right to walk through. You didn’t hug him back.
“You’re better off, you know,” he murmured, his voice close to your ear, too close, syrupy and sure of itself. “Someone who really sees you—that’s what you deserve.”
⋆˚✿˖°❀
Toby left with the same smug ease he’d carried in, his boots creaking softly against the wooden floorboards as he stepped back out into the dying light, the sound of the front door shutting behind him echoing louder than it should have in the silence he left behind.
The house felt colder now, somehow. Like it had been scrubbed of warmth, of safety, of anything that had ever made it feel like yours.
You stood there for a long moment, rooted to the floor, your arms folded across your stomach like you could physically hold yourself together, like you could stop the pressure building in your chest from leaking out through your ribs.
The first tear slipped free before you could stop it, carving a slow, burning path down your cheek. You brushed it away angrily, as if that could undo it. As if that could erase the way his words had settled deep in your gut, curling like thorns around everything you’d kept soft and hopeful.
You didn’t want to cry over this. Over him. But you were already crying, and that made it worse—that made it feel pathetic, just like Toby had said Joel thought you were. Desperate. Clingy. A joke.
You covered your face with one hand, your breath shaky as you tried to drag air into your lungs, tried to stop the spiral, tried to forget the image of Joel sitting at the bar laughing at you. You wanted it to be a lie. You needed it to be a lie. But it had sunk its claws into you, and now it hurt. Everywhere.
And then, just as you turned to retreat into the kitchen, maybe to pace, maybe to scream, maybe just to disappear for a while—there was a knock at the door.
You froze.
One knock.
Then a second.
Firm. Measured. Familiar.
Part of you wanted to disappear, to let the knock fade into silence and pretend it had never happened. But the other part—smaller, braver, still trembling—wanted to open the door and scream go away.
What you didn’t see—what you’d never know—was what happened just outside your door, in the breath between one man leaving and another arriving. Two paths crossing like a warning. Two versions of the same moment colliding, quiet and inevitable.
Footsteps moved through the dusk—one pair descending your porch steps with smug, easy rhythm, careless and light, like nothing that had just happened inside meant a thing. The other rose slow, boots heavier, deliberate, as if they carried the weight of something he’d been holding too long. Joel reached the top step just as Toby stepped off it. They stopped. Faced each other. For one long, suspended moment, the air thickened around them, holding its breath like it knew something you didn’t.
Joel’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his features, carved deep by fatigue and years of knowing when something wasn’t right. He stared at the younger man like his presence scraped wrong across the grain of the world, like he couldn’t yet name the reason, but could feel it settling in his chest all the same. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there—silent, steady, and watching.
Toby tilted his head, that familiar smirk ghosting across his lips, smooth and unbothered, the kind of smile meant to provoke. And then—calm as anything—he said it.
“She already knows what you said.”
Joel’s expression shifted instantly, the confusion deepening into alarm, his mouth parting slightly like he was about to ask what the fuck are you talking about?, but before he could get a word out, Toby brushed past him with a satisfied nod, slipping down the steps and into the evening with the kind of ease that made Joel’s jaw tighten on instinct.
Inside, you heard none of that.
You only heard the knock. Again.
And with your eyes still a little red, your cheeks still wet, your throat still aching, you assumed the worst. Of course he’d come back. Of course he wasn’t done yet.
You took a slow, steadying breath, dragging your hand through your hair, trying to calm the trembling in your hands. Your voice caught in your throat as you whispered, mostly to yourself, “Jesus, just go away,” and then you opened the door, shoulders squared, ready to shut him down.
But it wasn’t Toby.
It was Joel.
And his eyes—when they landed on your face, tear-streaked and weary—told you everything you weren’t ready to hear.
⋆˚✿˖°❀
“Joel,” you breathed, his name tumbling from your lips before you had the chance to stop it, quiet and instinctive, like a reflex—like your mouth remembered the shape of it even when your heart had tried to forget.
He stepped forward without hesitation, like hearing his name spoken by you cracked something open in him, like it gave him permission to close the distance that had stretched between you. His hands rose gently, cradling your face with the kind of reverence that made your chest ache, thumbs brushing softly along your cheekbones, calloused palms warm against your skin.
“You cryin’?” he asked, voice low and aching, that familiar rasp catching somewhere deep in his throat. “Look at me.”
You did. God help you—you looked. And it nearly undid you.
His face was so close, so familiar, lined with worry and something deeper, something heavier. His brow furrowed in that way it always did when he didn’t know how to make something better but wanted to anyway, and his eyes—those warm, deep brown eyes—searched yours like they were reading scripture, like you were something holy and breakable and already half-shattered in his hands.
“You alright?” he asked again, softer this time. “He do somethin’?”
And you almost broke. Right there. You almost folded into him, almost let yourself fall forward and let it all out against the chest that had once felt like the safest place on earth. Because he smelled like leather and late evenings, like soap from your sink and wind from the woods, like Joel—like someone you had once memorized by accident and never forgotten on purpose.
Your eyes drifted to his face—drawn there without meaning to, like gravity, like prayer—and they caught on something new. A faint pink line just at his temple, delicate and shallow in the porchlight, but unmistakable.
A scar.
It wasn’t deep. Just a small thing. The kind of mark he probably didn’t even think about anymore. But you saw it. And the second you did, something in your chest pulled tight.
Because it meant he’d been hurt.
Somewhere out there—when you didn’t know where he was, when you were pacing and pretending not to care—he’d bled. He’d been in danger. He’d suffered. And you hadn’t been there to stop it, to help, to even know.
Your fingers twitched at your side with the ache to reach for him. To brush your thumb over it, trace the edge with your mouth like it mattered. Like your kiss could soften what the world had taken from him.
He noticed the way you looked at it—at him. His brow furrowed slightly, gaze flicking to the side as he touched it absently, thumb brushing over the spot like he had to remember it was real.
“I’m fine,” he said softly, voice steady, but low, like he was offering it as comfort. “Barely a scratch.”
Then, quieter—more careful, like the words were glass in his throat—
“Why’re you cryin’, darlin’?”
You blinked, stunned by the way he said it. The softness. The pet name.
The way he looked at you like you were the wound that needed tending.
Because your body wanted to trust him—everything in you did. Your heart ached for it, reached for him like it remembered how he used to feel, how you used to feel when you stood this close to him, with nothing between you but breath and the unspoken.
But your mind—
Clouded with Toby’s voice, wrapped in the sharp coil of his lie, haunted by the way you’d started to believe it—tightened around you like a vice.
So you stepped back.
His hands dropped slowly, like they didn’t quite believe they’d been dismissed, like some part of him still thought he could stay there, holding you just a second longer. They hovered for a beat before falling to his sides, uncertain, almost reluctant, like even they hadn’t expected to be pushed away.
His brow furrowed deeper, that familiar line carving its way between his eyes, but there was something else now—something quieter, something wounded. A flicker of disbelief. A flash of hurt. Like you’d cracked something he didn’t know was fragile.
“I’m fine,” you said stiffly, each word sharper than you meant it to be, but it was the only way to keep your voice from breaking. You crossed your arms over your chest like you could hold yourself in, like you could build a wall high enough to keep him out. “What do you want?”
Joel looked like you’d hit him.
The pain was so fast, so unguarded, that it nearly made you flinch. His mouth opened slightly, his gaze dropping for just a second as he swallowed hard, as if trying to steady himself against the sudden sting of your voice. When he looked back up, his eyes were softer than before—still confused, still unsure—but now with something else sitting behind them. Something unspoken and vulnerable and aching.
“I—” he started, his voice rough and low, like it hurt to speak. “I came to talk to you.
“Right,” you said quickly, bitterness biting at your tongue. “Well, I’m not really in the mood to hear what you have to say right now. I think you’ve said enough.”
His brow creased deeper, his head tilting like he didn’t understand how this had turned so fast, how he’d lost you in the span of a few words. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” he asked, and there was frustration now, yes, but more than that—hurt. He sounded breathless with it, like he was trying to keep from unraveling. “We haven’t said a damn word to each other since I left.”
“Exactly,” you snapped, and there was no stopping it now—the heat rising in your chest, the heartbreak clawing up your throat, all of it spilling over. “And somehow, you still managed to say everything I needed to hear.”
Joel’s mouth parted again, but nothing came. He looked stunned, hands twitching slightly at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or step back, like his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that something was shattering between you.
“The hell are you saying?” he asked, softer now, his voice quieter, almost cautious. “Why was Toby here?”
You let out a short, humorless scoff, shaking your head. “Why do you care?”
Joel blinked, stunned for half a second, like he couldn’t believe you had to ask. “Why do I—?” he echoed, voice catching, like the question alone knocked the air from his chest. “Because I don’t trust him, that’s why.”
His voice sharpened just slightly on the last word, not angry, just desperate, protective, as if he couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see what he saw. He took a step forward again, not close enough to touch you, but closer.
“Because I care about you,” he added, softer now, his voice almost a whisper, like it hurt to say aloud. “You know I care about you.”
And that almost broke you.
It landed in your chest like a stone dropped in water—heavy, undeniable, and rippling out in every direction. You’d known, once. You had. But the doubt had crept in like rot, curling around your ribs and staining all the places he used to feel like home.
You swallowed hard, the back of your throat burning. “Well… I do trust him,” you said, the lie sharp and ugly on your tongue, but it was the only shield you had left. “You’d hope so,” you added, and your voice cracked—so quiet he almost missed it—“since… he’s my patrol partner now.”
The silence that followed hollowed the room.
Joel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
For a long moment, his expression didn’t shift—just blank, unreadable, like the words hadn’t registered yet. Then something in his jaw twitched. His brows drew in, slow and disbelieving, the air around him turning colder by the second.
“…What?” he said finally, voice low, like the breath had been knocked clean out of him. “He’s what?”
You couldn’t meet his eyes.
You stared past him—at the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face—as your arms folded tighter around yourself, your nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
“I asked Maria,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper now. “Before you left. I—” You hesitated, heart pounding in your ears, shame bubbling beneath your skin.
Joel shook his head, once—hard—like he could knock the words loose, like maybe if he moved fast enough, they’d make more sense. But they didn’t. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like he was searching for something to say—something to hold onto—and came up empty. He let out a breath through his nose, quiet and ragged, jaw flexing like it took every ounce of strength not to break in front of you. Not to fall apart right here.
“Slow down—you did what?” he asked, and the hurt bled through every word. It was immediate. Sharp. Soaked into his voice like rain into cotton, heavy and inescapable. “You asked to stop patrollin’ with me?” His eyes narrowed, not in anger—but disbelief. Pain. “And you didn’t even tell me?”
You nodded. Barely. A small, broken motion that looked more like surrender than confirmation. Like if you moved any more than that, you’d shatter.
Joel stared at you like the world had shifted underneath him and no one had warned him. Like he’d stepped off solid ground and found nothing but air. You could see it—the moment it hit. The way his chest rose and didn’t fall for a second too long. The way his fingers twitched at his sides like they were searching for something to hold onto.
“Why?” he asked again, softer this time—hoarse, like it scraped coming out. It wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t accusing. It was aching. Like he didn’t need an explanation, just a way to survive this. “Why the hell would you do that?”
You looked away. Because if you looked at him, it would destroy you.
But he didn’t let you run from it. Not this time.
“Look at me,” he said, and his voice was different now. Not angry. Just steady. Unshakable. Familiar in the way only he could be—gravel-rough and full of something desperate, something that felt like a command but landed like a plea. “Look at me.”
You did. And it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
“It’s not a big deal,” you said finally, carefully—each word a step across shattered glass. “I just… I need to learn how to handle myself out there. To stand on my own. Build my skills.” You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the weight of what you weren’t saying. “I can’t do that if I’m always relying on you during patrols.”
Joel’s head shook before the last syllable even left your mouth. “Don’t,” he said sharply, and then again, softer, broken at the edges—“Don’t lie to me.”
His voice cracked down the center like something torn open. And God, you felt it.
“You think I don’t know you?” he said, breathless now, like the truth was too heavy to carry but too urgent to keep in. “I know when somethin’s wrong. I know when you’re hurtin’. And I know when you’re lyin’. You ain’t good at it—never have been.”
You hated how easily he unraveled you. Hated how his voice alone could dig into places you didn’t let anyone see. And hearing it from him—the one person who had always known the real you, even when you tried to hide—was too much.
“I’m not lying,” you said, but the words were barely standing. Small. Fragile. Tired. They didn’t sound like truth—they sounded like retreat.
Joel stared at you like he was trying to hold onto something that was already slipping through his fingers. Something in his eyes shifted—something you weren’t sure you could name. The silence that followed pressed in like a weight, like the seconds were trying to crush you both.
And then he said it.
Soft. Quiet. Cracked down the middle.
“I thought you liked our patrols.”
And that undid you.
The words landed like a bruise. So gentle, so hesitant—like he was scared of the answer. Like he couldn’t understand how something that had once felt so right could be something you wanted to escape. There was nothing defensive in his tone. No blame. Just hurt. Honest, quiet, aching hurt.
And he meant it. You could hear it—beneath everything. He’d loved those mornings with you. The silence, the shared glances, the way you used to smile at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He had memorized every inch of it.
You blinked hard, and the tears came fast—hot, stinging, blurring the edges of everything like your body was finally catching up to what your heart had been trying to bury. You turned away before he could see them fall, before he could witness just how much that one small, quiet line—I thought you liked our patrols—had carved you open. Because the truth was, you had. You did. You loved them. Loved him. Trusted him in a way that felt terrifying in its depth, in how easily it had rooted itself inside you without warning. And now, standing here, you felt like you were mourning something still alive.
Behind you, Joel exhaled sharp and ragged, dragging a calloused hand down his face with a rough rasp that sounded like it hurt. He shook his head, jaw tight, shoulders drawn up with the weight of everything unsaid. His voice came again—lower now, but harder, laced with frustration that felt more like fear.
“What the hell did that kid say to you?” he muttered, mostly to himself, like he was trying to wrestle the puzzle pieces into place and coming up short. “I told you—I don’t fuckin’ trust him.” His voice broke a little there. “And now he’s the one you’re trustin’? Him? The one watchin’ your six out there?”
You shut your eyes.
It hurt. God, it hurt. Because everything he was saying sounded like care—like Joel again, your Joel, the one who always walked just behind you on patrol with that gruff silence that meant I’m watching, who handed you lukewarm coffee with a muttered “don’t complain, it’s hot”, who pulled your hood up when the wind got too sharp without ever saying a word.
Your voice wobbled as it left your throat. “Joel, can you just… just go.”
But he didn’t.
He stepped closer.
And when he spoke again, his voice was sharper, quicker—like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“He can’t shoot for shit,” Joel snapped. “Sloppy on his reload, don’t check his blind spots, runs his mouth too much to notice half the shit creepin’ up on him.” His eyes burned into yours, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might shatter from it. “That’s who you’re riding out with now? That’s who you want beside you when things go to hell?”
You turned to face him then, not because you wanted to, but because you couldn’t not—because he was looking at you like this was life or death, like you were the only thing worth fighting for.
“I can take care of myself,” you said, and it came out too fast, too sharp, bitter with defensiveness. A rehearsed line you didn’t quite believe, sharpened by the fear that he didn’t believe in you anymore either.
“I know you can,” he said, and there was no anger in it now—just quiet devastation, stripped bare. “But if somethin’ happens to you—”
He stopped. His jaw locked so tight it looked like it might break from the strain. His breath stuttered, chest rising like it hurt just to get the words out.
“If you’re out with him and you get hurt,” he finished, softer now—wrecked—his voice barely more than a whisper, “I’ll never forgive myself.”
And you believed him.
Because it was there in the way his hands curled into fists at his sides like he was trying to hold himself together. In the way he stared at you like losing you would ruin him. Because beneath every clipped word, beneath the tension and the bitterness and the guilt, was nothing but terror. Raw, choking terror that something would happen to you and he wouldn't be there to stop it. That you’d let someone else take his place.
Not just on patrol.
In your life.
You turned then, slowly, your chest pulled tight like a wire. Your eyes burned, and the tears clung to your lashes—but you didn’t wipe them away. You let him see. Let him feel it. The way this had gutted you. The way he had.
“Joel.”
You said his name and it cracked the air between you like a whip.
He froze.
Like the sound of it pierced right through his ribs, straight into the place where he still kept you. His body went still, like he already knew what came next and couldn't bear to hear it. You saw it—the twitch of his fingers, the quiet recoil of someone bracing for heartbreak.
“Leave,” you said. Quiet. Measured. Final. The kind of word you only say when you don’t trust your voice to survive saying anything else. “Now. Please.”
And God—it shattered him.
For a second, he didn’t move. Just stood there, staring at you like he could will you to take it back. Like if he looked hard enough, he’d find the version of you that still wanted him to stay. The one who used to reach for him first. The one who smiled in the mornings and held onto his arm when the cold set in.
“You really want me to go?” he asked, voice rough and raw like it had been dragged through gravel. He said it like he already knew the answer—but still needed to hear it. Still needed to make sure this wasn’t some nightmare he’d wake up from. His eyes searched yours like they were clinging to the last thread of hope.
“Yes,” you whispered, and your voice cracked like breaking glass. Another tear slipped down your cheek—hot, trembling, helpless. “Please, Joel.”
His breath caught.
