s

23 || she/her || fangirl always

[followyourfleart]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝟑𝟕: 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬-𝐄𝐱𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ

Next | Pervious | Fic Masterlist | a03

blurb - You had all your trust in Joel Miller. You loved that man in a way you hadn't for anyone else. So maybe that's why it hurt so much when you learned the truth. Maybe that's why it hurt when you saw your fake life with him break apart. And worst, maybe that's why you could feel it in your bones—Joel Miller wasn't the man you thought he was.

warnings - Mentions/discussions of past abuse, blackmail, baby trapping, perceived sexual assault, victim blaming, gaslighting, and toxic mothers.

a/n - Don't hate me! I listened to a lot of "You Stole The Show" by Sienna Spiro for THE scene. You'll know. Then, for the first flashback, I listened to "You Can Do Magic" by America, and "Earrings" by Malcolm Todd

Word Count: 17.1 k

July 4th, 1983

If he had his way, they would never come to this lake house. It was a whole hassle in general to get here.

The drive was several hours from Arlington, first off. He had to spend hours—as his mama insisted—packing his suitcase and duffel bag because being beside a lake for over a week was riveting.

Joel also had to make sure that he packed a lot of sunscreen, not even for himself. It was for Tommy, who peeled so badly when he was in the sun for too long. He didn’t tan like Joel and their mama. 

Second reason: who wanted to be stuck in an eight-seater van? 

The van was usually divided up into five parts; his folks in the front, Clyde in the middle row, with all the small luggage. That meant the back was filled with three teenagers who definitely didn’t fit the way they used to. 

Joel had his usual spot on the left side, head against the small window, watching the trees blur by. He usually spent his time car watching, but this far out, there wasn’t anything other than the big truckers.

Tommy had taken the opposite side and had his legs spread—completely hogging up the limited space. He had his stack of comic books in his lap, flipping through a new edition of the X-Men that their folks had bought him over spring break. 

Then, there was you. 

You were absolutely the worst to travel with. Terrible, really. All your luggage took up more space than anyone else’s, and you had even brought multiple pairs of shoes. Who needed that many shoes at a lake?

Like Tommy, you had no concept of personal space, opting to lay your thighs over Tommy’s lap and comic books, tapping your foot against the car wall to some song playing on your walkman. That meant that your entire back was pressed against Joel’s shoulder.

Joel hated it all with a passion. Sure, your skin was soft and you smelled like your soap, which was so much more prominent now that you were this close. But that didn’t mean he liked being suffocated.

His third reason was it didn’t help the fact that it wasn’t quiet. Joel was a creature of silence.

His mama and Clyde were talking away, laughing and giggling over whatever they found funny. Even his dad joined in with a dry chuckle and a joke. By his side, you and Tommy would talk about whatever was going on at school, and double over at things that were not funny. You both laughed so hard that Tommy’s hand would fall onto your bare thigh and squeeze. 

Whatever. Once he was at the lakehouse, he would be able to slip away and play his guitar, which he brought. The one thing that this trip gave him was some inspiration to make some music. The sunsets were gorgeous; who wouldn’t be inspired by that? 

Some suffocating hours later, the sign of the small town that the lake houses were near showed up. It wasn’t anything special, just a small—it made Arlington look like Dallas—place.

The van stopped at the rickety gas station near the path to the lakehouse, coming to a jerk. His dad turned his head, tipping his baseball cap back. 

“Alright, everyone out. Thing needs gas, and y’all need to piss ‘fore we get there.”

Tommy threw his head back and groaned, “C’mon dad, can’t we just use the bathroom when we get there? It’s like… ten minutes away? Maybe less?”

Your dad was the one who answered, “Maybe if you hadn’t pissed your pants on those ten minutes all those years ago, then we wouldn’t have this little tradition.”

Joel watched as you punched Tommy’s shoulder, laughing silently. His face went completely red. “Hey! It was one time! Once! And no one asked you to stuff a nine-year-old with all the juice boxes he could want!”

The three of you climbed out of the van, careful not to knock over the piles of things. Tommy went out first, still complaining, and you followed, hands on his shoulders to comfort him. 

When he got out, Joel stretched his back, feeling his shirt ride up and the comforting forest wind tickle his ribs. He looked around at the squat gas station, and everyone was heading toward it. He followed.

Inside, is was as simple as its outside. His folks and your dad went to the front to ask for a pump, while you and Tommy dashed immediately to the soft drinks in some dingy freezer.

You turned your radiant smile to your dad, “Dad! Can me and Tommy get something to drink?”

“I dunno Sugar Cubes, should I?”

“Please?”

“Oh, alright. Use the money in your purse.”

Well, that was an easy battle. You and Tommy looked over your options carefully. Joel looked at the chips, fingers grazing mindlessly over his options.

“Joel?”

He turned. You were looking straight at him, brows furrowed. Your entire outfit was full of the things he wasn’t used to seeing you in. Your shirt was small, exposing your stomach and hips. And your shorts didn’t help either, short enough that he could see a healthy portion of your legs. 

He felt his throat close up, “Yeah?”

“Do you want something?”

“Somethin’ what?”

“Dumbass,” Tommy chimed in, hands on his hips now, “Do you want somethin’ to drink?”

Joel blinked, “Uh, no—yeah. I mean, yeah, I’ll take somethin’ to drink.”

You hummed, turning away and peaking down, “Alright, they have Pepsi, Coke—this new thing called diet coke—orange juice, apple juice—”

“Coke. Please.” Joel muttered. 

You nodded, taking a can. You grabbed another Coke, and Tommy picked up the same thing. Together, the three of you made it to the counter, paying quickly. 

After distributing the drinks, you jerked your thumb to the cash register. “Go on, ask them where the bathroom is.”

Tommy flushed again, “You’re seriously not puttin’ me through that, are you?”

“Hey, you’re the kid that can’t control his bladder,” you retorted.

“One time!” Tommy whined, “And it wasn’t that much.”

“Lorraine had to run those shorts in the washing machine for at least two cycles.” 

Joel nodded solemnly, cracking open his can and taking a sip. It was refreshing. “I couldn’t walk into that laundry room for days afterward.”

“Liar.” Tommy hissed. 

“Ain’t.” Joel took another sip, relishing in his brother’s irritated expression.

You groaned, “Just go pee, Tommy. If you don’t, your dad’s gonna make us stay here till you do, and I wanna be in the lake already. Take one for the team.”

Tommy opened, then closed his mouth. He stared at the tile on the floor for a bit before groaning harder than you and shoving his drink in your hand. He spun around and went to the cashier, who told him the bathroom was around the back. 

He didn’t say a word as he disappeared, leaving you and Joel all alone. He shuffled awkwardly on his feet before taking another slip, accidentally slurping. You turned to him at the sound. 

“You don’t want to be here, do you?”

“What gave it away?”

You shrugged, “I dunno. Maybe… your attitude, you not talking, or just your face in general.”

“Can’t do anythin’ with my face no more?”

“That’s not what I mean,” you glared at him, “I’m saying that you could at least be a little happy being here.”

“It’s just a lake house.”

“‘It’s just a lake house,” you mimicked his tone, “Gosh, you’re so gloomy.”

“We c’mere every year. Forgive me if I ain’t jumpin’ off the walls eager.”

“But the lake!”

“It’s a lake. We have one near home.” Joel huffed. 

“But this one we actually get to sleep and eat on the shore whenever we want to!” you squeezed your can in excitement, “Everyone at school gets so jealous when I come back from the summer, because who gets to go to a lake house? Don’t people act the same when you tell them?”

Joel glanced away. People his age didn’t really care much for vacations. Either it was alcohol, weed, and girls. Joel didn’t care about those things, though, and he also didn’t care much for this lake house. If he could have it his way, he would rot in his bed and read and smoke a bit with the window cracked. 

He sighed, choosing not to answer you. You noticed—as you infurantingly always did—and poked your head to the side to get a better look at Joel’s face. 

But before you could say anything, Tommy came out whistling, tugging at the string of his shorts. You crinkle your nose at the sight of him. When he comes closer, you started to hand him his drink, but quickly pull it out of his grasp.

“Did you wash your hands?”

“‘Course I did. I ain’t an animal.” Tommy chuckled. You raised an eyebrow, but handed him his drink anyway. Tommy cracked it open, took a sip, and let out a dramatic sigh.

Soon, you three went out of the gas station, and Joel tipped back the last of his soda before tossing it into the trash can. The parents were already in their seats, waiting. Joel clambered into his seat first, with you, then Tommy, and it was back onto the road.

The forest got denser, but the road started to clear up and have a pattern to it. Stones were put in order to act as rails on the side of the road, eventually leading to a large patch. At the patch, multiple smaller roads branched off, and the van pulled into the second right. 

After two more minutes of driving, Joel could clearly see the large roof of the lakehouse. It was all brown wood, with logs acting as a roof. It looked like a glamourized cabin. The driveway was empty, and only a worn section indicated the parking spot. 

His dad pulled into the space, parked, pulled out the keys, and groaned loud. Everyone started getting out once more. This time, your dad started taking the stuff in the middle with him. 

Both boys went to the back of the van, popping the trunk and pulling out all the luggage. Their mama came up behind them, sighing at the sight, “Oh, my babies! Workin’ so hard already.”

Tommy grinned at their mama’s affection, “It’s nothin’, Mama. Just love helpin’ you.”

Joel rolled his eyes. He picked up your extremely heavy suitcase, not making a noise when it nearly clipped his foot. You popped out of nowhere, taking it out of his grasp easily.

“Thanks Joel!” you said over your shoulder, already heading the front steps to the porch.

Joel barely got the words: “Your welcome.” out before you were gone. 

Soon, Tommy and Joel had managed to drag everything inside, into the large entrance that Joel could admit, was beautiful. A chandelier hung above his head, its crystals glinting in the sunlight. Large windows showed off the lake, the board walked off the shore he knew so well.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t too bad. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned, it was his mama again, “Why don’t you go out with Tommy and Sugar Cubes?”

Joel looked at all the luggage around him, “You don’t want help?”

She waved him off, “Ah, I got your daddy. What else is he here for? Go on, have fun.”

Joel hesitated, but when his mama gave him a tight pinch on his cheek, he nodded. He left the entrance way, rubbing his cheek and making it to the deck. 

The air was fresher, with the sun glinted off the ripples of the lake. He breathed in the scent of Mother Nature enveloping him fully.

Whoops and calls from the shore got his attention. He stepped closer to the railing, looking down over the deck. Tommy was running at full force toward the lake, throwing off his shirt behind him before cannonballing into the lake. Water sprayed everywhere and soaked the deck.

But Joel didn’t pay much attention to his brother. No, he could only watch the figure that followed him. You ran and ran, giggling and calling Tommy’s name. 

He watched as you kicked off your shoes and socks, leaving evidence of your joy. But then, you started hopping out of shorts, and Joel expected your usual poka-dot one piece that his mama helped pick out for you. 

No, this was not that. This a sleek, small bottom piece that showed off more leg than he’d ever seen before. He turned his face instantly, hating how he felt himself go pink. Behind him, he heard you fall into the water and the yell of Tommy as you drenched him. 

There was no way he was getting into the lake now. Sure, he had his shorts on, but with you in the water there was no way he would survive that. Maybe his best chance was helping his and your dad with the stuff—

“Is… is that Joel? Joel!” 

He cursed internally, before sheepishly turning around slow and raising a hand to wave. You waved back with your whole arm.

“Come on! The water’s cold and so good and—fuck! Tommy, stop!” you squealed, splashing back at Joel’s brother. 

“It’s alright, mama’s callin’ me,” he turned his head as if she actually was, “Somethin’ ‘bout checkin’ rooms.”

“Man, ain’t nobody callin’ you!” Tommy called his bluff, and Joel’s never wanted to throttle his brother more. “Just say you're a pussy and let's move on.”

You giggled, and tilted your head back like Tommy was actually being funny. Joel’s face went hotter. He refused to let Tommy embarrass him like that. 

Joel took the spiral stairs to the shore, picking up pace when the grassy hill the house sat on turned into rock, and then the wooden deck. He heard his name being called once more, then the sweet sound of your laughter. 

It pulled him, and he took off his shoes and socks and his shirt. He grinned stupidly before launching himself off the deck, his shadow falling over a Tommy who couldn’t move out of the way in time. 

You were right, the water was good, but what was even better was getting revenge on his idiotic brother. Joel’s weight and the force of his jump forced Tommy underneath him as both went underwater. 

Tommy fought him the whole way, kicking and hitting, but the water slowed it all down. Joel didn’t let him go either, making sure to try and get a few jabs in there before he was forced to get air.

He emerged with a gasp. Tommy came up right after him, laughing and trying not to choke. 

You laughed yourself silly, throwing your head back. “You guys are such idiots!”

Tommy glared at you, before sending a huge wave toward your face, “Shut up!” 

You turned your face just in time for your hair to take the brunt of the water. You swam backwards while splashing Tommy back, giving him a facefull.

Tommy surged forward, and you shierked, swimming out of his reach and behind Joel, pressing yourself up against him to hide. Joel’s heart almost stopped then and there when he felt your thighs brush his hips and back, your hands on his shoulders. And across his shoulder blades… oh Lord, were those—

“You’re so dead!” Tommy yelled out, coming at both you and Joel. You clung harder to Joel, even fully wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Come on Joel, move!” you yelped in his ear. 

He swam to the side, barely getting out of the way. Your voice was the only thing guiding him, telling Joel to move left and right and away. He found it terribly easy to follow.

Somehow, though, Tommy had caught up, pushing Joel’s shoulders and tilting his body to smother yours. Joel caught his brother around his shoulders, pulling him in. You reached over too, grabbing Tommy’s nape to keep him from tilting everyone over. 

The three of you laughed and laughed, content to stay in the pretty lake with the sun high. No one noticed the time slipping by. You and Tommy raced while Joel played the role of the finish line, then you would see who could hold their breath the longest. There was even a game to see who could do the most rotations flipping off the deck. 

Joel came out happy, shaking his head like a wet dog when he pulled himself up out of the water. Tommy clambered next to him and went to get his clothes. 

You came last, using the ladder to pull yourself up. Of course, those black bottoms had to be paired with a black top that matched perfectly. 

He shouldn’t look. He wouldn’t look. He was the most rational of his entire family. And respectful. He was the most respectful man that you could be around.

“Joel?”

He might as well have turned into a tomato. “Huh?”

“What is it?” You cocked your head to the side, “You're staring. Do I have something on my top?”

“No! I mean, no. You look… look…”

“Look like what?”

Lord, why were you asking things like that?

“Fine. You look fine.”

He saw it, the moment your face fell slightly. You crossed your arms over your chest, and stared down at the floorboards. “Ah… alright.”

Joel cursed at himself internally, “I-I meant great. Sorry, I’m just a bit tired from… from all the swimmin’. Yeah, misspoke.”

Your expression changed in an instant, “Really? You think so?”

“Of course. Is it new?”

You nodded, reaching for your shirt next to his feet, “Yeah. Dad lemme graduate from a one-piece to a two.” You slipped your shirt over your head, smoothing it out. “It’s called a tankini.” 

“So not a bikini?”

“Nope. He says I have to be much older for that.”

“But you're fourteen.”

You bumped shoulders with him, groaning, “And that’s what I told him! But he would not let up about it. This one was the only way I could get him to buy it for me.”

“Guess everythin’ worked out for you.”

“It always does,” you walked ahead, making your way to Tommy. You looked over your shoulder and smiled at him, “When I want something, I always get it.”

Joel agreed with you, you always got everything  you wanted. 

Tommy, Joel, and you made it back inside, and in the kitchen, his mama was already working on her spread. Roasted meats and seasoned vegetables that made his mouth water. Tommy, too, because he reached into the bowl, but his hand was smacked away.

“Ow! Hey, c’mon dad.” Tommy whined, clutching his hand like he actually got hurt.

Their dad stood there with his usual grim face, this time with a hint of annoyance. “You smell like a dog, boy. Actually, all of y’all smell like a pack. Go on, shower.”

You and Tommy groaned, but trudged to the stairs. Joel ran his fingers through his hair to get the last droplets out and took a step, but his dad stopped him, placing a well-timed foot in his way. 

His dad cocked his head to the side, “You still plannin’ on playin’ that guitar of yours?”

It was Joel’s turn to groan, “Dad, you’re makin’ it a bigger deal than it needs to be. It ain’t nothin’ special.”

“You wrote a whole song. I feel like that ain’t ‘nothin’ special.’” His dad placed his hands on his hips, “And you never share what you make with the thin’. I was—honest to god—shocked when you offered.”

“‘Cause I know Mama likes music durin’ dinners.”

“Oh ho, mama’s boy, ain’t ya?”

“Bein’ nice, that’s all.”

“Mhm. Ain’t you the nicest boy in all of Texas?” His dad patted Joel’s wet back, then cringed, “Jesus, you’re the worst outta the three of you. Up, up you go.”

Joel brushed his dad’s hand with the shake of his head, then headed up the stairs. He took two steps at a time. The second floor overlooked the first and split in two directions. 

On Joel’s left lay the guestbedroom, where Clyde slept. The right hallway was the one he was most familiar with. Down this side, Joel would see two doors on his left, and in between them on the right was his own.

Opening the door, he was greeted by a room he spent nearly every summer in. His luggage was already in here, placed neatly on his bed. He opened his duffel, pulling out his bathroom necessities.

He had been four when they started coming here, when you and Tommy were barely making sentences. It had gotten more interesting over the years, especially when he learned to swim, and his folks would let him go without their constant eyes.

Joel shut the bedroom door and stripped, throwing his clothes into the hamper already prepared by the owners. He went into the bathroom and took a nice, warm shower. He made sure to shampoo extra well and tried to get the smell of the lake off his body.

Once he was finished, he put on fresh clothes, and brought down the hamper—he refused to sit in a room that smelt like grime—and went downstairs. He made his way to the laundry room and did a small load. 

Back into the main area, mostly everyone was in the living room. His dad was the only one out, instead in the kitchen picking up where his mama left off. 

Tommy was next to Clyde, both in a deep conversation. His mama was speaking to you. You, who had changed into another pair of shorts and a long shirt. 

Joel took a seat on the lone armchair, which caught your dad’s attention.

Clyde grinned, “Slowest one outta the bunch. Finally graced us with your presence, huh?”

“Maybe I was tryin’ to get away. Every stop to think ‘bout that?”

That pulled laughs from everyone in the room, even his dad from far away. His mama hid her smile behind her hand. “Baby, you’re stuck with us ‘til the end of your life. Ain’t no question ‘bout it.”

Usually, the first day was a busy one. Sure, everything was prepared for the visit by the owners, but there was still a lot to do on the renter’s part. This year, it wasn’t any different. 

Joel barely had time to sit down before the long day of chores was presented to him. Checking on the shed, making sure that the boat was working, and getting the groceries from the small store—which was going to be his job this year, since he could drive now—were the simple things. 

His dad and Clyde were going to make sure everything was safe and secure. Maybe it was the army brains in them, but they were like relentless guard dogs. No one was anywhere without them knowing. Anyone stupid enough—Tommy—would be caught quickly and lecture and personally escorted back to their room. 

Joel’s drive into town was silent and perfect. He got exactly everything on the list his mama gave him with a kiss on the forehead. By the time all his jobs were finished, it was sunset, the sun casting a large glow over the back of the house. He carried everything back inside with no help.

He placed everything on the counter, and saw that everyone wasn’t around. That wasn’t too strange. He made a quick trip back up the stairs and into his room, and found his guitar case. He opened it up and pulled out his guitar. It was his oldest one—not that he owned too many—scruffed on the edges but worked perfectly. 

Back onto the deck, the sun was dipping into the forest, its rays becoming gold, orange, and purple in the clouds. He found himself a seat, and turned it toward the scene. 

Taking his seat, he leaned back. No playing or moving yet, instead, he closed his eyes and let the end of the day wash over him and his complicated mind. 

“You look happy.”

Joel whipped his head around, and there you were, standing in the doorway. This was the third time it’d just been you and him, which was a rarity of all rarities. He tilted his face away.

“I’m… I’m tunin’.” He made a gesture to the instrument in his lap.

You hummed, stepping onto the deck. You had a blanket in your arms, and you made your way to him. Joel was very aware of you, he always had been, but now even more so. You pulled up a chair and sat next to him, making yourself comfortable.

You didn’t speak, opting to look over the scene. He glanced once, twice, before actually listening to his words and tuning his guitar. 

Joel strummed the strings, testing the notes to make sure everything sounded good. Why he said he would play for everyone, he didn’t know. Sure, it was partly because he wanted to make his mama happy. She’d been asking for years. But the other reason—

“Do you usually take that long to tune?” You asked with genuine curiosity. 

Joel shook his head. “Not really. I’m just… ah, I’m just a bit picky, is all.”

“I would be, too, if I could play like that. And you didn’t even take any classes.”

Joel felt his face turn pink, “It ain’t that big of a deal… did take me a long time though.”

“And you write songs too? I’ve seen the sheet music in your notebooks.” you smiled.

“Have you been sneakin’ through my stuff?” 

“What?! God no,” You shook your head so hard it made him laugh, “I’m not a snooper. I just saw them around your house sometimes and I knew Tommy wasn’t that talented to do all that.”

“Hey, he’s a quick learner.”

“Sure. But he has like, no patience whatsoever. Remember when your dad was trying to get him into baseball and then at one point he just dropped the ball and went inside?”

“Dad was so mad, ‘cause I think it was the hottest day of the year and he’d been outside all day.”

“See? No patience.”

Joel shook his head, and let his fingers do one last strum, all the notes coming out clean. He checked one last time, not noticing your eyes trained on him. When he looked up, you had someone scoot closer with your chair. Joel fought the urge to jump up and away like a cat. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” That was all he could say at the moment. 

“If I ask super nicely, would you play for me? Before dinner starts?”

“Nice try.”

You groaned, “Why not! Come on, just the two of us.”

“I don’t do early showin’s, sorry.”

“Then I’d pay you!”

Joel turned to you, “Really?”

When you saw Joel hesitating, you continued, “You saw me pay for our drinks. My dad gives me an allowance now, and I’d seriously pay to see you play.”

He squinted at you. “And your daddy would say yes to this?”

“It’ll be our little secret.” You wiggled your brows in a weird manner. 

“That don’t really answer my question…”

“God Miller, you want that cash or not?”

Joe studied your eagerness, and the soft, kind part of him relented. His shoulders were the first to lower themselves, and you noticed in an instant. You came closer to him, and your bare leg brushed against his.

“Fine, fine. Just… just don’t make too much noise, then I won’t be able to focus.”

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” You promised. 

He sighed, then positioned his guitar in his lap. His left hand hovered over the frets, his right toward the strings. Joel tapped his foot once, then twice.

And he began playing.

When Joel made music, he always tried to incorporate whatever he was feeling in the moment. As did most artists, but he couldn’t replicate exactly what he was feeling the moment his music was born. There were always liberties taken with each play.

The notes started low and slow, following the caws of the birds above the house. They trembled like the water from the lake below, and were clear like the air surrounding you both. 

He dared to look at you, and saw you were fully leaned back, legs hidden behind your blanket. Only your lone foot peaked out, next to his dirty boot. You tapped to the same beat as him, in complete harmony. 

Joel played and played, and slowly, the song became faster, unlike the original version he had planned to stick by for dinner. He began to make up the notes, and they started to swell after every strum, just like his mind did when you came close to him. 

Your eyes were closed now, taking in the music, and it allowed Joel to fully stare at you without any worry.

How did you make him feel when you came close?

Like an adrenaline rush, like jumping out of a plane. He plucked the third and fourth string to prove it, fast and sharp like the beat of his heart. Like a warm blanket, every time you even gave him an ounce of your time. He played a long note to show that.

And like a sweet sound, was all that went through his mind when he thought about you. Joel ended his song with a twang, letting that note ring out until there was nothing but the sound of nature. 

Joel fiddled with the strings, unable to look at you like how he was before. You hadn’t said anything yet, and he couldn’t look at you. “What… what did y’think? You like it?”

When you didn’t respond, Joel looked at you. Your eyes were still closed, but your chest had slown down, like you were…

“Are you asleep?”

You hummed, and adjusted yourself underneath your blanket. “It sounded good.”

Joel huffed out a laugh, “I’m glad.”

“Would you be offended if I asked you to play more?”

He shook his head, “I’ll play as long as I can.”

You cracked one of your eyes open, looked at him, and smiled, “I’ll pay you extra.”

“Nah, you’re fine. Don’t pay me at all.”

“But you said—”

“It was a joke. I was jokin’.”

“Really?” You cocked your head closer to your shoulder and closed your eyes. “Maybe you should work on your jokes with your music.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Once again, Joel put his guitar into his lap, placing his hands where they needed to be. He looked at you, “What song did you want this time? I can play just ‘bout anythin’.”

“That one.”

“Which one?”

“The one you were just playing. I think…” you yawned, “I think that is one of my favorites. I could listen to it for hours, only if you did it.”

Joel didn’t respond to you. Instead, he just watched your face, and your sleeping body and everything that came with it. Then, he gave a small smile for just himself, and started his song for you once more.

He could play for hours, only if you asked.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

In the professional world, some people just didn’t mix. Like oil and water, no matter how much you shook the bottle, nothing would get them on the same level of density. 

You spent a lot of time in those types of situations. Entire boards that didn’t like anything new you had to bring because ‘Tradition is American,’ or just people that didn’t like you and what you represented. You just had to take the cards you were dealt, and play the game. 

Kaia and Zaid sat on the sofa, both on two completely different sides of the spectrum. Zaid was smiling at you, while Kaia was the opposite. She hadn’t taken her eyes off you, suspicion rolling off her since the second she came through the door. It started earlier than that really, when you called her with faux innocence asking if she could come to discuss some things regarding Sarah.

“Why do we have to be there? Is Sarah okay?” she had asked two days ago. 

You had replied: “She’s fine, just wanted to go over some things about how things are going to work after you go back to Houston.” 

“You, or Joel?”

You had stayed quiet for a beat before speaking, “It’s for the greater good. For us.”

You held your folder in your lap, thighs crossed over each other. Joel sat on your right on a pulled-up dining chair, his legs spread and arms crossed. He was leaning back, and while he was trying to stay as still as possible, you could tell by the nervous tapping of his foot that he wasn’t as calm as he was portraying. 

And in it all, Sarah sat in the armchair, pulling at the threads. Her eyes were no longer red—Joel had managed to calm her down by the time you had come back—but she was still shaking. 

You wanted nothing more than to pull her to you and hold her in the biggest possible hug. Unlike her dad, she wasn’t good at hiding her feelings, and Kaia saw that.

She turned to Sarah, concerned, “Sarah, baby, did you want to see me?”

Sarah shook her head, “I think… I think my dad and her wanted to see you, not me. I’m just here for formality.”

“Formality…” Kaia dragged the word back, her sharp eye flickering to you. “So then, what, are we doing here?”

“We’re going to be talking about—”

“I think I want to hear from Joel. He really should be starting the discussions regarding Sarah.”

You didn’t flinch, but Joel leaned forward for you, “Whatever she’s sayin’, is what I want.”

“Is it?”

“Kaia, honey, don’t make this harder than it should be…” Zaid’s hand landed on Kaia’s fist, running his thumb across her knuckles, “Let’s hear them out.”

You thought Kaia would bite back at her husband, but instead, she calmed herself. She breathed through her nose, and looked back at you.

“Fine, fine. What did you both want to say to me?”

“We think it's better to arrange some sort of plan that makes Sarah happy. That’s what we all want, correct?” Nods came from every adult in the room. “But we should include Sarah in these plans.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s fourteen.” 

“That’s still a child.”

“Just because you can’t remember your daughter’s maturity level because you haven’t seen her in over a decade, doesn’t deny her autonomy.”

There was an awkward silence that followed, that Zaid cleared with a cough.

“This… this is clearly a tense subject. Joel,” Zaid turned to him, “Why don’t you calm down your girlfriend and I can take care of my wife.”

“My girl is fine,” Joel picked the dirt off from under his nails, “Keep your wife on her leash and maybe we’ll all be fine.”

“You fuckin’ bastard.” Kaia growled.

“Curse one more time in front of my family, and I’ll drag you both out myself.”

Sarah flinched at the tone of her dad’s voice. You put your hand on Joel’s thigh, stopping him from going any further. Joel stopped moving and speaking, and instead leaned back. This time, he had his hand on yours, squeezing your fingers tight.

“Let’s try to act like adults who are able to have a grown conversation.” You rubbed his hand before letting go. “Don’t you want to see Sarah after you go back to Houston?”

“Of course I do.”

You nodded, then uncrossed and crossed your legs. “Perfect. Now, let’s get something straight because you’re spreading this around: Sarah will not being going to Houston for her winter break. Joel did not approve that and we do not appreciate lies. Especially me.”

“Wait, I’m going to Houston?” Sarah questioned, leaving the threads alone to look at Kaia. 

Kaia lost color in her face, giving a nervous, wide smile. “It was something we were just discussing honey, not—”

“Lyin’ to Sarah now?” Joel piped in.

Sarah’s brows furrowed with deep thought, “Why would you lie?”

Zaid turned to Kaia, his face sterner than you ever saw him, “You lied about that?”

“Zaid, baby, I was just trying to… I-I knew Joel would say yes because—”

“Stop talking,” Zaid hissed, which silenced Kaia altogether. You saw in your peripheral, Joel stilled completely, watching Kaia not fight back, “Just… just let me handle this. 

With that, Zaid gave his best smile, but it didn’t hide the twitch in his lip. 

“I’m sorry for this. We—” he gestured between him and his wife, “—didn’t mean to confuse. That’s the last thing we want. Right?”

“Right…” Kaia muttered.

“Right.” Zaid said again, closing his eyes into a tight squeeze before opening, “Now, what plans do you have for Kaia to keep being a part of Sarah’s life. 

The thing was, there were no plans. You would die right then and there before Kaia could take Sarah to Houston by herself. This was all a matter of waiting until just the right moment of a slip-up. Then, it’d be all downhill from here.

“I’m sayin’ this now, you ain’t getting custody of her,” Joel said.

“I knew you wouldn’t let that happen, but I’m more than willing to set up child support.”

“Then you’d have to pay thirteen years worth of it.”

“I’m happy to do that.”

“Are you?”

“O-okay! Okay—dad,” Sarah raised her hands, stopping Kaia and Joel from tearing each other apart, “Just, lemme hear her out for a bit? Is… is that okay?”

Joel bit the inside of his cheek, but nodded.

Sarah breathed out a sigh of relief, before turning back to Kaia, “I mean… you have to admit, that asking—well lying—about me coming to Houston isn’t a good look. I’ve barely spent any time with you and me coming to Houston would be a lot.”

“You’d be right at home.”

“I only know Austin. And Arlington. But I’ve only traveled with my soccer team, and my Dad’s always came with me.”

“You’re growing up, you don’t need to be attached to him all the time.”

Sarah frowned, “He’s still my Dad.”

“And no one is denying that,” Kaia said sweetly, “But you have to think clearly. You’re going to college soon, four years from now. Don’t you want the experience of being without your Dad? It’s what college students have to do.”