And for a moment—just a moment—he didn’t look like Joel anymore. He looked like a man undone. Like someone watching the only thing that ever made sense walk away from him. You saw it all in the way he blinked—slow, stunned, trying not to fall apart in front of you. His hands twitched at his sides like they wanted to reach for you, like his entire body was screaming to hold you, just once, just one last time.
So he nodded.
Just once.
Then turned to go.
⋆˚✿˖°❀
The door shut behind him with a dull, final click. Joel didn’t move right away. He just stood there for a second, frozen on the porch like he didn’t quite know how to carry the weight of what had just happened.
Inside, you hadn’t moved either.
You were still standing in the center of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together, your breath shallow and uneven. The silence pressed in on both sides of the door—on him, on you—until it felt like something unbearable.
Outside, Joel dragged in a slow breath, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He muttered something under his breath—something rough and quiet, some curse meant for himself—and stepped down onto the top stair of the porch, the wood creaking beneath his boots.
And then, after a beat, he stopped.
He reached into the inside of his coat and pulled it out—the letter.
It looked too small in his hands, folded carefully but slightly worn around the edges, the paper softened from how many times he’d held it, turned it over, rewritten it. His thumb brushed over the front, slow and reverent, over the name scrawled across the top in his shaky handwriting.
Your name.
With one final glance toward the door—a long, lingering look at the place where he had just been asked to leave—Joel crouched down slowly and slipped the letter beneath it, his fingers brushing the wood like it could anchor him, like it could keep him from unraveling. He left only the corner sticking out, a quiet offering, a final unspoken truth he hadn’t been brave enough to say out loud.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured under his breath, the words barely more than air, just loud enough to break if anyone had been close enough to hear. Then he turned, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold as he disappeared into the dark.
What he didn’t see—what he couldn’t have known—was that just beyond the edge of the porch, someone else had been watching. Hidden in the shadows, they had waited in silence, their breath held back like smoke.
The figure stepped forward without hesitation, their boots silent on the wood. Moving toward the door, they crouched exactly where Joel had knelt moments before. Their hand reached out, fingers curling around the edge of the letter that still peeked from beneath the threshold. They pulled it free, turned it over once as if to examine it, then slid it smoothly into the pocket of their coat—calm, deliberate, unbothered.
And just like that, they were gone.
Joel’s words—his only confession, his only truth—had vanished before it could ever reach you.
⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆
You hadn’t slept all night.
The minutes dragged themselves across the dark like they were made of glass, sharp and endless, and every time you closed your eyes, it was like last night played again—scene for scene, word for word, his voice, his face, the look in his eyes when you told him to go.
You rolled over again and again, the sheets twisted around your legs, too hot and too cold all at once, your pillow damp from the sweat at the nape of your neck and the tears you refused to admit had fallen.
Outside, it felt like Jackson had turned from a crisp spring to the heat of high summer overnight—like even the air had shifted, grown heavier, stickier, more unbearable. The kind of heat that made it hard to breathe. The kind that made it impossible to rest.
You were still tangled in the weight of it—heart bruised and body aching with exhaustion—when a sharp knock rattled against the front door, sudden and loud in the hush of morning.
You sat up fast, groggy and annoyed, pushing your hair from your face with the back of your hand.
“What the hell…” you mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep—or lack of it.
You dragged yourself out of bed, every movement slow, joints aching like you were twice your age, and padded barefoot to the door. You cracked it open, squinting into the harsh morning light—
And there stood Maria.
She looked tired. Serious. Worried.
The tight set of her mouth and the way her brows pinched told you this wasn’t a casual visit.
“Maria,” you breathed, blinking the fog from your eyes, pulse quickening. “What’s wrong?”
“We need you at the hall,” she said, voice low, no time for pleasantries. “Now.”
Your stomach turned. Her tone was too clipped. Too sharp. Not just council business—something urgent.
“Is it…?” You hesitated, heart crawling into your throat. “Raiders?”
She nodded once, tight. “Scouts saw movement on the highway. More than last time. They’re calling an emergency council meet. We need all hands.”
You swallowed hard, the fog of the night before burning away in an instant, replaced by something colder. Something heavier.
“Okay,” you said quickly, stepping back. “Yeah. Let me get changed.”
Maria gave a tight nod, already turning, already moving back toward town with that purposeful stride of hers—and you shut the door quietly behind her, your breath catching in your chest.
⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆˚✿˖°❀⋆
The hall was already half full by the time you arrived, a low hum of quiet voices murmuring beneath the timber rafters, the air thick with tension and the scent of dust, leather, and dried sweat.
Sunlight slanted in through the high windows in sharp, golden bands, striping the worn floorboards and catching on the edges of rifles, backpacks, and restless hands.
Most of the patrol teams were already there, scattered in tight clusters, faces grim, eyes weary. There was no laughter this morning, no idle talk—just the low thrum of worry, shared silently between familiar glances and furrowed brows.
You stood off to the side, half-shadowed near the back corner, your arms crossed tight over your chest like armor. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be seen. You especially didn’t want to be caught watching the door, even though your eyes flicked to it every time it creaked open, even though your pulse tripped every time a pair of boots echoed down the steps.
You told yourself you wouldn’t look for him.
You lied.
The door opened again.
And there he was.
Joel stepped inside with his head low, the brim of his jacket collar turned up slightly like it might shield him from the weight of the room. His shoulders were hunched, his posture heavy in a way that made something twist low in your stomach. He didn’t limp, exactly, but there was something in the way he moved that made your chest tighten—a stiffness in his gait, a quiet favoring of his right side, like the ache of the years was finally catching up to him and he couldn’t be bothered to hide it anymore.
He made his way over to the long table near the front, where Tommy was already seated, and lowered himself into the chair beside him with a quiet grunt that made your stomach drop. The sound was small, nearly swallowed by the chatter in the room, but it landed loud in your chest—a sharp, aching reminder that he was getting older, that he wasn’t invincible, no matter how long you’d pretended he was. It brought back his voice from weeks ago, gravel-soft and half-resigned, the words still burned into your ribs.
“Got more years behind me than ahead.”
They’d hit you then.
They gutted you now.
You didn’t realize Maria had stepped up until the scrape of a chair startled you back to the present. She stood at the front of the hall now, her voice steady and no-nonsense as it cut through the murmur of the crowd, calling the meeting to order.
The moment the room quieted, she didn’t waste time. She wasn’t the kind of person who softened news just because people didn’t want to hear it.
“Scouts reported movement this morning,” she began, her voice clear and even, though you could hear the tension curling beneath it. “Three separate sightings near the highway. Four miles out, maybe less.”
A murmur rippled across the room, low and uneasy.
“They armed?” someone called out from the left side of the hall, a wiry older man whose name you never remembered but who never missed a meeting.
Tommy answered before Maria could. He stood from his seat beside Joel, his tone calm but measured, stepping into the rhythm of Maria’s report with practiced ease. “Couldn’t see for sure,” he said, scanning the crowd. “But we’re not takin’ chances. We’re assuming yes.”
“They comin’ this way?” another voice asked—this time a younger woman, one of the newer residents, face pale, arms wrapped tight around herself.
“We don’t know yet,” Maria replied. “But we’re preparing like they are. Patrols are increasing. We’re doubling the outer routes, and no one goes out alone—understood?”
There were nods, quiet murmurs of agreement, but you could feel the anxiety sharpening around you like static in the air.
“What about the kids?” someone else asked from the back. “The school?”
“We’ll be moving the classrooms to the storm cellar beneath the rec hall,” Tommy said. “It’s safer there. Reinforced walls. Less windows.”
“We’ve lived through worse,” Maria added, her voice firm now, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You all remember last winter. We held together then—we’ll hold again.”
You watched her, grateful for her strength, but your eyes kept drifting—pulled like gravity—to the man sitting silent beside her.
Joel hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t spoken.
Hadn’t lifted his head since the meeting began.
He sat with his arms folded loosely across his chest, his eyes fixed on the grain of the table in front of him, brow low, mouth drawn in a line that gave nothing away. But you saw it. The way his shoulders had gone just slightly more rigid at the mention of patrols. The way his hand flexed, barely, when Tommy mentioned the children. The way his jaw shifted—subtle, restrained—like he was biting back the urge to say something. Like there were words caught behind his teeth that he couldn’t risk letting out.
And still, he didn’t look at you.
You could have screamed.
Because you felt him—you knew he knew you were there, sitting across the hall in the corner like a wound he couldn’t look at. You could feel the heat of him from a dozen feet away, the way his presence tugged at something in your chest like a wire strung tight between your ribs.
From the front of the room, the murmur of concern swelled into something louder, sharper.
“So what’s the plan, then?” a voice snapped—low but tense, coming from the back. “We just sit here waiting to see if they show up at our gates?”
Another voice chimed in, equally frustrated. “If we’re not gonna hit first, we need to at least figure out how the hell we’re gonna hold the wall.”
The volume in the room grew jagged, edged with fear, tension cracking just beneath the surface. You could feel it crawling through the air, the slow unraveling of calm beneath panic and desperation.
Tommy stepped forward, lifting a hand, his voice cutting through the noise with the calm steel of someone who’d done this before.
“Fighting with each other ain’t gonna get us anywhere,” he said firmly, letting the words settle across the room like the first drops of rain before a storm. “So here’s what we’re gonna do.”
The chatter dimmed. Heads turned. Maria crossed her arms but didn’t interrupt, letting him take the lead.
“We’re splittin’ into two teams,” Tommy continued, already scanning the crowd, eyes calculating, clear. “Group one’s gonna head toward the west ridge—take the long trail out past the bend. Sweep the woods, check the fence lines, see if they’re settin’ up a camp or just passin’ through.”
He rattled off names—James, Hollis, Leah—people who already had rifles slung across their backs, who nodded without question.
“Second team’s gonna head east,” Tommy went on. “Smaller route, but closer to the outer posts. They’ll be the ones we send if we need to make contact, if there’s any sign they’re watchin’ us or settin’ up to move in.”
He paused, scanning the room again.
And then he said it. Your name. Your chest seized like someone had gripped your heart with both hands.
And across the room, you watched it happen—not just as a witness, but as the only person who would ever notice, the only one who would understand what it meant. The sound of your name had barely left Tommy’s mouth before Joel reacted. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Not in the way people might expect from a man like him. But it was there.
A shift so small it could’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but not by you.
His spine straightened, not abruptly, but like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding had turned solid and lodged itself in his chest. The muscle in his jaw tightened—once—like the word had caught behind his teeth even though he hadn’t spoken it. His fingers, resting idle against the table, twitched—barely—then curled inward like they were bracing for something, like they ached to reach for what they’d once known how to hold.
He didn’t even look up at first. Not consciously.
But his head turned just slightly, like the sound of your name had tugged at something beneath his skin, some old muscle memory wired to you, something that didn’t need permission to respond. His eyes lifted last—slow, reluctant, like he already knew what they’d find.
And when they did—
When they found you—
Everything else vanished.
The room, the noise, the people shifting in their seats and scribbling notes and asking questions—it all went quiet in the space between his gaze and yours. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
And neither did you.
Because that look—it was the same one that had once made you feel like you were the only person in the world. The same one that had lingered on your skin like heat, that had said everything he didn’t know how to speak. And it was still there, buried under grief and silence and the scar near his temple that hadn’t been there before.
The look that said you are mine, even if he no longer had the right.
And for a moment, as the rest of the room faded into muffled background noise, it felt like you were back in that soft, suspended space that had once existed only between the two of you. A place made of glances and breath and silence, where everything unsaid had still been understood.
You were the one who broke first.
You didn’t want to—God, you didn’t—but the pressure behind your eyes was too much, too sharp, and you could feel your throat tightening with every passing second he held your gaze. If you didn’t look away now, you’d cry. Right there, in front of everyone. In front of him.
So you blinked once, hard, then dragged your eyes away—lowered your head, stared down at the scuffed toes of your boots like they might anchor you to the floor, like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could breathe again without it hitching in your chest.
Tommy’s voice cut through the room. “Alright,” he said, loud enough to carry, firm enough to snap everyone back into the present. “We’re not wastin’ any more time. We move within the hour.”
The murmur of the room surged again, chairs scraping, boots shifting, orders echoing against the wood-paneled walls. People stood, some already moving to gather supplies, others questioning routes and roles, but all you could feel was the pulse in your ears and the echo of his gaze still pressed against your skin.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☼ You, a headstrong—bubbly ranch-hand, form a close bond with the reserved ranch-owner, Joel Miller, through two seasons of hard work, warmth, and unspoken longing. You leave to chase your dream, but circumstance brings Joel back into your life. A storm rolls over your land, something between you stirs—unresolved and waiting to burst.
𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☼ a no outbreak au loosely inspired by Far From The Madding Crowd but it’s set in modern day/Texas, rancher!Joel (🥵), protective!Joel, grumpy x sunshine, bad language, light angst, mention of vomit & there’s blood after an incident with a hammer, age gap (reader is in her 20s & Joel is in his 50s), kinda slowburny, unresolved feelings (until they aren’t hehe), yearrrrrning and SMUUUUT so you must be 18+ to read this story‼️
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ☼ 7.2K
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ☼ bad language, smutty thoughtssss on paper (🤭), light angst, alleged ghosting (letter edition), unresolved feelings, allusion to a pet’s death, yearning n jealousy.
A/N: There will be more parts! I realized very quickly after posting the first part that there would be more than two like I originally planned. Thank you for your patience!
You’ll never believe it — I made it. The ranch is mine. Mine for real. My name’s on the papers and the land — the mailbox out front too. I know you probably figured I would, after how much I ran my mouth about it, but I still wanted to tell you. You were the first person I wanted to tell.
It’s not much — two of the greenest pastures I’ve ever seen, a beat-up old house with shutters and a wraparound porch just like yours… and a barn that leans a little too much when the wind kicks up. It’s a fixer upper but it’s all I ever dreamed of, Joel.
Juno’s already taken to the place like she was born here. She chases butterflies and herds the chickens (she thinks they’ll respond the same as sheep. Spoiler: they don’t). Makes me laugh every day. She’s exactly like her pa — too clever for her own good, and loyal as anything. Looks exactly like George when he was a pup with the one floppy ear. I think she misses you both.
Think I do too.
I hope you and George are well (and lake Isabella! Oh and Clint — the sheep too! How could I forget them!)
Anyway, the chicken coop needs fixing so I’d better stop writing and start working.
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine (guess that name’s sticking),
Got your letter. I know you said you would write. Still — I didn’t expect it.
Thought you might have already forgotten about me.
Glad to know you made it safe, and that the land’s everything you were hoping for. Sounds like you’re keeping real busy—which don’t surprise me none.
Had to laugh a little at the image of Juno herding the chickens. I can just picture it. Bet she’s still got that same stubborn streak as you too — don’t give up easy.
Things here are alright. Same as usual. Lake Isabella’s been running lower than I’d like — think she’s missing you. But I manage. Sheep are still ornery as hell, and old George sleeps more than he works these days. Can’t say I blame him.
I won’t lie—it’s quieter around here. Bit too quiet, some days. Not used to missing the sound of someone yapping at me while I work, but here I am fixing my damn radio just to find one of them tunes you would sing to Dixie. I’ve been trying to get my pa’s old radio working — was just about to give it a go but your letter came and now I know no fucking Sabrina Carpenter or John Denver song is gonna make me miss you less finally.
Hope your land keeps thriving. You deserve that. You deserve your dream, darling — keep chasing it.
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
Built the first proper fence today, all on my own. Got blisters all over my palms, and I cursed loud enough to wake the whole county. But I did it. Dixie nearly chewed through the rope post again, Juno dug up one of my tomato plants, and the hens laid eggs in the hayloft instead of the coop... I'm figuring it out.
Speaking of the coop — I fixed it. Took me the better part of a week and two splinters I'm still digging out of my fingers, but the hens are roosting proper now. There's one that reminds me of you—serious little thing, always standing off to the side like she's making sure everyone else is behaving. I named her Judith, but I'm tempted to rename her Joel.
The evenings are the hardest part. Everything goes still out here when the sun dips behind the ridge and work is done for the day. It's quiet in the way that makes you think too much. I sit on the porch with Juno at my feet (she's getting so big already), and I keep expecting to hear your boots on the porch boards.
I wonder what you’re up to all the time.
Sometimes I wonder what you're up to—whether you're still waking up before dawn, still arguing with George over who gets to herd the sheep. I hope things are good. I hope your fences are holding up better than mine.
Did you get that radio working?
I got one for my porch.
Do you turn yours on just to fill in the silence too? What about when you miss hearing my voice? If you do miss my voice. It’s what I do when I miss hearing yours.
They’re fiddly things aren’t they?
Juno sends her love (in slobber, mostly).
— your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
Read your letter four two times, then once more just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
I let out a real belly laugh when I read about that hen of yours. Haven’t laughed like that in a long while. Not since you were here, trying to chase that lamb into the barn. You ended up flat on your ass in the mud and pretended it was “international land awareness”. George side-eyed me like I’d lost my damn mind. Think maybe I have.