“No one is saying you have to distance yourself Sarah,” you interjected, earning a mean glare from Kaia, “I never visited New York and the campus, and I was only with my dad. He was the only reason why I put myself forward and applied. I learned to be away from him being with him, not away.”

Kaia cleared her throat, “That’s… fine. But a path for one is not a path for everyone. It’s fine not wanting to be with him all the time—”

“I never said that…” Sarah muttered

“—and maybe that’s how it's supposed to be now. Maybe your meant to live a better life with me.”

Sarah’s face fell, her usually bright features going dull. It broke your heart, seeing her usual sunny demeanor disappear with such simple words. 

Kaia didn’t understand it. She would never understand having only a father. Having one person—who barely understood your own anatomy and the things that came with being a girl—was hard. Having one person who had to hold your hand when you got your period for the first time when they were panicking just as much as you. Having one person who didn’t understand cup sizes but learned anyway and got you any style, color, and shape you wanted with no judgment or question.

She couldn’t just replicate that in four years. She couldn’t replicate it ever. There was filling up the hole she left behind because it was already filled by someone else. 

 You fought the urge to jump across the coffee table right then and there. You opened your mouth, intent on saying something—

“I’m sick of hearing how you hate my dad, when all you’ve done is make our life hell.”

No one could respond to Sarah’s sudden words. Her face was steely now, almost angry, and it was only directed at Kaia. Joel was the only one who could say something. 

“It’s alright—”

“No, it really isn’t!” Sarah cried out to her dad. “I’m tired of it. All she’s done since she’s got back to Austin is talk… is talk shit about you! And it isn’t right!”

“Sarah,” Kaia spoke, raising her hands, “Listen to me and lose that tone—”

“You aren’t my mom!”

“Yes, I am! I gave birth to you, I was the one who carried you for almost a year!”

“Well that means shit! Because where were you when I was at my scorer games? Where were you, when dad had to work late nights and I was alone by myself at ten years old! Where were you when I—I got my period for the first time? Dad was there for that. He explained it all to me when he barely understood it himself! He was the one buying everything I needed even though people looked at him strangely in the store! He didn’t care about that. He only cared about me.”

Sarah looked at her dad, tears welling in her eyes. She stood suddenly, then, with a trembling finger, pointed at you. 

“And she’s only been her for months, and she’s treated me more like a daughter than you ever have! I don’t have to doubt her because she’s always been there for me even when she doesn’t have to. What can you say to that?”

“I’m saying that I’m here now! That has to count for something!”

“It doesn’t! So—so do me a favor, and get out!” Sarah tilted her head to the front door, “Get out of my house, my sight, and my life!”

Sarah got up from her seat and rushed to her room, ignoring everyone calling her name. She disappeared down the hallway, and the slam of her bedroom door. 

Kaia rose as well, intent on following Sarah. You stood up too.

“Leave her alone, she’s going through enough as it is—”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” She shirked, whipping around and pointing a finger in your face.

Joel got up quick as well, moving to stand by your side protectivly, “Watch how you talk to my girlfriend Kaia—”

“You think this will stop me?”Kaia ignored Joel. “Sarah’s just being a brat right now, and she’ll listen to me once she calms down. I’ll be here. I’ll be here as long as it takes to be back in her life. I’ll do anything, and not a single thing you throw at me will stop me”

“Will it?”

You spoke with a sudden calmness, glancing between Kaia and Zaid, who had a face of shock. You looked down at the file in your hand and decided right then and there its purpose. 

You tossed it onto the coffee table, and it slid until it stopped in front of Zaid. The couple looked at file, each other, then to you. Zaid gingerly took it, running his fingers before opening it. 

“Redline Strategies is a good company,” you admitted, watching Zaid’s face lose color as he started going through all the papers, “But you and I know it's under… poor management.”

“What… what are you talking about?” Zaid took one paper in particular and read it. “We’re fine.”

“It’s not, which is why I made a generous deal with my boss, Michelle Heyward, to take it off your hands.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?!” Kaia tore the paper from her husband’s grasp. “When did you—how did you—”

“I work quick when I see a opportunity, and its clear you should too, Zaid.” When you said his name, he looked up at you with pure anxiety, “I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime to get rid of this clear finical burden. Once you do, it’ll benefit us both; you can find another company that won’t drag you down, and I’ll take Redlines to another level.”

Even if he didn’t answer you, you could see he was considering this idea. It was working, your plan was working. 

But Kaia’s face had turned flush with anger, “You seriously can’t be considering this! She’s just trying to get rid of us, and you’re taking the bait!”

“Honey, you know the company’s been struggling—”

“This is how she wins, and you’re letting her!”

“Did you read how much money they’re giving us? That’s enough to treat us well for a decade and basically start fresh.”

“I don’t care!”

“You should! Think about our son and not this family we’re crashing for once in your life!”

Kaia couldn’t say anything. Instead, she kept silent, eyes going distant. She’d lost, and you knew she knew. 

Yet, she turned her face to you, like you were the only being in her radar.

You’d never seen someone look at you with such hate in their eyes.

Hate wasn’t even a strong enough word. Kaia Hall loathed you more than anyone, and you could see it in the way right hand shook as it rose to point straight at your chest 

On instinct, Joel took a step in front of you, as if Kaia would rush to you and attack you. He braced a hand on your waist. 

“You’re…” Kaia’s words came out strong and hateful, “You’re always meddlin’ in my life. You’ve been haunting me for thirteen years! Thirteen fucking years!” 

Zaid came to his wife, trying to put a hand on her shoulder to stop her as she took a step forward, “Baby, honey stop—”

But Kaia pushed past him, “I can’t have anything because of you. I tried to have Joel, and you took him from me. Even when I married him, he only ever thought of you, and it pushed me out and made me leave my baby!”

You took a step forward, bracing a hand on Joel’s shoulder, “Don’t blame me for abandoning your family. And don’t you dare blame Joel for not being emotionally there in your marriage. You abused him! Who’d even be present in a relationship like that?!”

You hated how you felt Joel stiffen underneath your palm, but he didn’t turn away. Your words only made him stand taller.

“Abused? Don’t make me laugh.” Kaia snarled, “I grew up with tough love. I love with tough love. It isn’t my fault he could take that.”

Those two words—tough love—brought fire to your belly, “Love? Love?! You don’t get to talk about love. You think throwing plates at faces is love? You think breaking confidence for decades is love?!”

“What is she talkin’ about Kaia?” Zaid asked, still looking at you. Kaia shook her head. 

“Ignore her, she’s just spewin’ bullshit—”

“Bullshit…?” Joel finally spoke, his hand dropping from your waist to his sides. You looked up at him, trying to catch his shirt to pull him back, but you couldn’t. He look haunted, but terrifying anger in the same breath, “So it didn’t mean shit to you. All the… all the shit you put me through, y’think its nothin’?”

“Stop being dramatic Joel.”

“I ain’t bein’ dramatic!” He shouted, and he clawed at the fabric over his heart, “I ain’t ever gonna be the same ‘gain ‘cause of you! You gave me the shittest hand in life ‘cause you said I deserved t.”

“I gave you Sarah!”

“You forced Sarah on me! I will always love my daughter, but you did and there ain’t no lyin’ ‘bout it.” Joel then stared at Zaid, “Y’know that?”

Zaid couldn’t look at anyone, but Kaia’s face lost all color. She turned to him, choosing to ignore both you and Joel. “Don’t listen to him baby! He’s… he’s jealous of us and you and what we have—”

“What the hell is he talkin’ about?! Abuse… Kaia, what did you do?”

“Oh, so he don’t know.” 

“Joel stop it.”

“Fuck you! Don’t tell me what to do.”

She cried out, finally turning to him, ”I have a life now. I love Zaid and he doesn’t know, so please don’t do that to me—!”

“And how many times did I beg the same thing? With my words and without, I tried to make us work but you loved hurtin’ me. And you still do, ‘cause you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t! You should’ve fucked off and let me and my family live our lives, but no. You’re the one who meddles, and I’ve kept quiet for too long. So fuck it, and fuck you.”

“Don’t you do this—”

You saw the exact moment Joel stopped caring, and you didn’t care to stop him either. You stopped caring about Kaia’s wellbeing a long time ago. 

Joel pointed to Kaia, catching Zaid’s attention. “She never told you how Sarah was convinced, so I’ll tell you. After months of abuse, I was ready to break up with her, but I gave her sympathy and slept with her one last time. Ain’t I the fool? She took the opportunity, and poked holes in the condom. 

“I didn’t know, and I broke up with her. Come to find out, she trapped me! Baby trapped me. Then I got hitched, and she gave me hell throughout our entire marriage. Even after, especially after.”

There was a long moment of silence. Nothing in the house moved except for your hand rubbing up and down Joel’s heaving back. Just by looking at Zaid’s face alone, he was processing all this information in record speed. 

His eyes were the only thing moving, looking from Joel to Kaia to you to the file on the coffee table. 

Kaia was the first to move. She placed both her hands on his chest, sliding her hands up to his face and trying to turn him to her. But he didn’t. Instead, he took her hands, removing them from his face and taking a step back.

Zaid looked betrayed. Completely betrayed and it was all over his face. His lips parted with a small noise, then he spoke.

“You’re… you’re terrible.”

“No. No, no, no I’m not.”

“You are. How could you… you told me that you and him had a falling out. You never said anything about abuse and poking holes.”

“Because they like blowing things out of proportion! It’s how they’ve always been, I told you this.”

“Then why did you try to get him to stop?”

Kaia’s voice broke, “I… I…”

“Oh god…” he took a step away from her, hand reached behind him to hold himself up. When he didn’t, he staggered. And Kaia tried to rush to his side, but he steadied himself faster than she could come.

Then, Zaid turned away from her, taking a step to the coffee table to take the file and tuck it underneath his armpit. He then started walking to leave the living room. He only stopped when he was about to enter the hallway, turning back to Joel with a stricken look on his face. 

“I… I never knew. I’m so sorry.” And with that, he turned, heading back outside to his car that was parked. 

Kaia went after him, calling his name. She disappeared with him, and you heard their voices become more distant, leaving only Joel and you to deal with everything after.

You slipped your hand into his, and squeezed tight. He gripped back, and he dropped his chin to his chest. Joel let out a staggering breath. 

“That was the most I’d ever said ‘gainst her.” He confessed, voice small, almost fearful. 

“I know,” You leaned your forehead against him. “I’m so proud of you.”

Joel looked at you, “Really?”

You nodded, smiling. “Of course I am. We did it.”

“Did what?”

“She’s gone, baby. You drove her out, all on your own. Even without the proposal from Michelle, it would’ve have been enough. But going after Zaid… that’s exactly what I would’ve done.”

“You sayin’ I’m like you?”

“Vicious? No, you're too sweet for that.” You muttered, placing a kiss on his shoulder. “But you’re strong.”

Joel huffed out a laugh, an almost wet-sounding noise. Even with your jokes, you knew he was still feeling it all. He then took your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. 

“I love you more than anythin’.”

“I love you so much more, Miller.”

“Oh… you love each other, huh?”

You and Joel both jumped back, and his protective stature came back in an instant. Kaia was back in the entryway, her fists clenched tight and her eyes wild. They were glaring holes in where your and Joel’s hand was clasped together, where you still hadn’t let go.

“You guys must be something out of a fairytale? A book, maybe? You’re the main characters, and the entire world revolves around you both. Well, it doesn’t.”

You didn’t give her the grace of an answer, and that only made Kaia bristle more. 

“And you think you’re… you’re better than everyone! So you have no sympathy when you fuck others over.”

“I didn’t do anything to you Kaia,” you glared, “You did this to yourself.”

“I wasn’t the one who told him! If your dumbass of a boyfriend could keep his mouth shut, then I would be fine. If you had never come back from New York, I would be fine!”

“You’d never be fine, because Joel would’ve always found a way to tell Zaid about what you did.”

“Zaid didn’t need to know!”

“It was all going to catch up to you at some point. Karama gets those like you, when people like Joel couldn’t. Everything good you built off of his suffering is going to shit, rightfully so. And plus, Zaid didn’t deserve to be with a liar.”

Kaia went quiet at your words, her chest moving up and down just as Joel’s had, like she was bursting at the seams. Her tongue darted from her parted lips, wetting them before pressing them together hard.

She then—in a quick motion—looked at Joel. No, looked wasn’t the right word. She glowered with that same hatred she had shown you, only this time, she wasn’t content with hiding behind who she pretended she was.

“Liar… you think I’m a liar,” she questioned.

You frowned and hesitated at her sudden shift in mood, “I know it.”

She never took her eyes off of Joel. “Guess you got experience then. After all, you’re fucking one.”

Those words made your brows furrow harder: “Projecting on me and my relationship won’t save yours.”

“Ha! Projecting? No, I’m just calling it as it is.” Her tone became too kind, “I can’t help it. It makes me sick, knowing you think you have this ‘know-it-all’ about honestly when you aren’t even in a relationship built on it.”

“Kaia…” Joel’s warned, but there was this strain on the entirety of her name.

“Oh, you shut up.” Kaia snarled at Joel, losing that sweetness, “You want to mess up my marriage? Then I’ll ruin yours. You pushed me there.”

“Alright, alright, stop.” you interjected, stepping around Joel to get closer to Kaia. “What are you even talking about?”

She grinned like a wolf, “So you still don’t know? You know nothing?”

“Stop it!” Joel’s voice rose back up to a shout… and you instantly caught it in his tone: fear and desperation. It wasn’t like anything you heard from him before.

It made every warning horn in your brain blare. Your instincts were screaming that something was off, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. 

“You want me to stop it? Me?” Kaia pointed to herself, letting out a humorless laugh. “I asked you the same thing, but you said fuck me. So I’mma say fuck you Joel Miller.”

“You’ve taken everythin’ from me, and I deserve this one thing—”

“You deserve nothing Joel! You only deserve this!”

“I’ll do anythin’! Just don’t—don’t say nothin’.”

“Anything?” Kaia whispered, voice soft. It was almost as if she was considering it. 

“Anythin’. Any fuckin’ thing you want.” Joel raised both his hands up as if in surrender, “Just please don’t take her from me. I’m beggin’ you.”

She looked deep into his eyes then. They held a whole conversation there, with you as an audience member. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breath, because it was all coming out wrong. 

Your lungs heaved in and out, and you prayed, it wasn’t what you were thinking. Please, if there was anything good in the world, don’t let this be—

Kaia’s eyes slid to you then, eyes full of steel and a fire of hate. It was there, that you saw her choice being made.

She smiled only for you.

“No.” 

“Kaia—!”

“You know he knew?” Kaia huffed, hands coming to hug herself tight, “By the time you got to your precious park after seeing me in the diner, he knew. You sweet, stupid, naive thing: Joel knew I had poked holes in the condom days before you came to him.”

For a moment, nothing was said. Nothing could be said. To her words, you had nothing to say. You could only stare at her, the speaker of your worst fears, the bringer of this terrible reality that you never thought of was possible.

Joel reminded silent besides you, but you couldn’t move to see whatever expression he had on his face. Yet, whatever it was, couldn’t have mattered in that moment.

The only thing that mattered was the sinking of your heart, and the rining in your ears that had started to put pressure behind your eyes. 

When you had no words, she laughed in your face.

“So when you came to him, he fuckin’ knew everything. Yeah, Joel isn’t really quiet when he’s drunk. He told me about your park, and then it clicked to me that he yelled at you for no reason. Jesus, you stayed with a man that said no one would stick around you?”

“I…”

“You’re the truly pathetic one. You act as if you’re this holier-than-thou being, when really, you have no self-respect, but I can’t get too mad at you. You were just trying to ‘help’, and you never knew what he did. But its the fact he could’ve just told you, taken what you offered him, and you’ve stayed in Texas. Ain’t that something? You could’ve been here, but instead, you were alone there and he knew he could stop that, but he didn’t.”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth Kaia! You—you stop it!” Joel finally found his words, but this time, she turned to Joel and cackled.

“And you’re still beggin’ me! Look at her instead of me! But you can’t, ‘cause you’ve been keeping it from her since the moment you guys got together! The moment you guys fucked. Or for fuck’s sake, when she got back to Austin! But no, having her means its worth lying and hurting her for. Some man you are.”

Finally, Joel found motion in his body, striding to Kaia and grabbing her shoulder, turning her around and pushing her out of the door. “Get out of my fuckin’ house!” 

Yet, she fought Joel’s grasp, twisting to face you. Her voice echoed, and reached her before she disappeared into the hallway one last time:

“Do us both a favor, and have some self-respect and don’t go back to him after this, or everything you say you are doesn’t mean anything. You won’t mean anything.”

And with those final words, she disappeared around the corner. Joel argued with her, and she snapped back at him. Both their footsteps were reverberated through your skin from the floor. 

But none of that mattered. 

Because you couldn’t hear. 

Even after Joel slammed the door after Kaia. 

Even after he came back and started talking, you couldn’t hear.

Even when he tried touching your wrist in desperation, and you flinched away, you still couldn’t hear.

But you could see.

And all you saw was the ideas you had about him disappear in a slow, slow trickle. This man who you thought was one of the few good things in your life, simply wasn’t. 

How could he have hidden that from you for so long? Every time you held him, every time he touched you, every time you both fought, every time you both cried, every time you spent underneath him, wrapped in a warmth you never felt anywhere else. 

You felt sick. You jerked away harder when his hands came up to your shoulders, and you looked into his eyes.

They were erratic, moving along your face and his own, reflecting every inch of fear in him. Fear of what? That he was outed for lying to you throughout your entire relationship? But some sad part of you wanted to believe.

“Is it true?”

He stopped talking, mouth hung open. 

And when his face fell, and his eyes couldn’t meet yours, you knew. 

You scoffed, moving around him to create some sort of distance, but it didn’t help that he followed you immediately, hands moving wildly in an effort to explain himself.

“I-It ain’t—you have to listen to me. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to—”

He couldn’t even get his words out, and it tore at your heart even more. He didn’t expect to get caught. He didn’t expect his—no, his and Kaia’s lie—to catch up to him. He thought that little of you.

You didn’t bother to listen to the rest of his words, because what else was there to say? You grabbed your shoulder bag from the kitchen dining chair more aggressively than you should’ve, and turned. But he was standing in your way, shoulders rising quickly.

“Get out of my way.”

“Sweetheart listen to me.”

“Get away.”

“Just listen to what I gotta say and then we can—”

“Get the fuck out of my way!”

There was a small beat before you side-stepped him, not bothering to see the expression on his face. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, your vision had started to blur. 

You made it to the front door before you heard his footsteps coming after you. Joel called your name and pawed at your arm but never used his strength to pull you back. You ignored him, opening the front door into the chill October world.

Kaia and Zaid’s car was long gone, and the street was dark with only the moon and a couple of streetlights to act as a light source. You didn’t care, walking down his porch and away from him. 

Behind you, Joel cursed and clambered over something before following. He said something about it being cold, to come inside so you and him could talk. You didn’t want to ‘talk.’ You wanted to scream at him, tear at him, and cry your eyes out.

You didn’t have to go to New York with the worst self-confidence of your life. You didn’t have to go to the workforce proving to everyone that you were worthy enough of their attention, like they were all him. You didn’t have to do the sleepless nights or the rough days. 

You didn’t have to go through all that anguish just to become who you were now, but you had. And that was the sickest part of it all, that someone you loved like this could hurt you all the same.

So you walked. 

You walked and walked down the street, with Joel trailing behind you, yelling out whatever he was saying. Where you were going, you didn’t know. Home was too far away, and your dad couldn’t pick you up and scare Joel away. 

But you knew anywhere was better than with him. 

“Please! Please c’mere! I-I can fix this!” His voice echoed in the back of your skull. “I can explain everythin’! Just come home with me.”

“Home? Home?!” You whipped your body around, eyes blazing, “Fuck your home, Miller. Fuck your entire life and fuck you!”

“I’m sorry!” He cried out, and the words made you shake your head and start walking again. He followed. “I thought that everythin’ would be fine. No, I knew we would be fine ‘cause we were. Then Kaia and her fuckin’ husband have to come and fuck us over!”

“There is no ‘us’ in this!” you called over your shoulder, taking a sharp turn onto another block of the neighborhood. “They fucked you over, and really showed how you fucked me over!”

“I didn’t fuck you over sweetheart!”

“Really?! So, not telling me you knew about Kaia babytrapping you, saying those thingslike it was my fault, isn’t fucking me over? Try again.”

“But—”

“And the fact is, you used me like some stepping stone to get what you wanted! Kaia’s gone, Zaid’s gone, everyone who could hurt you is gone, but at my fucking expense.”

“It was for us! You saw how miserable Kaia bein’ back made us.”

You turned one last time and almost fell over when his entire body bumped into you. Joel’s hands came to steady you, but you shoved them off you. 

You stared at him, into his eyes that you couldn’t see in the dark but feel. You needed to know, needed to know this one thing.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I-I was goin’ to, I swear! I was gonna tell you.” He put his hand over his heart as if he was vowing it to you. His vows didn’t mean anything anymore.

“Yeah?” You inched closer, “When? A month after Kaia left? A year into our relationship? Two years? Three? Four? Five? Ten? Twenty fucking years?” You pushed his chest with all your might, “When. Were. You. Going. To. Tell me?!”

“I—”

“I deserve an explanation! How long were you gonna lie to me?!”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t—”

“I don’t know!”

Silence echoed throughout the street. Everything stopped with your heart. The cicadas stopped singing. Any traffic that was happening on the road was suddenly gone. You blinked, then nodded to yourself, accepting his answer. 

“Yeah, that’s your issue, isn’t it?”

You walked again, intent on shaking him off. When Joel followed you this time, he made no noise, wordlessly a shadow behind you in the night. How long you both walked, you didn’t know. All you could recount was going down different streets to get home. 

You even almost twisted your ankle once or twice on your stupid heels, and each time, there was a rush of concern, Joel behind you before he backed off. 

It infuriated you that he could respect you now and see that you needed space, but couldn’t see that you wanted something simpler: the truth. Didn’t you deserve to know this information? 

Joel matched you beat for beat; the click of your heel, the thud of his boot. Your eyes flickered to a clearing, where the houses were fenced off. Your heels sank into the soggy grass as you made it up the small hill.

The playground and park were still and quiet, no other soul there other than you and the man behind you. You ignored the large jungle gym, the monkey bars, and the seesaw, instead choosing to drop your bag on the wood chips next to the swings. You took a seat on one, but not swinging. 

His shadow from the street light fell over you, but you didn’t look up at him.

“Don’t… don’t shut me out. C’mon, let’s talk.”

“What’s there to talk about? You lied,” you said plainly, “You’re just mad you got caught.”

“I ain’t mad.”

“Then why’re you fighting so hard to try and argue with me?”

“Argue—? No, we ain’t arguin’. W-we’re talkin’. Yes, talkin’.”

“Talking? Actually?”

“Yes we are.”

You nodded bitterly, then finally looked up. Joel’s breath did a sharp inhale.

“Fine, you wanna fucking talk? I’ve never let a man use me, lie to me, hurt me like you. You know that? One of a kind you are, Miller,” you hissed out, “You can spit on me, and my help, make me feel perfectly safe once more, just to learn you could’ve stopped it all, but you chose not to.”

“It ain’t a choice! You don’t know the full story!”

“I’ve heard enough of your stories to last me a lifetime. Honestly, keep them.” 

“Don’t say that, I don’t trust anyone with ‘em like I do you.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t trust you.” You felt a tear roll down your cheek. Stupid. You rubbed it away quickly.

But of course, Joel noticed. He took a step closer, his hand reached out to brush any remnants away from the corner of your eye. You turned your head before he could get to you. 

His hand fell, now clenched into a fist by his side. “You… you don’t?”

“No, not anymore,” you said with more steel in your voice.

“That’s… not true…”

You stand suddenly, taking your back with you and stepping toward Joel and jabbing a finger in his face. He flinched away, “You don’t get it! You just… god, you’re so wrapped up in your whole ‘me, me, me’ you can’t see me! I’ve told you how you hurt me thirteen years ago. And you’re still sitting here trying to justify yourself!”

Joel’s voice cracked, “‘Cause I knew you’d hate me!”

“So you knew how important this would be to me and you still kept it?!”

“I had to! I would’ve done anythin’ to make sure you’d never leave me ‘gain.”

“Jesus, you are such a selfish man! Really? You want your perfect world, but it’s my happiness at stake? I get sent back to New York for you and work with terrible people and be terrible, and you don’t care!”

“I do care! I never once took your love for granted.”

“You took it for granted every time you looked at me and lied.” You took a step away from the swings and him, running your fingers through your hair. “And the worst part is that I was so blind. Blinded by… stupid love. Your love.”

“Stop callin’ what we have stupid!”

“Can’t I? It’s mine as well, and now, I think it’s dumb that I didn’t ask for more information. There’s always something with you Joel. More story, more shit, and I thought that we had grown past it all and gotten close. But even still, I thought you would tell me! Trust me enough to tell me this. Hell, I asked you if you had anything more you wanted to say about the park. So many times! And you… you lied again and said you didn’t.”

“I was just protectin’ us!” Joel yelled out to you desperately, “I knew… I knew if you knew ‘bout the fact I knew ‘bout Kaia babytrappin’ me, you’d never forgive me—”

“So this is about you!” You turned on him, scoffing. “To protect your peace, your life, you decided me not knowing wasn’t worthy enough. That I wasn’t enough to be told shit like this!”

“You are a ‘nough!”

“Clearly not to you!”

Silence filled the space between you both, and then, you sadly shook your head, and squeezed your eyes shut. You felt tears slip out, traitorous, down your cheeks in a heartache you’d never felt before. 

“Sweetheart, don’t cry. Oh, don’t cry…”

“You… you don’t love me.”

You heard Joel choke before you, “What?”

“No… no you don’t love me.” You shook your head, and fisted your hair on your scalp, pulling the words out by force, “You don’t love me! You love what I give you. Emotional support, physical  support, mental support, a fuck even—”

“Stop it please—!”

“—but you didn’t love me enough to look at me and realize that I should’ve known that you could’ve stopped some of my worst thoughts. T-that I could’ve stayed here in Texas longer. You know I ran away because I was done with you. I could’ve been here for my dad when he was dealing with Mom in the hospital. I-I could’ve been there to see Tommy get married! But I didn’t because I was too afraid to face you. The shame of you.”

“You only… you only know half of all this. I’m sorry, and let me explain!”

“Your sorries don’t mean anything!” You screamed out, opening your eyes and letting your tears flow fully, “You’re a fucking hypocrite too! I lied about New York—something I did out of the goodness of my heart—and you said you hated me! I cried for a week thinking I was the worst person in the world, and still came like a… a dog!”

You walked away from him, breathing in air that had no meaning to your body. You felt overly lightheaded, and your chest hurt. Everything hurt. Your very soul felt like it was never going to be the same.

“You—you gotta look at me.” Joel called out after you, “You gotta believe me. I’ve loved you for so long, and I would never do anythin’ to willin’ly hurt you.”

“Keep lying, Joel, it won’t make the situation any better.”

“I ain’t lyin’!” He cried out. You felt hands on your back, turning you around and forcing you to stare into his eyes. He squeezed your shoulders hard. “Don’t say that ‘bout my love. It’s… that’s true.”

“How do I know that? How do I know anything about you anymore?”

“That’s okay! I-I can fix it. I fixed so much shit between us,” He squeezed his eyes shut this time, “I fixed us when we hated each other as kids, I fixed us when you came back. I fixed us after Dallas, after our fight. And I can do it ‘gain if you give me the chance—please gimme a chance—”

“I don’t want to give you anymore chances—”

“You have to! I have nothin’ worth livin’ for in my life if you say that! I’d be nothin’ ‘gain!” He dipped his head down in shame, trying to hold you again, but you fought off his arms, “I’d just be Sarah’s daddy ‘gain and Tommy’s brother and Raymond and Lorraine’s son. You make me so much more. Only you.”

You hated how your heart was going back to him, hated how seeing him so down pulled at your heartstrings. You were so mad, but some immature part of you—the child in you who held a young Joel was being abused—wanted to kiss his face and tell him everything would be okay.

But the older, colder part of you said to stop this. Don’t go back, just head forward like a horse with those blinders on, never looking back. You did it once, do it again. 

You shook your head, “But you are more than me! You always have been. And if you feel like lying to me is the only way to keep that title, then it was never worth it in the first place!”

“Then we’ll get rid of it! I’ll do anythin’ you say!”

“Jesus Christ, you aren’t listening!” For the first time, you grab his face, holding him there so he could hear your painful words. “I don’t trust you anymore!”

Joel froze there in your arms, and he didn’t try to reach you. The opposite, his hands slipped from your shoulders, falling onto his side. You watched his entire break in two, and his eyes grew wet.

You couldn’t stop your words anymore, “Whatever effort you were trying to make, it failed. Our relationship failed a long time ago, because it was… it was built on a lie. I forgave you and fell in love with a lie attached to it all.”

“Are… are you sayin’ you would’ve never forgiven me for the park if y’knew?” Joel asked in a mumble.

When you didn’t respond, a tear slipped from his eye.

“Would we… never have gotten together in the first place? Would we even be datin’ if y’knew?”

You wanted to hurt him like he was hurting you, so you kept your lips clamped shut.

“You would’ve never… never come back? From New York? Go somewhere else other than Austin?”

And this time, when you kept that answer to yourself, Joel sobbed.

He sobbed and tore himself away from you, turning his back. Your hands were left in the air, hovering over the ghost of him, which you had to let go of.

Joel’s shoulder’s shook with force, unable to catch a breath. He clawed at his face, whipping aggressively. You took a step back from it all. You couldn’t stop your own tears, sobbing silently in your own right.

“I just wished you had… had told me earlier. Or at least, when I asked.” you said in between sobs, “Maybe we could’ve… I don’t know, worked it out by now? Done something? But the way I learned about it… through Kaia, is one of the biggest insults.”

“She wasn’t ‘posed to say anythin’!”

“That’s the thing! How can you keep this big a secret with the worst person in our lives, a secret that hurts me?”

This time, he didn’t respond to you, and that let your mind wander and ramble.

“And… and I refuse to repeat mistakes. We’ve done this before Joel. We live in a deluded world where we get close, then you…. you fuck me over and I go and I come back and we do it again. I’m exhausted. I can’t.”

You thought about your parents in this moment. Your mom hurting so she hurt your dad. Even if she didn’t mean it, he deserved the truth. And he got his truth, he got what he wanted and he still chose to stay. 

You chose to stay.

A terrible thought filled you; were you your dad, and Joel your mom?

The thought made you violently ill. No, no you were more. But were you? Or were you and your dad both emotional punching bags to people who would lie to them and and love them in the same breath? 

You took another step away from Joel. You hadn’t broken any cycles; you were in one right now.

Break free. 

You were stuck being your dad, waiting for your lover to look at you and realize that loving you meant telling you the ugly stuff instead of blinding you. 

Break free.

Joel was in the same place as your mom, someone who would rather pretend everything was fine and say he was protecting the love you both shared,  yet be the one who was the biggest threat.

Break free.

Why you? You thought you were past the relationship that your parents shared. This was all a cruel joke, because how could the universe make you fall for this man?

Why would the universe put this man so early in your life and make you learn every inch of him—body, mind and soul—and then rot it all away?

Why would the universe give you this man who knew every centimeter of you and your hurt, and have him throw it right back in your face?

And why, why would the universe let you believe that the first time wasn’t warning enough? 

Break fucking free—

“I can’t do that anymore.”

You don’t know how those five words got past your lips, got past the confines of your mind, but they did. Joel stopped shaking then, his body going eerily still. 

He turned.

Joel Miller’s face was one of horror. No, dread. No, pain. Pure, unadulterated pain that shook you to your very core. You had never seen a face exhibit that type of emotion before.

“No.”

“Joel—”

“We ain’t done.”

“We are.”

“No, we ain’t—we’ve gone through worse.” he said with a steady tone, a contrast to his wet face and quivering lips. 

“We can’t get through this.”

“Yes… w-we will. ‘C-cause I love you and you love me and we’re meant to be—”

“This isn’t healthy—”

“No!” He yelled out, his composure lost, “No, we ain’t done. ‘cause that means everythin’ I went through to get back to you meant nothin’! All my sufferin’, all my ache, to see your face and tell you I loved you since I was a kid was for shit!”

“And no one is saying it isn’t nothing! But you… you trashed all that work just because you were scared of what you thought I might do.”

“You’re leavin’ me! Ain’t that fear ‘nough?”

“No, no it isn’t!” you shouted back to him, “This is the consequence of your actions. For… for lying to me then, and lying to me now. Twice, you’ve lied to me. How can I not think you won’t do it again?”

“I won’t. I can’t do that ‘gain ‘cause there ain’t nothin’ else. So please, don’t do this to me. To us.”

“I didn’t do anything. You did. You did this to us. I was… god Joel, I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you. Fucking white picket fence, marriage, even… even kids.” Your voice cracked, “But you took that from us the second you kept this from me. And now it’s… it's no more.”

“It can still be—be possible. It has to be.”

“It isn’t. I’m sorry. There’s… there’s no more us. No more staying over, no more dates. No more… no more Wyoming. No nothing. We’re done, Joel Miller.”

And with the most pain you’d felt in a long time, you turned your back and walked away from him. 

From your relationship, from your love—

You felt arms encircle your torso, pulling you back into a solid chest. Joel breathed heavy in your left ear, and no matter how much you thrashed, he wouldn’t let go.

“Let me go! Joel—!”

“Do you remember nine-eleven?”

You froze in your jerks right there, breath lost. You dared to turn your face to the side. His eyes were wild, searching your face for your answer and begging you not to stay silent.

Did you remember? Of course you remembered that morning. You had been heading to work, no cabs available because it was the busiest Tuesday in New York, and everyone decided then and there that work was the most important thing. 

You had been close enough to see the first hit, looking up, and feeling confused. Why was smoke coming out of the building like that? Then the first tower fell.

You had ran, losing your bag and phone, and everything along the way. You ran with others, the noise so loud it blared in your ears for nights to come. Rang in your eyes when you finally were able call your dad, you were barely able to hear him sob over you.

You nodded, and Joel breathed against your lips.

“I do too. I… I was late wakin’ up, and when I put on the news… all I saw were the towers goin’ down and I though, ‘she’s there.’” 

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours and arms pulling you into the tightest hug, your back to his chest. You closed your eyes, and so did he.

“I called you nine hundred twenty-eight times.”

“I-I didn’t know that. I lost the phone I had on me when I ran away.”

“You did?”

You nodded with fervor, “I did. I would’ve picked up if I had known you were calling me like that.”

Joel let out a shaky breath, and he sobbed ever so softly. 

“I thought you were crushed underneath rumble, and the next time I would see you was when I was puttin’ you in the ground.” Joel tilted his head, and you felt his tears spill onto your cheeks, joining the rivers of your broken hearts. “I called and called, ‘til your daddy finally called me and said he got you on the phone. That was four hours later.”

“Oh Joel…”

“I lived four hours of my life thinkin’ you were dead. And when I learned that it wasn’t true, I swore to myself I’d never lose ‘nother moment with you.” His head dipped to your cheek, “So please, please sweetheart, don’t make me relive any of that. I… I can’t. I’ve been yours since the day I was born, since the moment my mama lifted me to sleep in the same crib as you. Don’t leave me.”

Your fingers threaded over his fingers, which were locked together and tight against your stomach. You felt his grip loosening then, his palm opening to accept your hand. His thick, warm, familiar hands that had grown with yours. 

You held him there, refusing to let go of him, and him you. 

You whispered softly, breath brushing his lips, “Why did you hurt me like in the first place?”

“I told you, I was stressed. The truth is, learnin’ of Kaia babytrappin’ me sent me off the edge. I was done with her, but then the next day—”

“I want to believe you, but I can’t. I just… can’t.”

“Sweetheart, it’s the truth.”

“How do I know that?”

“You have to… have to—”

“—trust you?”

He had no response for that, and you let out the saddest, shakiest laugh you could.

“You don’t understand Joel, and I don’t think you ever will. I was robbed of a life that could’ve been happy because you decided in that moment in the park that my help—and I—weren’t worth anything. After everything I had done for you? I had given you hours of being there, watching you go back to her, just for you to say those things to me, knowing I only wanted to help.

“And, now. I had asked you, no begged, if there was anything more. You lied again. Twice you’ve lied to me like it's nothing. That isn’t fair.”

When you opened your eyes, he was already looking down at you. 

You relished the moment, he and you pressed together in a quietness you hadn’t felt since learning the truth, and you let yourself keep it in your heart…

…because you took his hands off you and stepped away from him.

You heard him choke behind you, and his hand reached and grazed your back, but they didn’t hold you. You walked away from him and didn’t look. If you did, you would run back, and you and him would hurt each other worse than ever before.

You loved him too much to do that. 

And you loved yourself enough to protect yourself from that kind of pain.

So you walked. Walked away from the rarest type of love you’d ever known. You walked out of the confines of the park, back over the grassy hills, and onto the sidewalk.

You stopped there and ran a hand over your lips and bit your fist to stop yourself. This is what was best, you told yourself, and you started again. You cried harder when you heard him cry out for you, his voice so weak:

“Come back!”

 He pleaded:

“Sweetheart, look at me!”

He sobbed:

“Don’t leave me!”

And faintest of all, but you heard with the clarity of a silver bell:

“I’m right here… right here!”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

July 30th, 1988

Five days before Flight AA8934’s departure

Joel eased the window up millimeter by millimeter, wincing every time the frame groaned. He paused, listening for boots in the hallway or his mama’s voice asking what in the Lord’s name he was doing and to come back inside so they could talk. 

There was nothing, so he swung a leg out.

Talking was everything his family had been doing recently. Baby this, responsibility that. What he planned to do now and how he’d provide. How he’d planned on dealing with not just a baby, but Kaia as well. 

But through it all, he only really ever thought about you. 

Really, he thought about the night that he spilled that Kaia was pregnant. It wasn’t the best way to break the news, he would admit. Especially when it involved the ex you swore you were done with, and was now pregnant. Oh, and over a game night, couldn’t forget that.

That night, when the three of you got home, his mama had sent you and Joel upstairs, saying she would deal with it tomorrow. Her concern was on Joel’s dad, who hadn’t said much and only had a purple eye and cheekbone to say much.

Shamefully, he had walked up the stairs, wet as a dog and with you trailing behind him. When he about to split into his room, your voice had stopped him.

“Joel… do you think you should be alone right now?”

Your voice had been timid, almost shy. Joel turned to you then, and wanted to tell you to go back to Tommy’s room. He was violent and dangerous. He’d just punched his own dad.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just gestured to his room, and you followed silently. 

You had held him all throughout that night. He gave you clothes to change into, obviously, but you had one hand in his hair and his face pressed to your chest because he had started shaking. He hadn’t expected the tears, the fear clawing up his throat at the thought of a baby—his baby—changing the course of his life. 

And you, running your thumb behind his ear, whispered that it’d be okay even though you had no guarantee.

He’d fallen asleep on you.

And then he’d woken up alone, your side of his bed cold.

Joel slipped onto his roof now and closed the window behind him. The evening was thick with late-summer warmth. He got down onto the backyard with the ladder he put there beforehand. 

He kept low along the side of the house, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He couldn’t risk being seen from the living room windows. 

His truck sat at the curb, too loud to use. So he walked, gravel crunching under his boots as he headed toward Kaia’s place.

Kaia had called around two ago, her voice thin as if she were barely holding herself together. “Can you… meet me?” she had asked.

He hadn’t asked questions, and just said: “Yeah. Tell me where.”

In his mind, he was worried it was about the baby. Maybe there was some sort of complication. Could women get complications so early in pregnancy? He would have to ask his mama. Well, after she stopped acting as if him getting Kaia pregnant was ‘the Devil’s work.’

Kaia’s house wasn’t that far from his. He knew the route like the back of his hand because he had snuck out a million times to go see her. 

They had agreed upon the church near her house. They couldn’t risk getting caught by Mrs. Hall, who would surely tell Joel’s folks about this unsurprised visit. Plus, Kaia had be adamant about her mama not knowing.

Mrs. Hall was an interesting woman, to say the least. All Joel knew about Kaia’s family was that her dad wasn’t around, her siblings were grown up, and her mama hated her.

Anything Kaia did—at least, when Joel was physically around her—was criticized. Mrs. Hall had asked Kaia if she was treating Joel right, if she was planning on being good. She even mentioned something about Kaia’s weight, which Joel shut down quickly. 

It was safe to say that Joel didn’t want to see Mrs. Hall. 

The church’s black roof appeared in the distance, high above the other buildings around it. A large, still bell hung over the structure. Joel was unfamiliar with this church, his mama always went to the one closer to the town square. This one was almost near the farmer’s fields. 

Joel looked around for any signs of Kaia. When he found none, he stood near the edge of a small hardware store, hands in his pockets and tapping his foot. He looked again and again, for her curly hair or her face, and also if anyone would notice him.

Him being outside right now was one of the worst decisions of his life. His folks had put him on a strict lockdown, so strict he couldn’t even go out past the sidewalk. 

If he was caught, then surly he would have it ten times worse than before—

“Joel? Over here!”

Joel turned his head, and sure enough, it was Kaia. She was against the church wall, glancing side to side just how he had been. She waved him over, and he came close.

When he reached her, his hand went immediately to her flat stomach, “Is the baby alright? Are you alright?”

She swatted his hand away, instead grabbing his wrist and dragging him behind the church, “I’m… we’re fine. Everythin’ is…. please just walk faster.”

Joel listened, picking up his pace, “Then why am I here? Y’know my mama and dad are gonna kill me if they find out I’m out like this.”

“They won’t, you’ll be fine.”

Soon, they were behind the church, away from anyone who might possibly see. Joel pulled his arm away from Kaia, and opened and closed his fists.

He settled to just crossing his arms over his chest, “Kaia, what is this all ‘bout. I’m serious.”

“And I’m tellin’ you, give me a second! God, you’re just rushin’ me—”

“Rushin’ you? Are you bein’ serious right now?” Joel took a step closer to her, “You’re the one who called me and said we needed to talk.”

“And we are.”

“Is it the baby?” Joel looked down once more to her belly, “You gotta tell me these things Kaia. Don’t… I know things are tense right now. ‘Spically with my folks, but if you called and it was ‘bout the baby, then they’d help. They’d let me help.”

“I know that.”

“So why’re we here? At this church hidin’. The way you made things sound I thought somethin’ dangerous was happenin’.”

“It’s not—”

“Please, you have to talk to me.”

“—I am—”

“My place is our best option—”

“Jesus, Joel!” She hissed, cutting off his words, “I’m tryin’ to speak, and you're just… just smotherin’ me. Stop it.”

Joel clamped his mouth shut, killing any words he could’ve possibly responded with. He was overwhelming her; that had to be it. She was pregnant. Joel had read that hormones in women changed so drastically during pregnancy. He couldn’t make it worse for her.

So, he looked down at her with wide eyes and tried a softer approach:

“I’m sorry. I… I am.” He took her hand, thumb running along her knuckles. “I don’t want you to yell too much, it ain’t good for either of you.”

Kaia’s bottom lip trembled, “It’s fine. I… I just wanted to… to speak to you. It’s not about the baby—well, it is, but it isn’t.”

He cocked his head to the side, “What is it?”

She took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. He stared right back, no intent on letting her go. 

Whatever it was, they’d face it together. They’d do it for the baby, who deserved more than this life. Joel would give them everything and more that they’d ask for. 

Any sports, dance, or play, he’d come to, pay for. His own dad had done the same, and Joel aspired to be like his dad. Moreover, he wanted the life he had. So even though this was less than conventional ways to make a baby, it was still a baby.

And even better, he still had everyone he needed in his life. Sure, everyone was pissed at him, but that would wane away when they saw his baby stare up at him. Grandmama and Grandpa, Uncle Tommy, Uncle Clyde, and you.

That’s right, everything in his life was in order, no matter how chaotic it had become—

“I poked holes.”

At first, Joel didn’t hear her properly. Poked holes? In what?

He asked her that, “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout.”

Kaia bit her lip, “When… when we were having… having sex, I poked holes before I gave you the condom.”

What. 

That couldn’t be true. That… that wasn’t possible. No, because he watched her hand him a unopened pack. He ripped it open himself and put it on. 

That couldn’t be true, because that meant nothing had ever been an accident. That meant when she rode him, she had intentions of hurting him. 

But he never thought of the baby as something to hurt him, even though the situation was of constant tension. Now, it was hurting. More like itching. His skin started to itch and burn, like he was being swarmed by furious hands and fire ants.

So many thoughts ran across his mind. He was forced? Men couldn’t be forced into having sex, wasn’t it women who had to watch out for pig-like men? He heard of men poking holes, forcing others into roles to satisfy their sick fantasies… but never in reverse. 

He felt betrayed. He had trusted Kaia when they were having sex. Joel had always made sure to wear protection, never be too rough unless she asked for it, and say kind things because he knew it could all be too much for one person.

Was he not afforded the same liberties? Joel thought he could put his body into the hands of another person and see them care for him in his vulnerability.

Instead, she used him.

Used his hands, his obedience, his willingness, his body—

In that moment, in a singular moment behind a church he’d never been to, Joel realized he was a fool

He stumbled back, away from Kaia, dropping her hand along the way. She staggered closer to him, eyes wild and desperate.

“Joel—Joel listen to me you have to understand—”

Joel couldn’t bare to look at her, at his baby. Oh, his baby. “Why… why would you do that to me…?”

“Because you were leavin’! O-our relationship was falliin’ apart and I knew that this—” she put her hands on her belly, “—was the only way.”

“I-I… I can’t—”

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Joel’s mindwas going a million miles per second and he couldn’t stop it. 

Kaia stepped forward, and put her hands on his face, and he flinched a her cold, clammy fingers, “Look at me.” He couldn’t, so she forced his eyes to look at him, “Look at me Joel Miller. I knew you always wanted kids. You wanted this too, so don’t try and act the fool. We would… we would go on dates at the park and you would look at the babies runnin’ ‘round and tell me ‘bout your future. Our future.”

“Not like this—”

“I can agree this is unconventional for a start in life, but we have it now.” She took his hand and pulled it to her belly. His fingers naturally splayed over the fabric of her shirt, “I have it now.”

“But why would you do that to me?” Joel couldn’t stop the whine in his voice. “If we were right for each other, I would’ve started a life with you willingly.”

The noise seemed to tick Kaia’s eyebrow, “‘Cause you were takin’ too damn long! And you were ready to leave me. Don’t you see, Joel, this is the only way. The only way you can be a daddy is because I’m the only one for you. No one else. Only me. Not even your Sugar Cubes would give you what you want.

“That white-picket fence life? A marriage, kids? You and her aren’t set for that. But we are.” She caressed his face with her free hand, “We’re soulmates, Joel.”

He pushed her hand off him, removed his own from her belly. He wasn’t soulmates with someone who would do this to him. That would be the cruelest joke the universe could play on him.

Even though she saw him pulling away, she tried. She matched his feet step-for-step, trying to pull him back into her range. Yet, she couldn’t. 

“I can’t do this,” Joel said with a mumble, managing to get a good distance from Kaia.

“Excuse me?” Her voice went shrill.

“Y’think babytrappin’ me—” Lord he could barely believe it, “—will solve anythin’. It won’t.”

“It has already! We’re together again.”

“And when I tell my folks? What will they say?

That stopped Kaia dead in her tracks. Joel stopped as well, realizing she hadn’t thought that far. For once, he had some leverage, some push against her. He continued:

“I tell ‘em you poked holes? We’re done. You’re done. They’d never let you an inch near me or my family.”

“T-this baby is your family now! You’d abandon them just because of how they were conceived?”

“I’ve done everythin’ for you as soon as you should me the test. Y’think how you fuck up is gonna affect how I love ‘em?” Joel snarled and took a wider stance, “I’ll take the baby as soon as they’re born and raise ‘em myself.”

“And leave me?! Like I’m your fuckin’ baby maker?!”

“You put that on yourself! You made yourself a mama! You made me a daddy when I ain’t ready for it. But I’mma make myself ready for it, and then, I’ll be ready to get rid of you.”

Kaia’s face fell, then hardened, “You're a real piece of work, Miller. This baby is goin’ to ask for me, and then what? I have so much they need.”

“You’ll be there for the baby.”

“I’ll be the only one there. Courts’ll give me custody. They love mothers, and then you’ll be stuck bein’ near me for the rest of this baby’s life.”

“Then I’ll fight it! I’ll take you to court and spend millions ‘til they give me what’s rightfully mine.”

“You’d do that? You’d hurt me like that just to get away?”

Joel took three staggering steps toward her, eyes desperate for her to see how serious he was about this. He put his hands on her shoulders, gripping so tight she winced.

He leaned in, breath brushing hers, and spoke.

“Kaia Hall, I’d ruin you ‘fore I’ll get with you ‘gain.”

Her breath hitched, and he watched her expression flicker through a million different emotions. He didn’t bother to see which one she landed on, taking a step back, another, and turning completely.

Joel needed to get home. Once he was home, he could tell his folks about what Kaia had done, before it actually hit him, and he broke down. 

“I will make you say.” Kaia’s words stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked over her shoulder, trying to not let that tone scare him like it used to. “Y’think I won’t do anythin’ more than this? You have me wrong, Miller. You try and ruin me now, I’ll make sure you always have a reason to stay.”

He dared speak, “It won’t matter. I’m tellin’ my folks, no matter what.”

Kaia smiled, cold and cruel.

“We’ll see about that.”

Chapter 37 discussion subreddit

Tag List (link open):

@d0uwannkn0w, @saymonyung, @missladym1981, @somedayheaven, @ashleyfilm, @m0ldy-p3ach, @bearbo28, @millersrevolver, @forevermoretaylors, @pascalbrinas, @ae303, @fabiola-love, @itsmermers, @persiar9, @taniamiller, @televanglist1c, @crybabycowgirl02, @secretlettersfromyourlove, @purebarnes, @ashispunk557, @adoringanakin, @silksepia, @madnessofadaydreamer, @fuckthatbazinga, @juniperberries123, @joeldarling, @anqieluv, @s20066, @paperbag33, @lwmysun, @angelamariaxo, @opallanky, @paulieloverz, @vinnstarr, @woodxtock, @lysistratablogs, @kikixdee, @meme73-4 @onlythehobi, @kaletales13, @honey-moon-13, @sinpathyforthedevilish, @honeyphiil, @clownedcakez, @foryouaremine-atlast, @ichaborgasm, @serene-kn1vezz, @pinkcabinet, @kirsteng42, @captured-memory

[hoziersguitarr]

I made some more art for @followyourfleart because my baby fever went through the roof after reading the first chapter of t&c: fine print :3 plus a bonus doodle she mentioned while we were chatting 😼😼 (more art of Lo coming soon!!!)

[pedrosgrogu]

one of my favorite works. this art is everything to me

[followyourfleart]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝟐𝟗: 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ

Next | Pervious | Fic Masterlist | a03

blurb - Joel’s never been one for birthdays—never cared for the candles, the noise, or the fuss. But this year, you’re determined to give him something good. The only problem? Being good to Joel means being honest with him. And no matter how softly you say it, you know the truth will break your relationship into something that you can’t fix with just words.

warnings - Slight self-esteem issues and slight self-degrading talk

a/n - I recommend listening to "Wicked Games" by The Weeknd when they you know… and "my tears ricochet" by Taylor Swift after!

Word Count: 18.8 k

“I am loved.”

“I’m liked.”

“I am very smart.”

“I’m smart.”

“And I’m going to enjoy my birthday!”

“I’m gonna throw myself at a wall if you say that one more time.”

You frowned up at him. Joel kept his gaze on the mirror, jaw working slow.

“Don’t see why I gotta do this,” he muttered. “Ain’t like talkin’ myself up in the mirror’s gonna fix anythin’.”

“It’s about retraining your brain.”

He grunted. “My brain’s trained fine, thanks.”

He gave you a look through the reflection. You didn’t back down. You never did.

The bathroom was quiet except for the buzz of the old light and the soft splash of the faucet. Sarah’s voice drifted down the hall—music leaking faintly from her room, the sound of drawers opening, closing. She was getting ready too.

Joel met your gaze again. “How long’s this s’pposed to take?”

“Depends,” you said, like it was obvious. You placed your phone on the bathroom counter. “How stubborn are you feeling today?”

He huffed through his nose. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Then we’ll be here a while.”

He turned back to the mirror, jaw tight. “I am loved,” he said, flat.

“You sound like a hostage.”

“Feel like one,” he said. “Next?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I am smart.”

He repeated it, same tone.

“Joel.”

“What?”

“Mean it.”

He didn’t answer. You stepped closer, the edge of your robe brushing his arm, warm against his bare skin. The mirror fogged slightly between you from the steam.

“I am loved,” you said again, quiet this time. “Say it like you’re talking to Sarah. Or me.”

He swallowed, eyes dropping to the sink. Then, slower: “I am loved.”

“Good,” you said softly.

Joel didn’t look at you, but his shoulders eased.

He reached for his toothbrush just to have something to do. “We oughta head out soon. Sarah said she wanted to stop for a coffee first.”

You made a face in the mirror. “Ah, look at that. The great deflector strikes again.”

“Deflectin’ what?”

“Feelings,” you said simply. “You’re trying to change the subject ‘cause we happen to be going to the hospital.”

Joel froze halfway through brushing. He stared at the mirror again, foam at the corner of his mouth. “Jus’ sayin’ we’ll be late.”

“Mhm.”

“Sweetheart, I’m serious—”

“So am I.”

Silence stretched between you. You picked at the edge of the counter, staring at your reflection beside his. You looked tired. He noticed that before you did.

Everything you heard from your dad’s team said that the surgery went perfectly. No complications. But Joel could see the tension sitting in your shoulders like a second skin.

He rinsed his mouth, wiped his face with the towel, then set a hand on your hip. Just a gentle weight.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you said too fast. Then softer, “I just hate not being able to do anything.”

He nodded. “Know the feelin’.”

You looked at him then. The mirror caught it—both your faces drawn and quiet under the yellow bathroom light.

Then you said it. “Hey, at least we’ve got your birthday to look forward to.”

Joel groaned under his breath, already bracing himself. “Don’t start.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. “Come on. You can’t just ignore your own birthday.”

“Sure I can,” he said, dabbing the aftershave on his jaw. “Been doin’ it for years. Works fine.”

“Joel.” You drew his name out, half-whine, half-plea, hands sliding up his shoulders. “You already shot down Lorraine and Raymond’s dinner invite. You’re not even gonna let me make a cake?”

He smirked faintly. “You mean buy a cake.”

“Excuse me, I was going to make one.”

“Yeah, from the box.”

“You underestimate me, Joel,” you teased, laughing as your fingers traced along the warm column of his neck.

He didn’t smile like he usually did when you touched him like that. His jaw flexed instead. “I jus’… jus’ ain’t celebratin’ while Clyde’s still in recovery. Plain and simple.”

“That has nothing—”

“I’m serious.” His tone softened, sure, but the finality in it was unmistakable. “Your daddy’s jus’ come outta brain surgery. Don’t feel right sittin’ ‘round with cake and candles while he’s lyin’ in a hospital bed.”

You paused. For a moment, the fire in you dimmed. He could see it.

“I know,” you murmured, voice smaller. “I know things are still shaky. But… it’s your birthday. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t wanna make it ‘bout me.”

“Joel…”

But he wasn’t looking at you now.

His gaze slid past you, away, unfocused—somewhere far from this bathroom, far from your hands on his skin.

He hated his birthday.

Always had after that night.

The night Kaia walked out. The night his whole life broke.The night he learned how that people could spit on everything you gave them when they just decided to.

Every birthday afterward felt like an anniversary of everything he wasn’t enough for.

He leaned in and kissed you. Slow, sure, a full stop to any more probing.

By the time you finally pulled away, your lips were flushe. You wiped at your lips with the sleeve of your robe, muttering under your breath, and Joel couldn’t help it—he laughed, quiet and fond.

But then your phone started buzzing against the marble—sharp, insistent, slicing through the quiet like a warning bell.

You groaned and slumped forward, forehead nearly hitting his shoulder. “So early in the morning,” you mumbled. “No one has something that important to say.”

Joel chuckled, lips brushing your forehead. “Could be.”

You tilted your head, stretching over him with a lazy sigh to check the screen. “Oh, please. Nothing could be as important as—”

The sentence broke off.

Joel blinked. “As what?”

You didn’t answer. Your posture had gone stiff, your whole body tightening in a way that set something uneasy in his gut. He followed your gaze to the phone, where a name flashed across the screen: Michelle.

He reached for the phone before he really thought about it. “Who’s Michelle?”

You snatched it back so fast he flinched.

“Jesus,” he muttered, hands up like he was calming a spooked horse. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

You didn’t look at him. Just stared at the screen, jaw clenched, eyes flicking over the name like it had wronged you personally. You cursed under your breath—sharp, bitter words Joel hadn’t heard from you before.

He watched, confused, his brows knitting. You were angry.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

You blinked hard, like you’d forgotten he was there. “Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Yeah, I just—sorry, I need to take this.”

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No. No, it’s just—just something.” Your voice cracked slightly at the end, and you cleared your throat, forcing a lighter tone. “I’ll go get ready, okay?”

He didn’t buy it. Not really. But you leaned in before he could question it, pressed a quick kiss to his lips and then you were gone.

Joel picked them up, turned the bouquet once in his hand as if checking whether it looked right, then headed for the door.

The drive to the hospital was short. Sarah sat in the back, her arms crossed, gaze glued to the window like the world outside was far more interesting than anyone inside. You sat in the passenger seat, hands folded loosely in your lap, the air of someone trying very hard not to take up space.

Joel noticed.

He kept glancing over—not enough to be obvious, just enough to clock the sad little downturn of your mouth, the way your shoulders curled inward. Something was weighing on you.

When the light turned red, he finally spoke.

“What’s wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to him, surprised. Then you shook your head and forced a small smile.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you. Not for a second. But you’d locked the door on that feeling and handed him the key with a look that said not right now. So he eased off, jaw tense but silent as the light shifted green.

A beat passed, then you turned in your seat, twisting just enough to address Sarah in the back.

Sarah answered you, polite but stiff. Her voice didn’t carry much warmth like before. 

Soon, a detour was made for a nearby cafe. Sarah ordered her usual—black coffee, one sugar—and you got something with milk and cinnamon. Joel paid before you could reach for your wallet, sliding a few bills across the counter with a gruff, “I got it.”

Sarah said thank you without looking at him. He nodded back, throat tight.

She’d been avoiding his eyes for days on end. He knew she was preparing for Kaia’s return, stuck in this limbo of meeting someone you heard so much about for the first time. He wanted to guide her through it, but he had no will to. 

He hated himself for that.

Because Sarah was his kid. His life. His reason for getting up in the damn morning. But every time he looked at her now, every time he saw that stubborn tilt of her chin that reminded him so much of her—it all came back.

If he’d made the choice, Kaia wouldn’t be coming back. That was the truth of it. He knew it, and he knew Sarah knew it too. But she’d been the one to say yes. And now—now they all had to live with it.

At least he had you.

Call him dependent, clingy, attached—whatever the hell anyone wanted. He didn’t care. He’d stopped caring about that kind of pride a long time ago. He loved you. That was all there was to it.

Somewhere along the way, you’d slipped back under his ribs and made yourself a home. Now the idea of doing anything without knowing you were in reach made something cold crawl up his spine.

He knew he relied on you too much. Knew he watched your face a little too long when you talked, waited for your smile with a quiet desperation that scared him if he thought about it too hard. Knew he slept better only when you were curled against him, like his body didn’t know how to rest without your weight.

But he couldn’t bring himself to be ashamed of it.

Not when loving you felt like the only thing that made sense anymore.

Inside the hospital, you stopped at the nurse’s desk to ask which room your dad was in, and while you talked, Joel just stood there, flowers in one hand, coffee in the other, watching the way you smiled at the nurse even though your jaw was tight.

He could tell you were nervous. Could tell because he’d known you all his life. The way you held yourself, too still, a sudden unnatural tilt in your tone.

When you turned back to him, your eyes met his, and he gave you the smallest nod.

You walked beside him down the hall, Sarah trailing a few steps behind, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

The ICU door opened with a soft hiss, and Joel followed you in. The light was bright, the kind that flattened everything out, made the world look sterile and small. Machines beeped in slow, rhythmic patterns.

Then a familiar voice broke through it—soft, lilting, warm.

“Well, if it ain’t my handsome boy.”

Joel turned before he even saw her, because no one else in the world sounded like that.

“Lorraine,” you breathed, smiling as she came toward you.

“Happy birthday, baby!” she said, her drawl rolled through the room like sunlight through open curtains. She went straight for him, flowers forgotten in his hand as she cupped his face, peppering his cheeks with kisses.

“Mama…” he grumbled, half-hearted, though his lips twitched. “Not now, huh?”

She ignored him completely, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “I can’t help it! My baby boy turns thirty-six tomorrow. Y’think I can keep quiet ‘bout that?”

Behind him, Sarah scoffed under her breath and slipped past.

“Did y’all eat yet?” His mama asked suddenly.

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

“Well, that won’t do,” she said, clapping her hands once before reaching out and grabbing both your hands. “Come on, darlin’s. Let’s get some food in you ‘fore y’all start faintin’ on me.”

“Mama, we don’t need—”

“Hush, Joel,” she said, already tugging you both toward the hallway. “You look thinner every time I see you. He feedin’ himself?” she asked you.

“He eats like crap if that’s what your askin.”

Joel shot you a look. “I eat jus’ fine.”

Lorraine waved a hand. “Mmhmm. Sure you do.”

The cafeteria was half-empty when they got there. It all felt oddly peaceful. His mama found a booth by the window and slid in with the ease of someone who’d already claimed the space as hers. You and Joel sat across from her.

“So, darlin’,” She began, eyes on you, “How’re you feelin’? I know it’s been a long day.”

“Better now that Dad’s out of surgery. They said it went well. That’s all I needed to hear.”