He misses you. Whines more than usual, always wants to take the long trail past the lake like he's expecting you to be there, splashing about or sitting on that rock and tossing pebbles. He barks for you outside your cabin every morning, thinking you're needing a wake up call. Every time the mail comes, he runs out to the box — he knows it's from you — no one bothers to write me as often as you do. Don't know if that means something — if I mean something to you. I'm in my damn head too much. Clearly. He brings the envelopes to me like they’re some kind of treasure. I keep them like they are. They've gotta be some of the most precious things I own.
Radio’s working again. Took some fiddling alright, but I got it. Picks up this one station late at night — plays old country, mostly. There’s a hum it makes, right before the music kicks in. Caught me off guard the first time. Thought maybe you were there, talking soft about nothing and everything like you used to. Funny what your mind does when the silence is just… empty. Used to like it. I don’t anymore. I hate it.
Juno sounds hellbent on undoing half your work, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She really has got your stubborn streak. You’re fighting tooth and nail out there, and I got no doubt you’ll make something special of that land. You always had a way of making things grow, even when they didn’t want to.
Stay safe. Don’t forget to eat. Do you miss those dinner’s with me out on the porch? I miss making them for you.
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
Damn you for reminding me of that day. I still remember how smug you looked when you wrangled that lamb in like it was no big deal while I sat there soaked and sulking — still yelling like I had any pride left to salvage.
Tell George I miss him too. Just picturing him waiting by the mailbox like that… Joel, you’re gonna make me cry and I can’t afford to cry around the livestock. They’ll start expecting gourmet meals if they sense weakness. I hope you’ve been taking him down the trail still — even if I’m not there to cannonball in the lake with him.
There’s a river that runs right through the pastures — Juno loves it. She’d love lake Isabella more.
I finally got the irrigation system working with a little help from the guy at the feed store who I think was more interested in flirting than fixing, but hey, we got water. The sheep are healthy. Juno’s learning so fast — I think she’s as good at herding as George already. When she’s working the field, I catch myself thinking how proud George would be of her... and how proud you’d be if you saw me now.
I finished fixing the entire fence line myself today. Took me nearly all day — pounding in posts, pulling wire — maybe I did cuss at the sun a few times but neither of my pinkies were harmed, I promise.
Write back as soon as you get this when you can.
(Ps. Judith is nesting in my toolbox now)
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
I told George. I think he got the gist. He wagged his tail, ran three laps around the barn, and then sat by the trailhead looking ready to bolt the second I unlatched the gate. Took him down there yesterday. Water’s cold as usual, but he went in anyway. I ain’t been in the mood to swim — afraid I’ll catch myself thinking too hard about the water glinting off your skin, the sunlight on your cheeks, that pretty laugh and those perfect tits of yours that day you got me in the water. Me and Clint watched George from the shore. Didn’t help. I fell asleep after a while with my hat over my face and dreamed about you just laying right next to me anyway. Maybe spreading those thighs and getting a taste of you out in the open… right by the lake. Fuck.
Can’t say the old dog misses you any less — can’t say this old cowboy does neither — as the season’s pass. When your letter came, he carried it inside himself. Dropped it right on the porch, then stared at me as if to say: ‘well, read it, dumbass’. I did. I kept re-reading it — twenty-four times don’t know how many times, enough to make me think I already replied. That’s why it’s taken me a while to write this. Sorry, darling.
If I was standing in that pasture with you, watching Juno run and you fixing fences like it was nothing, I’d tell you plain — I’m proud as hell.
Keep writing if you’ve got the time. I’ll be waiting George’ll be waiting either way.
(Ps. Who’s this feed store guy you mentioned? Is it Troy? Please say it ain’t Troy. That boy’s way too good looking for his own good and he knows it. Way to sound like a jealous asshole Is Judith still Queen of your toolbox?)
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
Just when I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me the mailman delivered your letter. Think I gave the poor man a heart attack by the way I squealed when I saw your handwriting.
Is everything okay?
Are you okay?
If George keeps bringing my letters in like that, I might have to send him a treat basket full of bacon.
I think about that day at the lake too — all the time think it’s still my favorite memory with you of last summer. It’s also still the only way I can get off at night. Remembering how you looked, sunburned and dripping wet, hands running through your hair — wonder what they’d feel like touching all over me instead. What the fuck. He doesn’t need to know that. The pebbles under the water looked like old coins — I remember making a wish. I wish you’d kissed me. Woulda topped that day off with a cherry on top if you did it came true.
Things are coming along just fine… would you believe it if I told you the house is finally finished? Took every spare hour I had, but the porch is steady, the roof doesn’t leak, and I even got all the trim painted before the snow came in. Most days I walk through the rooms barefoot just to feel the floorboards under me, to remind myself I did all this from the ground up with my own two hands (well, kinda). I ran into some trouble with the water pressure in the kitchen sink — was gonna ask you if you could help but you’re so far away, too far away… and you’re always so busy Troy turned up in the nick of time.
He’s around a lot — the feed store guy who flirted more than he fixed? Turns out he’s not so bad with a wrench. He helped with the last stretch of plumbing, and now he keeps showing up with little things he swears the place “needs” — a bird feeder, a coat hook shaped like a horse head, a pie from his aunt. I’m starting to think he might have a crush on me.
Anyway — onto the last building job on my list; the barn. Wish me luck (I’m gonna need it).
(Ps. Judith’s got her own roost now. Top shelf of the tool shed. She’s got better real estate than I do.)
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
Now — don't go threatening my dog with bacon baskets unless you're ready to follow through. He's already spoiled as sin.
Your letters are about the only thing I look forward to these days. Was that too much? Fuck it. I’m leaving it in. I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget the way your handwriting looks — I’ll never forget you neither no matter how long it’s been. I sat with your last letter for a while before opening it. Just… held it. You ever get that way? With my letters maybe? Like if you open it too fast it’ll slip right through your fingers? Like when you slipped through mine the day you left.
Been a rough couple months. The Ranch is hanging on by a thread this Spring. Drought’s hitting hard, grass won’t grow right, and the fence line’s falling faster than I can patch it. Feels like I’m trying to hold the place together with both hands and nothing to show for it but blisters and another night of not sleeping. Ain’t nothing I can’t handle.
George — he’s slowing down. Took him near fifteen minutes to get up the back steps yesterday. His eyes are bright, but he don’t play like he used to. He’s slacking at herding too — lost a couple sheep just the other day cause he couldn’t hear me calling and his sight ain’t as good as it was. But he perks up when I say your name — or “bacon” (if that ain’t selective hearing I don’t know what is). Still whines at the trailhead by the lake. Still waits on your letters like a lovesick pup too.
As for me — I’m falling apart fine keeping busy. Fixed the barn door last week and got the south field tilled as best I could — my back’s begging me for mercy. You don’t gotta worry about me though.
You do gotta worry about this Troy fella. I remember him. The one with the shiny truck and the big mouth. He still got that slicked back hair? He’s a fucking asshole Can’t say I like him all that much — can’t say I blame him for being sweet on you neither. Maybe he sees what I should’ve held onto tighter. I don’t like the sound of him hanging around. A man brings gifts like that, it ain’t cause the house needs a coat hook. He’s trying to put down roots in something you built from scratch. I know I ain’t got a say but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about knocking on that feed store door and letting him know he oughta tread real careful. Just… don’t let someone sweet-talk you into settling for something smaller than you deserve. You built that house. You’re building that life. You don’t need someone coasting on your hard work like it’s his own. I mean it.
Keep going. That barn’s gonna stand tall, just like the rest of what you built. If you get stuck or need someone to scare off Troy… well. You know who to call (not fucking Troy. Anyone but fucking Troy). I might not have much left here, but I still got that hammer and two good hands.
(Ps. Can’t quite make out what your wish was. Next time don’t cross it out so I can make it come true… if it ain’t too late.)
(Pps. Plenty of things I wish I’d done to you that day.)
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I hope Georgie is feeling better after feasting on the bacon from the treat basket I sent. Did you get the Polaroid of me and Juno? Did you recognize her? I can’t believe she’s almost one already. Did you get the one of the house too? The land? The sheep? Dixie? Oh, and Judith in her toolshed condo? I tucked them all into the side so they wouldn’t fall out.
I didn’t write back right away. I pressed your letter flat against my chest and held it there a while — giggling like I was sixteen again. I figured I should cool off before saying something I couldn’t take back — but you and I both know I was never any good at keeping my mouth shut.
Your letter — what you wrote about Troy — I heard it loud and clear. I ain't letting him lay claim. Not now. Not ever. This place is mine. My blood's in the soil, my sweat's in every wall. And my heart... well. That’s with you That's another story.
You said you couldn’t make out what I’d written in that last letter. The part I crossed out. You always said I was braver than I gave myself credit for. So here goes I guess:
I wished you’d kissed me in the lake.
When I was wet-haired and laughing you looked at me like I was some answer you’d been waiting years to find (I wasn’t imagining it, was I?) and in that moment I needed you to do it more than I needed to buy my own land. I needed your hands on me so bad — maybe on my cheeks first, all soft and careful like the way you held my pinkie finger that same day… then maybe slipping down to my waist… maybe lower.
You should’ve kissed me, Joel.
I know we can’t go back in time. But that doesn’t stop me from replaying it like we can. Over and over. Trying to imagine what would’ve happened if you did. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this from an empty bed.
Why did you splash me instead?
I’ve been so buried in this barn rebuild I barely know what day it is. I’m either on a ladder or carrying lumber and paint buckets these days so Troy offered to drop my letters in the post — I’m taking him up on that until I can catch my breath again. Don’t roll your eyes — it’s just postage, not a proposal.
(Ps. If you ever needed a reason to come by, the barn could sure use your hands… I could too. Just saying. You’re the only one I’d trust to help me finish it right.)
(Pps. Maybe then you could decide if it’s too late to make my wish come true.)
— your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I keep telling myself that the ranch is keeping you up to your elbows in work — that you’re probably too tired to pick up a pen and write me by the end of the day. But I ain’t gonna lie and say it hasn’t crossed my mind that maybe it’s me… maybe it was what I wrote before. I should’ve kept that stupid little wish to myself instead of spilling it all over the stupid page like an idiot who doesn’t know when to zip it.
Maybe I crossed a line.
Maybe I scared you off.
Maybe it was too much.
Maybe I was too much.
I’m sorry if I was.
I didn’t mean to throw it at you like that. You did ask. All I did was answer. What did you want me to do? Lie? I didn’t want to lie. I couldn’t lie. You always knew when I was lying. You woulda seen straight through my writing too. I’m sure of it.
You don’t have to write nothing about it.
Forget I even wrote it.
I’d rather you forget it than stop writing altogether.
I could still do with an extra pair of hands with the barn… if you’re still offering.
— still your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I’m not sure if you’re just real busy or if my last few letters have found their way into the bottom of a drawer somewhere — but I’ll keep writing anyway. Feels strange not to. You’ve always been the one I wanted to tell things to, even the boring stuff.
The barn’s coming along. Slowly. And stubbornly. Every beam I put up feels like an argument I’m winning. The roof’s half done, and I’ve managed not to fall off it (yet). Troy keeps showing up with his sleeves rolled and something smug on his face. There's been some talk around town lately — folks with big mouths and not much else to do, I guess it was bound to happen with the amount of time Troy spends here. I don’t know if word’s gotten all the way out to you, but he's just been helping with the barn, hanging around because I needed the hands and he's got the time… it's never been anything more than that. It's never even crossed my mind to want more than that — not when my heart's already with you at your ranch someplace else, and it's not anywhere Troy could ever reach.
It's not him I'm waiting for when the evenings get quiet and the sky turns that deep blue I know you love. He's not the one I’m awake for at ridiculous hours to write letters like this. I guess they don't really matter to you anymore (if they ever even did). Still — I needed you to read it from me, not to hear it twisted from anybody else.
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
The mailbox is collecting nothing but dust — either way, I thought you oughta know: the barn’s built.
Finally.
There’s a couple boards that don’t sit flush, and if you look close you’ll see where I had to patch up some mistakes, but it’s standing proud and strong and somehow still here after the first big rain. Sometimes I catch myself talking to it like it’s alive, like it knows how much I gave just to see it finished. I think you’d understand that better than most.
Today I left the back door open and just sat in the middle of the floor, watching the sun pour in.
It’s funny. I thought once it was done, I’d feel… finished, too. Like maybe I could stop chasing this vision I’ve had for myself and just enjoy it. It’s all I’ve known for as long as I can remember — this dream of having land of my own. It was all I needed. But as I was sitting there, all I could think about was how wrong empty it felt without you.
Now it feels like I built this place hoping someone else might come find a home in it with me. (You.)
Would you come see it? Bring George with you?
Juno’d love it. I would too.
It’s just us, Dixie and the livestock.
Troy’s found someone new to charm, I suppose — and I’m glad for it (you’ll be glad to know too, or not… I don’t know anymore). He still takes my letters but he don’t linger no more. Feels better that way, cleaner somehow, like maybe the land itself shook off all the things that didn’t belong. Hasn’t stopped the rumors though. You probably heard the latest ones, that we’re shacked up and married with six kids, oh, and that there was a ring in the last pie Troy brought over from his aunt’s… surely you don’t believe any of it.
If you could see the way I sit out on the porch at night with Juno at my feet (she insists on taking that gingham blanket you wrapped her up in for me everywhere she goes even though she’s way too big for it now). She leaves a little space for George and I leave a space beside me for you in case the two of you might appear and watch the stars with us like we never left you both behind. Maybe then you’d know that no matter what gets spread outside our gates, our hearts are where I’m afraid they’ve always been — Juno’s with her old pa and mine with you.
You can forget I ever wrote this too… please don’t.
(Ps. The barn’s got a good corner stall. Big enough for a brute like Clint, or a man if he needed a place to lay low for a while.)
(Pps. I’m afraid Judith has moved into the spare lodging and she likes screaming real loud in the morning. She also likes pecking Troy’s boots so hard he trips and falls every time — and she’s been laying eggs like a machine… Might be the only girl on this land who’s got her shit together.)
— always your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I've stopped waiting by the mailbox, mostly. Told myself I wouldn't keep count of the days since your last letter, but I have. It's been one hundred and eighty-two. I don't even know if you still live at the same place, if my words are just sitting in some pile you never open. If you’ve grown tired of me.
You said once you didn’t mind the sound of my voice — even when it wouldn't quit… you also said once that you cared about me but you can’t be bothered to answer any of my damn letters?
You’re so full of shit. Asshole.
It's been hard not hearing from you. I would only think about you when the work got quiet, or when I was sore at the end of a long day. But now it's all the time. Like missing you is something I do alongside breathing.
Why did you stop writing?
Was what I wrote really that bad?
Was it cause I told you I was gonna leave someday?
Was it cause you never let yourself need anything that could walk away from you?
Was it cause you don’t feel the same and didn’t have the guts to write it?
I spent so long believing you were just quiet. That maybe you couldn't find the words. That maybe the silence meant something tender. But now I'm thinking it was just silence. I’m a big girl, I can handle getting hit with rejection… but you know I can’t handle empty silence. You know how much I hate it.
All I’m asking for is a few lines from you. Just something so I know you’re still alive, that you haven’t forgotten me entirely.
(Ps. The ranch is growing. I bought another few acres to the south — orchard land. I think I'm gonna try peaches.)
— still your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
This’ll be the last letter, I think. Even a chatterbox like me can only keep talking to silence for so long before I start to feel like I’m going crazy.
My house — my barn — my land… it looks how I always dreamed it would. It’s the kind of place I used to draw in my notebooks when I was little, the kind of place I thought maybe only existed in stories. It’s everything I told you I needed. I just didn’t realize it at the time, that I needed you too. Not until now.
Juno’s keeping watch, sitting at the edge of the porch like she owns the place, ears perked and eyes sharp, even though she knows there’s nothing dangerous out here but her own loneliness. Mine too.
We can’t keep waiting on you to answer like this. She’s got sheep to herd. I’ve got land to maintain, livestock to look after, peaches and flowers to pick. I can’t even swim in the river anymore without thinking about how much I needed you to kiss me in lake Isabella. I think part of me's still floating there, waiting for you to pull me closer, a warm hand on my hip, sun in your eyes, asking if it's okay before you do it. You could’ve just done it and I would’ve let you… but you didn’t.
I’m sitting here with my pen hovering over this page, trying to find the right way to prove I’ve meant every word I’ve written you without making things worse than I already have.
I love
Fuck
Am I really gonna write this
Fuck it
You’re not gonna read it anyway
I love you, Joel Miller.
Always did.
Probably always will. But I need to stop reaching for something that doesn’t wanna hold me.
I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re safe and I hope that George is still wagging his tail for bacon strips, wherever you are.
Goodby
(Ps. If you ever do find yourself missing me… you know the way.)
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
The vastness of your ranch spread out before you in a way that still took your breath away. The land had tested you, challenged you, and at times, nearly broken you. But as the golden hour approached, you feel as though you're being cradled in its arms — being held steady after years of uncertainty.
The wind has teeth this evening.
Not the kind that rips or howls—but the low, gnawing kind that seeps through the seams of your coat and catches in the crooks of your bones. An early spring in Texas didn't always bring storm or rain, but it brought chill, and it hung over the land like a veil. The sun is pale in a sky the color of pewter, and the frost hadn't yet burned off the tall grass. Each blade shimmers like glass.
Juno, your constant — your loyal companion, moves through the grass beside you, her sleek black and white coat contrasting with the vibrant green earth. She's as part of the land as the other animals you'd been devoting your life to. The sheep, now grazing peacefully at the far end of the pasture, look content in their solitude.
Your work for the day had been done—crops tended to, your milk cow, Betty, given her evening grain, Dixie fed and brushed—both of them in their stalls for the night. You decide it's time to gather the sheep, to urge them into their own shelter beside the barn. You click your tongue, and Juno's ears perk up. She immediately turns her focus to the herd, running off to them with graceful precision like the prodigy she is.
“Easy, girl!” You call out, grinning. The sheep bunch together, docile under Juno's movements. You jog to keep up, the sweet scent of trampled grass and wildflowers filling your nostrils, and a laugh escapes you — loud and careless. “Good girl! That's it, Juno! Get 'em! Go 'round!” you holler, cupping your gloved hands around your mouth.
Juno barks once as she swoops around the herd. She veers left and then right, rounding up the sheep with an energy oozing pure mischief. The flock bawl and stumble in confusion, a few ewes trying to make a break for it — but Juno is faster. She flies behind them, crouched low, her body taut with excitement.
You watch her with pride swelling in your chest — she is full-grown now, all lean muscle and boundless spirit, though she still has the same spark she did as a pup. The sheep bleat in protest but Juno is persistent and you know exactly where she got that from — she's a chip off of old George's block. She races, expertly rounding them up into one bumpy mass.
“Okay now you're just showin' off, aren't you, Junebug?” you tease, hands on your hips.
She barks again, then waits.
You whistle — the command to settle.
Juno freezes, mostly, her tail sways in the grass.
“Not bad for a couple'a rookies, huh?” Juno woofs in agreement.
You saunter closer to the flock, planning to lead them through the wooden gate into their pen... but Juno's ears prick — and without warning, she snaps her head up, nose twitching furiously. The sheep shift uneasily, sensing the change in her energy.
“Juno.” You steadily step towards the sprightly dog.
She gives a soft whine, her attention drawn somewhere else.
“Juno.” You take another careful step. Your confidence falters as she continues to completely ignore you. It isn't the first time she's gotten distracted and you know she'll bolt if you're not cautious, but usually it doesn't take much more than one call of her name to coax her back into the task at hand. “Juno?”
Her head snaps in your direction and for a second you think you've broken her out of her trance, but she looks... uncertain. In a flash she is gone, streaking away from you and toward the far edge of the field, faster than you'd ever seen her move.
“Hey!” You shout, losing your composure instantly, “Juno, no! Get back here!”
She doesn't even glance back.
You don't hesitate to tear after her, dodging through the sheep, their wool brushing your legs. Your heart is pounding in sync with your boots hitting the ground — legs pumping with urgency. You vault the fence without thinking, boots hitting the ground with a frosty crack. The sheep are scattered behind you now, but you don't look back.
You are running blind, your scarf flying off your neck as you fly past the Bur Oak tree that Betty and Dixie like to doze under in the next pasture.
“Wait up! Juno!” Your voice echoes, lost in the expanse of the land. The dog’s shape is reduced to a small dot as she beelines for the tree line framing the wide river, toward the far edge of the ranch. She zooms past your ranch-house, the toolshed, the cabin, the coop and, lastly, where your land gives way to open country.
The main road is up ahead, the dusty gravel ribbon of it, and beyond it, the county highway — large vehicles barreling by without a care in the world.
A fear slams into you, hot and blinding — the image of a speeding truck, the sound of screeching brakes, the sickening thud of impact.
“Goddammit, Juno! STOP!” you scream, your voice raw with terror. You stumble harder, faster, reckless with the thought of her — your girl — running headlong into danger.
She skids to a halt.
Abrupt, frantic, paws digging into the dirt, throwing up a spray of dust around her.
You freeze mid-stride, nearly tripping over your own feet as you struggle to see what had made her stop so suddenly... all you're sure of is that it definitely wasn't because you'd desperately demanded for her to.
That's when you see the end of the invisible string that Juno had been nudging you to follow all along.
A flash of movement — a figure with a horse in tow walking up the path leading to the heart of the ranch from your front gate.
They're nothing more than a silhouette against the late sun, the light blinding and harsh, turning them into dark shadows cut from the sky.
Juno narrows the distance between her and them by a few yards, barking wildly — not in fear, not in warning, but in pure joy.
She throws herself at the figure, her whole body quivering, tail a white blur of motion.
The man —
He stiffly drops to one knee, the weight of his duffel bag on one shoulder and guitar case on the other had clearly been hurting him by the way he slumps them onto the ground. His hand comes up, offering it for Juno to sniff before burying it into her fur, holding onto her like a man drowning in a river would hold onto a branch.
Your lungs seize, useless in your chest.
You'd expected to see a coyote, a stray dog, a trespasser... not him.
Not Joel.
Not after two years of no written reply from him.
You'd told yourself a hundred times you were over it. Over him. That he was a chapter closed and done with. But seeing him now — clutching Juno to his chest like she's the only good thing left in the world, and her looking up at him like she'd been waiting her whole life to see him again — you realize you never stopped carrying those seasons you spent working together in your heart.
After pawing at his chest and licking his chin Juno drops back down to the ground, spinning in a tight circle before darting around him — sniffing behind his legs, then trotting to the left, nose to the wind. She lets out a quick bark, as if she'd forgotten something.
And then she whimpers. A puzzled, soft little sound. She stares up at him, then behind him again. Searching.
She's looking for George.
She circles him again, nose twitching, paws scuffing the dirt. She looks around him, examining his shadow like it's supposed to have one more set of paws beside it. She lets out another whine, even softer this time, her tail slowing. Then she sits right in front of him, head tilted, brow creased in that funny, thoughtful way dogs do when they can't quite understand where something's gone.
Joel doesn't speak. He just shakes his head.
No words. Just that tiny shake. A quiet answer.
Your throat tightens.
You feel it in your ribs — a dull ache. George had been there at the start. That cranky old Border Collie had been Joel’s second shadow, always watchful, always ready. You used to joke that George was the one in charge. That Joel was just his hands.
The idea of him gone — the space between Joel and Clint empty? You can’t fathom it.
Joel stands up with a grunt you can't quite hear and Juno noses at Joel's boot, giving one last huff before curling herself close to his leg again. She leans into him, pressing her face into the fabric of his jeans, trying to comfort him. Joel's hand comes down to rest on her head, comforting her in return.
He hasn't seen you yet. You're too far away and the brim of his cowboy hat is blocking a majority of his sight. Or maybe he has seen you and can't bring himself to look.
Slowly—so slowly—you pace forward, the frozen grass crackling underfoot, the cold biting high along your cheekbones until you're on the path Joel'd been walking up. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly for warmth, partly to stop yourself from shaking apart, panicking and running the other direction. You'd done this many times, usually to meet the postman, Troy or to check the road for deliveries.
The scrape of your boots alerts Joel and Juno as soon as you’re no more than three steps away from them.
Joel stares at you, his face blank—his mind struggling to process seeing you in the flesh.
The dog gives you a look as if to say: “it’s about time you joined us.”
Joel shifts awkwardly, lowering his eyes. He pulls his hat off and holds it to his chest, clutching it tightly in both hands. His hair is longer now, curling out at the edges, falling messily over his ears and shirt-collar —streaked with more silver. A gust of cold wind stirs it, and he doesn’t move to fix it.
He looks older.
That's the first thing that strikes you — not in a cruel way, just... truthful. The years had carved themselves into him — deliberate and unrelenting. The Joel standing at your gate isn't the same man who had handed you a puppy and asked you to stay with him four years ago. He'd been worn down — broken and weathered in that quiet, tragic way only time and loss could manage.
His frame is still broad, still unmistakably strong, but there's a leaner edge to it — a kind of hollowness at the shoulders — something vital had been carved out of him and never filled back in. His clothes are simple and dust-covered: faded jeans that cling to the muscle of his thighs, a worn green and black button-down, threadbare at the cuffs, scuffed boots that are white at the toes — creased with every step it took to get here — and a canvas jacket. You know it well. You'd stitched that shoulder, back when it had caught a nail after he'd insisted on fixing a fence post on a particularly cold night at his ranch. You sat on a stool outside your lodging with the jacket slung over your lap and a needle in hand — your fingers trembled so much — they were practically blue it was that freezing. Joel came walking down to your cabin from his ranch-house with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, handed you one and sat on a tree stump opposite you without a word. It was unexpected. It was also the night you realized you didn't mind the quiet… as long as you shared it with Joel.
He looks like he hasn't done a single thing for the benefit of his own health, sure, but he's as ruggedly handsome as he was that night.
“Joel,” you manage to utter, your voice so small you barely hear it yourself. “What’re you—”
“Land’s somethin’ special.” His sad, sunken eyes skim past you, scanning over your ranch. “If anyone was gonna make somethin’ of it, it’d be you.”
You don’t respond. You just watch him with your mouth ajar—the way he keeps his shoulders stiff, the way he refuses to even meet your eyes.
“Always knew you deserved better than what my old shithole of a ranch was offerin’ for a life.”
Your fingers curl at your sides. You want to grab him, shake him, tell him you would’ve built this place with him if he’d only showed up. Tell him you never needed better — you needed him. “Joel—” you start, but he cuts you off, voice too casual to match the exhaustion in his facial features.
“You don’t gotta fuss over me, alright?” He finally glances your way, offering the ghost of a smile. “I ain’t here for a pity party. Just… figured I’d stop by. See it for myself.”
“Bullshit,” you scoff.
“‘Scuse me?”
“You heard me — if you wanted to see it that bad why didn’t you stop by two years ago?”
He ducks his head, ashamed, and nervously fiddles with the brim of the hat you named the “grumpy man’s crown” upon your first week of working with him, when you couldn’t get more than five words out of him… you feel like you’re back to square one all over again.
Without thinking, you reach out and grab his arm — solid under your fingers, tense with hesitation. His skin burns hot through the fabric of his jacket. He stiffens, surprised, but doesn’t pull away. You hook your spare hand around the strap of his duffel bag and grab the battered guitar case from where it’s slumped against his boot, completely ignoring his grumbled protests about doing his carrying for him. You tug at him — not gentle — dragging him toward the house with a strength you didn’t know you had.
Joel lets you, weakly whistling for Clint to follow.
Hello i liked it too, but im stupid so i have a very stupid question😭 In the letter, were the crossed-out parts thoughts of the reader or Joel, or were they things they actually wrote and then crossed out? Or was it both?
Heyy, you’re not stupid at all! I probably should’ve made it more clear but the crossed out parts are what they actually wrote but crossed out! Thank you for reading 🥹🩷
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☼ You, a headstrong—bubbly ranch-hand, form a close bond with the reserved ranch-owner, Joel Miller, through two seasons of hard work, warmth, and unspoken longing. You leave to chase your dream, but circumstance brings Joel back into your life. A storm rolls over your land, something between you stirs—unresolved and waiting to burst.
𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☼ a no outbreak au loosely inspired by Far From The Madding Crowd but it’s set in modern day/Texas, rancher!Joel (🥵), protective!Joel, grumpy x sunshine, bad language, light angst, mention of vomit & there’s blood after an incident with a hammer, age gap (reader is in her 20s & Joel is in his 50s), kinda slowburny, unresolved feelings (until they aren’t hehe), yearrrrrning and SMUUUUT so you must be 18+ to read this story‼️
The new chapter was so good.You are brilliant. I always love the letter trope in books,it always feels bittersweet. I am so excited for the next chapter! 🩷
Thank you so much! I’m glad you liked the letter format — I wasn’t sure how popular it’d be but I love the letter trope too so I had to include it! 🥹🩷🩷
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☼ You, a headstrong—bubbly ranch-hand, form a close bond with the reserved ranch-owner, Joel Miller, through two seasons of hard work, warmth, and unspoken longing. You leave to chase your dream, but circumstance brings Joel back into your life. A storm rolls over your land, something between you stirs—unresolved and waiting to burst.
𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇, 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ☼ a no outbreak au loosely inspired by Far From The Madding Crowd but it’s set in modern day/Texas, rancher!Joel (🥵), protective!Joel, grumpy x sunshine, bad language, light angst, mention of vomit & there’s blood after an incident with a hammer, age gap (reader is in her 20s & Joel is in his 50s), kinda slowburny, unresolved feelings (until they aren’t hehe), yearrrrrning and SMUUUUT so you must be 18+ to read this story‼️
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ☼ 7.2K
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ☼ bad language, smutty thoughtssss on paper (🤭), light angst, alleged ghosting (letter edition), unresolved feelings, allusion to a pet’s death, yearning n jealousy.
A/N: The letters in this part include crossed out parts like this… they are what both reader and Joel wrote but crossed out so the other couldn’t see!!
You’ll never believe it — I made it. The ranch is mine. Mine for real. My name’s on the papers and the land — the mailbox out front too. I know you probably figured I would, after how much I ran my mouth about it, but I still wanted to tell you. You were the first person I wanted to tell.
It’s not much — two of the greenest pastures I’ve ever seen, a beat-up old house with shutters and a wraparound porch just like yours… and a barn that leans a little too much when the wind kicks up. It’s a fixer upper but it’s all I ever dreamed of, Joel.
Juno’s already taken to the place like she was born here. She chases butterflies and herds the chickens (she thinks they’ll respond the same as sheep. Spoiler: they don’t). Makes me laugh every day. She’s exactly like her pa — too clever for her own good, and loyal as anything. Looks exactly like George when he was a pup with the one floppy ear. I think she misses you both.
Think I do too.
I hope you and George are well (and lake Isabella! Oh and Clint — the sheep too! How could I forget them!)
Anyway, the chicken coop needs fixing so I’d better stop writing and start working.
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine (guess that name’s sticking),
Got your letter. I know you said you would write. Still — I didn’t expect it.
Thought you might have already forgotten about me.
Glad to know you made it safe, and that the land’s everything you were hoping for. Sounds like you’re keeping real busy—which don’t surprise me none.
Had to laugh a little at the image of Juno herding the chickens. I can just picture it. Bet she’s still got that same stubborn streak as you too — don’t give up easy.
Things here are alright. Same as usual. Lake Isabella’s been running lower than I’d like — think she’s missing you. But I manage. Sheep are still ornery as hell, and old George sleeps more than he works these days. Can’t say I blame him.
I won’t lie—it’s quieter around here. Bit too quiet, some days. Not used to missing the sound of someone yapping at me while I work, but here I am fixing my damn radio just to find one of them tunes you would sing to Dixie. I’ve been trying to get my pa’s old radio working — was just about to give it a go but your letter came and now I know no fucking Sabrina Carpenter or John Denver song is gonna make me miss you less finally.
Hope your land keeps thriving. You deserve that. You deserve your dream, darling — keep chasing it.
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
Built the first proper fence today, all on my own. Got blisters all over my palms, and I cursed loud enough to wake the whole county. But I did it. Dixie nearly chewed through the rope post again, Juno dug up one of my tomato plants, and the hens laid eggs in the hayloft instead of the coop... I'm figuring it out.
Speaking of the coop — I fixed it. Took me the better part of a week and two splinters I'm still digging out of my fingers, but the hens are roosting proper now. There's one that reminds me of you—serious little thing, always standing off to the side like she's making sure everyone else is behaving. I named her Judith, but I'm tempted to rename her Joel.
The evenings are the hardest part. Everything goes still out here when the sun dips behind the ridge and work is done for the day. It's quiet in the way that makes you think too much. I sit on the porch with Juno at my feet (she's getting so big already), and I keep expecting to hear your boots on the porch boards.
I wonder what you’re up to all the time.
Sometimes I wonder what you're up to—whether you're still waking up before dawn, still arguing with George over who gets to herd the sheep. I hope things are good. I hope your fences are holding up better than mine.
Did you get that radio working?
I got one for my porch.
Do you turn yours on just to fill in the silence too? What about when you miss hearing my voice? If you do miss my voice. It’s what I do when I miss hearing yours.
They’re fiddly things aren’t they?
Juno sends her love (in slobber, mostly).
— your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
Read your letter four two times, then once more just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
I let out a real belly laugh when I read about that hen of yours. Haven’t laughed like that in a long while. Not since you were here, trying to chase that lamb into the barn. You ended up flat on your ass in the mud and pretended it was “international land awareness”. George side-eyed me like I’d lost my damn mind. Think maybe I have.
He misses you. Whines more than usual, always wants to take the long trail past the lake like he's expecting you to be there, splashing about or sitting on that rock and tossing pebbles. He barks for you outside your cabin every morning, thinking you're needing a wake up call. Every time the mail comes, he runs out to the box — he knows it's from you — no one bothers to write me as often as you do. Don't know if that means something — if I mean something to you. I'm in my damn head too much. Clearly. He brings the envelopes to me like they’re some kind of treasure. I keep them like they are. They've gotta be some of the most precious things I own.
Radio’s working again. Took some fiddling alright, but I got it. Picks up this one station late at night — plays old country, mostly. There’s a hum it makes, right before the music kicks in. Caught me off guard the first time. Thought maybe you were there, talking soft about nothing and everything like you used to. Funny what your mind does when the silence is just… empty. Used to like it. I don’t anymore. I hate it.
Juno sounds hellbent on undoing half your work, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She really has got your stubborn streak. You’re fighting tooth and nail out there, and I got no doubt you’ll make something special of that land. You always had a way of making things grow, even when they didn’t want to.