His mama reached across the table, covering your hand with hers. “That’s ‘nough to make me feel better too,. Been prayin’ on it all week.”

Joel stayed quiet, just listening. You both flitted among conversation topics. Work, gossip from back in Arlington. Really, anything that wasn’t about hospitals or surgeries. His mama was always good at directing conversation her way. He never been so grateful for it until now.

Soon, she was animated in telling an old story about the time she’d broken her ankle chasing him and Tommy when they were little, and you laughed so hard you nearly snorted into your drink. Joel just sat there, pretending not to smile, but his mama caught it anyway.

“Oh, don’t you grin like that, Joel Miller,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “You were the reason I couldn’t walk right for a whole summer.”

You laughed again, soft and easy. Joel felt that sound deep in his chest, a tug of warmth he hadn’t felt all day.

There was a lull after that. A warm one. His mama hummed to herself as she stirred her coffee, and you reached across the table to brush away a crumb near Joel’s hand—absent, casual, enough to send every nerve he had sparking.

Lorraine caught the tiny motion, narrowed her eyes just a little… then smiled in that knowing, nosy, motherly way.

“You two,” she murmured, “Are trouble.”

“Mama.”

“Oh, don’t you ‘mama’ me. I know what I’m lookin’ at.” She pointed her spoon at you. “She smiles at you the same way I smile at your daddy. Right before he’d go and do somethin’ stupid.”

You blinked. “Stupid?”

“Oh, honey,” she said with a soft snort, “Raymond built his whole personality outta doin’ things that made me wanna smack him and kiss him at the same time.”

Joel groaned. His mama’s stories were something he found no joy in. She would just talk forever and ever. 

Lorraine leaned back. “Mmhmm. Y’all got that same kind of dynamic.”

“Ain’t nothin’ like—”

“Hush,” she said, flicking her hand. “I remember that look. That tension. That ‘are-we-or-aren’t-we’ nonsense.” She shot the two of you a playful glare. “Nearly drove me outta my damn mind.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, drifting toward the window like she was seeing something that wasn’t there. Then she sighed. 

“’Course, wasn’t always that way.”

“What d’you mean?”

Lorraine tapped her spoon against the cup. “I mean, he made me real mad once. Lied to me.”

He couldn’t look at you.

“When?” you asked softly. Why was your voice so soft? You sounded just as affected as him.

Lorraine’s eyes flicked to you. “Oh, when we were first engaged.”

Joel frowned. “First time?”

“Oh right. I never told you and Tommy. First time didn’t stick. He told me he wouldn’t be goin’ back to deployment, that he was done with it for good. I believed him. He was so damn sure—‘this is my last one, Lo, I swear it.’” She shook her head, lips pressing together in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then I found out he’d signed up ‘gain. Didn’t even tell me.”

“What did you do?”

“I threw that ring at his fool head and told him to get outta my town. Lord, I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. I wanted to settle down, build a little house with him, start a family. That part didn’t even make me mad—it was that he’d looked me in the eye and lied about it. Made me believe it nice and pretty till it wasn’t.”

Joel’s throat went dry. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He told himself that all of this was just a coincidence. His mama was just tired from all the days by Clyde’s side so she was more melancholy. Not the world telling him to get up and speak. 

The world doesn’t do things like that, really.

He glanced at your hands where they rested on the table. Your fingers had curled into your palm, then relaxed. Then curled again. You weren’t looking at him. You were staring at his mama, nodding along.

“So what happened after?” he asked finally, tearing himself away from you. 

A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “What always happens when you’re a fool in love. He came back. Stood outside my house in the rain. Wouldn’t leave ‘til I opened the door.

“He was on his knees when I finally came out,” she went on. “Looked up at me like a man who’d been struck dumb. Didn’t even say much. Jus’ held out that ring, all muddy and wet. And I—” she laughed softly—“well, I told him to get up ‘fore he caught somethin’ and that he had to leave soon . But I took him back. Eventually.”

“So… you forgave him.”

“As much as any man can be,” she said. “Ain’t ‘bout beggin’, though. It’s ‘bout tellin’ the truth ‘fore the truth comes find you.”

You looked down at your cup, tracing your finger along the rim. “Guess that’s easier said than done.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe. But secrets—they tear people apart faster than any fight can. You’d be surprised how many couples I’ve seen end ‘cause one of ‘em thought lyin’ was kinder than tellin’ the truth.”

Joel met your eyes then. You were already looking at him. There was something there—uneasy, searching.

He looked away first.

“Well,” a voice said, tired but deadpan, “What you three been schemin’ ‘bout out here?”

Raymond walked down the hallway with Sarah beside him. His hand rested easy on her shoulder.

His mama’s eyes lit up as she stood, already halfway to him before he’d even finished the question. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teased, all coy grin and soft laughter. She leaned up and whispered something in his ear.

He made a face. “You can’t keep tellin’ folks ‘bout that. I said I was sorry two million times.”

“And I told you two million and one times I don’t care.”

“Yeah, I know. You married me jus’ to hold it over my head forever”

“That’s right.”

His dad’s attention shifted to you then. He opened his arms wordlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stood, crossing the space to hug him. “You’re lookin’ good,” you said softly.

“Don’t lie to an old man. I look like I been dug up and reheated.” He patted your back, lingering for a second longer. “You wanna come see your daddy with me? He’s not awake yet, but it’s nice seein’ him in one place. Safe.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Joel. Just a second. Then you nodded. You leaned down, warm and soft, kissing Joel’s cheek. 

“I’ll be back soon.”

He nodded, throat a little tight. “Alright, sweetheart.”

You followed his dad down the hall, the sound of your shoes soft on the linoleum. Joel’s eyes stayed on you until you disappeared around the corner.

It’s ‘bout tellin’ the truth ‘fore the truth comes find you.

He valued you—more than he’d ever managed to say out loud. If it meant you’d walk away for a month, maybe two, but come back and forgive him after... then he’d take that over losing you for good.

He’d already lived that kind of lifetime once.

He wasn’t doing it again.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

The clock ticked past nine.

You heard the truck before you saw it—that same low growl that rattled the windows. The sound of keys came next, the steady jingle followed by the heavy scrape of boots on the front steps.

You didn’t move from the couch. You’d been waiting for that sound all evening. The living room was soft with lamplight, the faint hum of music threading through the quiet. The air smelled faintly of wine from the bottle you had on the coffee table with two glasses. You sipped your glass..

You had offered dinner out, a small get-together, even just a cake. But Joel only shook his head with that half-smile of his and said, “Ain’t nothin’ special ‘bout birthdays. Got shit that needs doin’.”

So he’d gone to work.

And you’d stayed home. 

Tommy hadn’t understood it when you asked for the day off this morning over call. The moment he put together that it was Joel’s birthday, his expression went flat and offended on your behalf.

“You… you really gotta do all that for him? What about a nice, kid-friendly movie and some cake?” he’d asked, incredulous.

“How do you even know I’m going to do anything remotely sexual with your brother? Maybe I just want to spend the day with him?”

“First off, never say ‘sexual’ and ‘Joel’ in the same damn sentence. Second, y’think I was born yesterday? If it was Maria’s birthday, I’d take off the week and be layin’ on the bed with that speedo she likes and my hands above my—”

“Okay thanks Tommy!”

It was safe to say you quickly ended the call, and spent the day cleaning, cooking, and fussing with the decorations you swore you wouldn’t put up.

You don’t even know how you were in the mood for this, with the bills and the shit Lorraine told you pressing hard on your mind. But Joel and his beautiful mind, mouth, and body were the best distracters you knew. 

Now, you sat curled on the couch, legs folded under you, the cover so sheer it was like it wasn’t there. The color was an almost shy green—his favorite color—but the cut was anything but. The cups were embroidered, a tiny bow sitting right between your breasts, and there was a spilt where the cups started, fully exposing your torso when you moved.

The skirt floated around your thighs. And beneath it, the matching panties had graters that connected to stockings. Thin ribbons dangled from it—faintly glossy, waiting, suggestive in a way that made your pulse kick.

You felt exposed and lovely.

Exactly the way you wanted to look for him.

The door finally opened, with Joel stepping inside, rubbing at the back of his neck. He shut it behind him, groaning low as his shoulders dropped. He didn’t see you right away, just kicked off his boots by habit, the sound of them thudding softly against the wall.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “Damn, m’sore.”

You smiled sweetly. “Long day?”

He grunted and crossed the room toward you. “You have no idea.” And without even really looking, he bent down and pressed a one-armed hug around you from behind. Warm, musky, heavy with sweat and sawdust. The scent of him clung to your skin immediately.

“Mm,” you hummed, leaning into him for a second. “You smell like the outside.”

He snorted. “That’s ‘cause I’ve been outside all day.”

He didn’t notice. Even with your clad thighs pressed tight together, all dewy and glowing under the lamplight. 

God, for such a concentrated man when he worked, he was like a horse with blinders. 

It took him walking to the kitchen, muttering something about grabbing a beer, and you rising from the couch to stretch real slow, arms above your head, hips arching just a little..

“Hey, sweetheart, do you want some water or—”

Clunk.

HIs toolbelt hit the floor like a sack of bricks.

You turned casually, catching his expression. Frozen mid-turn. Slack-jawed. Eyes wide like he was trying to blink his way out of a heatstroke.

“Everything alright?” you asked innocently, stepping into the kitchen doorway.

He hesitated between standing up and reaching for the belt, like he wanted to remain cool yet wanted to look his full. You could’ve laughed. 

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “What… What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing. You look hot.”

“Hot—?”

“In the sweaty contractor way. Not the sexy way. Yet.”

“Yet?”

You sauntered forward, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes glued. Joel’s jaw clenched when you passed him—brushing just barely against his side—and opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

You twisted the cap off and took a slow sip before meeting his eyes again. “Go shower.”

Joel looked like he might combust on the spot. His eyes dragged down, flickering everywhere at once, especially where the fabric of your slip separated. 

“Shower?” he repeated, like it was a foreign word.

“Uh-huh.” You leaned back against the counter, one leg crossing over the other. “You smell like the highway. Don’t think you’re getting anywhere near me like that.”

“You serious right now?”

“Dead serious.”

He groaned, half-cursing as he backed away toward the hall.

“Towels are warm in the dryer, by the way.” You called after him sweetly.

He glanced back, eyes still wide. Then finally, he turned and disappeared down the hall.

The second you heard the bathroom door click shut, you moved back to the living room, and collapsed onto the couch, giggling gleefully,

That face. That reaction. He looked like he’d seen the gates of heaven and got told he wasn’t allowed in yet.

You lounged there for a bit, smug and satisfied, toe tapping lazily to the beat of the song still playing. But ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

No sign of him. You blinked, sitting up straighter.

Twenty.

You frowned. As much as you wanted to continue to tease and play this game with him, you’ve grown into an impatient woman with him. You stood up, padding barefoot down the hall.

Steam curled out from under the bathroom door, the warm scent of soap and condensation wrapping around you like a blanket.

You knocked gently. “Joel?”

A loud clatter inside made you jump.

“Shit—goddammit—fuckin’—”

“You alright in there?”

A pause. Then his voice, rough and breathless: “Yeah. All good.”

“Are you decent?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“…Yeah.”

You opened the door slowly, letting the steam pour out in a soft wave. And there he was.

Half-shaved. Chest damp, broad, and flushed from the heat. One side of his jaw was lathered in shaving cream, the other cleaned up nicely. He was hunched slightly toward the mirror, razor lying discarded in the sink, towel slung low on his hips. His hair was still wet, curling at the ends.

Your brows lifted, arms crossing. “You’ve been in here this whole time shaving?”

He cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the mirror. “Jus’… wanted to clean up.”

“What for?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

You moved behind him, close enough for his back to brush your chest. Close enough to see his pulse tick in his throat.

“You always do sex messy,” you said softly. “Matter of fact, last time we did anything, you had me on your brother's desk with my legs over—”

“Stop,” he said, almost choking.

You grinned. “What?”

He shook his head. “Don’t—don’t mention my brother when your seducin’ me.”

You brushed your fingers over his waist, featherlight, just above the towel. “Ignore that. Why are you acting shy all of a sudden?”

His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror. A pink flush dusted his cheek like he was shy.

“You trying to impress me, baby?”

He hesitated. Voice resigned:

 “…Wanna look presentable.”

You blinked. Then snorted. And then burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, hands over your heart. “Miller, you’ve seen me with bed head and unshaved legs. You think I care if your beard’s a little uneven?”

His jaw tightened, eyes flicking away. “Didn’t say you cared. I just—”

“Hey.” You looked up, and then turned his body to face you, enough to cup his cheek—one side smooth, the other foamy. “Look at me.”

He did.

Your voice dropped, silken. Sweet like syrup, slow like honey. "I want you to come out there, sit down, and eat the dinner I made you…"

You smiled.

“…And if you behave good, listen to me and keep those hands to yourself, I’ll let you eat something else other than cake for dessert. Your favorite.”

Joel’s hand twitched around the counter edge.

You leaned in, lips brushing the clean side of his jaw. Then—casual, sweet—you pecked his cheek.

“Don’t nick yourself, handsome.”

You slipped out of the bathroom, letting the steam and tension hang behind you.

In the kitchen, the air was cooler, calmer. You took a breath, grinning to yourself as you grabbed a plate from the cabinet. You were too strung up to eat, just filling Joel’s plate properly. Rice fluffy. Vegetables still warm. Everything was arranged neatly, just the way he liked it.

You made a mental note not to get any splatters on your lingerie—this piece was surviving the night, even if you didn’t.

You set his plate on the opposite end of the table from yours. Then, you sat, crossed your legs, and started sipping from your glass.

Footsteps on cue.

And damn, did he clean up well.

Beard groomed. Mustache trimmed. Shirt haphazardly put on, but that towel was gone—replaced by lounge wear that rode low on his hips, still clinging slightly from not being fully dry. Hair towel-dried and pushed back, a few stray curls still pressed against his forehead.

He looked, like he belonged on a Calvin Klein billboard. Or a wanted poster. Or in your bed.

You smiled over the rim of your glass. “Well, look at you.”

Joel paused, unsure what to do with his hands, gaze flicking over your body for the hundredth time that night. “Do I match your level of pretty?”

“You look good.” You nodded. “Clean. Controlled. Presentable.” 

He rolled his eyes, but the tips of his ears went pink. He stepped toward you, hand reaching, that familiar move to grab your waist and pull you in.

But you held up a hand, palm out.

Joel froze.

“Uh uh,” you said, sweet but firm. “I didn’t plate that food just to watch it get cold.”

“You’re jokin’.”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

He glanced at the plate. Then at you. Then back at the plate.

You smiled wider. “You can hold me later. Right now? You’re gonna sit your pretty ass down and eat what I made.”

Joel bit down a groan and dropped into the chair opposite you. Fork clutched in his hand like he was cursing it for his situation. He looked like a man holding on by fingernails.

You, on the other hand, were the picture of calm. You hummed as you took another sip—not because you were thirsty, but because it was fun to pretend that this was a normal evening.

“So,” you started, casually, like you weren’t slowly unraveling him with every breath. “Yesterday was weird. You know the coffee shop I go to?”

Joel didn’t answer. He was chewing, sure, but it was mechanical. Robotic. Eyes fixed not on your face, but the dip in your chest, then your lips, then your eyes.

You continued, unbothered. “Well, after you went home to take Sarah to scorer practice, I took a walk to get some more coffee. As soon as I got inside, there was a whole pigeon. Don’t laugh. It was inside the café, Joel. Like, flapping around. It landed on the pastry case.”

His fork paused midair. Then kept going.

You leaned your chin on your palm. “I was standing in line, and this girl behind me screamed. Full horror movie scream. Everyone turned, and she’s crying because the pigeon—get this—pooped in her coffee.”

You paused, letting your joke land. He made a noise that might’ve been a grunt.

You tilted your head. “Joel. Are you listening?”

His eyes snapped to yours like he’d been caught. “What? Yeah. Sure. Pigeon. Coffee. Shit. Right.”

You bit back a grin and picked up your water glass, sipping slowly. “Uh huh.”

Joel was trying to act normal—chewing, swallowing—but every inch of his body was taut. Like a wire stretched too tight. His hair glistened faintly in the kitchen light, and he kept adjusting in his seat, as if shifting would somehow hide how hard he was under the table.

You let your eyes trail lazily down his torso. “You okay over there?”

“Peachy,” he muttered.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. He was still eating, sort of, but he hadn’t tasted a single thing.

You leaned forward, the lace of your lingerie dipping just enough for the bow to slip slightly askew. “It’s good food, right?”

“Yeah. Great. Thanks sweetheart.”

“Mmhmm.”

You twirled your finger over the patterns of the table like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You glanced up. “Joel.”

He looked at you, finally. His pupils were huge.

“Do you like the rice or the chicken better?”

He stared at you like he didn’t understand English.

You giggled, absolutely devilish. “You can’t even taste it, can you?”

His fork hit the plate a little harder than necessary.

“I mean,” you continued, voice going soft and syrupy, “You’ve been staring at my tits this whole time like they’re a mirage. I’m surprised you haven’t drooled.”

Joel swallowed hard. You could see his temple pulsing. The faint flush on his neck had crawled further up. His hand flexed under the table.

You leaned back in your chair, dragging one finger lazily over the stem of your water glass. He didn’t blink.

“Baby?”

“Yeah?”

You looked at him through your lashes. “You think you’ve earned my pussy?”

His knuckles turned white where he gripped the edge of the table. And still, he didn’t touch you. The poor man was running on fumes. And God, you were loving every second of it.

You rose gracefully, the chair legs creaking softly behind you. “Don’t move,” you warned playfully, pointing a polished nail at him as you stepped toward the fridge. “I have something to prove to you”

You opened the door, cool air brushing your bare thighs, your chest, your shoulders.

You bent slightly—intentionally—digging around until your fingers found the cake box you’d tucked in earlier that afternoon.

Homemade. Slightly uneven. But baked with care. And maybe a little too much frosting. You opened it, seeing vanilla frosting with Joel Miller crooked in chocolate. 

Behind you, a chair scraped across the tile floor.

You smirked to yourself. You knew he had to be  adjusting, fidgeting in place like he had been all dinner. You stayed crouched a moment longer, letting the stretch of your legs and the arch of your spine really get in his mind.

Then you straightened and turned, holding the cake delicately between both hands.

“Alright, Miller,” you said, all sing-song and honey, turning as you kept your eyes on the designs you somehow piped on, “Wanna guess what flavor it—?”

But he wasn’t sitting in his seat. 

He was right there.

Right in front of you.

His chest nearly touched yours, close enough for you to feel the warmth rolling off of him, the subtle tremor in his breath. His hands hovered inches from your sides—barely leashed.

You blinked, tilting your head like you didn’t already know exactly what this was. “Joel…”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Everything about him— the press of his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the way his eyes flicked down your body and landed on the green satin bow above your navel—everything screamed that he was just seconds from snapping.

You sighed. Dramatically.

“Where did all the famous Miller patience go, huh?”

His eyes dragged up to meet yours. His voice came low.

“Patience ain’t a virtue when you walk around lookin’ like a goddamn wet dream.”

You forced your expression to be neutral. Bit down the smile. Bit down the ache between your legs.

“Language,” you warned softly.

Joel’s jaw flexed. His hands didn’t move.

“You keep talkin’,” he said, voice lower now, almost a whisper, “And I swear, I’m gonna bend you over that table and fuck the words outta you.”

You had to physically close your eyes for a second to maintain control.

Then, with a small, deliberate step, you slid sideways, out of his reach.

He stayed frozen in place, exhaling like he’d been punched.

You placed the cake carefully on the table, centered it between the plates. Your fingers brushed stray frosting from the edge with dainty precision, smoothing the already imperfect swirl, like you weren’t driving the man behind you straight into madness.

Then you turned, soft and slow, and let your eyes drag over him.

“Happy birthday, Joel.”

He didn’t react.

Instead, he stood exactly where you’d left him, like you’d slipped a knife under his ribs and twisted. His chest rising with slow, controlled breaths like he was trying to meditate his way out of sin.

You stepped back to him.

One step. Two.

Then up close enough that your scent hit him—sugar from the cake, your shampoo still clinging to your hair.

“Joel,” you said, almost sing-song, letting your hands slide up the warm skin of his chest, over the fabric where his strong muscles were, until they looped gently around the back of his neck.

He didn’t stop you.

You tilted your head, lips just inches from his. “You gonna say thank you?”

His throat bobbed. “For the cake?”

“For all of it. The meal. The view. The self-restraint training exercise you’ve been enduring.”

His eyes dropped to your lips,

You leaned in closer, brushing your nose against his. “You’ve been so good. Real good, Miller.”

A small, shaky breath escaped his nose.

“You’ve sat through dinner with a hard-on. Watched me walk around this house like a little present and haven’t so much as grazed me.”

Your fingers threaded through the back of his hair, tugging gently. His head tilted without resistance.

You leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of his ear this time. “You know what I was thinking about while I made that cake?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

“I was thinking about sitting on your face. About making you suck on my clit. Using your teeth cause I know you’d be gentle.” You whispered as he swore softly. His head dipped, brow touching yours, his breath ragged against your cheek. “I was thinking about what it’d feel like to grind down on that amazing mouth of yours. And how much you’d make me beg for more.”

His breath hitched. Hard.

“You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” you murmured. “You’d let me tug on your hair, let me ride your tongue until I’m dizzy.”

Joel didn’t respond—not with words. But the way his hips pressed forward, the almost-desperate twitch in his fingers… it made you grin wider.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” you teased, playful now, brushing a kiss to his jaw. “You okay, Miller?”

He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a moan. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”

“Me? I made you dinner.”

He finally lifted his hands. One went to your waist, warm and heavy. The other curled lightly around the back of your neck.

“You made me dinner,” he rasped, pulling you just a little closer, “And then spent an hour edging me with nothin’ but your mouth.”

“Then take me with yours.”

You’d just whispered the words with the kind of softness that should’ve cracked him open. And for a moment, you thought it had. Thought he’d snap. Thought he’d haul you over his shoulder and lay you out on the table like a meal of his own.

But instead—he smirked.

A slow, wicked little curve of the mouth that made something flutter low in your belly. He stepped back. Just one pace.

You blinked, confused. His hand slipped from your waist, the other from your neck. Both dropped loosely to his sides. Then, deliberately—mockingly—he lifted them in the air. Palms open. Innocent.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough but smug, “You want my mouth now?”

“Yes, please Joel.”

“Shame. But y’know what, sweetheart?” He stepped away again, backing toward the living room. “I think it’s your turn now.”

“My turn for what?”

“For your self-restraint test.”

You stood there, stunned, as he turned his back and sauntered—the asshole—right into the living room.

You heard a click, then the buzz of the TV coming to life. 

You stormed into the living room, half-expecting him to be bluffing. But no—he was on the couch, legs spread, arm thrown over the back like he was settling in for a movie night. ESPN or some sports crap played low on the screen, and Joel looked pleased.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide the way your nipples had hardened.

“Seriously?” you asked.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“You’re watching TV.”

“Uh-huh.”

“While I’m—” you gestured down at your body, “—dressed like this?”

“Oh, I noticed.”

And he smiled, all teeth and devilry. 

“Walkin’ ‘round, whisperin’ filth thing in my ear, lettin’ me look but not touch.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “Now I wanna see how long you can go with me sittin’ right here.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

He leaned back again, throwing his arm up behind his head lazily. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the glass on the coffee table. “I’ll be here. Bein’ good.”

“More like fucking evil.”

“You started it.”

He was committed. He was playing your game, and playing it well.

Against your will, it made you were soaked.

It was the way he ignored you, that made you realized how sharply your arousal had built—because you’d been focused on him all night. Now that he wasn’t flooding your brain, you were suddenly hyper-aware of the ache between your legs. Of how the lace clung to damp skin. Of how badly you wanted him to do something.

Anything.

You shifted in your seat. Crossed your legs. Uncrossed them. Glanced at him.

Joel drummed his fingers on his thigh. He looked calm. Relaxed. 

You stood up. 

Bent over to pour yourself more wine into your cup. Made sure he saw the sway of your hips, the curve of your ass.

You turned to face him, glass in hand.

He was watching you, but didn’t speak. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t do anything but sit there, smug and glowing and looking so good it made your teeth ache.

His gaze raked over you slow and lazy, but that twitch at the corner of his mouth told you everything: he was waiting for you to fall first while he sat there.

Smug. Solid. Untouchable.

Fuck.

You wanted to crawl into his lap and grind against him until he cracked. But you’d spent the whole night in control, and you weren’t giving it up now. Not yet.

You turned on your heel and marched back into the kitchen. Set the wine glass down on the counter with a sharp clatter.

Your hands gripped the edge of the counter for a moment as you gathered your breath—then slid down your thighs, brushing over the lace that clung damp to your skin.

Your head dropped forward, a shaky breath escaping your lips. And for a moment, just a second, you forgot Joel was even in the next room.

You cupped your mound, rolling your hips slowly into your hand, trying to find a shred of relief. Just a little pressure. Just enough to keep yourself from exploding.

You cracked one eye open and looked over your shoulder.

Joel was watching.

His face was different now—tighter, darker. His mouth had fallen open slightly, his tongue tucked into his cheek. And his hand was now gripping his knee so tight, you could see the veins in his forearm.

There it was.

You turned fully, leaning your hip against the counter as your hand slipped between your thighs again. You didn’t part your legs. Not yet. Just pressed in. Rubbed slow, small circles. Enough to send heat blooming behind your ribs.

You could see the second he realized what you were doing. His lips parted. His brows twitched. His entire body went still. But he didn’t stop you.

You slipped your fingers into your panties as you spread your thighs. A hiss slipped past your lips the moment you touched yourself bare—wet, swollen, throbbing. Your legs trembled slightly.

“Joel…”

His jaw clenched. You circled your clit, slow and steady, never breaking eye contact.

“I was gonna be so good,” you panted. “Let you fuck me right here on the floor. But you just had to play dirty.”

His hand twitched on his thigh.

You slid two fingers lower, dipping into yourself with a soft, slick sound that had your eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“You’re just gonna sit there?” you asked breathlessly, dragging your fingers up to your clit again, moving faster now. “Watch your present play with herself?”

You moaned. Loud and broken.

Now your body wasn’t yours anymore. It was strung up, held hostage by your own hand, and still—somehow—it wasn’t enough. You weren’t even close. You wanted more.

You wanted him to ruin you with touch and then make you scream into the pillow until your legs gave out.

Your thighs shook as you pulled your fingers free, wet and glistening, holding them up for him to see.

You held your hand up higher. The faint light caught on the sheen of slick coating your fingers—your arousal, warm and sticky, practically dripping from your skin. You met his eyes.

And then—you brought those same fingers to your lips.

Joel’s breath caught audibly in his throat.

You parted your lips and licked them clean, your tongue sweeping up your fingers, tasting yourself with a quiet, obscene hum.

His face changed. A flicker in his eyes, a twitch in the corner of his mouth—but it built fast. You saw the exact moment he made his decision. The submission to his own undoing.

The sound of the couch shifting was your only warning.

He was on you in an instant.

The wine glass clattered against the counter as his hands slammed down on either side of you, bracketing your hips.

He crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that was not sweet, not soft. This was messy and raw and you opened for him with a gasp, your arms flying up around his shoulders as his body pressed into yours.

His thigh forced its way between yours, grinding up against your clit. His hands—those big, calloused, rough hands—were already at your hips, grabbing, pulling, almost ripping the lace aside.

“Fuckin’—” he growled against your mouth, barely able to form the words, “—you—fuckin’—Jesus, sweetheart.”

You arched into him, breathless, moaning as he touched finally touched you. His fingers were hot and heavy as they drifted underneath your lace between your thighs, sliding through your slick folds, groaning when he felt how soaked you were.

“Joel—” you gasped, your fingers tangled in his freshly trimmed hair. “Took you long enough.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, stilling for a second, even as his fingers circled your clit with maddening precision.

“You won,” he muttered, like it hurt to admit it. “You always fuckin’ do.”

You giggled breathlessly. “You let me.”

Joel’s teeth found your jaw, biting softly. “I’ll always let you win.”

He wanted you to have it all. Even the power to undo him. 

He curled two fingers into you and groaned against your neck when your hips bucked, your thighs tightening around his wrist. He grunted low, like it hurt him—physically pained him—to not already be inside you.

“Y’think you can jus’… walk ‘round in that fuckin’ thing,” he murmured, voice hoarse as he pulled back to look at you. “Actin’ like it’s nothin’. Actin’ like you didn’t jus’ wreck my whole fuckin’ night.”

“Tried to feed you dinner.” You smiled, dazed and gleaming.

“Tried to kill me.”

Then he kissed you again, teeth dragging your bottom lip down, tongue plunging into your mouth with all the control he hadn’t shown before. His hands never left you—still stroking, still curling, still driving you toward that edge like he wanted to be the one to end you.

And you could feel that cliff coming fast—your stomach tightening, hips rolling into his hand, your lips falling open with another moan of his name.

You wanted to collapse into him. You wanted to beg. Wanted to come just for him and only—

Then he stopped. You gasped.

“Joel—!”

His hand slid out of you, soaked and trembling. He brought it up to his mouth. Held your gaze. Licked his fingers clean.

Your knees buckled at the sight, but held you tight. Laughed low in your ear like he’d just cracked a code. “Your turn to beg, baby. Still the birthday boy.”

You took a breath. “Joel, please.”

Nothing. No shift in his hands. No pull. No kiss. Just a slow exhale, like he was enjoying the sound of you unraveling.

“Touch me,” you whispered, brushing your nose along his jaw. “I’ll do whatever you want. Anything, Joel.”

You pressed closer, lips grazing his ear.

“I’ve been aching all night. Couldn’t think straight the second I saw you.” You trailed your fingers along the edge of his lounge pants. “Wanted you the moment you walked in that door. You should’ve had me on the counter the second I passed you.”

Joel’s hand twitched against your back. But still, he didn’t budge.

“Please,” you breathed again. “Want your hands on me. Your mouth. Want your cock so bad it hurts.”

Joel leaned in then, like he might give you something.

But no. He stepped back instead. Smirking.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “That was a start.”

You blinked. Your mouth dropped open slightly. “Are you—Joel.”

“Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

You gawked at him. “You said to beg.”

“I did.”

“And I did!”

“And you’re still standin’ there, aren’t you?” he said calmly, then added, “Mean’s I wasn’t convinced."

Your breath hitched. Heat flared in your chest—somewhere between humiliation and fury and blinding, needy lust.

Fine. You were done playing the sweet little thing. Done giving him the upper hand. 

If he wanted a brat? You’d give him one.

You locked eyes with him and then climbed onto the counter. You perched on the edge and let your knees fall open, the cool granite biting into the backs of your thighs. You unclasped your grater, lifting your hips to slide it and your panties down with a gentle stretch of your legs and dropped to the floor in a whisper.

You moved to each stocking. You started slow, bending your leg so Joel could see everything; the way it slipped showing your skin, the way that he could see a flash of your pussy from this angle. You repeated for the other leg, then promptly tossed them on the counter.

You didn’t break eye contact.

“You gonna keep starving yourself?” you asked sweetly, “Or you gonna eat?”