Stay safe. Don’t forget to eat. Do you miss those dinner’s with me out on the porch? I miss making them for you.
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
Damn you for reminding me of that day. I still remember how smug you looked when you wrangled that lamb in like it was no big deal while I sat there soaked and sulking — still yelling like I had any pride left to salvage.
Tell George I miss him too. Just picturing him waiting by the mailbox like that… Joel, you’re gonna make me cry and I can’t afford to cry around the livestock. They’ll start expecting gourmet meals if they sense weakness. I hope you’ve been taking him down the trail still — even if I’m not there to cannonball in the lake with him.
There’s a river that runs right through the pastures — Juno loves it. She’d love lake Isabella more.
I finally got the irrigation system working with a little help from the guy at the feed store who I think was more interested in flirting than fixing, but hey, we got water. The sheep are healthy. Juno’s learning so fast — I think she’s as good at herding as George already. When she’s working the field, I catch myself thinking how proud George would be of her... and how proud you’d be if you saw me now.
I finished fixing the entire fence line myself today. Took me nearly all day — pounding in posts, pulling wire — maybe I did cuss at the sun a few times but neither of my pinkies were harmed, I promise.
Write back as soon as you get this when you can.
(Ps. Judith is nesting in my toolbox now)
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
I told George. I think he got the gist. He wagged his tail, ran three laps around the barn, and then sat by the trailhead looking ready to bolt the second I unlatched the gate. Took him down there yesterday. Water’s cold as usual, but he went in anyway. I ain’t been in the mood to swim — afraid I’ll catch myself thinking too hard about the water glinting off your skin, the sunlight on your cheeks, that pretty laugh and those perfect tits of yours that day you got me in the water. Me and Clint watched George from the shore. Didn’t help. I fell asleep after a while with my hat over my face and dreamed about you just laying right next to me anyway. Maybe spreading those thighs and getting a taste of you out in the open… right by the lake. Fuck.
Can’t say the old dog misses you any less — can’t say this old cowboy does neither — as the season’s pass. When your letter came, he carried it inside himself. Dropped it right on the porch, then stared at me as if to say: ‘well, read it, dumbass’. I did. I kept re-reading it — twenty-four times don’t know how many times, enough to make me think I already replied. That’s why it’s taken me a while to write this. Sorry, darling.
If I was standing in that pasture with you, watching Juno run and you fixing fences like it was nothing, I’d tell you plain — I’m proud as hell.
Keep writing if you’ve got the time. I’ll be waiting George’ll be waiting either way.
(Ps. Who’s this feed store guy you mentioned? Is it Troy? Please say it ain’t Troy. That boy’s way too good looking for his own good and he knows it. Way to sound like a jealous asshole Is Judith still Queen of your toolbox?)
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
Just when I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me the mailman delivered your letter. Think I gave the poor man a heart attack by the way I squealed when I saw your handwriting.
Is everything okay?
Are you okay?
If George keeps bringing my letters in like that, I might have to send him a treat basket full of bacon.
I think about that day at the lake too — all the time think it’s still my favorite memory with you of last summer. It’s also still the only way I can get off at night. Remembering how you looked, sunburned and dripping wet, hands running through your hair — wonder what they’d feel like touching all over me instead. What the fuck. He doesn’t need to know that. The pebbles under the water looked like old coins — I remember making a wish. I wish you’d kissed me. Woulda topped that day off with a cherry on top if you did it came true.
Things are coming along just fine… would you believe it if I told you the house is finally finished? Took every spare hour I had, but the porch is steady, the roof doesn’t leak, and I even got all the trim painted before the snow came in. Most days I walk through the rooms barefoot just to feel the floorboards under me, to remind myself I did all this from the ground up with my own two hands (well, kinda). I ran into some trouble with the water pressure in the kitchen sink — was gonna ask you if you could help but you’re so far away, too far away… and you’re always so busy Troy turned up in the nick of time.
He’s around a lot — the feed store guy who flirted more than he fixed? Turns out he’s not so bad with a wrench. He helped with the last stretch of plumbing, and now he keeps showing up with little things he swears the place “needs” — a bird feeder, a coat hook shaped like a horse head, a pie from his aunt. I’m starting to think he might have a crush on me.
Anyway — onto the last building job on my list; the barn. Wish me luck (I’m gonna need it).
(Ps. Judith’s got her own roost now. Top shelf of the tool shed. She’s got better real estate than I do.)
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
Now — don't go threatening my dog with bacon baskets unless you're ready to follow through. He's already spoiled as sin.
Your letters are about the only thing I look forward to these days. Was that too much? Fuck it. I’m leaving it in. I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget the way your handwriting looks — I’ll never forget you neither no matter how long it’s been. I sat with your last letter for a while before opening it. Just… held it. You ever get that way? With my letters maybe? Like if you open it too fast it’ll slip right through your fingers? Like when you slipped through mine the day you left.
Been a rough couple months. The Ranch is hanging on by a thread this Spring. Drought’s hitting hard, grass won’t grow right, and the fence line’s falling faster than I can patch it. Feels like I’m trying to hold the place together with both hands and nothing to show for it but blisters and another night of not sleeping. Ain’t nothing I can’t handle.
George — he’s slowing down. Took him near fifteen minutes to get up the back steps yesterday. His eyes are bright, but he don’t play like he used to. He’s slacking at herding too — lost a couple sheep just the other day cause he couldn’t hear me calling and his sight ain’t as good as it was. But he perks up when I say your name — or “bacon” (if that ain’t selective hearing I don’t know what is). Still whines at the trailhead by the lake. Still waits on your letters like a lovesick pup too.
As for me — I’m falling apart fine keeping busy. Fixed the barn door last week and got the south field tilled as best I could — my back’s begging me for mercy. You don’t gotta worry about me though.
You do gotta worry about this Troy fella. I remember him. The one with the shiny truck and the big mouth. He still got that slicked back hair? He’s a fucking asshole Can’t say I like him all that much — can’t say I blame him for being sweet on you neither. Maybe he sees what I should’ve held onto tighter. I don’t like the sound of him hanging around. A man brings gifts like that, it ain’t cause the house needs a coat hook. He’s trying to put down roots in something you built from scratch. I know I ain’t got a say but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about knocking on that feed store door and letting him know he oughta tread real careful. Just… don’t let someone sweet-talk you into settling for something smaller than you deserve. You built that house. You’re building that life. You don’t need someone coasting on your hard work like it’s his own. I mean it.
Keep going. That barn’s gonna stand tall, just like the rest of what you built. If you get stuck or need someone to scare off Troy… well. You know who to call (not fucking Troy. Anyone but fucking Troy). I might not have much left here, but I still got that hammer and two good hands.
(Ps. Can’t quite make out what your wish was. Next time don’t cross it out so I can make it come true… if it ain’t too late.)
(Pps. Plenty of things I wish I’d done to you that day.)
— Joel’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I hope Georgie is feeling better after feasting on the bacon from the treat basket I sent. Did you get the Polaroid of me and Juno? Did you recognize her? I can’t believe she’s almost one already. Did you get the one of the house too? The land? The sheep? Dixie? Oh, and Judith in her toolshed condo? I tucked them all into the side so they wouldn’t fall out.
I didn’t write back right away. I pressed your letter flat against my chest and held it there a while — giggling like I was sixteen again. I figured I should cool off before saying something I couldn’t take back — but you and I both know I was never any good at keeping my mouth shut.
Your letter — what you wrote about Troy — I heard it loud and clear. I ain't letting him lay claim. Not now. Not ever. This place is mine. My blood's in the soil, my sweat's in every wall. And my heart... well. That’s with you That's another story.
You said you couldn’t make out what I’d written in that last letter. The part I crossed out. You always said I was braver than I gave myself credit for. So here goes I guess:
I wished you’d kissed me in the lake.
When I was wet-haired and laughing you looked at me like I was some answer you’d been waiting years to find (I wasn’t imagining it, was I?) and in that moment I needed you to do it more than I needed to buy my own land. I needed your hands on me so bad — maybe on my cheeks first, all soft and careful like the way you held my pinkie finger that same day… then maybe slipping down to my waist… maybe lower.
You should’ve kissed me, Joel.
I know we can’t go back in time. But that doesn’t stop me from replaying it like we can. Over and over. Trying to imagine what would’ve happened if you did. Maybe I wouldn’t be writing this from an empty bed.
Why did you splash me instead?
I’ve been so buried in this barn rebuild I barely know what day it is. I’m either on a ladder or carrying lumber and paint buckets these days so Troy offered to drop my letters in the post — I’m taking him up on that until I can catch my breath again. Don’t roll your eyes — it’s just postage, not a proposal.
(Ps. If you ever needed a reason to come by, the barn could sure use your hands… I could too. Just saying. You’re the only one I’d trust to help me finish it right.)
(Pps. Maybe then you could decide if it’s too late to make my wish come true.)
— your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I keep telling myself that the ranch is keeping you up to your elbows in work — that you’re probably too tired to pick up a pen and write me by the end of the day. But I ain’t gonna lie and say it hasn’t crossed my mind that maybe it’s me… maybe it was what I wrote before. I should’ve kept that stupid little wish to myself instead of spilling it all over the stupid page like an idiot who doesn’t know when to zip it.
Maybe I crossed a line.
Maybe I scared you off.
Maybe it was too much.
Maybe I was too much.
I’m sorry if I was.
I didn’t mean to throw it at you like that. You did ask. All I did was answer. What did you want me to do? Lie? I didn’t want to lie. I couldn’t lie. You always knew when I was lying. You woulda seen straight through my writing too. I’m sure of it.
You don’t have to write nothing about it.
Forget I even wrote it.
I’d rather you forget it than stop writing altogether.
I could still do with an extra pair of hands with the barn… if you’re still offering.
— still your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
I’m not sure if you’re just real busy or if my last few letters have found their way into the bottom of a drawer somewhere — but I’ll keep writing anyway. Feels strange not to. You’ve always been the one I wanted to tell things to, even the boring stuff.
The barn’s coming along. Slowly. And stubbornly. Every beam I put up feels like an argument I’m winning. The roof’s half done, and I’ve managed not to fall off it (yet). Troy keeps showing up with his sleeves rolled and something smug on his face. There's been some talk around town lately — folks with big mouths and not much else to do, I guess it was bound to happen with the amount of time Troy spends here. I don’t know if word’s gotten all the way out to you, but he's just been helping with the barn, hanging around because I needed the hands and he's got the time… it's never been anything more than that. It's never even crossed my mind to want more than that — not when my heart's already with you at your ranch someplace else, and it's not anywhere Troy could ever reach.
It's not him I'm waiting for when the evenings get quiet and the sky turns that deep blue I know you love. He's not the one I’m awake for at ridiculous hours to write letters like this. I guess they don't really matter to you anymore (if they ever even did). Still — I needed you to read it from me, not to hear it twisted from anybody else.
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
The mailbox is collecting nothing but dust — either way, I thought you oughta know: the barn’s built.
Finally.
There’s a couple boards that don’t sit flush, and if you look close you’ll see where I had to patch up some mistakes, but it’s standing proud and strong and somehow still here after the first big rain. Sometimes I catch myself talking to it like it’s alive, like it knows how much I gave just to see it finished. I think you’d understand that better than most.
Today I left the back door open and just sat in the middle of the floor, watching the sun pour in.
It’s funny. I thought once it was done, I’d feel… finished, too. Like maybe I could stop chasing this vision I’ve had for myself and just enjoy it. It’s all I’ve known for as long as I can remember — this dream of having land of my own. It was all I needed. But as I was sitting there, all I could think about was how wrong empty it felt without you.
Now it feels like I built this place hoping someone else might come find a home in it with me. (You.)
Would you come see it? Bring George with you?
Juno’d love it. I would too.
It’s just us, Dixie and the livestock.
Troy’s found someone new to charm, I suppose — and I’m glad for it (you’ll be glad to know too, or not… I don’t know anymore). He still takes my letters but he don’t linger no more. Feels better that way, cleaner somehow, like maybe the land itself shook off all the things that didn’t belong. Hasn’t stopped the rumors though. You probably heard the latest ones, that we’re shacked up and married with six kids, oh, and that there was a ring in the last pie Troy brought over from his aunt’s… surely you don’t believe any of it.
If you could see the way I sit out on the porch at night with Juno at my feet (she insists on taking that gingham blanket you wrapped her up in for me everywhere she goes even though she’s way too big for it now). She leaves a little space for George and I leave a space beside me for you in case the two of you might appear and watch the stars with us like we never left you both behind. Maybe then you’d know that no matter what gets spread outside our gates, our hearts are where I’m afraid they’ve always been — Juno’s with her old pa and mine with you.
You can forget I ever wrote this too… please don’t.
(Ps. The barn’s got a good corner stall. Big enough for a brute like Clint, or a man if he needed a place to lay low for a while.)
(Pps. I’m afraid Judith has moved into the spare lodging and she likes screaming real loud in the morning. She also likes pecking Troy’s boots so hard he trips and falls every time — and she’s been laying eggs like a machine… Might be the only girl on this land who’s got her shit together.)
— always your Sunshine’
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‘Joel,
I've stopped waiting by the mailbox, mostly. Told myself I wouldn't keep count of the days since your last letter, but I have. It's been one hundred and eighty-two. I don't even know if you still live at the same place, if my words are just sitting in some pile you never open. If you’ve grown tired of me.
You said once you didn’t mind the sound of my voice — even when it wouldn't quit… you also said once that you cared about me but you can’t be bothered to answer any of my damn letters?
You’re so full of shit. Asshole.
It's been hard not hearing from you. I would only think about you when the work got quiet, or when I was sore at the end of a long day. But now it's all the time. Like missing you is something I do alongside breathing.
Why did you stop writing?
Was what I wrote really that bad?
Was it cause I told you I was gonna leave someday?
Was it cause you never let yourself need anything that could walk away from you?
Was it cause you don’t feel the same and didn’t have the guts to write it?
I spent so long believing you were just quiet. That maybe you couldn't find the words. That maybe the silence meant something tender. But now I'm thinking it was just silence. I’m a big girl, I can handle getting hit with rejection… but you know I can’t handle empty silence. You know how much I hate it.
All I’m asking for is a few lines from you. Just something so I know you’re still alive, that you haven’t forgotten me entirely.
(Ps. The ranch is growing. I bought another few acres to the south — orchard land. I think I'm gonna try peaches.)
— still your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Joel,
This’ll be the last letter, I think. Even a chatterbox like me can only keep talking to silence for so long before I start to feel like I’m going crazy.
My house — my barn — my land… it looks how I always dreamed it would. It’s the kind of place I used to draw in my notebooks when I was little, the kind of place I thought maybe only existed in stories. It’s everything I told you I needed. I just didn’t realize it at the time, that I needed you too. Not until now.
Juno’s keeping watch, sitting at the edge of the porch like she owns the place, ears perked and eyes sharp, even though she knows there’s nothing dangerous out here but her own loneliness. Mine too.
We can’t keep waiting on you to answer like this. She’s got sheep to herd. I’ve got land to maintain, livestock to look after, peaches and flowers to pick. I can’t even swim in the river anymore without thinking about how much I needed you to kiss me in lake Isabella. I think part of me's still floating there, waiting for you to pull me closer, a warm hand on my hip, sun in your eyes, asking if it's okay before you do it. You could’ve just done it and I would’ve let you… but you didn’t.
I’m sitting here with my pen hovering over this page, trying to find the right way to prove I’ve meant every word I’ve written you without making things worse than I already have.
I love
Fuck
Am I really gonna write this
Fuck it
You’re not gonna read it anyway
I love you, Joel Miller.
Always did.
Probably always will. But I need to stop reaching for something that doesn’t wanna hold me.
I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re safe and I hope that George is still wagging his tail for bacon strips, wherever you are.
Goodby
(Ps. If you ever do find yourself missing me… you know the way.)
— Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
The vastness of your ranch spread out before you in a way that still took your breath away. The land had tested you, challenged you, and at times, nearly broken you. But as the golden hour approached, you feel as though you're being cradled in its arms — being held steady after years of uncertainty.
The wind has teeth this evening.
Not the kind that rips or howls—but the low, gnawing kind that seeps through the seams of your coat and catches in the crooks of your bones. An early spring in Texas didn't always bring storm or rain, but it brought chill, and it hung over the land like a veil. The sun is pale in a sky the color of pewter, and the frost hadn't yet burned off the tall grass. Each blade shimmers like glass.
Juno, your constant — your loyal companion, moves through the grass beside you, her sleek black and white coat contrasting with the vibrant green earth. She's as part of the land as the other animals you'd been devoting your life to. The sheep, now grazing peacefully at the far end of the pasture, look content in their solitude.
Your work for the day had been done—crops tended to, your milk cow, Betty, given her evening grain, Dixie fed and brushed—both of them in their stalls for the night. You decide it's time to gather the sheep, to urge them into their own shelter beside the barn. You click your tongue, and Juno's ears perk up. She immediately turns her focus to the herd, running off to them with graceful precision like the prodigy she is.
“Easy, girl!” You call out, grinning. The sheep bunch together, docile under Juno's movements. You jog to keep up, the sweet scent of trampled grass and wildflowers filling your nostrils, and a laugh escapes you — loud and careless. “Good girl! That's it, Juno! Get 'em! Go 'round!” you holler, cupping your gloved hands around your mouth.