You could see the war inside him—the part of him that wanted to punish you for making him wait, and the part of him that wanted to fall to his knees and drown in you.

You leaned back on your palms, spine arching just enough to tilt your hips toward him, spread wide and begging without ever saying the word. A drop of slick rolled down the inside of your thigh, and Joel watched it.

“Oh, come on,” you cooed, mock-pouting. “Isn’t this what birthday boys want? Or are you just getting too old for this kind of thing?”

Joel growled—a rough, animal sound that started somewhere in his chest and tore out of his throat—and he lunged.

His hands gripped your thighs, yanking you flush to the edge. You gasped, nails scraping the counter behind you for purchase as he sank to his knees and shoved your legs over his shoulders.

Your head dropped back as his mouth landed on you—hot, open, hungry. He replaced the cold air with tongue and teeth and heat that made you cry out, made your hips jerk, made the countertop thud under you.

He licked you like a man starved. Like he hadn’t tasted anything in days. His tongue flattened, slid up through your folds, then circled your clit in slow, firm strokes that made your whole body tense.

“Fuck—Joel—”

He grunted against you, hands spreading your thighs even wider. His beard scratched your skin in the best way—soft and rough, fire and silk. His mouth devoured you, lips slick with your arousal, tongue driving in with brutal rhythm.

“Wanted to see you beg,” he rasped between licks. “Wanted to see you break.”

“I am—I did, Joel—please—”

“You’re not beggin’ yet,” he growled. “You’re still talkin’ shit.”

You slapped the counter with your palm, your thighs trembling. He was everywhere—tongue inside you, lips on your clit, fingers gripping you so tight you’d bruise—and still, he didn’t let up.

You squirmed, helpless, overwhelmed, gasping for him.

“Joel, please—I need—I need to come, please, I need it, you can have me—”

That did it.

Joel groaned into you, latching onto your clit with a filthy noise, and your whole body snapped. You shattered around him, back arching off the counter, hands flying to his hair, pulling yourself to him as the orgasm ripped through you.

You cried his name like a prayer. Like an apology. Like a curse.

But he couldn’t stop

Not until your thighs were still shaking and your lingerie was damp with sweat and saliva and arousal. Not until your voice cracked from the sounds you made.

He only pulled back when your hand tangled weakly in his hair, tugging—your body jolting from overstimulation, your breath coming in tiny, strangled gasps.

You were gone. Blissed out. Head lolling to the side. Skin flushed. Eyes half-lidded with a kind of dreamy glow.

Joel pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes dragged over your body.

He kissed his forehead, then he left you there, chest rising and falling in slow waves, while he crossed the kitchen to a drawer.

You blinked after him, dazed. “…Joel?”

“Condom,” he called over his shoulder.

Oh. Right.

He came back quick, then pulled you off the counter and to him like you weighed nothing, hands at your waist. Your feet brushed the floor, but you weren’t standing. Not really. You were wrapped in him. Suspended by the grip of his hands and the heat in his chest.

You peppered kisses along the base of his throat, your lips barely ghosting over his skin—like you were trying to imprint yourself there. You felt the low rumble in his chest more than heard it.

Still holding you, he turned and carried you down the hallway, bumping gently into the wall as he went. His steps were slow, but his breathing was anything but. The tension in his muscles, the way his fingers flexed against your ribs—you could feel the restraint in every inch of him.

He shut the bedroom door with the kick of his foot.

You slipped from his arms with a laugh, your feet hitting the floor just long enough to let you take two backward steps—then you let yourself fall back onto the bed. Your hair splayed across the pillow, your body loose, lazy.

You could sleep. But the ache between your thighs had sparked back to life the second his body heat left yours. And when your gaze lifted, it landed on Joel—standing at the foot of the bed. 

He pulled off his shirt first. Over his head in one motion. Then the lounge pants—tugged low and slow, pooling around his feet.

The boxers followed. His cock sprang free. Your lips parted, breath catching at the sight of it.

He rolled the condom on with one hand, smooth and practiced. And then he crawled onto the bed.

He came over you like a storm. Shadowing you, knee pressing between your thighs to part them gently, lips brushing over your collarbone before dragging lower.

You reached for the ties of your lingerie’s final cover—the last green bow still sitting above your sternum. You tugged. The whole thing fell open and waiting, revealing your breasts and hard nipples, the straps slipping off your shoulders. You didn’t fully remove it though. A tease, really. 

Joel’s hand came to your knee, pushing it gently out until you were spread completely. His eyes dragged down your body—slow, reverent. Like he was still trying to convince himself this was real.

His hand trailed up the side of your thigh, fingertips brushing over the dip of your hip. He kissed you once—soft, open-mouthed—then shifted, guiding you gently onto your side.

He came with you, curling around behind, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back, the solid length of him nestled between your thighs.

His arm wrapped under your head like a pillow, cradling you, while the other roamed. He dragged his palm up your waist, over the curve of your stomach, before finally curling it around your top thigh. He lifted it carefully, draping it over his own.

You helped him without needing to be asked—reaching back between your bodies to wrap your fingers around him. He hissed at the contact, lips brushing the edge of your shoulder blade, right over your moths.

You guided him to your entrance, notching him there, right where you were ready, your folds slick and fluttering.

You looked back over your shoulder, catching his eyes, letting your lashes drop just a little. You kissed him—slow, sweet, with your mouth open and your tongue brushing his just once.

And then, with a small tilt of your hips and a breath that came out shaky—he pressed in. Slow. Measured. Thick.

You gasped as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch deep and intoxicating. Your fingers gripped his arm where it anchored around your waist. He sank. Let you feel every second of him fitting into you like he was made for it.

“Fuck,” he whispered, head buried in your neck. “You feel so good. So goddamn good.”

You bit your lip and let your eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the fullness, the weight of him, the way his chest curved around your back like a shell, a shield.

His hand still held your leg, keeping you open, tilted just right so he could slide in deeper. You felt his breath against your neck—ragged. Shaky. Barely holding on.

He rocked into you, hips rolling slow and lazy. Not rough. Not fast.

Every motion dragged him against the softest parts of you, set nerves alight and made your jaw go slack. You whimpered.

“That’s it, baby. Lemme take care of you.”

And he did. Each thrust was deliberate, his arm pulling you tighter, keeping you flush to him like he wanted to fuse you together. His hand slid from your thigh to your clit, slipping between your folds, stroking you in rhythm with his hips.

Your hand reached behind to grip his thigh, needing to hold something as pleasure crested higher and higher, building in that tight coil deep in your gut.

Joel kissed along your neck, murmured filth against your skin.

“You were made for this,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ made for me.”

You turned your head, caught his mouth in another kiss. Moaning into him as the rhythm turned just a little sharper, a little needier.

Because no one else had ever touched you like this. No one had ever ruined you so slowly. 

You were so full. So stretched. So completely lost in him that your body was shaking with it. You could feel the climax winding deep in your belly, hot and tight, and maybe that’s why you did it.

You needed to make him feel what he made you feel.

With a soft gasp, you pulled yourself off him. The sudden emptiness made both of you whimper—Joel’s breath stuttered in your ear, hips twitching up instinctively like he wanted to chase the heat of you.

“Sweetheart—” he gritted, the loss hitting him like a slap.

You didn’t give him time to complain. You straddled him. Hands planted on his chest. Knees planted wide around his hips. You tossed your slip off. 

And when you took him back in your head fell back with a gasp. Joel cursed low, his hands immediately flying to your thighs.

“You tryna kill me?” he rasped, staring up at you like he couldn’t decide where to look—your blissed-out expression or the sight of your body sinking down on his cock.

You rolled your hips once, testing the angle. It was perfect.

So perfect that your mouth dropped open, and when a filthy sound escaped his throat, you swore you thought it was yourself..

You set the pace. Steady at first—even, calculated. The slap of your skin on his grew louder, wetter. Joel’s hands gripped tighter, fingers digging into your hips, but he didn’t stop you. He didn’t take control.

He instead watched the way you rode him. Watched the way your body arched and shook and clenched around him like you were trying to pull him even deeper. Watched the way your breasts bounced with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he muttered again, head thrown back, teeth bared. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You tried to answer, but the words dissolved into a broken moan. Your hands slid up his chest, fingertips clutching at his shoulders, your rhythm stuttering every time he flexed his hips up into you.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

Couldn’t stop gasping. Didn’t know how you were still conscious.

“You feel that?” he growled, breath hot against your lips as you leaned in, riding him harder now. “You feel how fuckin’ tight you are?”

You whimpered. Could barely nod. He reached up, cupping your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple, teasing it until you cried out.

“Like ridin’ me like this, baby?”

You moaned again, hips jerking.

“Tell me,” he demanded, “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you gasped, grinding harder. “You—Joel, it’s yours, fuck, it’s yours—”

He groaned deep in his chest, his hands flying to your ass now, gripping hard enough to bruise as he thrust up into you.

“You keep ridin’ me like that—keep sayin’ shit like that—you’re gonna make me come,” he growled. “You want that, huh? You want me to fill you up while you fall apart on top of me?”

“Yes,” you cried, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Please—Joel—please—”

Joel’s grip on your hips tightened, knuckles white as he suddenly flipped you over, his body crashing down on top of yours. His weight pressed you into the mattress, breath hot and heavy against your skin.

He moved with an urgency that was almost feral—every thrust hard, fast, relentless, like he was trying to lose himself in the motion. You could only squeal and moan, the raw intensity overtaking you, every nerve screaming as he pounded into you/

Your back arched, hands clutching at the sheets, fingers digging into the fabric as Joel’s pace didn’t slow for a second.

Then, breaking through the sounds of your ragged breathing and desperate gasps, his voice came rough, dripping with something you hadn’t heard from him before.

“Fuck,” he rasped, teeth biting into your shoulder as he leaned in closer. “I wish I could jus’… take this damn condom off, fuck you raw—would fuckin’ kill for that.”

You bit your lip, heart hammering so loud you thought he’d hear it. “Joel… we’ve—we’ve never…”

He pressed his forehead to yours, groaning, almost as if he was in pain. Then, he looked into your eyes, slowing down his thrusts, and he whispered:

“I want to.”

You swallowed, still lost in the pleasure to think straight, but his expression brought you back enough to reason and comfort.

“Are… are you sure baby? We don’t have to just because it’s just sex—”

He shakes his head with a newfound vigor, “No, no it ain’t that. Jus’... God, I trust you more than anythin’ else in my life. And—and I know you wouldn’t do me like how… y’know…”

You knew exactly what he meant. Kaia and that damn condom. That fear still lived in him, might always, but you accepted that part of him.

Because it was your part of your life as much as his.

“We can… if you want to.”

Joel groaned, a sharp thrust from his hips forcing a chocked noise to leave your throat. He nuzzled  into your neck, kissing your pulse point as it picked up speed.

“Thank you… thank you sweetheart…”

He slowly slipped out, but Joel didn’t waste time, hands trembling as he pulling off the condom. Neither of you spoke as he put it on the nightstand, not a word as both set of eyes darted between his leaking tip and your slick cunt.

Joel gripped the base of his cock, stroking it, before notching himself bare to you. His eyes squeezed shut, and his breathing turned slightly heavier. Your eyes softened. He was fighting himself. His need to curl into himself and find the safest option. 

You dragged him out, cupping his face. His eyes shot open, mouth parting.

“You’re okay Joel.”

He whined.

“Your safe with me.”

“Safe… with you.”

“Yes, with me.”

He pushed in. 

You both gasped. You could feel everything; every ridge, every vein, throbbing more than before. Your legs tightened around his hips, locking him there. Joel didn’t complain, his eyes rolling into the top of his head before promptly falling into your shoulder.

It was history after that.

His thrusts picked back to the pace they were at before, except his entire body was pressed onto yours, forcing you to feel every sweat drop, tremor, moan. And you lived for it.

You moaned in his ear, “Oh fuck baby. Oh Joel, you’re so—shit, right there, oh fuck!”

“Right there? Like it when my cock hits—” he thrust with precision you didn’t know he had, hitting that spongy spot inside that had you melting “—right there? Yea? My pretty girl and her pretty pussy love bein’ pampered, huh?”

You dumbly nodded, letting yourself loose all bits of your rational mind to him, letting him hold all of you and use you. But Joel wanted more.

“Oh don’t be goin’ stupid on me… you need some love don’t you…?”

And then his thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent a lightning bolt through your spine.

You screamed. Clenched. Shattered.

Your body seized around him, walls fluttering, clamping down—and Joel cursed, a strangled moan tearing from his throat. Crescent-shaped marks found themselves on his shoulders. Voiceless, bodyless, and mindless, you followed him wherever he took you.

Joel picked up his thrusts as your cunt wrapped tighter around him, and made it more slicker for him. He was moaning, but his eyes remained on yours, begging.

You found some control on your body, and stroked his hair.

“Come for me Joel. Right inside,” you take his hand that was fisting the pillow by your head and placed it on your navel, “All yours. Only yours. Just for you.”

“Oh sweetheart, I love—”

You felt it, his cock twitching, Joel’s body losing itself like yours had. He slammed inside, abruptly stopping. You felt him twitch, and then, his cum spilling. Spurts of warm spend filling you up in ways you never let anyone else.

Only Joel, only him.

He choked, gone stiff…

…then he collapsed against your chest, trembling, lips brushing the side of your neck. 

Your legs feel like jelly, your heart still hammering, your body still humming from everything he gave you—everything you’d let him take. It kept you alive in a way nothing else does.

One of his hands rested at the small of your back, fingers splayed possessively. You wanted to stay like that. To forget time, to forget everything outside that room. The world had shrunk to the size of Joel’s chest rising. You matched your breathing to his, let your eyes drift shut.

For a while, there was nothing but that silence. Then it began to stretch. It made space for thought, for memory, for all the things you’d been pushing to the back of your mind.

Lorraine’s voice slipped through first, soft but firm, the way it always had been when she caught you trying to dodge something you didn’t want to face.

It’s ‘bout tellin’ the truth ‘fore the truth comes to find you.

You hadn’t meant to think of her, not now. But her words threaded through the haze anyway, sharp where everything else was tender.

You wanted this—him—to last. 

You wanted this to last because you wanted him to make love to you, regardless of where your promised travels went. New Orleans, Istanbul, Venice, Singapore, you’d be in his embrace as he showed you over and over why he loved you. 

You wanted this to last because you wanted a child with his eyes and your hair to climb into your bed because the lighting outside was too scary. You pictured Joel’s face flickering between you and his child, laughing to himself on how he got so lucky. 

You wanted this to last because you wanted to be tucked underneath his arm, sleeping soundly, and doing it for the rest of your life. From now to the day your face was adored with wrinkles.

But you also knew that the longer you waited, the more your leaving would turn into something alive, gnawing at the edge of those coveted dreams until there was nothing left to save.

You shifted, careful not to wake him, but he stirred anyway.

“Mm,” he hummed, low, half-asleep. “You okay?”

You froze. “Yeah,” you lied, voice thin.

He made a small sound—something between belief and sleep—and settled again, his face pressed into your breasts. You looked down at him. His hair was damp, curls sticking to his forehead. His mouth rested open, lazy and unguarded.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, untangling one curl from another. He murmured something—your name maybe—and it undid you.

“I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly, eyes opening. “What for?”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

He blinked at you, still slow from sleep, searching your face like he could find what you weren’t saying. You leaned forward before he could, pressing your mouth to his. It was soft, brief, a kiss meant to soothe, to buy time.

He kissed you back, instinctively. His hand slid to your hip, thumb grazing your skin. But you pulled away first.

You sat up, the sheet slipping down your back. Cool air rushed over your skin, and you shivered—not from the cold, but from what you knew had to come next.

Joel propped himself on an elbow, watching you, groggy. “What’s goin’ on?”

You stared down at the sheets, picking at a loose thread. “I need to tell you something.”

That woke him up. His brows pinched, searching your face. “Hey. You—” his voice cracked, and he cleared it, softer now, “I wasn’t too rough, was I? I didn’t—”

You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away, shaking your head. “No, baby. No. It’s not that. Never that.”

He studied you, the faintest flicker of relief crossing his features before worry took its place again. You could tell he was trying not to overthink, but that’s all Joel ever did—worry and think and feel too much.

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along the line of your jaw. 

“Then what is it?”

You pressed into his touch, let yourself really look at him. The lines carved by time and work. The silver in his hair. The warmth in his eyes that made you swoon. 

God, you loved him. Loved him too much to keep lying.

“I have to leave Austin.”

The hand at your face went still, his body tightening like someone had just pulled the air from the room. 

“What?”

“It’s not forever. Maybe—I… I don’t know.” you said quickly, but the words felt useless. “It’s just… something I have to do. Something I should’ve told you about before.”

He didn’t say anything. Just laid on you, expression unreadable. You could feel the distance building already, the quiet expanding between heartbeats. 

“I made a deal,” You ran your hand over his back. “With this woman I used to know… for Dallas.”

“Dallas?”

You nodded. “She helped us. She’s the reason we even had those hotel rooms during the conference. The upgrades. All the VIP access… Her name is Michelle.”

“The person who called you yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“You’re tellin’ me that all that extra stuff when we were at the convention… wasn’t your doin’?”

“No. It was her. And in exchange… she got me.”

“You…?”

You nodded again, the words barely a whisper. “Because of how good I was in New York. And… and she gave me something I wanted, so I signed her contract before we even went. Said I’d leave in a year to work for her.”

The only sound in the room was the slow tick of the clock on the wall and the A/C kicking on. His eyes drifted somewhere past you—distant, like he was trying to make sense of a language he didn’t speak.

You tried to fill the silence, words tumbling fast now. 

“I thought maybe—maybe I could find a way to stay here, figure something out before then. But with my dad, and everything I heard from the insurance company and the doctors—”

You stopped, your voice catching, but you forced yourself to keep going. 

“He can’t afford it, Joel. He just can’t. And I can’t let him carry that. So I’m putting it on myself. I called her again, on the day my dad woke up.”

You swallowed. 

“I’m going sooner.”

He pushed himself up abruptly, pulling out of you, sitting at the edge of the bed. His shoulders were tense, hands pressed against his knees. 

His voice came out wounded. “How soon?”

You hesitated. 

“When she called me yesterday… we arranged for my plane leave November first.”

Joel stood. Too fast. The bedsheets shifted, cold air rushing in where his body had been. He grabbed his boxers and sweats off the floor, stepping into them with sharp, uneven movements. His hands were shaking.

“Baby—” you started, but he didn’t look at you.

He found his shirt next, pulling it over his head like he needed the fabric between you. He ran a hand down his face, fingers digging into his jaw. “So you jus’—what? You jus’ plan on leavin’?”

You pulled the sheet tighter around you. “I didn’t plan it like that. I didn’t—”

Joel cut you off, voice already sharp. “You didn’t plan to tell me either, did you? You were jus’ gonna up and vanish when it suited you.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Fair?” His voice cracked, like he hated the sound of it. “Y’think I give a damn about fair? Y’think this—” he gestured between you, hand trembling, “—was ever fair?”

“You’re acting like I wanted it to go this way.”

“I think you wanted out, and this jus’ made it easier.”

“Out of what? Our relationship? That’s not true.”

“Bullshit.” He laughed once, hollow. “And you’re tellin’ me this on my birthday, too? Jesus.”

“I’m trying to do what’s right for us—”

“No, you ain’t.” His voice broke into something small and mean. “You treat me good all day, make me think—hell, make me believe like I got somethin’ solid for once. You make me open up, talk ‘bout shit I don’t even tell myself—and this is what I get?” He pointed toward you, his hand shaking. “You lead me on, and now you’re jus’—what—gone?”

“I wasn’t leading you on! Don’t make it sound like I was—like I wanted to hurt you. I wasn’t playing that type game, Joel.”

“This is the definition of leadin’ someone,” he bit out. “Not tellin’ ‘em the truth. Makin’ ‘em believe somethin’ that ain’t true.”

“So you think we aren’t true?”

“I don’t know, are we? Lyin’ to me got me doubtin’ you now.”

“Oh, wow, Joel,” Your nostrils flared, “Real fucking mature of you. I just told you all my reasons, and instead of listening, you're just making your own shit up.”

“Don’t you turn this on me, I'm right in my anger. Tommy will be too when he figures out.”

Your head jerked up. He did not just threaten you.

You stood, rushing to his dresser to throw on clothes. You ignore the soreness, everything leaving you; his cum, your heart, your slick, his trust.

“Don’t you bring Tommy into this.”

“Oh, I’ll bring Tommy into it!” His voice cracked again. “He’s your best friend. Gave you the goddamn shirt off his back when you came back here. Gave you a job when no one else did. And you’re jus’ gonna—what—walk away like it don’t mean a goddamn thing? Put in your two weeks notice?”

When you didn’t respond, he growled.

“Oh fuck you. Fuck you.”

You stepped forward, voice rising. “I did it for him! For you! That contract—you think I want to go? I’m giving up my whole life here because I tired to help you.”

“Oh, that’s rich.”

“You underestimate me. You underestimate the shit I went through in New York  because I never told you about all of it. But regardless of all that, I went crawling back to those fuckers in New York to do tough shit because I love you.”

“But you don’t love me ‘nough to tell me the ‘tough shit’? You couldn’t give me the decency—after everythin’—to jus’ say it to my face?”

You shook your head, words tumbling out. “Because I didn’t know how! I didn’t know how to tell you without wrecking everything we’d just built. I didn’t know what we even were yet, Joel, and by the time I did, it was already too late—”

“You should’ve found a way,” he cut over you. “You always find a way when it’s somethin’ you want.”

“Really? You really think that I don’t want you?” Your voice cracked, frustration rising. “You think I like leaving? Leaving you? I’m doing it because I have to. My dad’s bills, Joel.”

“And I know he needs you,” he said, quieter now, but the words still burned. “I get it. I’d never hold that against you. Bein’ a good daughter—hell, I respect that. But you not tellin’ me ‘fore? That’s what’s killin’ me.”

He ran a hand over his mouth, voice breaking open. 

“Y’know what I’m like. Kaia walked out. Sarah’s half out the door now-a-days. I can’t hold onto anyone, not for long. And now—” He gestured toward you again, helpless. “Now it’s you. Again.”

“Don’t put me in the same category as Kaia. I’m not leaving because I stopped loving you.”

“Yea, well, at least she had the fuckin’ guts to be honest when she abandonded me.”

That hit you harder than anything else he’d said. His eyes were glassy now, that wounded boy still living somewhere behind the man standing in front of you.

“I would’ve. If I had gotta over my own head and been strong enough, I would’ve said it the day I signed.”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight. “Don’t matter. It still ends the same way.”

“Don’t say that…”

He lifted a hand like he couldn’t bear to hear it. “No. I can’t—” He exhaled sharply, pacing, the movement rough, restless. “You’re jus’ addin’ shit to a pile I ain’t got the strength for no more. I’m tired, sweetheart. So damn tired.”

You moved closer, close enough to smell his heartbreak. “Then… then we’ll figure it out. I’ll figure it out. We’ll do long-distance, w-we’ll call every night. We’ll figure out a way. We always do.”

He flinched when your hand brushed his arm. For a second, he almost broke—his breath caught, eyes flicking down like he wanted to reach for you. But then something hardened. 

His jaw set, and he took a step back.

“Leave.”

“...What.”

“Leave. I want you out of my home.”

“Joel, that’s so… extreme—"

“Extreme? All my shit with ‘love’ has been extreme. Kaia made me feel rock bottom. You walk in, turn my whole damn life upside down, make me feel—feel the light ‘gain.” He stopped, breathing fast, like the words were poison. “And now you’re robbin’ me of that light. How the hell am I s’pposed to move forward?”

He didn’t turn, didn’t look at you. Just stood there, chest rising and falling like each breath hurt.

“Pack your things. Go back to your daddy’s place. Take Aspen with you.”

“We can fix this, Joel, please—”

“No. No more fixin’. Every damn time I try to fix somethin’, it jus’ breaks worse.” His chest heaved. “I know how this ends. I know where this is goin’.”

“Please—”

“I can’t keep lettin’ people walk out and pretend it don’t wreck me. I ain’t built for that kind of hurt anymore, sweetheart. I can’t do it ‘gain. Especially with you.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, nails digging into your skin like that might hold you together. The worse possible thought crosses your mind. You croak it out.

“Are you… are you breaking up with me?”

He turned too fast, eyes wide, like the words themselves punched him. A flash of something desperate crossed his face.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” you whispered.

“Like it’s that simple.”

You let out a laugh, but it was ugly and small and trembling. “Isn’t it, though? You’re telling me to leave, Joel. You’re throwing me out like—like you’ve already made up your mind.”

“You don’t get it. You’ll never get it.”

“Then make me get it!”

He stared at you like you’d ripped the air out of his lungs. “Whether it’s tomorrow or a month from now—you’re goin’. I can’t wake up one mornin’ and find your side of the bed cold and pretendin’ it’s fine. I won’t.”

“So you’d rather what? Beat me to it? Push me out so you don’t have to watch me walk away?”

“Damn right I would,” he snapped. “At least this way, I get to choose it. I get to decide how it ends for once.”

“But you can’t—”

“I begged you once ‘fore,” he said, voice breaking. “‘Fore you left, I stood outside your house over and over and begged you to come out and listen to my sorries and my reasons but you never did. You left without tellin’ me.”

“You said those things,” you bit out, voice shaking. “You said those things to me. Called me the worst versions of myself I carried for years. You wanted me to accept your apologies right there, right then, like everything could pass over.”

“I wanted you to listen!” His voice thundered through the room, and the air seemed to shake around you. “Listen to me! Not leave me!”

You blinked, tears stinging your eyes, but anger burned just beneath them. 

“You left me with her.”

“I didn’t force you to that altar, Joel. You did that. You made that choice!”

“No,” he muttered, voice low. “No, you don’t get to turn that ‘round on me.”

“Turn what around? You’re actin’ like I ruined your life because I didn’t stick around for the shitshow that was my life in Arlington!”

“You could’ve helped me. You could’ve stopped it.”

“How?!” The word ripped out of you. “Tell me how, Joel. How could I have stopped you from marrying her, from having a baby with her? You think I could’ve walked in and just—what? Snapped my fingers and fixed your life?”

“You could’ve said somethin’. Anythin’. You could’ve come back, told me you still supported me, held me up through it all.”

“I’m not your fucking thearpist Joel!” you shouted. “I loved you then, I love you now, but that doesn’t mean that I’m your doormat to dump your emotions on!”

He didn’t respond. His silence said everything, and infuriated you more.

“So what?” you said, trembling now with more than anger. “You blame me for Kaia? For what she did to you?”

He flinched. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said!” You could feel the tears now, hot and humiliating on your cheeks. “You said I could’ve helped you. You said I could’ve stopped it. So tell me, Joel—what are you saying if not that?”

His hands clenched at his sides. His throat worked like he was trying to swallow something too sharp to go down.

“You blame me for all of it, don’t you? For her, for the fights, for how it ended, for how you are now—”

“Stop.”

“For everything that went wrong in your life since I left—”

“Fuck yes, I do! You were the fuckin’ cause of it all and I hate you for it!”

The room went silent. The words were etched into stone, impossible to ignore and take back. 

He looked stunned. Like he hadn’t meant to say it, like it had came out before he could stop it. His face changed—anger melting into panic, then into something worse.

Shame.

There was a ringing in your ears, drowning everything else out.

He took a step toward you, hands half raised. “I didn’t—”

But those words didn’t stick. They couldn’t. You felt yourself shaking, every muscle drawn tight. “You do,” you whispered. “You actually do.”

He shook his head fast. “No, I—fuck—baby, I jus’ got too mad and wasn’t thinkin’ straight—”

“You blamed me all this time.” You blinked hard, the tears spilling over anyway. “All those times you said it didn’t matter, that it was in the past… you were waitin’ to use it. Weren’t you?”

“Stop, sweetheart, please—”

“I’m sorry,” you breathed. The words fell from your mouth before you could stop them. “I’m sorry, Joel. I’m so sorry I did that to you.”

He looked stricken, like he didn’t know what to do with that. You didn’t even realize your hands were trembling until you saw them in front of you, useless and open.

You could feel him trying to reach for you with his eyes, but neither of you moved.

“I didn’t mean to ruin you.”

Joel’s face crumpled—like he’d realized too late what he’d just done. His lips parted, searching for words that didn’t exist. You could see the apology forming and dying there, stranded somewhere behind his eyes.

He stepped back. Just one. Then another. Each one felt like wall after wall being built up between you both.

You didn’t follow. Couldn’t. You just stood there, shaking, staring at the empty space where he’d been—like maybe if you looked long enough, he’d fill it again. 

Joel didn’t stop retreating until the bathroom door clicked shut. And that sound stayed, echoing in the silence he left behind.

Your chest hurt from holding your breath, from waiting for a door that wasn’t going to open again.

You turned toward the bed—sheets tangled, the dent of his body still visible in the mattress—and for a second, you couldn’t remember how to move. Then you did.

You found the suitcase where it had been shoved under the bed, dragged it out, dusted it off. The zipper teeth gleamed when they caught the light.

You started with your clothes, folding them without really seeing what you were doing. All the clothes he gave you you left behind, only taking what you came with. You didn’t want to take the others, because his scent was making you sick with grief and vomit.

You didn’t dare try to take things like the pictures of him and you that started to dot around the house, the little trinkets you left. Those were his. Instead, you grabbed your book, your jewelry, your shoes and heels. 

You wiped at your eyes, but it was useless. The tears just kept coming, hot and steady, falling faster the harder you tried to stop them.

You reached for your backpack next—shoved in your charger, your laptop, a half-used bottle of perfume.

When you finally stepped out into the hall, the suitcase wheels bumped unevenly over the floorboards. Every sound felt louder than it should’ve been, echoing through the small house.

Aspen’s leash hung by the door. Her bed was still tucked by the window, the blanket half-tossed from when she had curled up there.

“Aspen,” you called softly.

Her claws clicked against the tile as she trotted in from the kitchen, tail wagging weakly, eyes still heavy with sleep. When she saw the suitcase, her head tilted. She gave a low whine, pressing her nose to your leg.

“Hey, girl,” you murmured, but your voice cracked halfway through. You scratched behind her ear, barely feeling it yourself. “C’mon.”

She didn’t move right away. Dogs knew. She looked up at you, like she was trying to understand why you smelled like guilt.

You grabbed your keys, your phone. Aspen’s leash jingled as you clipped it on. The front door creaked open, and for the briefest second, you hesitated. But you pushed forward, stepping outside. The cold hit your skin, sharp enough to pull a breath from your chest.

Aspen hopped into the passenger seat as you tossed your suitcase and backpack in the back. You slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

You didn’t go home.

You drove—past the glowing highway, past the dark fields underneath the fish-eyed moon. Your hands stayed at ten and two even though they were shaking. Aspen leaned her head out the cracked window, ears twitching at the wind.

You didn’t know how long it took, or when you started recognizing the road again. You just drove east, until the world looked like something you knew.

The truck rolled to a stop in front of a familiar house. You killed the engine and sat there for a moment while the silence pressed down on you.

Aspen whined, pawing at the car door. You took it as your cue.