Juno barks once as she swoops around the herd. She veers left and then right, rounding up the sheep with an energy oozing pure mischief. The flock bawl and stumble in confusion, a few ewes trying to make a break for it — but Juno is faster. She flies behind them, crouched low, her body taut with excitement.
You watch her with pride swelling in your chest — she is full-grown now, all lean muscle and boundless spirit, though she still has the same spark she did as a pup. The sheep bleat in protest but Juno is persistent and you know exactly where she got that from — she's a chip off of old George's block. She races, expertly rounding them up into one bumpy mass.
“Okay now you're just showin' off, aren't you, Junebug?” you tease, hands on your hips.
She barks again, then waits.
You whistle — the command to settle.
Juno freezes, mostly, her tail sways in the grass.
“Not bad for a couple'a rookies, huh?” Juno woofs in agreement.
You saunter closer to the flock, planning to lead them through the wooden gate into their pen... but Juno's ears prick — and without warning, she snaps her head up, nose twitching furiously. The sheep shift uneasily, sensing the change in her energy.
“Juno.” You steadily step towards the sprightly dog.
She gives a soft whine, her attention drawn somewhere else.
“Juno.” You take another careful step. Your confidence falters as she continues to ignore you. It isn't the first time she's gotten distracted and you know she'll bolt if you're not cautious, but usually it doesn't take much more than one call of her name to coax her back into the task at hand. “Juno?”
Her head snaps in your direction and for a second you think you've broken her out of her trance, but she looks... uncertain. In a flash she is gone, streaking away from you and toward the far edge of the field, faster than you'd ever seen her move.
“Hey!” You shout, losing your composure instantly, “Juno, no! Get back here!”
She doesn't even glance back.
You don't hesitate to tear after her, dodging through the sheep, their wool brushing your legs. Your heart is pounding in sync with your boots hitting the ground — legs pumping with urgency. You vault the fence without thinking, boots hitting the ground with a frosty crack. The sheep are scattered behind you now, but you don't look back.
You are running blind, your scarf flying off your neck as you fly past the Bur Oak tree that Betty and Dixie like to doze under in the next pasture.
“Wait up! Juno!” Your voice echoes, lost in the expanse of the land. The dog’s shape is reduced to a small dot as she beelines for the tree line framing the wide river, toward the far edge of the ranch. She zooms past your ranch-house, the toolshed, the cabin, the coop and, lastly, where your land gives way to open country.
The main road is up ahead, the dusty gravel ribbon of it, and beyond it, the county highway — large vehicles barreling by without a care in the world.
A fear slams into you, hot and blinding — the image of a speeding truck, the sound of screeching brakes, the sickening thud of impact.
“Goddammit, Juno! STOP!” you scream, your voice raw with terror. You stumble harder, faster, reckless with the thought of her — your girl — running headlong into danger.
She skids to a halt.
Abrupt, frantic, paws digging into the dirt, throwing up a spray of dust around her.
You freeze mid-stride, nearly tripping over your own feet as you struggle to see what had made her stop so suddenly... all you're sure of is that it definitely wasn't because you'd desperately demanded for her to.
That's when you see the end of the invisible string that Juno had been nudging you to follow all along.
A flash of movement — a figure with a horse in tow walking up the path leading to the heart of the ranch from your front gate.
They're nothing more than a silhouette against the late sun, the light blinding and harsh, turning them into dark shadows cut from the sky.
Juno narrows the distance between her and them by a few yards, barking wildly — not in fear, not in warning, but in pure joy.
She throws herself at the figure, her whole body quivering, tail a white blur of motion.
The man —
He stiffly drops to one knee, the weight of his duffel bag on one shoulder and guitar case on the other had clearly been hurting him by the way he slumps them onto the ground. His hand comes up, offering it for Juno to sniff before burying it into her fur, holding onto her like a man drowning in a river would hold onto a branch.
Your lungs seize, useless in your chest.
You'd expected to see a coyote, a stray dog, a trespasser... not him.
Not Joel.
Not after two years of no written reply from him.
You'd told yourself a hundred times you were over it. Over him. That he was a chapter closed and done with. But seeing him now — clutching Juno to his chest like she's the only good thing left in the world, and her looking up at him like she'd been waiting her whole life to see him again — you realize you never stopped carrying those seasons you spent working together in your heart.
After pawing at his chest and licking his chin Juno drops back down to the ground, spinning in a tight circle before darting around him — sniffing behind his legs, then trotting to the left, nose to the wind. She lets out a quick bark, as if she'd forgotten something.
And then she whimpers. A puzzled, soft little sound. She stares up at him, then behind him again. Searching.
She's looking for George.
She circles him again, nose twitching, paws scuffing the dirt. She looks around him, examining his shadow like it's supposed to have one more set of paws beside it. She lets out another whine, even softer this time, her tail slowing. Then she sits right in front of him, head tilted, brow creased in that funny, thoughtful way dogs do when they can't quite understand where something's gone.
Joel doesn't speak. He just shakes his head.
No words. Just that tiny shake. A quiet answer.
Your throat tightens.
You feel it in your ribs — a dull ache. George had been there at the start. That cranky old Border Collie had been Joel’s second shadow, always watchful, always ready. You used to joke that George was the one in charge. That Joel was just his hands.
The idea of him gone — the space between Joel and Clint empty? You can’t fathom it.
Joel stands up with a grunt you can't quite hear and Juno noses at Joel's boot, giving one last huff before curling herself close to his leg again. She leans into him, pressing her face into the fabric of his jeans, trying to comfort him. Joel's hand comes down to rest on her head, comforting her in return.
He hasn't seen you yet. You're too far away and the brim of his cowboy hat is blocking a majority of his sight. Or maybe he has seen you and can't bring himself to look.
Slowly—so slowly—you pace forward, the frozen grass crackling underfoot, the cold biting high along your cheekbones until you're on the path Joel'd been walking up. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly for warmth, partly to stop yourself from shaking apart, panicking and running the other direction. You'd done this many times, usually to meet the postman, Troy or to check the road for deliveries.
The scrape of your boots alerts Joel and Juno as soon as you’re no more than three steps away from them.
Joel stares at you, his face blank—his mind struggling to process seeing you in the flesh.
The dog gives you a look as if to say: “it’s about time you joined us.”
Joel shifts awkwardly, lowering his eyes. He pulls his hat off and holds it to his chest, clutching it tightly in both hands. His hair is longer now, curling out at the edges, falling messily over his ears and shirt-collar —streaked with more silver. A gust of cold wind stirs it, and he doesn’t move to fix it.
He looks older.
That's the first thing that strikes you — not in a cruel way, just... truthful. The years had carved themselves into him — deliberate and unrelenting. The Joel standing at your gate isn't the same man who had handed you a puppy and asked you to stay with him four years ago. He'd been worn down — broken and weathered in that quiet, tragic way only time and loss could manage.
His frame is still broad, still unmistakably strong, but there's a leaner edge to it — a kind of hollowness at the shoulders — something vital had been carved out of him and never filled back in. His clothes are simple and dust-covered: faded jeans that cling to the muscle of his thighs, a worn green and black button-down, threadbare at the cuffs, scuffed boots that are white at the toes — creased with every step it took to get here — and a canvas jacket. You know it well. You'd stitched that shoulder, back when it had caught a nail after he'd insisted on fixing a fence post on a particularly cold night at his ranch. You sat on a stool outside your lodging with the jacket slung over your lap and a needle in hand — your fingers trembled so much — they were practically blue it was that freezing. Joel came walking down to your cabin from his ranch-house with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, handed you one and sat on a tree stump opposite you without a word. It was unexpected. It was also the night you realized you didn't mind the quiet… as long as you shared it with Joel.
He looks like he hasn't done a single thing for the benefit of his own health, sure, but he's as ruggedly handsome as he was that night.
“Joel,” you manage to utter, your voice so small you barely hear it yourself. “What’re you—”
“Land’s somethin’ special.” His sad, sunken eyes skim past you, scanning over your ranch. “If anyone was gonna make somethin’ of it, it’d be you.”
You don’t respond. You just watch him with your mouth ajar—the way he keeps his shoulders stiff, the way he refuses to even meet your eyes.
“Always knew you deserved better than what my old shithole of a ranch was offerin’ for a life.”
Your fingers curl at your sides. You want to grab him, shake him, tell him you would’ve built this place with him if he’d only showed up. Tell him you never needed better — you needed him. “Joel—” you start, but he cuts you off, voice too casual to match the exhaustion in his facial features.
“You don’t gotta fuss over me, alright?” He finally glances your way, offering the ghost of a smile. “I ain’t here for a pity party. Just… figured I’d stop by. See it for myself.”
“Bullshit,” you scoff.
“‘Scuse me?”
“You heard me — if you wanted to see it that bad why didn’t you stop by two years ago?”
He ducks his head, ashamed, and nervously fiddles with the brim of the hat you named the “grumpy man’s crown” upon your first week of working with him, when you couldn’t get more than five words out of him… you feel like you’re back to square one all over again.
Without thinking, you reach out and grab his arm — solid under your fingers, tense with hesitation. His skin burns hot through the fabric of his jacket. He stiffens, surprised, but doesn’t pull away. You hook your spare hand around the strap of his duffel bag and grab the battered guitar case from where it’s slumped against his boot, completely ignoring his grumbled protests about doing his carrying for him. You tug at him — not gentle — dragging him toward the house with a strength you didn’t know you had.
Joel lets you, weakly whistling for Clint to follow.
The second part of Dust Dreams & Juno will be posted today! It’s going to be shorter than usual as I’ve decided that there will be more parts (maybe four?)
I’m so sorry for how slow I’ve been at writing recently. I’ve been going through some stuff that has kinda fucked up my flow a bit but I promise I’m writing where I can and am not at all giving up on Dust Dreams & Juno or Long Long Time! 🩷🩷
rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)
chapter: 11.4k
story tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.
a/n: Sorry it's a little late, got some shitty inbox comments from anons but I wanted to get this out to you.
As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going.
For those requesting to be tagged Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates I also post most of my work on A03.
F*ck-It List masterlist here
Number Seven
Joel doesn’t dream of her often, but when he does it’s always the freckles over her nose. He doesn’t know why that minute detail clings to the interconnecting strands of his brain, but it does. That dusting of light brown over her roman nose.
And then it’s that bed. The sheets. The stomach plummet.
His dream turns fitful, visions of dark forest and empty plains scatter across his cerebellum, his chest tight as he fights to speak. Flashes of color appear there, similar to when he's pressed his knuckles into closed eyes, rubbing tenderly after a long day.
And then a soothing warmth, sunlight peeking through the cracks of darkness. Pleasure at the edges, bleeding into his body like molasses.
His body wakens before his brain does. Joel he slides into consciousness with a sluggish groan, his body heavy below the waist.
"F-fuck."
The world is blurry but his hips are lifting, hands palm flat on the mattress. He's on his back and it takes him a moment to realize where he is.
The hotel. Last night. Making you come. Shit, he fell asleep beside you. What was—
He feels like he's going to come and he doesn't know why. Not at first. But then he realizes the distinct sensation of wet warmth around his cock it becomes apparent.
His bleary eyes take in the shape underneath the covers, the warm body positioned between his legs. That same sweet wet pleasure is enveloping his cock and his spine tingles. He groans, throwing back the bed sheet to see you nestled between his legs on your belly.
As the sheet is thrown back your eyes blink wide. You're still naked save for your panties, breasts squashed against the mattress. Your hands are gripping his upper thighs for purchase and your mouth is full of his throbbing cock.
You smile around it when your eyes meet.
"What're you doin'?" He asks in a scratchy voice, his hips jumping when you slowly pull off of him. His cock falls from between your lips, a string of spit connecting the tip to your glossy bottom lip.
Joel stares at his erect cock glistening with your saliva. It twitches as he moves his eyes up to you in a daze. You’re smiling.
“Number seven," you murmur, mouth starting to trail along the seam of his inner thigh.
"Huh?"
It comes to him like a slap across the cheek. Number Seven; wake up partner with oral.
The mirth drains from your expression when he doesn't smile back at you. He watches as your face slowly drops, eyes turning owlish.
"Oh shit... Oh shit, I didn't … I'm so sorry I didn't even ask if that was okay. Oh my God I didn’t even ask consent. Oh fuck, I just assumed because-“ you push up from him aggressively, baring your breasts.
You give a terrified yelp, hands covering your chest as you cringe
“Oh and fuck my tits are out! This is so bad!”
Joel can see that you're working yourself up into a frenzy. You try to back up and away from him but he sits up, lurching forward. His large hand locks around your shoulder, keeping you in place. He stares at you with heavily lidded eyes before shaking his head.
"Don't stop."
Your mouth hangs open for a split second, concern and indecision slowly draining from your features. “You’re sure?
“Never been surer of anythin’in my entire fuckin’ life.”
There’s remaining hesitation in your face, but Joel is firm. He lifts his heavy hand from your shoulder and lies back down again.
“If you want this, I want it.”
His head hits the pillow and he stares down the length of his body at you. His cock still stands at attention, throbbing and waiting. You stare at Joel until he gives you a slow wink.
Go on, now.
You shoot him a shy grin before moving back to the position you were in before. You liked it better when the sheet was over you, when Joel was groaning and rolling his hips before he could see you. It made you feel more confident. Now you falter, feeling his scrutiny.
There's the slightest bit of nervousness as your face moves back, the tip of your tongue coming to slip up his twitching length. But when he groans at the sight you seem to regain your confidence.
Joel moans when he feels the hot scorch of your mouth circling the head of his cock. His legs spread wider, encouraging you to snuggle there between them, your tongue curving as your head tilts back.
He could watch you for hours, could lay here in this soft bed with your mouth on him, your skin glowing in the early morning. Your eyes fall shut, head slowly bobbing as you groan. Joel can feel the vibrations traveling down his shaft.
He can't help himself, a large hand comes to your cheek, fingers tracing along your jaw. He feels the delicate bone under his touch, tapping ever so gently.
"Eyes on me."
His voice is cracked with sleep, heavy and approving. Your eyes flash to his without question, open and eager. Your fingers curl into the meat of his thighs before your right comes to grip him at the base.
"Tell me what you like," you whisper, echoing his words from last night.
"Just keep doin' what you were doin' before I woke up," Joel groans, his neck tilting back into the pillow. He keeps his hooded eyes on you, feeling goose bumps rise all along his body as you continue to stare up at him.
"Like this?" You ask, giving the head of him a slow, sloppy lick. When his lower lip trembles you do it again and again. You stroke slowly as you continue to suck, focusing all your energy on his pleasure.
“Attagirl,” he groans, pleased when you offer a small whimper at that.
He's only got a T-shirt on, the rest of him bare. He should feel more exposed but with your warm body and your hair falling over his thighs he's never felt so relaxed.
"Fuck," Joel groans, watching as you lap at the head of his cock. "Fuck, you look good doin' that."
You flush, lowering your eyes, not seductively as most women, but shyly.
"Keep goin'," he urges in a raspy morning voice. "C'mon pretty girl, you've got this."
He sees the way you silently preen at that. Pretty Girl. Your mouth envelops his cock again and a rumble escapes him. The wet sounds of your mouth working on him are sinful in the quiet room.
This is so wrong, he tells himself as your nails dig into the meat of his thighs. Your best friend's daughter is suckin’ your cock right now.
But he can't find it in himself to stop you. Especially not when he glances down to see your head beginning to bob up and down, your eyes rolling back.
It's turning you on. Sucking his cock is turning you on.
Greedily he reaches forward, hands sliding up either side of your neck. You shiver under his deft touch. His wide fingers comb upwards through your hair, collecting the strands in a loose ponytail.
"Can I?"
You nod his way and he tightens his hold. It must pull pleasurably on your roots because you offer a husky moan that reverberates around the head of his shaft. He feels himself hurtling off the edge but it's too soon.
He wants to savor this early morning sensuality with the light illuminating the drapes, casting the entire room in a soft yellow glow. It touches your shoulders, your left cheek, the tips of your lashes. It makes the spit on his cock turn glossy.
"Slower," he rasps, holding your ponytail and tugging lightly, pulling you off of him. Your breathing is shallow and you nod obediently.
"Yes, Mister Miller."
It slips out, an innocuous comment borne from repetition. You're so focused on the task at hand it's like being at your desk working on Joel's contract. But the honorific causes Joel to make a choking noise in the back of his throat. Your brow rises in interest, clearly observing how the term affected Joel.
He’s laid out there before you, legs parted, stomach twitching, eyes heavy with need and sleep. His mouth is so fucking pouty right now, parted in disbelief as he watches you. Overwhelmed your eyes drop to his belly as you take him deeper, melting into him.
"Keep your eyes on me."
A whisper of a smile is there at the edge of your full mouth. "Yes, Mister Miller."
Fuck fuck fuck. Why is that getting his cock so hard? You start to slowly swallow his thick length once more and to his delight your eyes actually remain on his face as you do. This is the woman he was told of; bold and confident, not the scared mouse that runs around the office.
When you deep throat him Joel actually feels dizzy. How long has it been since this? This quiet, comfortable pleasure-giving? His wife never liked oral either giving or receiving and he never faulted her for it. Some of the women years after her gave Joel delicious head but it was always sloppy and quick.