Your boots crunched over the gravel as you walked up the driveway. Every step felt heavier than the last. When you knocked, your knuckles barely made a sound, but a moment later the door swung open.

Tommy blinked, squinting into the porch light. “Shit—what… what’re you doin’ here?”

You didn’t answer. The words wouldn’t form.

He looked you over—your tear-streaked face, the rumpled clothes, the leash in your hand—and his expression softened instantly.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, stepping forward. “What happened? You alright?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken noise. The second he reached for you, you crumbled.

You folded into his chest, his arms wrapping around you, grounding you when everything else was falling apart. Aspen circled once at your feet, whining softly.

Your fingers clenched in the back of his shirt, the fabric rough beneath your palms. You tried to speak through the sobs, tried to explain, but your voice broke apart against his shirt.

Tommy held you there, letting you cry, his hand moving slow over your back. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t fill the silence with questions. Just waited.

When your breathing finally started to steady, he leaned back enough to look at you. His eyes were kind, brow furrowed with quiet concern. “You wanna come in?”

You nodded weakly. He reached down, unclipped Aspen’s leash, gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ears. “Hey, sweet girl. You been takin’ care of her tonight?”

Aspen gave a low huff and padded inside first, tail brushing against your leg.

Inside, the house was warm, a half-finished beer sweating on the coffee table. The living room smelled like whatever candle Maria had left burning.

You sank onto the couch before your knees gave out. Tommy hovered for a second, then grabbed a blanket from the armrest and draped it over your shoulders. He sat beside you, elbows on his knees, waiting for you to say something.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The clock ticked. Aspen climbed up onto the rug and curled beside your feet, head resting on her paws.

“You and Joel had a fight, huh?”

You gave a wet, shaky laugh that didn’t sound like you. “Something like that.”

He nodded once, slow, like he’d already guessed as much. “He said somethin’ stupid, I take it?”

“No. No, I did.”

That made him pause. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly. “You?”

You hesitated, staring at your hands. The blanket slipped a little from your shoulders, and Tommy reached over to fix it without saying anything. The simple gesture broke you.

“I didn’t tell him about my contract.”

“...What contract?”

You drew in a shaky breath, one that didn’t feel like enough. Then you told him.

Everything. The deal, the fight, every awful word you and Joel had thrown at each other. The moment the guilt started to bloom and never stopped. By the end, you could barely speak—you were crying too hard, wiping your face over and over like it might stop the flood, but it didn’t.

When you finally ran out of words, the room felt hollow. Tommy leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand over his mouth and staring at the ceiling like he was looking for answers that weren’t there.

“Jesus,” he muttered finally. “You fucked up.”

“I know.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow. “Are you two… done?”

“I—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be.”

“I know you don’t, darlin’, but the secrets ‘gain?” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “This is what we—goddammit.”

Your throat burned. “I thought he’d be more… understanding,” you whispered. “If anyone would get it, it’d be him.”

You could see that faint twitch in his temple—the one that meant he was thinking too hard about something that hurt too much.

“Darlin’,” he said after a long moment, “I don’t think you really understand how bad Joel was when you were gone.”

You frowned, blinking tears away. “I do. We’ve talked about it, all of it—”

He cut you off gently,. “Y’think y’know, but you don’t. Joel ain’t expressive. He’ll talk about the shit, but never what it did to him. When it all hits at once, he crashes. Hard.”

Your heart twisted. It was like hearing him admit his diagnosis of anxiety. He never made a big deal about it. But witnessing his panic attack, him choking on his breath, made you see just had bad it was. 

“After you left. After Kaia left, I spent years bein’ his damn crutch. And I’ll tell you somethin’, the shit he said ‘bout himself…” He swallowed, hard. “‘Bout deservin’ to be left behind… that don’t ever leave you. Hearin’ your brother say he’s better off alone—it fucks with you.”

You remembered every time Joel came to you raw and hurting, every time you held him through the wreckage of Kaia and every time he went back. But regardless of how much it hurt to see the cycle, for him to ignore your help like he wanted you for the quick comfort, you’d promised yourself you’d never be one more person to hurt him.

“Now I’m leaving again.”

“Now you’re leavin’ ‘gain.”

Your bottom lip trembled. “I don’t deserve him.”

Tommy frowned, his hand finding a place on your shoulder. “Now don’t you go sayin’ that.”

“It’s true, Tommy!” Your voice broke open as you rubbed your hand over your jaw, your chest heaving. “He trusted me. And I went and made the one mistake I swore I wouldn’t—I hurt him.”

“You made the choice you thought was right.”

“But I keep losing him. Over and over. I could’ve just—just told him the truth from the start. Why didn’t I? Why the hell didn’t I?” You pressed your palms to your eyes. “God, I’m so stupid. I should’ve just never came back.”

“Hey.” Tommy’s tone sharpened instantly. “Don’t you say that.”

“Why not? It’s true. Maybe I should’ve stayed in New York, I would’ve saved him the trouble of being with me. He hates me now.”

Tommy’s hand found your chin, gentle as he forced you to look at him. “He don’t hate you.”

“He does,” you whispered. “You didn’t see his face, Tommy. The way he looked at me—it was like I was the worst person on earth. God, he said Kaia leaving was more honest than what I’m doing.”

“He’s lyin’, darlin’. My brother loves you.”

You shook your head hard, choking on another sob. “No, he doesn’t. You’re just saying that.”

“I ain’t a liar, and y’know its true cause you love him too. That’s the goddamn truth.”

You buried your face in your hands, voice breaking. “Then why does it hurt like this?”

He exhaled, long and tired, and pulled you into him, your forehead pressed against his shoulder. “‘Cause that’s love darlin’.”

Love. A love that hurt just as much as it healed. 

You wiped your nose on your sleeve, voice small. “I don’t know what to do, Tommy.”

He brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t gotta know right now. You jus’ gotta breathe. Let him cool off. He’ll come back ‘round—he always does.”

“What if he doesn’t this time?”

“Then I’ll knock his stubborn ass upside the head ‘til he does.”

That pulled the smallest laugh out of you. He smiled a little at the sound, kept his arm around your shoulders, and said quietly—

“He loves you, darlin’. Don’t let tonight make you forget that.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

Joel Miller was a goddamn hypocrite.

He told himself he didn’t care. That he’d sleep just fine without you. He had to learn how to, since you were leaving him.

He’d taken his meds, brushed his teeth, gone through the motions. But when he stepped out of the bathroom, the silence hit him like a sucker punch. The house was too still. Too goddamn empty.

He tried to sit and watch the clock, but it was useless. 

Fifteen minutes in, he caught sight of the blanket you always left thrown over the arm of the couch. He folded it. Carefully. Perfectly. Because if he didn’t, he’d see the dent your body left there, knees pulled up, head tilted back, laughing at some dumb thing he’d said.

At thirty minutes, his throat went dry. He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out the milk because it was something to do with his hands. Then he reached up for a glass—only to stop when he saw your mug. The chipped one with the blue rim.

He stood there for a long time, fingers tracing the crack in the handle. Then he filled it halfway and drank from it, silent, eyes fixed on nothing.

An hour passed. Maybe more. He wandered the house like a ghost, restless and stupidly hopeful that maybe you’d text him, to yell at him, to cry with him, to laugh at him.

Instead, he found the little silk set you’d worn for him. He touched it like it might bite. Then, quietly, he carried it to the laundry room, washed it gentle, folded it clean, and hung it deep in his closet where he wouldn’t have to see it.

That’s when he realized your clothes weren’t there anymore.

So of course, he got in his truck.

Two hours since you’d walked out the door, and he was on the road, hands gripping the wheel like it might hold him together. Tires biting into asphalt, headlights cutting through the dark.

He told himself it was just to check. Just to make sure you got home safe.

But he knew he was being a goddamn hypocrite

Your truck hadn’t been in the driveway. Still, he’d checked the windows like some kind of creep—peering through the curtains, heart pounding like a idiot’s. 

Everything was dark. Empty. You hadn’t even come home.

There was only one other place you could’ve gone.

He didn’t remember half the drive to Tommy’s, just the way his foot stayed heavy on the gas, how his palms kept slipping on. He didn’t care that it was late—his heart only slowed when he saw your truck parked in the driveway. He jabbed the doorbell five times, maybe six, hard enough that his thumb hurt.

The porch light flicked on, and Tommy appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up, eyes squinting like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“For Christ’s sake, why do I got the whole family at my door?” he muttered. “Y’know what time—”

“Where is she?”

That woke him up real quick. The tiredness dropped, replaced by something sharper. Something Joel hadn’t seen from his brother in a long time.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Joel rasped. “Where is she?”

Tommy’s hand tightened on the doorframe. “Why?”

Joel swallowed, jaw flexing. “I jus’ need to make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s fine.” Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t open the door any wider. “Better than she was ‘fore, anyway.”

“I jus’ wanna—”

“No.”

Joel blinked. He hadn’t expected to be denied.

Tommy crossed his arms, planting his feet square in the doorway. “Y’think you can jus’ show up here in the middle of the goddamn night after what you said to her?”

“Tommy—”

“No, don’t you Tommy me.” His voice went tight, mean in that protective way that was unique for the people he loved. “Had to sit there and watch her shake so bad she could barley speak.”

Joel flinched. His chest twisted so hard it felt like something inside him split. He’d imagined you crying—he’d hoped maybe you hadn’t. But hearing Tommy say it out loud made the denial useless.

“Let me in,” Joel begged quietly. “Please man.”

“So you can finish what you started?”

“I ain’t here to hurt her.”

“No,” Tommy bit out. “You already did that. You fuckin’ told her you hated her, Joel.”

His shoulders drew up, defensive. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Tommy shot back. “I heard it from her own mouth. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “How the hell was I s’posed to react? She lied to me.”

“So that’s what you throw at her? That’s what you go for?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“How,” Tommy cut in again, “Is she suddenly the root of every damn thing that went wrong with Kaia?”

That hit Joel square in the chest. He rocked back, breath catching, but his stare stayed sharp, defensive, clinging to the only thing he could hold.

“’Cause no one…” Joel rubbed a hand over his face, frustration twisting into something uglier. “No one knew how to guide me like she did. She always knew what I should say, what I should do. And when she left, she… she left me with all of it. All the pain. All the years.”

“Man, that wasn’t her job.” Tommy’s voice cracked for the first time. “Her mama tried killin’ herself, for Christ’s sake, and she still showed up for you. What more did you want?”

“Her!” Joel’s voice tore out of him. “I wanted her! I wanted—”

“No, you didn’t.”

Silence wrapped around them, thick as tar. The porch light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on Joel’s face—on the guilt crawling up and choking him.

Joel blinked. “’Scuse me?”

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” Tommy pointed a finger at his brother’s face. “You loved her, yeah. But you loved what she made you feel even more. She was the calm in your stormy ass life that year. She held you together. But God, Joel—did it ever cross your mind how much it hurt her, every time you went back to Kaia? How every time you didn’t listen, she still opened her arms and caught you when you fell?”

Shame burning down Joel’s throat. “I never treated her bad. Not once. She was… she was my light. I never hurt her.”

“I know.” Tommy nodded slowly. “But you depended on her so much it drained both of you. To the point where there was no comin’ back. You remember. Hell, you told me yourself what happened at that park—”

“You don’t know shit ‘bout that,” Joel snapped. “Jus’ the drunk ramblin’s—”

“I know ‘nough.” Tommy’s voice sharpened. “‘Nough to know the last time she came to help you, you spat in her face, her help. That’s what broke her. That’s why she chose herself. And then you clung onto me.”

“’Cause you were the only one who understood!”

“I did. I tried.” Tommy’s voice rose, raw and exhausted. “But you ain’t got the slightest clue how drained I became. Watchin’ you fall apart every night, talkin’ you down from panic attacks, beggin’ you to get help in the mornin’. You’d nod—like you heard me, like you’d try—then not do a damn thing. And we would repeat that shit ’til I was outta words. But I kept goin’. ’Cause you’re my brother.”

Tommy’s chest heaved. Joel’s stayed frozen.

Dumbfounded. Hurt. And crushed under a fresh wave of guilt. Two people he loved—two people who loved him—worn down to the bone because of him.

“I… I didn’t know,” Joel whispered.

“I ain’t blamin’ you,” Tommy said softer, stepping in. His hand landed warm on the back of Joel’s neck, giving a squeeze that felt like an older brother trying to shake sense into the little one. Ironic. “I never blamed you for your habits. Your issues. Like those abandonment things you got goin’ on.”

Joel scoffed weakly. “The hell’s ‘abandonment things’? What, like dogs gettin’ left at home?”

“That’s separation anxiety,” Tommy muttered. “Maria had some book ’bout it at home, I skimmed it. But that ain’t the point. Point is—you can’t keep lashin’ out ‘cause of fears you ain’t explainin’. We don’t get what’s happenin’ in your head, and we’re the ones you end up cuttin’ open.”

The hum of the porch light filled the quiet that followed.

“You’re right to be angry,” Tommy said finally. “No one likes bein’ lied to. But you ain’t right to spit hate at her when you damn well know she’s been protectin’ people. Protectin’ you. That’s the difference between her and Kaia. She ain’t leavin’ you ‘cause of you. She’s leavin’ for you.”

Something inside Joel cracked, quietly and completely. Broke open and rearranged into something painful, something clearer, something honest.

He nodded, but his eyes drifted past Tommy’s shoulder—toward the dark hallway of the house. Toward where you lay, tucked away from him and all the mess he carried like a curse.

And in that moment, he looked like a puppy starved of affection, even after biting the hand that feeds it. 

Tommy saw it. His shoulders sagged a little, torn between every choice he didn’t want to make.

Then he stepped aside.

Joel didn’t hesitate. Didn’t breathe. He pushed past his brother, boots leaving wet mud on the tile, the house swallowing him up in darkness.

And the only thing guiding him through it—was the thought of you.

You were there. Curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of Tommy’s old blankets, your hair spilling across a pillow. Your face was soft in the half-light, lips parted slightly.

For a moment, Joel couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. His throat burned with something that felt too close to relief.

Tommy’s voice came from behind him, quiet, almost careful. “She couldn’t stop cryin’,” he said. “Gave her some melatonin.”

His chest hurt in that dragging way that made him want to jab his stupid face over and over again—maybe a swift kick to his junk while he was at it.

Tommy hesitated, then added, “You should probably wait ‘til mornin’.”

Joel just shook his head.

“Alright. But if you wake her up, you're out. I mean it.”

He disappeared down the hall. The sound faded somewhere behind him, meaningless noise compared to the pull drawing him forward. By the time he realized what he was doing, he was already kneeling by the couch.

His chest ached at the sight of you. The way your lips trembled even in sleep. The faint shimmer of dried tears on your cheeks. He could see the exhaustion in every small motion your body made—your fingers twitching against the blanket, your lashes still damp.

He was mad. So mad. Still mad. You leaving like this felt like all those years ago. And you not telling him, put the thought in his mind that you didn’t trust him. That he couldn’t handle such an important thing. 

And he proved he couldn’t.

He reached out before he could stop himself. He let his fingers slide gently through your hair, brushing it back from your face.

You stirred—just barely—and his breath caught. For a second, he thought you might wake, look up at him with those tear-swollen eyes. But you didn’t.

His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He swallowed, watching the rise and fall of your chest. 

“But I had to see you. Couldn’t—couldn’t sleep without makin’ sure you were okay.”

He blinked hard, jaw flexing, the weight of everything pressing behind his ribs. The little crease between your brows. The faint flush along your nose from crying. Every detail branded into him like a punishment. His fault. All of it.

“You lied. Yeah, you did. But—” his breath caught, chest trembling, “You were doin’ it for good reasons. For Tommy. For your daddy. And I—I was jus’ scared. I thought… maybe you didn’t—that you were ready to forget me.”

His hand slid along your jaw. His thumb traced the edge of your lip, lingering when your breath hitched in your sleep. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he leaned closer—close enough that the tip of his nose brushed yours, close enough that your breaths tangled.

He stayed there for a long time, like he could pull the pieces of you into him and keep them safe.

He leaned closer, his forehead resting near yours.

“Baby…” The word scraped out of him, small, raw. “I have to tell you. When you came to me at the park, I already knew. Already knew ‘bout—”

He stopped. The words hung in the air, half-born and already dying.

But what was the point? You weren’t awake. Couldn’t respond. Couldn’t look at him with those eyes, couldn’t ask him why he’d never said a damn thing all these years. Couldn’t press him until the truth cracked open like bone.

So what was the point of confessing to the quiet?

He wanted the fight. Wanted your fury. Wanted you to curse him out and claw the truth from his chest because that would’ve meant you still cared enough to hurt him.

Instead, he swallowed it—the guilt, the fear, the memory of that day that still burned hot under his ribs.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to your temple—once, twice, then again near your cheek. Each kiss was softer than the last, but each one hurt worse.

“I should tell you,” he whispered against your skin. “Should tell you the whole thing. But I’m… I’m scared.”

Just like he was then.

Scared of losing his daughter when she was still growing. Scared of being seen as less than the man he wanted to be. Scared of you looking at him different—of seeing what he hadn’t stopped.

You sighed softly, instinctively turning toward his touch, like your body recognized before your mind could. 

He whispered another apology, and another after that. Words tumbling out between the spaces where he just looked at you. Watched the way your chest rose and fell. How peaceful you looked now.

When he finally sat back on his heels, he stayed there for a long time. He couldn’t leave.

So he stayed on the floor beside the couch, leaning back against it until exhaustion started to pull at his eyes. Your hand had fallen from the blanket, fingers brushing the air, and without thinking, he took it. Held it loose but certain.

You didn’t stir. But your fingers curled faintly around his, and that was enough.

He stayed that way until the first thin line of morning light began to spill across the floor, and the sun told him to leave. 

Bro, someone tell Tommy to get into college and become a therapist. He has me writing the most poetic shit ever and he’s just a guy with a hammer tf

Chapter 29 discussion subreddit Joel Secret discussion subreddit

Tag List (link open):

@d0uwannkn0w, @saymonyung, @missladym1981, @somedayheaven, @ashleyfilm, @m0ldy-p3ach, @bearbo28, @millersrevolver, @forevermoretaylors, @pascalbrinas, @ae303, @fabiola-love, @itsmermers, @persiar9, @taniamiller, @televanglist1c, @crybabycowgirl02, @secretlettersfromyourlove, @purebarnes, @ashispunk557, @adoringanakin, @silksepia, @madnessofadaydreamer, @fuckthatbazinga, @juniperberries123, @joeldarling, @anqieluv, @s20066, @paperbag33, @lwmysun, @angelamariaxo, @opallanky, @paulieloverz, @vinnstarr, @woodxtock, @lysistratablogs, @kikixdee, @meme73-4 @onlythehobi, @kaletales13, @honey-moon-13, @sinpathyforthedevilish, @honeyphiil, @clownedcakez, @foryouaremine-atlast, @ichaborgasm, @serene-kn1vezz, @pinkcabinet, @kirsteng42, @captured-memory

[stargazir]

Oh he's gorgeous

[userparamore]

PEDRO PASCAL Emmy Awards | 2025

[pedrosgrogu]

EEEEOWWWWW

[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Fourteen: The Departure

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

I tell myself you don't mean a thing, and what we got, got no hold on me, but when you're not there, I just crumble - Paloma Faith.

You didn’t know how long you stared at the ceiling for. Could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours. The same questions circled endlessly in your mind, tightening their grip with each rotation.

Does he respect me?

Why did he do that?

Does he really just see me as the escort?

The silence of the penthouse made it worse, amplifying every thought until it felt deafening. You turned onto your side, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the truth you weren’t ready to face. Last night’s words still echoed - sharp, cutting, more intimate in their cruelty than anything you’d expected from him.

You hated that it mattered. That he mattered.

The arrangement was supposed to have been your shield: boundaries drawn in ink, roles defined, feelings kept firmly at bay. But now, thirteen days out, you weren’t sure if you were protecting yourself anymore or handing him the power to undo you completely.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, your throat tight as you pressed your palms against your eyes. You told yourself it was anger. Only anger. But deep down, you knew it was the hurt that lingered most.

Would he even notice, if you walked out now?

Would he let you go?

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the hardwood cool beneath your bare feet. For a long moment you just sat there, staring at the quiet skyline outside the glass wall of the penthouse. New York pulsed on as if nothing had happened. As if your heart hadn’t cracked open in the middle of a rooftop party the day before.

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself up.

If Harry couldn’t see you as anything more than what the contract said, then you weren’t going to stay and let him cheapen you further. You had promised yourself, long before you ever stepped into his world, that you would never let anyone strip you of your dignity. Not a man, not a deal, not even him.

You moved quickly, afraid if you slowed down you’d change your mind. The closet door gave a soft click as you opened it, the scent of his cologne still clinging faintly to the air inside. Your dresses hung neatly in a row, pressed and curated by staff who probably thought you belonged here. But you knew better.

You pulled your suitcase out from the top shelf, setting it open on the bed. Every zipper that rasped shut, every hanger you tugged down, every folded silk blouse felt like a severing. A quiet, deliberate cutting of threads you weren’t sure you had the strength to keep untangled any longer.

When you reached the vanity, your hand stilled. The delicate Cartier bracelet lay on the surface - the bracelet from the first event you did together. The casual 'its yours' as he put it on your wrist, was now pressed into your palm with that unguarded softness he sometimes let slip when no one else was watching. You hesitated, fingers brushing the cool metal.

Take it, or leave it?

Your breath caught.

Leaving would hurt him. Maybe not the way it hurt you, but enough. Maybe it was the only way to make him understand.

You closed the suitcase firmly, grabbed the handle, and whispered into the empty room, “Goodbye, Harry.”

But life, as it often did with Harry, had a way of complicating even the simplest of exits.

The elevator doors slid open with their soft chime, and there he was. Harry. Still in his clothes from the night before, stopped dead when he saw you - his gaze flicking from the suitcase in your hand to the stubborn set of your mouth.

“Where are you going?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge underneath that betrayed him.

You tightened your grip on the handle. “Where does it look like?”

The words were sharper than you intended, but you didn’t soften them. Not this time.

His eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, then another, blocking your path without touching you. “You’re running. That’s what this is?”

“Don’t twist this, Harry.” You lifted your chin, forcing the wobble in your chest into steel. “You humiliated me. In front of people who see me now as nothing but a distraction, an escort. You told Richard. You didn’t even hesitate. And now you want me to stay? Why? So I can be the convenient story you spin when it suits you? Pass me around to your friends when you're done with me? I can't forgive that”

For once, he had no quick retort. His jaw flexed, his hands curled loosely at his sides. He looked at you - not the polished veneer you wore for these events, but you. The woman standing there with one foot out the door, carrying every ounce of the pride he’d chipped away at.

“Don’t do this,” he said finally, softer. Almost pleading.

But you shook your head, a tear threatening to slip before you blinked it away. “I have to. If I stay, Harry… I lose myself.”

The silence between you was thick, his eyes searching your face like he could find a way to stop you without saying the words he never dared speak.

Your heart thudded painfully. All it would take was one sentence from him. One truth.

But he didn’t give it.

You shifted your suitcase, stepped to the side, and this time - he let you pass.

He’d thought he could handle it, that his silence, his walls, were enough to keep things orderly. But watching you walk out felt like someone had yanked the ground out from under him. The penthouse was too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against his ears, making every thought roar louder.

He dragged a hand down his face, pacing once, twice, across the marble floor before stopping where you’d been standing only moments ago. The spot felt charged, haunted by your voice, your fire, your hurt.

“Then maybe you should start treating me like someone who matters.”

The words replayed on a loop, sharper than any insult, heavier than any business loss. Because it wasn’t just anger - it was disappointment. He had disappointed you.

Harry wasn’t used to that.

He’d told Richard because it was easier than lying. But what he hadn’t thought about - what he should have - was how small it would make you feel. You, who carried yourself with more poise and strength than most people he knew.

His chest tightened, something unfamiliar pressing against his ribs. Regret. He hated the taste of it.

The glass of scotch he poured sat untouched on the counter, the amber liquid catching the early morning light. He braced his hands against the marble, head bowed. He could call you. Go after you. Demand you come back. But none of that would fix the crack he had put in you.

And that terrified him more than losing any deal, more than any public scandal. Because the truth he hadn’t spoken - the truth stuck like glass in his throat - was that you already mattered. More than he ever meant to let you. More than Lucy. More than anything in this world.

Harry exhaled hard, jaw clenching, as if the force of his own control might hold him together. But his reflection in the glass across the room didn’t look like a man in control. He looked like a man who had just watched the best thing in his life walk out the door.

Logic told him to let you go. To allow the arrangement to end cleanly, as it was always meant to. No messy threads, no risks. You’d been clear about your work, he’d been clear about his boundaries. Easy. Controlled. Professional.

But it wasn’t easy anymore, was it?

He could still see the way your eyes burned when you said it...“I have never been made to feel so cheap in all the years I have been doing this.” He hadn’t thought anything could break through the armor you wore like a second skin. But he had. He’d done that.

And now you were gone.

The image of you hauling your suitcase down the hall lodged itself into him like a thorn. He could picture you standing at the curb right now, trying to hail a cab, pulling your coat tighter around yourself like it could protect you from what he’d done.

Something inside him snapped.

Harry pushed the glass of scotch away so hard it sloshed over the rim. He snatched his phone off the counter, thumb hovering, heart hammering harder than he cared to admit. Calling wouldn’t be enough. Texting - ridiculous. You’d think it was him doing damage control. No, he had to see you.

His chest burned as he grabbed his jacket, already moving toward the door. For once in his life, Harry Castillo wasn’t thinking about optics or contracts or control. He wasn’t thinking at all.

He only knew one thing: if he let you leave now, it would be final. And he wasn’t ready to lose you. Not like this.

Your hand tightened on the handle of your suitcase as the lobby doors slid open, cold air rushing against your face. Luca was already there, waiting by the car, his steady presence only sharpening the reality of what you were about to do. He tipped his head in quiet acknowledgment, stepping forward to take your bag.

“Where to, miss?” His voice was gentle, as though he knew better than to press.

You hesitated. Your chest ached with all the words you hadn’t said, all the ones you wished you could take back. You opened your mouth, ready to name anywhere but here....

Then you heard your name.

You froze.

His voice carried across the polished marble of the lobby like a command, low and certain, yet frayed at the edges. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. The measured cadence of his shoes against the floor gave him away long before he came into view.

Harry.

You turned slowly, your pulse hammering as he came into focus. You hated how handsome he looked, even disheveled. His eyes locked on you with a force that made the rest of the lobby blur away.

Luca glanced between you, cautious, but you could feel Harry’s attention narrowing to just you - your suitcase, your clenched jaw, your silence.

“You’re not leaving,” Harry said, not a question. His voice was steadier than he looked, though a muscle in his jaw ticked like he was fighting something down.

You swallowed hard. “Yes. I am.”

His gaze flicked to the suitcase, then back to you. “Don’t.” It was a single word, heavy with command, but underneath it there was something raw, almost desperate.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, unwilling to let the crack in your chest widen in front of him. “Why shouldn’t I? So you can tell the next person what I am, too?”

Harry stopped short, every ounce of polish stripped away. His hand ran through his hair, his mouth opening, then shutting again as though the apology lodged in his throat couldn’t quite come out.

“I made a mistake,” he forced, voice hoarse. “I was careless. And I hurt you.” He took a step closer, slower now, like he knew you could bolt at any second. “But don’t walk away thinking that’s all I see when I look at you. Because it’s not.”

The suitcase felt heavier in your grip than it had upstairs, though you hadn’t packed much. Maybe it was the weight of his stare.

“Don’t,” Harry said again, louder this time. A couple of people in the lobby turned their heads. You felt the burn of their eyes, but you didn’t care.

You squared your shoulders. “Don’t what? Leave? You don’t get to tell me what to do, Harry. Not anymore.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I don’t care if you walk out of here?”

“I know you don’t care!” The words cracked out before you could stop them. “If you did, you wouldn’t have humiliated me in front of Richard. You wouldn’t have told him - and reminded me, what I am. Like I needed reminding.”

He said your name, as if to beg.

“No!” Your voice rose, echoing off the marble. “Don’t. I trusted you. For the first time in years, I let myself believe I wasn’t just… a job. And then you open your mouth, and suddenly I’m nothing more than the thing you bought.”

Something flickered in his expression, a flinch he couldn’t hide. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” You laughed bitterly, though your throat was thick with unshed tears. “Because it sure feels like it.”

Harry stepped closer, close enough that you could see the strain in his eyes, the way his breath came sharp and uneven. His voice dropped, but the tension in it carried. “Do you honestly think I would chase you down here, in front of half the building, if I didn’t - if you didn’t - matter to me?”

You blinked at him, stunned by the crack in his composure, the words he almost but not quite said.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Not after last night.”

“I know.” His voice was rough, threaded with regret. “I know I don’t deserve for you to believe me. But don’t walk out that door thinking you’re disposable to me. Because you’re not.”

The lobby was silent but for your uneven breathing and the quiet hum of the revolving door. Luca lingered near the car, gaze averted, though you could feel his awareness like a buffer around you both.

You swallowed hard, the fight still hot in your veins, the ache sharper for how badly you wanted to believe him.

Your knuckles were white around the suitcase handle. His words clawed at you, tearing holes in the walls you’d tried so carefully to build. But the ache was louder than the hope.

“I can’t do this, Harry,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper but sharp enough to cut. “Not like this. Not when you can make me feel like I’m nothing with just a sentence.”

His chest rose and fell, tense, like he was holding back from reaching for you. “Please. Don’t.”

You shook your head. “You don’t get to beg me now. Last night I was standing right in front of you, and you chose to remind me what I am. And now you want to pretend like it was nothing? I’m not staying just because you regret it.”

For a second, you thought he might explode - rage, or confession, or something that would undo you both. Instead, his jaw clenched and his eyes went glassy, though he blinked it away before it could break through.

“Luca,” you said, not taking your eyes off Harry. “Take me home.”

Luca hesitated, flicking his gaze between you both, but with a short nod he moved to open the door.

Harry took a single step toward you, desperation written in the tightness of his frame. His voice cracked low enough only you could hear: “If you walk out now, I don’t know how I’ll let you go.”

The admission punched through you, stealing your breath. For a heartbeat you almost faltered. Almost.

But you forced your feet to move, dragging your suitcase behind you, not daring to look back. If you did, you knew you’d break.

The heavy doors swung shut behind you, muffling the lobby, muffling him. Outside, the city air hit your lungs like ice. Luca loaded your bag into the car as you slid into the backseat, hands trembling in your lap.

Through the tinted glass, you caught one last glimpse of him standing there in the lobby—rooted, unmoored, and completely undone.

And then you told Luca to drive.

“Wait,” he said, voice taut as he opened the car door. “At least let me settle what I owe you.”

The words sliced clean through the air. For a moment, the car felt huge, every sound amplified - the shuffle of Luca in the front seat, the faint hum of the city outside.

You turned slowly, staring at him like you didn’t recognize the man standing there. “Settle what you owe me?” you repeated, each syllable coated in disbelief.

His throat bobbed as he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his chequebook. He flipped it open, hands steady but jaw tight. “You shouldn’t walk away empty-handed. You held up your end. Let me....”

“Don’t,” you cut in, voice trembling now with something sharper than rage. “Don’t you dare reduce me to a line on your balance sheet, Harry.”

He froze, pen hovering uselessly above the paper.

“I never once asked you for a cheque. Not when I sat through your endless dinners, not when I smiled at strangers who stared, not even when I...” you stopped yourself, biting back the part that was too raw to admit. “And you think this is what will make it right?”

His chest heaved. “It’s not about making it right. It’s about not leaving you with nothing.”

You stared at him, at the man who had the power to make you feel everything and nothing all at once. “I already have nothing,” you whispered, before shaking your head. “Keep your money Harry. What I wanted from you, you clearly can’t give.”

And with that, you reached forward, closing the car door. A nod motioned to Luca to drive.

As the car drove off, Harry stood frozen in the lobby, pen still hovering above a blank cheque, his attempt at control, crumpling in his hand.

You leaned your head against the glass, watching the city blur past, though you didn’t really see any of it.

Your suitcase sat by your feet like an anchor, heavy with more than just clothes. It was everything - every late night in his penthouse, every stolen glance across a crowded room, every secret thought you never meant to have about him, packed away and zipped up.

You couldn’t stop replaying it. The way he’d said it. At least let me settle what I owe you.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, as though you could physically stop the words from echoing. Was that all it was to him? A transaction? The thought made your throat burn. You’d been an escort long enough to know the rules, to keep your heart locked tight, but somewhere along the way with Harry you’d started to forget the difference.

And now you were paying the price for it.

Part of you wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Instead, your chest felt hollow, scraped raw. You whispered to yourself, so low even Luca couldn’t hear, “I wasn’t supposed to care.”

The city lights streaked by like smudged watercolor, mocking you. Every mile that carried you further from him only deepened the ache you weren’t supposed to feel. And you couldn’t silence the voice that kept asking: why did it hurt so much?

*****

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing unnervingly in the quiet of your apartment. You leaned against it for a moment, shoulders slumping as the weight of the day pressed down. The city outside carried on, oblivious to the storm churning inside you.

You kicked off your heels, feeling the relief of bare feet against the cool floor, and dragged your bag to the sofa. Every movement felt heavier than it should; your body ached with the memory of his hands, the heat, the tension, the words left unsaid. You sank onto the cushions, letting your head fall back, eyes tracing the ceiling, thinking about how quickly the contract’s days were slipping by and how close you’d let yourself get.

Your phone buzzed with messages you hadn’t opened. You didn’t want distractions, didn’t want reminders of the world outside that had forced your choice to leave, even for a moment. Your mind wandered, circling the image of Harry in the lobby, the frustration and need in his eyes, the way he’d tried to stop you.

The apartment was empty, but it didn’t feel like freedom. It felt quieter than you wanted, lonelier. You missed the tension between you, the warmth of his presence, the messy intimacy that had begun to seep into the edges of your routine. And for the first time in a long while, you wondered if leaving was a mistake or if staying would just make it worse when the thirty days inevitably ended.

You wrapped yourself in a blanket, curling into the sofa as the city lights flickered through the window. For a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t just an arrangement - if he really wanted you there, not as a part of a contract, but as someone he couldn’t let go. The thought made your stomach knot with both hope and fear.

And then, quietly, almost involuntarily, you reached for your phone. Just to see if he had tried to reach you yet.

Your eyes skim the empty inbox, the stark whiteness reflecting the hollow in your chest. You take a shaky breath and open a new email, fingers hovering over the keys longer than you’d like.

To: Escorting Agency

Subject: Contract Termination

You begin typing, each word heavy with a mix of defiance, regret, and resignation:

Contract terminated due to breach of confidentiality clause. I will reach out when I am open to work.

You pause, reading it over, the finality of the sentence sinking in. This wasn’t just a professional termination - it was the tangible end of something far more complicated. Something you didn’t expect to care about so deeply.

With one last glance, you hit send, the quiet ping of confirmation echoing like the closing of a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

*****

The guest room was quiet that night, unnervingly still. Harry leaned against the doorframe, eyes scanning the space that had once been yours. Your presence lingering in every corner, in the faint scent of your shampoo still clinging to the pillows, in the soft rumple of the sheets that hadn’t yet been smoothed back to perfection.

He ran a hand over the edge of the duvet, fingers brushing the cool fabric, remembering the way you had moved here, laughed here, how mornings had felt with you sprawled across the bed, hair tangled, lips just slightly parted in sleep. The memory made his chest tighten - a mix of longing and frustration.

The chair by the desk still bore the slight indent where you had perched while scrolling on your phone, teasing him with texts or sly comments about the city, the deal, or just about him. Even the little gold hoop earring left on the nightstand felt like a breadcrumb from a past life he wasn’t ready to let go.

He stepped further into the room, the air thick with the ghosts of your laughter, your sighs, the tension and tenderness of the nights you’d shared. Every corner reminded him how much he’d allowed himself to care, how quickly your absence had shifted from annoyance to a sharp, gnawing emptiness.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, sinking into the chair you had so often occupied. He imagined you walking back in, bold, teasing, the flash of your smile lighting up the space like you had always done.

The guest room had been yours, in a way that wasn’t about ownership but about presence. Without you, it felt hollow, waiting, almost expectant.

Harry ran a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a moment. He didn’t just want you back in the room; he wanted you to be here, with him, under his roof, where he could see you, control the edges of your world, and - selfishly - feel that you were his, even if only in fleeting moments.

*****

Days had passed.

No call. No text. Nothing.

You didn’t know what you had expected - Harry showing up at your door, another one of his carefully measured apologies, maybe even a message that cut straight through your pride, but not this. Not silence. It was almost worse than anger; anger at least meant he was still thinking about you.

Instead, it felt like he had vanished, taking with him the sharp ache in your chest that refused to dull.

Katie had tried everything the first few days - ordering takeout, forcing you to drink water, dragging open your curtains when you would’ve preferred the room to stay dark. Now she had resorted to tough love.

“You can’t just rot in here,” she said that evening, hands on her hips. “I love you, but you smell like heartbreak. Get up. Shower. We’re going out.”

You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, but Katie yanked the blanket off with zero mercy.

“No. Enough. You’ve cried, you’ve sulked, you’ve done the sad music and staring at your phone thing. If I have to listen to Taylor Swift one more time I might actually give her a reason to stop writing songs. Now you’re putting on lipstick and we’re getting you a drink.”

The words stung only because they were true. You had been rotting - clinging to the sheets that still smelled faintly of his cologne, replaying his voice in your head, remembering the way he had looked at you like you were both his salvation and his undoing. And yet, despite all of it, he hadn’t called. You don't know why you wanted him too. But you did.

So you let Katie win.

You showered, scrubbed at the lingering sense of him on your skin, and sat at your vanity while Katie rifled through your closet. She chose something sleek, black, short enough to feel daring but long enough that you wouldn’t feel exposed. You added heels, mascara, and a sweep of red across your lips - war paint.

By the time the Uber dropped you and your friends off outside a crowded downtown bar, the city was humming with summer heat. Music spilled into the night air, laughter bubbled from the line at the door, and for the first time in weeks, you felt almost alive again.

Katie looped her arm through yours. “See? Already better. Tonight is about fun, not him.”

You forced a smile. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to believe that Harry wasn’t already in the room, in the air, in every glance over your shoulder.

But as you walked inside, the press of bodies and the neon glow swallowing you whole, you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe - just maybe - he was watching even now.

You wouldn't tell Katie but when you got home that night, desperate to get off the tight dress and eyelashes, your eyes drifted to something hanging out of your suitcase.

Your heart sank. It was a shirt. Harry's shirt. The one he lent you.

The one you teased him in countless times and ended up wrapped in his bedsheets.

It shouldn’t have still been here. It shouldn’t have followed you.

Your throat tightened as you reached for it, the fabric soft against your fingers, so achingly familiar it almost hurt. Without thinking, you dropped the dress to the floor and pulled the shirt over your bare skin. It dwarfed you, hem brushing your thighs, sleeves swallowing your hands.

For a moment, you closed your eyes.

The night out blurred away - the music, the drinks, the laughing faces of your friends. All that remained was the weight of his shirt against your body, the faint ghost of his scent woven into the cotton, and the memory of how safe it had once felt to be wrapped in it.

You curled up on your bed like that, pulling the collar to your face, breathing him in until your chest ached.

Moving on felt impossible when he was stitched into the very threads that touched your skin. Taylor Swift was right - my boy only breaks his favourite toys.

*****

Harry leaned over the sink, water dripping from his hands, running down the veins of his forearms. He splashed his face again, trying to shock himself awake, but the hollow feeling remained.

The mirror caught him, unforgiving. Eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, a man who could close billion-dollar deals but couldn’t close the distance with one girl.

You.

He forced himself to stand straighter, gripping the porcelain until his knuckles went white. He had spent the evening with Eli Price, carving his way through a brutal negotiation, talking numbers and percentages as if that might cauterize the wound. But the moment silence crept back in the moment he came home, you were everywhere.

The guest room across the hall. He hadn’t stepped inside in days, and still, he could see you there. Laughing barefoot on the rug, curled up with a book you’d pretended to read, your things scattered in a way that had made the pristine space feel alive.

Now it was empty again. Too empty.

He dragged a hand down his face, trying to scrub your presence out of him, but all it did was smear the image deeper. His phone sat on the counter. He glanced at it. Twice. His fingers itched for it, to type your name, to break his own rule.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stared at his reflection, the sharp, exhausted lines cutting deeper around his eyes, and whispered under his breath like an oath, like a punishment....

“Forget her.”

He killed the bathroom light and walked away, leaving the mirror in darkness.

*****

The sun was already breaking through the blinds when you stirred, still curled up on the couch in Harry’s shirt. The fabric smelled faintly like cedar and the faintest trace of his cologne - faded, but enough to undo you.

You blinked at the sunlight, your throat tight, mascara smudged from the night before. The zipper of your dress still lay where you’d dropped it in the hall, your heels discarded like evidence of a night you tried too hard to enjoy. Katie’s laughter from hours ago echoed in your ears, a distraction you’d forced until you couldn’t force anymore.

You sat up slowly, hugging your knees. The shirt slipped off one shoulder, and you tugged it back, fingertips lingering on the collar. You shouldn’t have kept it. You shouldn’t have pulled it out. But you had. Because it was the only thing left that made you feel safe.

Your phone buzzed. Not Harry. Just Katie, texting a half-hungover u alive? brunch?

You shoved the phone under a cushion. You weren’t ready to speak, not yet. Not ready to admit you’d slept in his shirt like some lovesick fool. Not ready to admit you missed him so much it made your body ache.

*****

The office was too quiet. The city had barely woken, but Harry was already at his desk, tie discarded, sleeves rolled, staring at a report he hadn’t read a word of.

He’d walked himself to exhaustion last night, circled the penthouse until dawn. And still, he ended up here, at the long glass table, pretending numbers would fill the silence.

His assistant had left a neat stack of papers, a strong coffee at his right hand. He ignored both.

He glanced at his phone again. Nothing. No calls. No texts.

He hated that part of him hoped.

Harry had never been one to let emotions bleed into business, but these days, he felt like a man running with an open wound.

You had been gone for days now, and still, everywhere he turned, there you were. In the guest room he avoided. In the faint trace of your perfume that clung to the back of his car. In the silence of his penthouse at night, where he used to find your laughter instead.

And worst of all in the absence of your voice.

For the first time in years, Harry Castillo felt like a man who’d lost.

The morning began like any other - at least, that’s what Harry told himself. A run before dawn, black coffee scalding hot, and then straight into the office before the city had even rubbed the sleep from its eyes.

He buried himself in meetings. Spreadsheets. Calls that dragged on longer than they should have. Anything to drown out the silence he carried home with him every night.

But it was useless.

He sat at the head of the boardroom table, surrounded by his executives, nodding at numbers and projections he wasn’t really hearing. His pen tapped absently against the leather folder in front of him, his thoughts elsewhere.

That shirt.

He remembered the way you used to slip it on like it belonged to you. The way you teased him with it - lounging across his bed, bare legs curling under the hem, daring him to look. The way it smelled of you for days afterward, no matter how many times it was washed.

He hadn’t seen it since you left. Hadn’t thought about it, not consciously. But today, it hit him with the force of a blade. Somewhere out there, you might still have it. Might be wearing it. He should hate the thought. Instead, his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

“Mr. Castillo?” one of his analysts cleared her throat, pulling him back. “Are you agreeing to move forward with Price’s terms, or....?”

Harry’s eyes sharpened, a flash of irritation breaking through. “Price doesn’t set the terms. I do. And if he doesn’t like them, he can walk.” His voice was clipped, final.

The analyst nodded quickly and returned to her notes. The room fell into a nervous hush.

Harry leaned back, loosening his tie as though the fabric around his throat was suddenly suffocating. He should feel triumphant. He had Eli Price cornered. His empire was secure. Everything was running exactly as it should.

And yet, all he could think about was the way you used to sit curled on the sofa in his guest room, hair mussed, your laugh spilling into the quiet spaces of his home. The way you’d left - proud, furious, fire in your eyes. The way he hadn’t gone after you.

He dragged a hand down his jaw, forcing his face back into stone. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Not when the world was watching.

But still, beneath the weight of numbers and contracts and boardroom silence, he carried the ghost of you. And no matter how hard he worked, you were always there.

Always.

*****

You zip the last of your suitcase compartments and glance around your apartment, the space suddenly feeling emptier than it has in weeks. The city outside the window buzzes and hums, oblivious to the turmoil inside you.

Katie’s already packed her bags, tossing things into her duffel with casual efficiency. She looks at you and smirks, “Come on, you’re not going to sit here brooding all day, are you?”

You shake your head, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “No,” you murmur. “I… I just need a break.”

It’s more than a break. Europe isn’t just a trip; it’s a chance to bury yourself in something new, something different, anything that keeps Harry off your mind. The thought of seeing him again, hearing his voice, feeling the pull between you - it’s both a comfort and a torment. You can’t have both, so you choose distance.

Katie slides her sunglasses onto her head and tosses you the boarding passes she already printed. “This is happening, honey. No excuses. Let’s go.”

You lift your bag, feeling its weight, and follow her to the door. The click of the lock behind you is final, the city suddenly more vibrant and cruel in contrast to your pounding heart.

In the cab, you watch New York fade behind you, the skyline shrinking into the distance. You focus on the passing streets, the tourists, the honking cars, anything but the memory of Harry standing in the penthouse doorway, voice low and insistent, asking you to stay. You push the memory down, bury it beneath a rush of anticipation and fear.

Katie nudges you. “Smile. Europe awaits, babe.”

You nod, letting yourself finally breathe, knowing this trip is about more than sightseeing. It’s about reclaiming a part of yourself you almost lost to him. Almost but not entirely.

And still, somewhere deep in the back of your mind, a single thought lingers: he’s still there, waiting, whether you like it or not.

---------------------------------------------------------

I don't know why... But if anyone here remembers the 2000's, I have the Shontelle song T-shirt in my head when I write this chapter. I know.. showing my age 😭 this was a sad one I'm afraid - sorry! I promise it will get better. How do you think Harry should get her back? What can he do to have her back in his arms?

Taglist: @katssecretdiary @pedrosgrogus @bunny-pancake @littlewitchgirly @sesdeuxyeux @notyourlovemonkey @lizzie-cakes @aquanatalie @indiegirlunited @hotmess-x @krystal---meth @karlawithacapitalk @ro-nahime-things @noisynightmarepoetry

[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Thirteen : The Escort

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

Should have known it was a matter of time, my boy only breaks his favourite toys. - Taylor Swift

You didn’t dare glance at your calendar. Each marked day was a countdown you weren’t ready to face. Thirteen days. Thirteen days until the arrangement with Harry ended, and you had to step away from the world you’d been living in - away from him. And yet, the thought of leaving made your chest tighten. You hated how easily your mind betrayed you, how every smile, every touch, every lingering glance had begun to chip away at the walls you’d so carefully built. You knew better than to fall, knew the rules of your world, and yet your heart or something far more dangerous, had already started rewriting them for you.

You let the coffee cup tremble slightly in your hands, not from the heat but from the memory of last night, Harry pressed against you, the way his lips had traced along your neck, his hands claiming you as if you’d always belonged to him. Every time you replayed it, a part of you wanted to run straight back to him, and another part - the part that reminded you of the rules - urged you to stop, to remember why this arrangement had limits.

You tried to focus on something else. The skyline outside the penthouse window was bright, the city alive, indifferent. You could pretend, for a moment, that your heart wasn’t tethered to a man who shouldn’t have had this kind of hold on you. But the faint trace of his cologne on the pillow, the whisper of his voice in your ear, the way his gaze lingered even when he said nothing, all of it made pretending impossible.

Your phone buzzed, and you nearly dropped it. A text from him, innocuous on the surface: “More coffee downstairs if you want. Don’t make me wait too long.” Your pulse hitched. It wasn’t a command, not really, but you knew the undercurrent. The pull. The way he made it so that even ordinary moments felt charged, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

You set the cup down, taking a deep breath, knowing you were already lost. Thirteen days - or maybe less - before you had to choose between walking away and giving yourself fully to the danger of wanting him.

*****

The countdown in your mind was impossible to ignore. Each day that passed brought you closer to the end of your thirty-day arrangement with Harry- closer to the moment he wouldn’t have you on his arm, wouldn’t be stealing these rare, intimate glimpses of you anymore. Unless, of course, you chose to stay. No contract, no rules. Just the two of you.

But today felt different. Unlike the usual late-night gala or black-tie affair, this was a crisp late-afternoon rooftop event, the city sprawling beneath the glass railings, golden light catching the skyline. The air carried the faint scent of champagne and flowers, laughter and muted conversations drifting upward from below.

You adjusted the strap of your dress, smooth against your skin, feeling the weight of anticipation heavier than usual. Every glance at the door made your stomach flutter, not just with nerves, but with the unspoken question of how much longer this delicate balance between desire, business, and something dangerously close to real affection could last.

Harry appeared behind you, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a promise. His presence made the sunlight seem warmer, the city quieter. Today, the world outside the penthouse, outside your arrangement, felt distant, almost irrelevant. And yet, the thought that soon it might all be gone lingered, sharp and unrelenting, beneath the hum of the rooftop party.

You looked breathtaking as usual, the vibrant red dress hugging your curves and catching every eye in the sunlit rooftop garden. The gentle breeze teased the fabric, adding movement to the effortless elegance you carried so naturally. Harry watched you with a rare, easy smile playing on his lips.

He was relieved not to be trapped in a tuxedo again - thank God for outdoor daytime events where he could ditch the stiff collar for something lighter. His crisp white shirt, sleeves casually rolled up, made him look relaxed but still sharp.

As you moved through the crowd, heads turning your way, Harry felt a surge of pride, not just because of the way you looked, but because here, away from flashing cameras and formal ballrooms, you seemed entirely your own person.

The sun caught in your hair, and Harry’s eyes softened. “You always know how to make an entrance,” he murmured when you reached his side, his voice low and warm.

You smirked, leaning in slightly. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

He chuckled, sliding an arm around your waist. The day stretched ahead, full of light, laughter, and, somewhere beneath it all, the unspoken tension simmering quietly between you.

“So who are most of these people?” you asked, glancing around the rooftop, recognizing only a handful of familiar faces from the past few weeks. Your tone was casual, but there was an edge of curiosity - an unspoken need to understand the world Harry moved in so effortlessly.

He smirked slightly, resting a hand lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. “Mostly clients, colleagues, a few investors,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur meant only for you. “Some you’ll know eventually, some you won’t. Doesn’t matter....you’re with me.”

You let his words wash over you, the heat of his hand against your back grounding you amid the swirl of champagne flutes and polite laughter. It was comforting, but also a little dangerous because the more time you spent here with him, the more you realized how much you didn’t want these weeks to end.

“You make it all look… easy,” you murmured, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he led you toward a quieter corner of the rooftop.

Harry’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and calculating, before softening just enough to let the faintest smile curl at his lips. “Easy?” he asked, amusement in his tone. “This isn’t easy. But being here with you… that part? That feels natural.”

You caught yourself smiling, heart fluttering. And for a brief moment, the city, the party, the contract, it all faded. It was just the two of you, and the tension that had been building between stolen glances, quiet touches, and late-night confessions.

The late afternoon sun glittered across the rooftop, turning the glassware in everyone’s hands into miniature prisms. Laughter and clinking glasses floated over the soft hum of the city below. You moved beside Harry, letting him guide you through the crowd, his hand brushing lightly against yours - a quiet, grounding reminder of his presence.

Then you spotted them: Richard and his wife, elegantly dressed, surveying the crowd with the kind of practiced composure that came from years in the upper echelons of business. Richard’s eyes flicked toward you immediately, narrowing just slightly, a flash of uncertainty there before he masked it with a polite smile.

Harry caught it too, his jaw tightening imperceptibly, but his voice remained smooth. “Richard,” he said, his tone warm but firm. “You remember Richard, and this is his wife, Jackie.”

You stepped forward, extending your hand with a calm smile. “It’s nice to see you again Richard and nice to finally meet you Jackie,” you said, your voice steady, friendly, but with an undercurrent of confidence. Richard shook your hand, his grip firm, measured, eyes flicking to Harry for a moment as if checking if you were a threat or a distraction. His wife, however, smiled easily, tilting her head politely.

“You been keeping busy?” Richard asked you, his gaze briefly assessing, appraising. “Yes,” you replied evenly, meeting his eyes without hesitation. “The city keeps me on my toes.”

There was a beat of silence. You could feel Richard’s subtle unease, the way his posture stiffened slightly, as though trying to figure out exactly who you were in Harry’s orbit. You tilted your head slightly, letting the smallest smirk ghost across your lips. Not flirtatious, just self-assured, just enough to show you weren’t intimidated and that you were very much your own person.

Harry subtly shifted so he was slightly in front of you, a protective presence, but his hand stayed lightly over yours, grounding you. “Glad to see you here with Harry,” Richard said finally, his voice neutral but his tone carrying a faint edge. “He always seems… happier these days.”

You caught Harry’s eyes and smiled softly. That spar, mutual recognition, was like a silent conversation between you two. You leaned in slightly as Harry guided you further into the crowd, his hand brushing yours again, anchoring you in the moment.

Even with Richard’s quiet suspicion, the way Harry introduced you, the way he stood beside you, made you feel untouchable in a sense. Not because you had to be, but because Harry made it clear - your place was here, right by his side.

*****

The afternoon progressed on, the golden haze of late sun softening the skyline as the rooftop crowd shifted into smaller clusters. You and Harry had somehow been separated, though not deliberately - just the natural pull of different conversations. He was cornered by a group of older men, the kind who held court with cigars and deals, while you had been swept into the orbit of a gaggle of women, champagne flutes clinking lightly as they laughed and traded stories.

They were glossy and composed, draped in fabrics that whispered money before they even opened their mouths. At first, the chatter circled harmlessly around the usual topics - vacations in St. Barts, renovations in Aspen, the latest art acquisitions. But slowly, you realized the undercurrent: the language of money wasn’t just currency here, it was performance. Who had more, who had kept more, who could pretend to care the least while flexing the most.

One woman, all sleek hair and diamonds, leaned toward you conspiratorially. “So,” she said, her tone lilting with curiosity that didn’t feel entirely innocent, “how do you find yourself in Harry’s… world?”

A ripple of polite amusement moved through the group, and you felt every eye shift toward you. Testing. Measuring. As if you were an artifact suddenly placed in the middle of their curated gallery. God if only they really knew.

You sipped your champagne, unbothered, though you caught Harry’s glance from across the rooftop. He had one hand tucked in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of whiskey, his expression neutral to anyone else but you knew better. His eyes didn’t leave you for more than a heartbeat, sharp and watchful, ready to intervene if you needed it.

“I find it suits me,” you replied smoothly, with just enough warmth to disarm them. “And besides - Harry’s world isn’t so different from mine.”

We both sell ourselves - you felt like saying.

There was a pause, brief but noticeable, before one of the women gave a tinkling laugh, covering her mouth with perfectly manicured fingers. The others followed, nodding, though you could sense the subtle recalibration - they hadn’t expected you to answer like that.

Harry’s lips curved just slightly as he turned back to his conversation, but the way his thumb rubbed along the edge of his glass told you he’d heard every word.

As you glanced away from Harry, you felt a hand on your shoulder.

"Leo!" You watched as he smiled down at you, holding a glass of champagne for you.

"Saw you were running empty, and it's always good to see a familiar face at these things!" You couldn't help but smile as you took the glass from his hand, glad that he was taking you away from the conversation of the ladies now behind you.

"No father?" You asked looking around.

"God no, he couldn't think of anything worse!"

You sipped your champagne, keeping your posture relaxed, letting the casual banter continue while internally noting just how much attention you commanded without even trying—and how Harry, somewhere across the rooftop, noticed every second of it.

You hadn't realized as you continued chatting with Leo, Harry was snapped out of his visions of you when Richard, his Lawyer, came over to make small talk.

“So… what kind of events does she actually do then?”

Harry froze mid-step. The question landed so unexpectedly that it took him a second too long to respond.

"What?"

"Your... Friend. You said last time she does events, just curious to know what kind?" Richard asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Why do you want to know, Rich?” His tone was casual on the surface, but his eyes flicked sideways, already calculating.

Richard shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that said he’d been sitting on this thought for a while. “I just… you’ve been acting a hell of a lot differently lately.” He swirled the amber in his glass before taking a slow sip. “And I find it interesting how close she seems to be getting to Leo Price.”

Harry’s gaze drifted instinctively across the room - right to you. You were at the bar, a glass of champagne in hand, leaning in as Leo said something that made you laugh. The sound carried faintly over the music.

Jealousy flared sharp and hot in his chest before he could choke it down.

“They met a few weeks ago at dinner,” Harry said finally, forcing his voice into something dry and even.

“What, and now they’re best mates?” Richard gave him a pointed look. “Seems… odd, don’t you think? A woman who works in events suddenly cosying up to the son of the man whose company we’re trying to buy?”

Harry snorted quietly, shaking his head as if the idea was too absurd to dignify. “You’re reaching.”

“Am I?” Richard’s voice sharpened, the edge of suspicion slicing clean through his feigned curiosity. “You’ve known her, what.....barely a couple of weeks? You don’t really know what she’s after. For all you know, she could be feeding information straight back to Leo. It happens in businesses all the time!”

Harry’s laugh came quick and humourless. “She’s not a spy, Rich.” He set his drink down with a muted clink and leaned in just enough for the words to land like a brick. “She’s an escort.”

Richard’s brows shot up, the surprise genuine. Then he noticed Harry was serious. Deadly. “You’re serious?”

“She’s not interested in any of our business dealings,” Harry continued, his voice clipped now. “She’s here to accompany me to events and I pay her for it. That’s it.” His jaw worked once, a muscle twitching in irritation. “Since Lucy.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Richard muttered, leaning back slightly. “Didn’t realise you were that desperate. You could have any girl in the city and you chose an escort!”

Harry’s glare was sharp enough to silence him, but Richard only smirked faintly, swirling the ice in his glass like he’d won something.

“Glad I told you, Rich,” Harry bit out, his patience snapping. He straightened, buttoning his jacket with a single, deliberate tug before walking away, shoulders squared, leaving Richard in his wake.

*****

“How you finding the night?"

The voice was low, almost casual, but it sent a shiver crawling up your spine before you even turned. Richard was standing too close - close enough that you could catch the faint trace of his cologne over the champagne fizz in the air. You couldn’t quite place why he unsettled you, but your body knew before your mind did.

“It’s… beautiful,” you said, your voice polite but clipped, small talk pared down to its bare minimum.

“Good.” His gaze lingered on you in a way that felt like it was peeling something back. “Must be nice… experiencing different nights, different parties, with different men.”

That made you blink, your attention snapping to him fully. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” he said with a lazy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He slipped a card from his pocket, holding it between two fingers like an unspoken dare. “Listen, here’s my number. When you’re done with Harry, how about you give me a call? We can arrange a little fun of our own.”

Before you could react, his hand slid up your arm, light, but deliberate. Your muscles tensed, and you flinched away before you could stop yourself. It was deliberate. Purposeful.

“Sure… why not,” you murmured, snatching the card more to make him leave than to accept the offer. You kept your fingers loose so you didn’t crush it in your palm.

Across the room, someone called his name. He smirked, gave a slow, knowing nod, and turned away.

Only when his back disappeared into the crowd did you realise you’d been holding your breath. Your chest felt tight, collapsing in on itself.

How did he know?

Had Harry told him?

And worse....how had you let him catch you off guard like that?

You can still feel Richard’s gaze on you after Harry excuses himself to speak with another guest, the weight of it heavier than it should be. You’ve been stared at before, by men who thought they knew what you were, by men who did know but this feels different. Like he’s holding some unspoken fact between you, turning it over in his mind.

You take a slow sip of champagne, eyes flicking to where Harry stands across the room. He’s in his element, trading quiet words with an older couple, one hand tucked casually into his pocket. He doesn’t glance your way, but you know he knows where you are. He always does.

But your thoughts snag.

The way he spoke to you earlier - the slyness, the precision of his questions, it was too pointed to be harmless small talk. It had the edge of someone who’s testing the ground beneath your feet, seeing how far you’ll go before you give yourself away.

You press your lips together, shifting your weight. If he does know, how? Did he find out on his own… or did Harry tell him?

The idea lodges in your chest like a splinter. Harry wouldn’t just volunteer that. He’s private to the point of being infuriating, careful with everything that could be construed as leverage. But then again… they’re friends. Men like them talk. Maybe not in specifics, but enough to make it clear you’re not some society girlfriend who just appeared out of thin air.

Your gaze drifts back to Harry, watching him laugh at something his companion says. The curve of his smile is practiced, polite. He has no idea what Richard’s been implying, or maybe he does and is letting you deal with it. Testing you.

It’s impossible to tell and that’s the part that twists inside you.

You stay at Harry’s side for the rest of the afternoon, but the air feels different now. Not loud or dramatic, just… charged.

Richard’s comment keeps circling in your head, snagging on every thought like a burr. When you’re done with Harry. He’d said it like it was a business deal, like there was already an expiry date stamped on you.

You glance up at Harry as he shakes someone’s hand, polite but distracted. You can tell when his mind is working, ticking over something he’s not ready to say. His palm rests lightly on the small of your back, guiding you toward the next circle of people, but you feel the faintest pressure there - protective, territorial. Almost like he’s silently saying: mine.

The champagne in your glass has long gone warm, but you keep it in hand just to have something to do. Every time Richard drifts into view, you feel Harry’s body angle subtly toward you, closing off the space, a move so small most people wouldn’t notice but you do.

You excuse yourself midway through a conversation about ... Well you didn't really care. In the mirror of the marble bathroom, you take a breath, smooth your dress, try to shake off the weight in your chest. You wonder if you’re being paranoid. If Richard’s words were just an offhand remark. But when you step back into the room, you find Harry already looking toward the door, watching for you.