You seem to be taking your time, the architecture of your jaw moving delicately as you continue sucking him off. He gives you a sleepy smile when your eyes fall shut, your head bobbing slowly.
"You like this, huh?"
You nod, mouth stretched obscenely. You love this. You love seeing Joel's eyelids flutter when your tongue flicks the underside of his shaft. You love knowing that right now you hold all the power.
"Seem so innocent even though you suck cock like you were made for it," Joel mutters to himself, his fist still holding your hair. "Pretty fucking mouth needs my come."
Joel sees how you squirm, your eyes fluttering. He can’t help but let out a slow, syrupy sigh.
"You wanna taste it?"
You nod again and Joel feels as you nestle him there between your tongue and the hollow concave of your upper palate. Joel feels the tingle in his spine, his hips circling, his brows knitting.
You suck once more and Joel feels it all come to a crescendo.
"Darlin' gir-" Joel starts, his breathing tight before he catches himself.
Darling girl.
If he wasn't already on the brink Joel might have gone soft right then. As it was your eyes flicked to his, blinking slowly, tongue swirling. You want it. His head is thrown back as he comes, hips undulating as he floods your mouth. He holds himself still, his hand on your ponytail urging you to keep sucking until he finally lowers his ass to the sheets once more, spent.
His eyes are clenched tightly, body electric as you swallow before slowly pulling off of him. Joel's neck and cheeks are red, his eyes wide as he stares at you. You lay there between his legs, eyes bright, lips glossy and you're still smiling.
"That was fun."
You give a soft little laugh, like you still can't believe this happened. You don't look regretful or disappointed. And Joel should be elated by that, he should feel heady and sated. He should feel anything but this overwhelming guilt that's eating him away the more the two of you lay there.
The silence stretches too long for you though, because you give another quick smile and push yourself up, covering your breasts with your forearm.
"I'm gonna get dressed."
Joel can only nod slowly, even as his brain screams that he wants to make you come on his tongue. That he wants to swap places and have you arching into the plush bedding.
But you're grabbing the robe beside the bed, cinching it at your waist and grabbing your clothes on your way to the bathroom.
Joel hears the shower going and propels himself out of bed, tugging up his boxer briefs as he mutters to himself.
"Fuck... Fuck..."
Things have changed. This is not the emotional complexity he was expecting.
You reappear shortly with your hair damp and your body dressed in tights and a sweatshirt. But all the clothing in the world can’t erase what he’s seen of you. He watches you pack your belongings in your bag, your face placid.
And just as he thinks of something to say, something to end all of this you turn a beaming smile on him and offer a sweet “See you at work.” Then you’re out the door with a spring in your step, your bag tapping against your thighs as you go.
///
I can’t believe I did that.
You’d been half asleep when the idea came to you, snuggled in Joel’s arms with his erection prodding into your lower back. A quick glance over had confirmed he was still out cold and you had a thrum between your legs began that could not be quieted. When he gave a soft snort and flipped onto his back, still deeply asleep it had been the last push you needed.
You were trembling when you shrugged off your robe, slipping between the covers until you were face to face with the tent in his boxer briefs. You knew that there was no going back from this, and that excited instead of terrifying you.
Seeing Joel from that angle was so much less intimidating. On his back with a saddling brow making low, rumbling groans. Holding your hair, looking at you with disbelief as he murmured pretty girl. He was so fucking delicious it's hard to breathe.
Seem so innocent even though you suck cock like you were made for it. Attagirl. Pretty fucking mouth needs my come. Attagirl. Keep your eyes on me. Attagirl.
Joel's mouth should be registered as a weapon because his words are burning you alive from the inside even hours later. You still can't believe you were there, sucking his cock, feeling so powerful as his groans turned gravelly.
You replay the entirety of what happened in your mind, from the awkward phone conversation whisper-asking him if he had protection, to the way his voice rumbled when you had his cock in your mouth. You're almost home when the smile you've been wearing almost the entire drive suddenly fades.
Why did Joel have protection?
Why would he have condoms if he was going away for a business meeting? He sure as hell didn't expect you out there for a visit. Something goes through your center, a slithering ugly thing that comes along with the realization that Joel obviously planned on getting laid out there.
The very bed you woke up in is the bed Joel likely fucked some woman in only days... Or maybe hours before. The thought makes your stomach turn and the rest of your drive home is in a uneasy silence.
You push inside the house only to be greeted to the familiar scent of dark roast coffee. You're hoping your father grabbed an early cup and is gone for the day. You don't exactly feel like listening to more of his strange TikTok lingo.
But as you round the hallway you see his argyle socked feet splayed out in front of him on the recliner, a half empty cup of coffee at his elbow. He doesn't seem to notice you're home yet.
An old baseball rerun on the TV plays quietly in front of him. But his attention is on the phone in his hand, a look of concentration on his face. You watch as his fingers fly across the screen, typing out what looks like a long text message.
You lower your bag to the floor and it hits a little louder than expected against the wood. Your dad starts at the sound and quickly flips the phone face-down on the arm of the chair, giving you a smile as he glances your way.
"Hey, Trix."
"Hey Dad. What's up?"
"Nothing much." You're dad gives a tight smile your way, scratching the side of his nose. "Just watching the game."
His phone gives a chirruping notification but he makes no attempt to answer it. He pushes back his hair, eyes just a little too wide. "The weather good this morning?”
Seriously? The weather?
"Not bad. A bit muggy for this time of year but..." You shrug as if to say what else is new?
You're dad continues to sit in the recliner looking agitated. "Yeah, good. Good."
You wait for him to say something about the overnight bag at your feet, but he seems distracted, desperate to find a new topic.
"I meant to tell you yesterday, we're gonna have some of the staff over for the Superbowl party this weekend so if you have any food requests lemme know."
"Loaded potato skins for me." You toss over your shoulder as you prepare to head for your bedroom. You're about to step away when something stops you, nose wrinkling in surprise.
"Wait, isn't it Jo- Mister Miller's turn? We hosted last year, right?"
Your dad gives a soft grimace before settling back in his chair. "Yeah, well, I wanted to do it this year."
"Really?"
Your dad and Joel always take turns hosting. You've never attended one of the infamous Superbowl parties but you don't love it when it's hosted here at your place.
"We'll, with Tess coming on board n' all that I thought it would be nice to show her some Mill Group hospitality. And since Joel is still in a bad way about it, I figured I should take over this year."
You give a hum of vague interest, remembering what Joel said about Tess. How his instincts tell him she's untrustworthy. You can't say that you felt the same, but then again judging people isn't always your strong suit.
Could you have ever imagined Joel helping you with your list?
The phone chirrups again and you see your dad wince. Strange. You take a long look at your father, concern growing in the flutter of your pulse as you stare at the downturned phone. You can't ignore the way he looks almost sheepish, the way his eyes don't quite meet yours so he forces them to the television.
Is something wrong with the company? Is this why Tess was brought on in the first place?
Your dad starts to motion to the television, making some comment on the golf game but you're far too preoccupied with the thought that something is wrong.
"Dad, how's the company doing?"
"Huh?" Your dad turns away from the screen, silencing it with the remote. "Whadda you mean?"
"Like financially. Is the company doing okay?"
You're dad is unreadable, but his brows knit. "You worried about the company?"
"Not worried, more just curious."
"Ah, well that makes sense." Your dad relaxes slightly in his chair, shoulders less tense. "It's good you're taking an interest."
"Oh?"
He nods, looking pleased. "It is a family business after all. You should know the goings on." He shifts. "I always thought it was too bad Joel didn't have a son for you to marry so we could keep it in the family."
Your dad chuckles at his little joke as you internally cringe.
"Anyway, I’m glad you're taking an interest, Trix. And in answer to your question we've had a better quarter this year than ever. Even with the whole Brian thing."
"What Brian thing?"
Your dad makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand. "Nothing. All you need to know is that the company is doing great."
His phone chirps again and both of you go to look at it, your dad's cheeks stained red.
"Dad who keeps texting?"
"Uh, oh, your brother," your dad says quickly, eyes averted. "He wanted to talk about uh, personal stuff."
Strike one.
Your brother never texts and if he does, he sure as fuck isn't getting emotional. He's a technical engineer in the military that's up to his ears in work at all times. You're lucky to get a text from him every couple of weeks.
"Really. Huh. Weird, I haven't heard from him lately."
"Yeah, he's got a new girlfriend he wanted me to... Know about."
Strike two.
Your dad is practically puce at this point. But as if he can tell more questions are coming his way your dad forces a broad smile your way. "And how was your night? Where did you go again?"
Surprise home run for the old man.
You slowly back away, a chagrined look on your face, tugging your bag along with you.
"It was nice. Talk to you later, dad."
///
When you walk to the office on Monday you feel strangely buoyed. You wear new heels and an outfit a bit more revealing than usual. You even brought out some crimson lipstick, pleased with your reflection.
You feel like a bolder, more confident version of yourself at the coffee shop, stuffing several bills into the tip jar before sailing out with a wave to the friendly barista.
You feel more congenial, quicker to smile at those you pass in the lobby on the way to the elevator. You swish your hips a little more, toss your hair over your shoulder.
"Someone's lookin' good," Katherine from fiance says with a whistle your way. "What's your secret, lady?"
Having Joel Miller groan your name while you blow him.
"Good night's sleep I guess!"
Your good mood is somewhat dimmed when you get to your desk and find that Joel is working from home today. Something he only booked off his calendar late Sunday night when of course you couldn't see.
Your father is off-site with Tess on an upcoming project, leaving the offices behind you quiet.
Subsequently there's not much for you to do today. You play a lot of solitaire between sparse paperwork filling. You research more of the M.Arch programs in Austin before you find yourself searching overseas for similar programs and costs.
Jacob is still off sick and you're dying to go for coffee to tell him all about the weekend (except who it was with of course). You shoot him a covert text, knowing that being on the phone in the office is a Mill group no-no.
Work sucks without you.
I know. I'm the best.
You got Aki taking care of you??
Hell no. Level ten clinger.
You laugh to yourself, shaking your head.
When are you back?
Doctor said Wednesday. Think you can survive until then?
We'll see. Probably not. Lots to talk about.
wait meaning what??? What's to talk about?
Holy shit did you actually take my advice and go to the hotel?
Maybe.
Bitch you better not leave me hanging.
See you Wednesday!!
You lower the phone before glancing back at the computer.
"Are you busy?"
Kathleen's cheerful smile is above your computer, illuminated by the screen. You smile up at her cherubic face, shaking your head. "Nope."
"I wonder if I could take you to lunch? We could talk about the company BBQ and write it off as a business lunch?"
You grin, already standing and grabbing your jacket.
"I know just the place."
///
Joel sighs as he pours himself his third coffee of the morning. He watches the added sugar dissolve in the dark brown brew, feeling bleak.
His head hangs between his shoulders, dark curls falling into his forehead. He's exhausted and not from work.
He curls his fingers around the steaming mugs handle, padding back to his couch. His laptop sits there, shut. There's not much for him to do today and that doesn't matter to him. All he needed was to be away from the office.
Away from you.
At his age he should not be afraid of a woman half his age. He should not be tossing and turning with anxiety at the thought of seeing you after everything that happened.
He needs to stop all this. He can't keep this up. Not only is it wrong for all sorts of reasons to do with your father, its wrong full stop.
He'll have to talk with you about it tomorrow.
He settles into the couch, taking a sip of coffee as he boots up the laptop. The familiar logo swishes in, his email the first thing to pop up.
Three messages in inbox.
His stomach flips when he reads your name at the top with the subject line: URGENT. He swallows, quickly clicking on your email.
He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he feels strangely letdown when all he reads is:
Deetz meeting rescheduled for Friday at one pm. Owners are wanting to flip walls for the oven. Please reply with confirmation.
Why does the officiousness of your message piss him off? His brows lower, large fingers typing quickly.
You know my schedule.
He waits, actually waits there in front of his laptop, thumbnail wedged between his two front bottom teeth. And then a bolded message. You've replied quickly. His heart hiccups.
Apologies, Mister Miller, your recent last minute change to schedule made it necessary for me to confirm.
Joel scowls, knowing you're referring to his last minute switch to working from home today.
Mister Miller. He writes back an affirmative quickly before slamming the laptop shut. He's hard.
What the fuck is that about? He's pissed off at your reply. The flippant, overly professional way you've responded. It's not you, it's a mask. So why does that turn him on?
"M'fuckin' sick," he mutters to himself in the empty apartment.
He should never have agreed to this stupid sexual bucket list. You're his employee, you're younger than him, and you’re his best friend's kid for fucks sake.
It's a bad idea to continue.
Even if it does feel good. Even if it's been so long since he was so openly desired and so turned on by someone else. But it's dangerous.
Rousing next to you in bed the other morning was a wake up call. Body curled around you, inhaling your sweet scented hair feeling something that's much closer to comfort than lust. Something he hasn't felt with another woman since Michelle. It feels like a certain type of betrayal. The kind borne of years alone with too much time to think.
Guilt tugs at his lower belly, fighting with arousal at the memory of how pliant and soft you were there in the bed. Your lazy grin as you sucked him off.
He shouldn't have let you do that. Shouldn't have let you continue with him in your mouth. Shouldn't have let himself give over to the desire that felt debilitating.
"It's fucked up," he murmurs to the empty room.
He tells himself this as his large hand slips under the waistband of his sweatpants, his thick cock swelling further.
It's wrong. I should stop this.
His head falls back against the couch, chin tilting up, eyes rolling back as his fingers coat themselves in his copious pre-come.
They glide up with ease, making a fist and tugging. A groan escapes him at the delicious sensation.
Shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have. Shouldn't have done it.
His movements grow jerky when he remembers your face as he made you come. The noises you made.
Shouldn't have done it.
Your hips rolling as you ride his thigh.
Shouldn't have done it.
Your lusty cry meeting his ears.
Fuck I wanna do it again.
//
"We need to do something special," you insist between bites of the sushi you share with Kathleen. "Better than some boring old BBQ. Something that really makes the employees feel special.”
"Special," Kathleen echoes with a nod, licking wasabi from the corner of her mouth.
The two of you are at a new sushi place Jacob mentioned to you weeks ago. You felt like a change of pace. Kathleen looked overwhelmed with the choices and you were glad to guide her in the selection.
"Yeah, I mean, we had a great quarter, right? That's what my dad told me."
Kathleen nods after a moment's hesitation. "I believe so, yes."
"So let's splurge on something memorable. Maybe... A casino night with amazing prizes?"
Kathleen nods enthusiastically, making notes in her large spiral book as she bites into another dragon roll.
You notice she writes in cutesy bubble script. It seems to suit her and her large owlish eyes and round cheeks.
You've always seen Kathleen at the office, spent time with her, laughed at her corny jokes. But you've never really taken the time to look at her as a woman independent of her job here. She's pretty in her own way, you surmise, a kind of old fashioned beauty you'd find in oil paintings of medieval women.
She dresses plainly, her dark curls threaded with grey often in a ponytail. Sometimes she wears glasses, but more often than not its contact lenses. She's always kind to everyone at the office. The kind of woman who loves so freely you can't help but enjoy her company.
If she was a bit younger you actually think she'd suit someone like Joel. Someone who needs to be loved tenderly.
Huh. Where did that idea come from?
You don’t want to be thinking about Joel right now, you want to be enjoying the overflowing plate of sashimi between you and Kathleen. You want to enjoy her company and help to make this summer’s event one to remember.
"Maybe personalized swag bags?"
Kathleen is so excited she half chokes on a roll, sending bits of rice everywhere.
"Genius!"
///
Joel can still hear the sound of beeps at night. Only if he's overindulged on cheap beer or has had shitty sleep. And with that sound is the inevitable wheeze of old machinery, the click of buttons dispensing painkillers, the steady beat beat beat of her heart on the screen.
The cancer was so fast that chemotherapy was never an option. Michelle always said that this was a blessing because she got to keep her hair. She'd always had such gorgeous raven hair she'd braid to just below her chin that often smelled like peaches.
But during that last week, she looked frail in their bed at home, her hair frizzed, her cheeks gaunt.
She wanted to be at home that last week, in the cramped two-bedroom Michelle had tried to spruce up years ago on a shoestring budget. Back when they were younger and in love and didn't care about money as long as they had each other.
Back before things got complicated.
In the week leading up to her death, Michelle was often in and out of consciousness, propped up in her mountain of pillows. The Afghan her mother knitted placed over her legs.
"We never got a dog," she said weakly as the rain cried itself down the windowpane. She looked near tears as Joel crossed the room, placing his toolbox at the door before kneeling beside the bed.
"We never wanted one, honey," Joel reminded her with a palm brushing the hair from her face.
"I didn't," she corrected, turning those large brown eyes his way. "But you did."
When she wasn't mired in the "what ifs" of their relationship, she was quietly amused at Joel's poor cooking skills and how she'd wake up from a nap to find him sitting next to the bed with the football game on quietly.
"Just think, your next wife might actually like watching football," Michelle said with a wry grin.
Joel didn't smile back though. "Don't say that."
"Joel c'mon," Michelle said, pressing a hand over his forearm. His heavy hand sandwiched hers there, thumb rubbing small circles. Michelle had seen the glossy sheen to his eyes, heard the catch in his voice.
"Honey, I don't want to think-"
"Well I do," Michelle said stubbornly, mouth pursed. "And since I'm the one dyin’ here, I'd say I win the argument."
Joel couldn't help but smile at that dark humor Michelle was known for. He believes it was because she was a nurse and had seen so much dark shit that the only way to survive was to laugh. He’d never been one for dark humor though, and her inevitable death was doing nothing to change that.
"I've made a list," Michelle said, motioning to the closed notebook in front of her. "A checklist on what you need in a future wife."
"I don't want another wife," Joel said with a squaring of his broad shoulders. He couldn't imagine a topic less pleasant.
"Of course you don't right now," Michelle said with a roll of her eyes. "But you might one day. You're not that old, Joel. You won't want to spend the next forty or fifty years alone."
Joel never thought in terms of being old and alone. Every day was a struggle these weeks, barely able to keep his head above water between working and being home with Michelle. He felt her light fingertips tap him lightly.
"Just look at the list, would you?"
Joel exhaled slowly, coming to slide the notebook his way over the lap table. Michelle watched him with a curious glint in her eyes. Only Michelle would make a list like this, thinking of him in the future.
Joel cleared his throat, peering at the list with eyes that would soon need glasses. The elevens between his brows deepened.
"Number one; She has to be smart."
"I mean that's a given," Michelle said as if it were the most obvious thing ever. "If she's ambitious too then that's perfect. You don't do well with women who sit around doing nothing."
Joel nodded, amusement touching his lips as he continued.
"Number two: she has to be kind. Not just ‘gives to charity at Christmas’ kind. The real kind of kind." Joel frowned. "The hell does that mean?"
"Real kindness is done without hope of recognition," Michelle explained. "Like they wanna make the world better in their own way."
"Number three: she has to be good in bed." At this Joel lowered the book, shooting his wife a sardonic look, one brow raised. "Really, Michelle?"
"You wanna be stuck with someone who doesn't get your dick hard?"
"Jesus. Okay, number four: she has to make Joel laugh."
The book was lowered once more.
"That's an important one," Michelle said, fingers weakly rising from beside her in bed to graze his cheek.
"Sometimes you get so focused, so serious. Taking care of me and your brother and everyone else that you forget to have fun. You need someone that brings out the laughter."
Joel nodded, looking at his wife. He closed the book, not wanting to read more for the moment. Michelle fell quiet, eyes casting around the room as if to memorize it. The two of them sat in quiet contemplation.
Michelle finally gazed up at her husband, the telltale worry in her dark eyes. Guilt soon edged it out.
"Joel, I know I haven't been the best wife. Especially the last few-"
"Honey, no," Joel said, cutting her off, hands going to grip hers. "We're not doin' that."
"I know I have no right to ask you for anything."
"I'll give you anythin'," Joel promised firmly. "Anythin' you need."
"Just promise me that you won't give up on fallin’ in love again. Your heart is so big, you have so much to share. Don't hide it away." Her eyes bounced between his. "Promise me, Joel. Swear it on my life. Swear it like nothin’ you've ever sworn before."
She lay there with fat tears on her cheeks and a tremble of her full lower lip. How could he say anything else?
"I swear."
///
"Good morning, beautiful.”
A voice murmurs above you the following morning. You glance up to see Jacob there, in the flush of health with a grin on his handsome face. The rest of the office is a quiet drone in the background, but with Jacob here it feels more colorful.
"Finally!" You say, standing to wrap him in a quick hug. "This place was way too quiet without you."
You grip his shoulders, smile turning into a frown as you drop your hands from him, taking a step back. "Actually, I'm mad at you."
You fall back into your seat, fingers going back to typing. He says your name quietly and you continue playfully ignoring Jacob as he gapes at you.
"Hello? What the hell are you mad at me for?"
You covertly glance from side to side, lowering your voice to ensure that only Jacob can hear you. "I can't believe you put all those condoms in my pocket!"
His worry is replaced with glee and he hides a laugh behind a cough.
"You needed protection," Jacob defends with a muffled giggle, "unless you wanna end up with kids."
"You know I don't."
Having children has never interested you. While other children played Mommy and house, you preferred to shape LEGO in the design of unique buildings or houses. You simply couldn't relate to the idea of motherhood being something of interest.
And as you grew that feeling stayed with you, never really understanding the motivation for others to have a child. You loved them of course, but having them? No, it never sat well.
It's why you and your college boyfriend didn't work out. He wanted kids and you knew you never did. You've never felt maternal, never picked out baby names or imagined what an infant of yours would look like.
It's been the catalyst for a lot of your single years. Most of the men you've been with insist that they want kids "one day", that you'll "change your mind when you get older".
Well, you're older and the feeling is still here.
"Then you should be thanking me," Jacob grins, shrinking away when you go to slap him. "I was just trying to help a friend be safe!"
His hands wrap around your slapping wrist and the two of you collapse into laughter. It's hard to stay mad at Jacob when he's just like a mischievous real-life Puck. He mutters something about grabbing a coffee, leaving you to look at today’s schedule.
No Joel booked for today. Working off-site.
Again.
He hasn’t done this much off-site work in all the time you’ve known him.
Joel has been avoiding you all week. You’ve been ensuring that you keep it professional, only contacting him with work-related questions and more. It doesn’t mean you haven’t been jumping at the sound of your phone going off during the past few days. It’s usually Jacob or an alert from socials.
Just then there's a quiet murmur from the far hallway, the sound of an elevator ding and the energy in the room changes.
Joel is here.
You can tell it by the chill that goes through the office. The way smiles are dimmed and voices hushed. The way Kathleen walks quickly by your desk with a bunch of files in her arms and a frazzled look on her face.
"Might wanna keep your head down today,” Jake murmurs as he passes your desk on the way back from the good coffee machine. You raise your eyes from your screen, brow furrowed.
"How come?"
"Miller is here and he's in a bad fucking mood."
"What? He's not on the schedule." You click to make sure, frowning when you see he was supposed to be working off-site. He didn’t update the schedule. Your eyes sail back to Jacob. "Why is he in a bad mood?"
"No idea. Your dad and him were talking in the hallway and then suddenly he was all pissed off. Bit off everyone's head downstairs."
Great.
You wave Jacob off before going back to your work emails, still distracted that Joel would show up. Did he want to see you? Is he feeling different now that you've done really intimate stuff together? Is he actually trying to find a reason to be around you?
Why does that make your skin tingle?
You hear the distant ping of the elevator and you tense up. He moves quickly, voice low and dulcet as he passes one of the finance officers.
"And those numbers aren't ready because…?"
"I'm so sorry," Terry says, big eyes wet behind her oversized purple specs. "I thought you said by end of day."
Another voice rings out now, louder and much more boisterous. You glance up to see your father smiling at Terry, looking comforting as Joel frowns, arms crossed.
"Not a problem Terry. Joel here is just being extra on the ball. End of day is more than fine."
Terry gives a wobbly relieved smile, nodding before rushing back off to speak with the rest of her team. You catch your dad's eye and he gives you a wink and a smile, mouthing "good morning" before wandering over to Kathleen's desk.
Your eyes dart back to the computer screen when you notice Joel heading your way. Your eyes go to his crotch, almost like a magnet. He’s wearing his usual jeans but you’re sure you notice a bulge there now.
I know what his penis looks like.
You have the most perverse urge to laugh right now, cackle right in the middle of this crowded workplace pointing at Joel’s jeans and running around announcing your victory. But you hold yourself together, typing slowly.
Your pulse pounds brutally, a staccato of your heartbeat against your ribs as a shadow is cast over you. The scent of sandalwood and leather falls over you, making your body thrum. You breathe slowly as your eyes begin moving up his buttoned shirt, moving to that jaw, his full mouth, that sharp nose and then, finally, those arresting dark brown eyes.
Suddenly nothing is funny. Everything about him is intimidating, including the python you know he's packing.
"M-morning," you offer through a stutter.
"Mornin'," he says flatly. "Messages?"
He doesn't seem to be acting any different than before your foray into the hotel room. How can he be so casual? Maybe Joel can teach you a few things about how to act totally casual after having another person's genitals in one's mouth.
You feel flustered, fingers clumsy as you pick up the package of mail from the last two days. You go to hand it to him, sure not to touch his skin for fear you'd make some humiliating noise. He looks so handsome, so tall and broad and... Why is he just standing there staring at you?
"Mind lettin' go?"
You force your eyes from him down to where your fingers still clutch the envelopes in a death grip. "Oh, sorry."
Get a fucking grip you loser.
You quickly sit down at your desk, cheeks burning in embarrassment. You avert your eyes to the floor, fingers poised over the keyboard. You wait for Joel to stride past you as he always does when he's in a mood at work. You wait for the slamming door, distracted tapping on his phone. But today he pauses, shifting from one shoe to the other. You see them in your eye line, ankles flexing slightly.
Then he moves past, jeans rasping as he goes. You're entire body is tensed, not ready to release until his door is closed. He clears his throat lightly from behind you.
"Hey, uh, before I get caught up in stuff are you free to talk for a minute?"
You raise your head slowly before glancing over your shoulder to see Joel standing at the doorway of his office with his brows raised. He's got a strange energy about him, as if he's forcing himself to appear relaxed. You make your mouth attempt a smile.
"Yes, of course."
He watches you stand, eyes trailing after you as approach. He stands there in the narrow doorway, making it so that you graze him in your effort to squeeze past into the office. You feel like he's holding his breath.
He follows you in, door closing quietly behind the two of you. The air is thick with tension, the silence oppressive.
You take the seat you're accustomed to: the one with sumptuous leather covering. You sit there, knees pressed together as you wait.
Joel walks at a slow pace to his desk. You watch with tensed shoulders as he slowly moves back behind his desk, lowering himself into his chair with a muffled sigh.
What is this about? Is he unhappy with the Deetz file? You had no choice but to double check with him. You were just doing your job.
You watch his forearms prop against the desktop, his dark eyes tracing your face. It feels like intimidation as much as curiosity.
You cross your legs, smoothing your blouse and trying to look professional. You're trying to focus on work. But all you can think of right now is the other morning with Joel groaning your name in bed.
C'mon pretty girl, you've got this.
As if he can tell your heated thoughts his eyes drift away from yours, moving to the paperwork on his desk.
"I think it's time we called this off," Joel says quietly.
He says it so casually you don't register what he's talking about. He's so detached, his face unreadable.
This?
Wait, does he mean the list?
When you finally do understand your stomach plummets to the ground, leaving you dizzy.
"You mean the list."
Joel nods as you scramble to understand. Your fingers are twisting the cuffs of your left sleeve anxiously, tongue wetting your dry lips.
"Did I do something wrong?"
Joel's big hand waves off that suggestion, his head slowly moving from side to side.
"S'not anythin' you did. I just think we've done enough and it's a good stoppin' point."
You digest his words with a slow inhale, trying not to look upset. You'd really been looking forward to knocking more items off the list. Specifically number one, but properly this time. But that's not going to happen now is it? Not with Joel at least.
"Right. Okay." Your face feels hot. "It's just I.... I thought we were working well together."
His brows rise, like he's confused you'd talk back. Joel is quiet, jaw clenching, one hand resting on the desk, the other now gripping the arm of his chair.
"Best to end it before we go too far," Joel adds with a tight exhale.
What counts as too far? You've already had your mouth around his cock, his fingers in your cunt. How much further is there?
"You don't think what we've done already is too far?"
Joel straightens in his chair, tossing his pen with a soft clack onto the desk. It's a casual move, one that shows you he's calm and collected whereas you are almost trembling in your shoes.
Your hands go to curl around the arms of your own chair, holding your body still. You start internally trembling.
You feel foolish sitting there in front of him, knees pressing against the cool wood of his desk, eyes wide, disappointment barely concealed.
Joel sits there stonily, not saying anything. But his dark brown eyes pierce you, holding you there in your seat like a pinned butterfly.
"I should go," you offer with a whisper, rising and walking to the door. You want to leave quickly but your feet drag.
No more list with Joel. No more groans and whimpers. No more dimpled smirks and knowing gazes. It's over.
Insecurity is running through you, the scratch of Joel's pen against paper behind you pierces the grave silence.
What screwed up?
Your heel plants in the carpet, propelling you into a slow spin to face Joel once more. He's hunched over his desk now, signing some of the contracts. You take a step towards him, wincing.
"You're sure I didn't do something wrong at the hotel?" Your voice is creaky, your throat bobbing as you swallow.
"I'm sure."
"It's just...I really hope I didn't make you unc-"
You're cut off by the sharp smack of his palm against the top of his desk. It cracks the quiet room like a whip and you jerk backwards a step.
"I'm done talkin' about this," Joel snaps.
All that confidence you'd been stoking the fires of today seems to disappear, snuffed out.
"Okay, okay," you say backing up further. "Forget it. Forget all of it."
He sits there with a cloudy expression, like your presence is upsetting him further. And if he were anyone else maybe you'd fight him on it. Maybe you'd insist that what you'd been doing has been working.
But he's Joel Miller, your dad's best friend, your boss. He intimates you within the walls of The Mill Group. He's not someone you want to get on the wrong side of.
He's also not a very good man; firing Brian, his unkindness to Tommy. This is why you chose him, why you allowed this entire thing to continue, the knowledge that you wouldn't get too emotional.
And so you nod politely, forcing a smile to your face.
yellow ribbon on the door 👉@hellothereobiwankenobi
Of Dust, Dreams and Juno 👉 @meet-me-backstage
Long, long time 👉 @meet-me-backstage
falling 👉 @damneddamsy
The F*ck-It List 👉 @auteurdelabre
cherry 👉 @mirrormauve
Always an Angel, Never a God 👉 @irb-pascalito-99 (This one is on AO3. You guys should check AO3 too—there’s lots of good stuff there for fanfics in general.)
The boyfriend act 👉 @capuccinodoll ( this one is Frankie, suprise, she got me addicted to Frankie)
And thanks to all the writers for taking the time out of their lives to share their work. Fanfiction is basically a core part of fandom culture. You guys are amazing and so lovely.🩷
Built the first proper fence today, all on my own. Got blisters all over my palms, and I cursed loud enough to wake the whole county. But I did it. Dixie nearly chewed through the rope post again, Juno dug up one of my tomato plants, and the hens laid eggs in the hayloft instead of the coop... I’m figurin’ it out.
Speakin’ of the coop — I fixed it. Took me the better part of a week and two splinters I’m still digging out of my fingers, but the hens are roosting proper now. There’s one that reminds me of you—serious little thing, always standing off to the side like she’s makin’ sure everyone else is behaving. I named her Judith, but I’m tempted to rename her Joel.
The evenings are the hardest part. Everything goes still out here when the sun dips behind the ridge and work is done for the day. It’s quiet in the way that makes you think too much. I sit on the porch with Juno at my feet (she’s getting so big already), and I keep expecting to hear your boots on the porch boards.
I wonder what you’re up to all the time
Sometimes I wonder what you’re up to—whether you’re still waking up before dawn, still arguing with George over who gets to herd the sheep. I hope things are good. I hope your fences are holdin’ up better than mine.
Did you get that radio working?
I got one for my porch.
Do you turn yours on just to fill in the silence too? What about when you miss hearing my voice? If you do miss my voice. It’s what I do when I miss hearing yours.
They’re fiddly things aren’t they?
Juno sends her love (in slobber, mostly).
— your Sunshine’
༺ 🐑 ༻
‘Sunshine,
Read your letter four two times, then once more just to make sure I didn’t miss anythin’.
I let out a real belly laugh when I read about that hen o’ yours. Haven’t laughed like that in a long while. Not since you were here, tryin’ to chase that lamb into the barn. You ended up flat on your ass in the mud and pretended it was “international land awareness”. George side-eyed me like I’d lost my damn mind. Think maybe I have.
He misses you. Whines more than usual, always wants to take the long trail past the lake like he’s expectin’ you to be there, splashin’ about or sittin’ on that rock and tossin’ pebbles. He barks for you outside your cabin every mornin’, thinkin’ you’re needin’ a wake up call. Every time the mail comes, he runs out to the box — he knows it’s from you — no one bothers to write me as often as you do. Don’t know if that means somethin’ — if I mean somethin’ to you. I’m in my damn head too much. Clearly. He brings the envelopes to me like it’s some kind of treasure. I keep ‘em like they are. They’ve gotta be some o’ the most precious things I own.
Radio’s workin’ again. Took some fiddlin’ alright, but I got it. Picks up this one station late at night—plays old country, mostly. There’s a hum it makes, right before the music kicks in. Caught me off guard the first time. Thought maybe you were there, talkin’ soft about nothin’ and everythin’ like you used to. Funny what your mind does when you’re missin’ someone it’s quiet. Empty silence. I know what you mean now. Used to like it. I don’t anymore. I hate it.
Juno sounds hellbent on undoin’ half your work, but I can’t say I’m surprised. She really has got your stubborn streak. You’re fightin’ tooth and nail out there, and I got no doubt you’ll make somethin’ special of that land. You always had a way of makin’ things grow, even when they didn’t want to.
Stay safe. Don’t forget to eat. Do you miss those dinner’s with me out on the porch? I miss makin’ ‘em for you.
origamiaround
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
stormborns