Harry notices your behaviour. You’ve smiled at all the right people, laughed when the moment called for it, but something in the way your fingers linger on the stem of your champagne flute has shifted. You’re not really watching the conversation anymore—you’re listening for subtext, for sideways glances, for anything that might explain the way Richard had looked at you earlier.

As you approach the bar again, his hand is at the small of your back, steering you through a small cluster of people. “You’re quiet,” he says low enough for only you to hear, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like he’s testing whether you’ll tense or relax.

“I’m fine,” you answer automatically, eyes on the bottles sat behind the bar on the glass shelf.

He doesn’t buy it. “No. You’re… somewhere else.” His tone isn’t sharp - it’s assessing, controlled, but you can feel the calculation behind it. Harry isn’t a man who lets things slide unnoticed, especially not when it comes to you.

You make a vague gesture toward the bar man shaking a cocktail shaker, forcing a smile. “Just distracted.”

“By a guy making cocktails?” His gaze doesn’t leave your face, and you’re suddenly aware of how heavy it feels like he’s weighing the truth in your expression against whatever story you’re spinning.

You shrug. “By the night.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to push. Instead, he simply steps closer, the heat of his presence anchoring you in the noise and chatter around you. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, and it sounds like both an order and an oddly gentle plea.

You nod, though your mind still flickers back to Richard. To the way his mouth had curved, as if he knew something he shouldn’t. To the possibility, small but poisonous, that Harry had told him about the arrangement.

Harry guides you on, chatting politely with a couple he introduces as old friends, his hand never leaving you. It’s grounding and possessive all at once, like he’s reminding everyone in the room, including you, that you’re his tonight.

And yet, even as you smile through the introductions, the thought lingers like a splinter: If Richard knows, what else does he know?

*****

The city slid past in blurred streaks of amber and navy through the tinted windows, but you couldn’t seem to focus on anything outside. The low hum of the engine, the faint scent of Harry’s cologne still clinging to his jacket beside you - it was all background noise against the storm in your head.

Harry was behind the wheel tonight instead of letting Luca drive you back to the penthouse, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. His profile was sharp in the glow from the dashboard - unreadable, calm, like he was still processing the evening in his own way.

You sat angled toward the window, your dress tugged into place over your crossed legs, clutch just a little too tight in your lap. He’d noticed you’d gone quieter after Richard left the table, you could tell. Harry had that way of noticing without calling it out immediately like he was letting you offer the truth when you were ready.

But you weren’t ready.

Every now and then, his eyes flicked toward you. Not searching exactly, more like he was waiting for you to meet his gaze. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy.

He finally said your name said, his voice low, barely cutting through the sound of the tires against wet asphalt. “You’ve barely said a word since we left.”

You forced a small smile, keeping your eyes on the streetlights passing overhead. “Just tired.”

His brow ticked in the faintest frown, like he didn’t quite believe you but also knew pushing would only make you retreat further. His thumb tapped against the steering wheel, a steady rhythm.

You thought about asking him outright whether he’d told Richard about you. Whether he’d mentioned anything about what you were to him, what your arrangement was. But the words stuck in your throat, and instead you found yourself studying the faint tension in his jaw.

He reached across at a red light, his hand settling warm and certain on your knee. Not possessive - just grounding. “We’ll be home soon,” he murmured, his tone making it sound like more than just a statement about distance.

You nodded, leaning back into the leather seat, trying to quiet the thought that wouldn’t leave you alone: If Harry hadn’t told him… then how did Richard know enough to even ask?

The more your mind turned with the same questions, the more you felt anger sit on your heart. And it was only time before it snapped.

******

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

You hadn’t found the words to answer the questions circling endlessly in your mind. The conclusion had settled on you like a weight: he didn’t care about you. That had to be why he told Richard. He must have done. How else would he know? You’d let yourself fall, let the walls down, and now you were left to navigate the fallout - reckoning with the consequences of letting someone like him in.

You stormed out of the elevator, unable to hide anymore. Your heels clicked hard against the marble floor as you marched through the living room, heading for the guest room - your room.

You didn’t even flinch when the penthouse door opened again behind you. Harry calling after you. His voice came sharp. Low. Controlled, but just barely.

You didn't answer. He followed. "What happened just tell me." You spun around to face him, the anger in your face clear.

"Did you tell him? Richard. Did you tell him what I am?"

Harry's face drops. "I..."

"What right do you have to tell anyone?"

"Baby..." He reached out for you.

"Don't you baby me right now. Why did you tell him?" Your arms crossed over your body. Harry froze for a heartbeat, the tension in his jaw visible even from where you stood.

"He thought you were some sort of spy trying to get information to Leo Price. I wasn't thinking. Jesus I've known the guy for as long as I can remember, I didn't think he would mention it."

“Oh, so you disclose personal arrangements like you’re discussing wine lists?” You sniggered, turning back to your room, your heels clicking loud. "Do you think this is something else? Someone you just pass around to your friends? Is that what billionaires do when they are bored? I'm not your toy Harry."

'I know that. Look I'm sorry... Please don't walk away." You turn back around. "But you know, that that is what you are...you are an escort..."

“I don't need you to remind me who and what I am, Harry. I know what I am. But that is not for you to tell,” you said, voice steady but sharp, a flicker of fire in your eyes. “Not to Richard, not to anyone. That choice… that’s mine.”

He stiffened, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “I know,” he admitted, voice rougher now, almost pained. He watched as you continued to walk towards your room.

Harry stepped forward. “What happened? What did he say?”

You stopped.

“When he approached you....what did he say?”

You turned again, this time slowly, looking him head in his brown eyes. “He said when you were done with me, maybe he could have a turn. That he assumed I was ‘on the clock.’”

Harry’s fists curled at his sides.

“And you know what hurt the most?” you continued. “It wasn’t that he said it. It was that I didn’t know if he was wrong.”

Silence fell, thick and electric.

You crossed her arms. “So. Let’s settle it. Give me what you owe me and I’ll be gone by morning.”

“No.”

“Harry..."

“No,” he repeated, his voice cutting through your. “I’m not letting you leave like this.”

“You don’t get to let me do anything.”

He moved toward you, slower this time, like approaching a lion ready to pounce. “You were the one who said it was a job. That you didn’t want strings.”

“And you said you weren’t looking for sex.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then why did you tell Richard what I am?”

His expression flickered. “Because I thought it would protect you.”

You laughed, bitter. “You thought throwing a label over me would protect me?”

“No,” he admitted. “I thought if he knew you were mine, he’d back off.”

You flinched at the word.

He saw it.

“I know how that sounds,” he said, softer now. “I know I handled it wrong. But when I saw him talking to you...when I saw Leo with his hand on your back..”

Your eyes flashed, a laugh caught in your throat. “Jesus Harry... we were just talking. This isn’t about business.”

“No. It’s about control,” he said honestly. “And I’m losing mine around you.”

You stared at him.

“I’ve never wanted someone in a room like I wanted you tonight. And that terrifies me.”

A long silence stretched between them. Your chest rose and fell with uneven breath. The anger still sat high in your throat, but beneath it was something else...confusion. Emotion. Vulnerability.

Your voice cracked as you spoke, “You made me feel like nothing.”

He stepped forward, slowly, carefully. “You’re not.”

“I was just doing the job.”

“I know.” He nodded once, voice almost a whisper. “And I fucked it up.”

You looked away. You couldn't look at the sadness in his eyes right now.

“I don’t want to be your job anymore,” he added.

You froze. Your eyes met his again.

“I want you to stay,” he said. “Not for the contract. Not for the month. I just want you here.”

A long, trembling pause.

And then, finally, you said, voice hoarse:

“I don’t know what that means yet.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers unclenching at your sides.

“But if you walk out tonight,” he added gently, “I think we both lose.”

You stood there, storm still radiating from your body, but now softened with uncertainty. Your gaze dropped. Then lifted again.

“Then maybe you should start treating me like someone who matters. I have never been made to feel so cheap in all the years I have been doing this. And you did that Harry. I want you to know that.”

And without waiting for a reply, you turned and walked toward your room, leaving Harry uncertain if you would still be there in the morning.

----------------------------------------------------------

What do you think.... Will you walk out for good or wait for Harry to beg for forgiveness? 👀

Taglist: @katssecretdiary @pedrosgrogus @bunny-pancake @littlewitchgirly @sesdeuxyeux @notyourlovemonkey @lizzie-cakes @aquanatalie @indiegirlunited @hotmess-x @krystal---meth @noisynightmarepoetry @karlawithacapitalk @ro-nahime-things

[vulcanette-deactivated20260506]

[spicy-ryls]

Johnny thinks he had a moment

[rylandsgrace]

#Love him

[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Nine: The Morning After

Warnings: 🔞 smut warning. Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

I don't wanna tip toe and I don't wanna hide, but I don't wanna feed this monstrous fire - Ariana Grande

The first thing you were aware of was warmth.

Not just from the sunlight bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but from the body beside you — steady, solid, unmistakably Harry.

It took all of three heartbeats for memory to catch up.

The way his hands had gripped your hips last night, his voice rough in your ear, the heat that had drowned out every rational thought until you weren’t thinking about contracts or boundaries or anything except him.

Your stomach tightened.

This was never part of the deal. Sex wasn’t mentioned, wasn’t implied. The contract was about appearances, companionship, playing the part. Not this.

You shifted, the sheet slipping down your skin. Harry stirred, his arm falling away from your waist, and for a moment you thought you could slip out unnoticed. But then his voice came, low and still heavy with sleep.

“Morning.”

You froze, looking over your shoulder at him. His hair was a tousled mess, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked unfairly good for a man who’d barely slept.

“Morning,” you echoed, your voice quieter.

His gaze lingered on you, slow, deliberate, before he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable exactly - it was charged, thick with all the things neither of you could say.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “About last night…”

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t let him finish. “It can’t happen again.”

He stilled, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “I was going to say the same.” But his tone wasn’t quite convincing, and he didn’t look away immediately.

“Good,” you said, pulling the sheet up over your chest like armor. “It was… not part of what I’m here for.”

Something flickered in his eyes - annoyance? Regret? You couldn’t tell. “Right. Just… a lapse in judgment.”

You forced a light shrug. “Happens.”

But the truth was still humming beneath your skin. Last night hadn’t felt like a lapse, not for a second. It had felt inevitable.

Harry swung his legs out of bed, standing and reaching for his shirt. “I’ll get us some coffee.” His voice was casual, but his shoulders were stiff.

“Sure,” you murmured, not trusting yourself to say more.

He glanced at you once more before leaving the bedroom, his expression unreadable. And as the door clicked shut, you were left staring at the empty space beside you, the sheet still warm where he’d been.

You told yourself you were relieved it was over.

But your body, your thoughts, refused to believe you.

*****

Harry woke up before you.

He’d been awake for a while, actually - lying there in the grey dawn light, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the night before like some kind of masochist.

He’d never meant for it to happen.

Hell, it shouldn’t have happened. The contract was clear: you were there for appearances, to keep him from walking into events alone, to smooth over the edges of his public image. Sex wasn’t part of it.

But last night… last night he’d stopped caring about the rules.

His gaze drifted sideways to where you slept, hair spilled across the pillow, the sheet tangled low around your hips. His chest tightened. He should have gotten out of bed the second it was over. He should have put that distance back between you before either of you had a chance to think.

Instead, he’d stayed. He’d watched you fall asleep against him, your breath warm on his chest, and for a dangerous moment, he’d let himself imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t temporary.

Now, in the pale light of morning, reality was clawing its way back in. The clock was ticking on your thirty days. He wasn’t supposed to want you beyond that - wasn’t supposed to want you at all.

You stirred, and his eyes snapped shut for a second. When you turned to look at him, his heart kicked once, hard.

“About last night…” he started, unsure whether to apologise or just pretend it didn’t matter.

“It can’t happen again,” you cut in.

The words landed like a punch, though he’d been bracing for them. He forced his jaw to unclench. “I was going to say the same.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. It shouldn’t happen again. But the way your skin had felt under his hands, the way you’d said his name - he knew it would haunt him every time you stood beside him from now on.

“Right. Just a lapse in judgment,” he added, hoping it sounded casual.

“Happens.”

He didn’t miss the way you clutched the sheet higher, like you needed the barrier. He also didn’t miss the part of himself that wanted to pull it away and drag you back under him.

He stood, grabbing his shirt if only to have something to do with his hands. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

He looked at you once more before leaving - one last glance he shouldn’t have taken. You were staring at the empty space beside you, the same one he’d just vacated, and it made his stomach twist.

In the hallway, he rubbed a hand over his face. He needed to get his head straight. Keep it professional. Go back to how it was.

But deep down, he already knew the truth.

If it happened again, he wouldn’t stop it.

*****

Harry had been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes. The numbers blurred, his mind refusing to click into gear.

It wasn’t the deal. Wasn’t the shareholders’ meeting. It was you.

Last night kept looping in his head like some private, torturous reel - the way your breath had hitched when he’d first touched you, the way your nails had scraped against his shoulders when he pushed deeper, the sound you made when you came. That sound alone was enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

You both agreed it was a one-time thing. An accident. But it didn’t feel like an accident. It felt like something he’d been heading toward since the second you had walked into his life. And now that it had happened, he couldn’t remember a single good reason why it shouldn’t happen again.

Harry loosened his tie, dragging a hand down his face. You looked wrecked in his sheets, hair tangled, lips swollen, the red marks he’d left on your skin blooming like proof. And you smiled, sleepy, content, right before telling him it couldn’t happen again.

That smile had gutted him more than the words.

Now, there was another event tonight. Another chance to see you in some dress that made every man in the room look twice, while he stood there pretending he wasn’t imagining you underneath him again. Pretending he wasn’t counting the hours until he could get you alone.

His phone buzzed with a message from Maya confirming the car for that evening. He should have been thinking about speeches, handshakes, deals.

Instead, Harry was thinking about your mouth. Your hands. The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you knew.

And God help him, he was already planning how to break the rule again.

******

By the time the evening event rolled around, Harry was already wound tight. He told himself to stay cool, stick to the plan, keep it professional.

That resolve shattered the moment he saw you.

You stepped onto the rooftop terrace like you'd been born for it, wrapped in a black silk dress that clung to you in a way that made his mouth dry. The thigh-high slit flashed smooth skin every time you moved, and the delicate straps left your shoulders bare. Your hair was loose, catching the soft breeze, and the city lights behind you only sharpened the effect.

Harry’s drink stilled halfway to his lips.

You were already deep in conversation with one of the hosts, laughter threading effortlessly through your words, one hand resting lightly on the railing as if you had nowhere else to be. To anyone watching, you looked perfectly at ease - unbothered, engaged, sparkling even.

He thought you hadn’t noticed him yet. That was his mistake.

You’d felt him the moment you stepped into the room - not just seen him, but felt the shift in the air, the way your skin prickled in awareness. Your first instinct had been to keep your distance, to slip behind clusters of guests and position yourself as far from him as the space allowed.

Thank God you’d arrived separately tonight. He’d come straight from work; you’d had the luxury of breathing space, time to rehearse the cool detachment you swore you’d keep.

It wasn’t working. Not with him somewhere in this room, dressed in a tux that fit him like a sin, probably with that low, knowing smile he wore whenever he caught you looking.

For Harry, watching you smile at someone else while he was still carrying the feel of your body in his bed from twelve hours ago - it was a test he had no interest in passing.

He closed the distance, keeping his voice low when he reached you.

“You’re late."

You turned, eyes skimming over him, a faint smile curling your lips, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

“Fashionably.”

“That dress should be illegal."

Harry always complimented you on your dresses and every time it made you blush, but this time, your weren't blushing you were burning.

Not from embarrassment, but from the way his voice dropped when he said it, low and intimate, meant for you and only you.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way his eyes dragged down the length of you, slow and unapologetic, like he was taking his time unwrapping something he already owned. His gaze lingered at the dip of your neckline before lifting back to meet yours, and this time, you didn’t shy away.

Usually, you’d laugh it off. Make a joke. Pretend you weren’t secretly thrilled by his approval. But tonight, something in you rebelled. Maybe it was the memory of last night, still sharp in your mind no matter how many times you told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. You told him it wouldn't happen again.

You tilted your chin, matching his stare. “You say that like you’re hoping I’ll take it off.” It was a challenge. That's what you told yourself anyway.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He hand pressing on your lower back as he leaned close to your ear, his breath tickling your neck. “Don’t tempt me. Not here.”

But you could tell he wasn’t warning you. He was daring you.

The air between you thickened. People milled past, laughing and clinking glasses, but you didn’t hear a thing, not over the pulse of want building in your chest. His compliment wasn’t just about the dress. It was a reminder. A provocation. And the heat coiling low in your stomach told you he knew exactly what it was doing to you.

You both mingled. Smiled for cameras. Nodded politely through small talk neither of you heard. But Harry kept catching your eyes across the crowd - long, weighted looks that pulled the air taut between them. And then, like fate wanted to see just how far his control could stretch, he saw you with Leo Price.

Across the room, you smiled, feeling the warmth of the evening settle around you as Leo leaned in, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Quite the gala tonight, huh?” His voice was smooth, casual, but there was something beneath it, an edge.

You returned the smile, matching his tone. “It’s hard not to be impressed. And you? Always managing to show up in style.”

Leo gave a slow, confident shrug, a sly smile playing at his lips. “Only when the company’s worth it.”

Your glance flicked toward Harry, who was watching from across the room. You let your smile deepen. “Well, I’m glad to be making an impression.”

Leo’s eyes darkened just slightly. “Careful with compliments like that. They tend to lead somewhere… interesting.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a smirk. “Maybe I’m in the mood for a little excitement.” It was harmless flirting. Leo was a few years older than you, in your 'age bracket' and frankly, quite harmless and good company in a room full of men and women over 40.

He chuckled softly. “Now that’s a conversation I’d like to keep going.”

The flirtation hung between you, light, effortless, but charged with something unspoken, the kind of tension that made every word feel like part of a delicate dance.

You tilted your head slightly, voice casual but edged with genuine curiosity. “Dare I ask how the deal is going with Harry and your father?”

Leo’s smile flickered for a moment - just a flash - before he answered smoothly, “It’s moving along. Nothing finalized yet, but we’re close.”

You nodded, folding your hands loosely in front of you. “Harry hasn’t said much since that dinner.”

He glanced over, eyes narrowing just a bit. “Harry tends to keep things close to the chest. You know how he is.”

You did. The careful control, the way he guarded his business like it was a secret weapon. But something about Leo’s tone made you wonder if there was more beneath the surface - a tension you couldn’t quite place.

“Let me know if I can help,” you said lightly, the offer half business, half something else.

Leo’s grin returned, warm and a little dangerous. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The conversation drifted, but the unspoken currents beneath your words lingered - both of you playing your parts, aware of the lines you couldn’t cross.

But across the room, Harry’s jaw set. He didn’t think.

In three strides he was there, his palm finding the small of your back in a way that looked gentlemanly enough for anyone watching.

“Excuse us.”

Leo blinked, but Harry was already steering you away, the heat of your body under his hand doing nothing to help his temper.

“That was rude.” you said, trying to keep your tone light as he guided you away, his hand firm but careful, like he was protecting something precious.

“That was necessary.”

He didn’t stop until you were tucked into a shadowed alcove just off the terrace, the muffled hum of the party spilling through the open doors.

“Harry....”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You laughed at his words. “I’ve been talking to people. That’s what one does at a gala.”

“Talking with Price.”

You laughed softly, without looking at him. “You really have a problem with that, don’t you?”

He stepped closer, close enough for the subtle scent of his cologne to reach you, warm, expensive, and maddeningly familiar.

“You’ve been avoiding me… because you’re remembering exactly what happened the last time we were alone."

The next thing you felt was the railing at your back and Harry’s body close enough that the heat of him seeped straight through the silk of your dress.

You opened your mouth to answer, but his hand slid to your hip - not pulling, just holding - his thumb brushing over the bare skin exposed by the dress’s low side.

You should have told him to stop. Should have reminded him of the agreement. Of your conversation this morning. But instead, you stayed perfectly still, every nerve in your body screaming at the contact, begging for more.

“We said...”

“I know what we said.”

His voice was low, controlled, but his grip tightened like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted you to believe.

He shifted, pinning you lightly against the railing with nothing more than the angle of his body, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“Every time I’ve looked at you tonight, you’ve been biting your lip. And I know exactly why.”

Your pulse thudded so hard you could hear it.

“You’re imagining things.” you rolled your eyes laughing, knowing he was absolutely right.

“I’m imagining what you’d sound like if I slid my hand up under this dress right now. And I bet you are too.”

His fingertips brushed your bare arm, just enough to make your breath catch before he stepped back, leaving you stranded in the cool air he’d just vacated. You were quick to miss the warmth of his body.

“Go back in there. Smile. Pretend you’re not thinking about me."

*****

You did. You tried. But the heat coiled low in your stomach only grew worse. Every time your eyes found him, leaning in to speak with someone, adjusting his cufflinks, catching you watching, it was like the two of you were the only people in the room.

By dessert, you were done pretending. He saw it in your face when he offered his hand and asked, far too casually,

“Shall we get some air?”

The night was warm when you stepped outside, the garden strung with fairy lights, music muffled behind glass. He didn’t touch you at first - just stood close enough that your arm brushed his every time you shifted. Then his hand slid to the small of your back, guiding you toward a darker corner where no one could see.

The wall of the building was cool against your spine. His body was hot against the front of yours.

“Still think it was a lapse in judgement?”

When his mouth claimed yours, there was no pretense left - only weeks of denial snapping all at once, the taste of him, the faint rasp of his stubble against your skin as his hands roamed lower. You didn’t even notice your clutch hit the ground.

And in that moment, you both knew there was no such thing as one time.

“We agreed....” you gasped for air as you pressed your hands to his chest lightly.

“We agreed while you were still breathless in my bed. That was never going to stick.”

His voice was low, rough, the kind of tone that sank under your skin and stayed. You took a step back, but the wall caught you, leaving nowhere to go.

“Someone could see.”

“Then don’t make me give them a reason to look.”

He stepped in, the heat from his body bleeding into yours, one hand braced on the wall by your head, the other slipping around your waist.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don't and within seconds he kissed you.

It was nothing like the night before - this was harder, hungrier, the kind of kiss that left no room for air. You gasped, and his tongue swept in, claiming, tasting, daring you to push him away. Instead, your hand curled into his jacket, pulling him closer.

His palm slid down your side, fingertips finding the bare skin high on your thigh where the slit opened. You shivered, your breath breaking against his mouth.

“Still think it was a one-off?”

Harry’s hand stayed on your hip, the heat of it burning through the silk. You could feel the subtle shift of his body, the controlled way he leaned in so his breath grazed your ear.

“You have no idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you tonight.”

You swallowed, pulse kicking hard against your throat.

His thumb traced a slow line just under the edge of your dress, finding the bare skin of your thigh. The movement was maddening, not rushed, but deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every second of it.

“Harry…”

“Say my name like that again and I’ll forget where we are.”

Your breath hitched when his fingers slid higher, just enough to graze the softest part of your inner thigh. Not quite touching where you needed, but close enough that your body betrayed you, hips tilting forward, breath shallow.

He smirked, his mouth so close to your ear you could feel the curve of it.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Somewhere behind you, the faint hum of voices drifted from the main terrace. But here, in the dim light, it felt like the two of you existed in your own dangerous bubble.

His hand moved higher - not enough for full contact, but enough to make your legs press together instinctively. You hated how much you wanted more.

“Harry…”

“Say it.”

He pressed his mouth to your jaw, your neck, each kiss hotter than the last.

“Harry...someone...”

“Don’t care.”

His voice was ragged, like he’d been holding this back since sunrise. The party was only a few feet away, the murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter bleeding into the alcove. Anyone could glance over and see. The thought should have stopped you. It didn’t.

Harry’s fingers caught the slit of your dress and eased it further apart, his palm cupping you over the thin scrap of lace you’d put on that morning without thinking of him - though you knew now you’d never wear them without thinking of him again.

“You’re soaked.”

Your head tipped back against the wall when he pressed his fingers just right, heat and friction sparking low in your belly. His other hand slid up your side, claiming the curve of your breast through the silk.

You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, but Harry’s mouth found your ear.

“Don’t be quiet for me.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his fingers stroking through the lace until your hips tilted toward him. His knee slid between yours, pinning you, holding you open.

You tugged at his jacket, wanting more, and he pulled back just long enough to shrug it off and toss it aside.

“This is-”

“-exactly what you want.”

The smirk was there, dangerous and knowing, as he pushed your panties aside and slid two fingers into you. Your breath caught on a sharp, involuntary moan that made his grin widen.

“That’s it. Just like last night.”

He moved his hand in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing your clit in a way that made your knees threaten to give out. You clutched his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt.

The hum of voices nearby blurred into white noise. The air felt thick, heavy with the scent of him and the taste of his mouth still lingering on your lips.

Your hips began to rock into his touch, chasing that crest, and Harry’s eyes locked on yours like he could feel every pulse of heat building inside you.

“Come for me baby.”

You did - hard, your cry muffled against his shoulder, his fingers drawing it out until you were trembling against him.

"Harry..."

"Come on. Time to go."

You watched him, cool and collected, as he straightened his tie and slipped into his suit jacket — like nothing had shifted between you. Like the heat of your skin still clinging to his fingers didn’t exist. Your mouth fell slightly open, caught in the pull of disbelief and something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.

Then, without hesitation, he reached out, his hand closing around yours with firm certainty. The touch was electric, grounding you even as it stirred a quiet fire beneath your skin. He led you toward the exit, each step deliberate, measured, like this was all part of the same choreography.

No words. Just the weight of his hand in yours, a promise unspoken.

Luca was waiting by the car, door already open, his eyes flicking briefly between you and Harry.

You slipped inside the back seat, the city lights blurring past the window as the door clicked shut behind you.

******

The whole car journey was unbearable. The delicate lace of your thong was soaked and damp, sending a subtle heat that you tried to tame by crossing your legs tightly. Your body ached with a delicious ache you weren’t ready to admit aloud, but Harry seemed oblivious, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the dark city streets rushing by the windows.

Yet, his hand was still entwined with yours - warm, steady, and grounding - something you weren’t quite ready to let go of just yet. That simple connection kept you tethered, even as the silence between you stretched thick with unspoken desire.

You stole a glance at him from the corner of your eye. His jaw was clenched, the tension in his shoulders betraying the calm mask he wore. The way his fingers tightened around yours, just slightly, told you he was feeling it too - that simmering need you’d both agreed to deny but clearly hadn’t forgotten.

The car slowed as it pulled up to the penthouse, and your heart jumped.

“We’re here,” he said softly, voice low.

You swallowed hard, reluctant to leave the warmth of his hand, the heat that still clung to your skin like a whispered promise.

As the car door opened, the cool night air hit you, sharp and sobering. You took a deep breath, knowing the night wasn’t over - but that whatever came next would be wrapped in tension, restraint, and all the things you hadn’t yet dared to say.

You step out of the car, the soft click of your heels echoing on the polished pavement as you follow Harry inside. The lobby is quiet, the muted hum of the city distant behind the heavy doors. Your skin still tingles from the lingering heat of the ride, but you keep your posture steady, refusing to let him see how rattled you are.

Harry leads the way up the elevator, the air between you charged but unspoken. When the doors slide open onto the penthouse floor, you pause for a moment, catching his eye.

He steps inside first, closing the door softly behind you. The penthouse glows softly under the city lights. You breathe out, steadying yourself.

Harry moves to the window, looking out over the skyline. Then he turns, eyes sharp.

“No more pretending,” he says quietly. “Last night wasn’t just some mistake for me.”

You hold his gaze, cool and steady. “It wasn’t a mistake, Harry. I said it can't happen again. But I’m not in this for feelings. You know that.”

He takes a step closer, voice low. “Then why can’t I stop thinking about it? About you?”

You shrug, trying to not think about the dampness in your thong, desperate to play it cool. “Maybe you’re overthinking it.”

His lips twitch, amused. “Or maybe I’m the only one here who’s being honest.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe. But honesty doesn’t mean I’m going to hand over my heart.”

He reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “I’m not asking for your heart. Just a chance.”

You smirk, stepping even closer. “Careful. You’re getting dangerously close.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “Danger is kind of my thing.”

Just as your lips almost meet, he pulls back slightly, eyes gleaming. “Not yet. I like watching you want me.”

You grin, feeling the challenge, the heat between you crackling like static. You watch as he goes to his bedroom, no further words exchanged.

As you settle into bed, the city lights casting a faint glow through the curtains, your mind replays the night: the tension, the unspoken promises, the delicious tease of almost-touching lips just moments ago.

You tell yourself you’re in control - always in control - but the quiet thrill running beneath your skin tells a different story.

Turning onto your side, you stare out the window, heart pounding slightly faster than usual. The night stretches on, endless and full of possibility. But Harry was forgetting one thing... You were a master of this game, skilled at giving men exactly what they craved - and making a living from it.

--------------------------------------------------------

Who doesn't love a game? 🔥 Thanks for all your comments and feedback as usual! Hope you're loving this direction

Taglist: @katssecretdiary @pedrosgrogus @bunny-pancake @littlewitchgirly @sesdeuxyeux @notyourlovemonkey @lizzie-cakes @aquanatalie @indiegirlunited

[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Eight: The Blazer

Warnings: 🔞 smut warning, yes we finally got there. Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

For you, I would cross the line, I would waste my time, I would lose my mind. They say, "She's gone too far this time"

It starts with him knocking gently on your bedroom door.

You’re in the middle of scrolling aimlessly, wearing nothing but a robe and a silk headband you forgot to take off after washing your face. The knock isn’t loud, but it’s deliberate. You know his rhythm by now - that same, composed restraint that somehow makes everything feel more intimate.

You swing the door open halfway. “Yeah?”

Harry leans casually against the frame, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone like he was just about to text you instead.

He’s in a black T-shirt and dark trousers, clean-shaven, hair a little damp like he just stepped out of the shower. Unbothered. Effortless. Dangerous.

“You doing anything tonight?” he asks, tone light.

You raise a brow. “Other than existing in your spare room rent-free?”

His mouth twitches. “Thought I’d take you to dinner. If you wanted.”

You blink. “Like… actual dinner?”

“I meant a bar fight and a kebab van,” he deadpans.

You smile, despite yourself. “Where?”

“Somewhere low-lit. Music, good food, no one trying to sell us anything.” He pauses, eyes flicking down to your robe, then back up, pointed but polite. “Thought it might be nice to get out someone where normal for a change. Unless you’ve got plans.”

You hesitate. You don’t. But that’s not the point.

“This is just dinner?” you ask.

He nods. “No pressure. No work. Just you and me.”

You pretend to consider, even though your heart already said yes. “Sure, I can do dinner. ”

******

An hour later, he’s waiting by the door, checking his watch. He’s added a dark blazer over his T-shirt, and changed his shoes. You feel his gaze before he speaks.

The dress you wear is one of the simpler ones from the boutique - elegant, but not flashy. Soft black silk, thin straps, delicate across the collarbone. It sways when you walk. You didn’t choose it to impress him, not really. But part of you wonders if he’ll notice.

You move slowly down the steps. “Is this okay?”

His gaze lifts when he hears your heels, and then pauses. There’s a flicker of something. Appreciation, maybe. Or surprise. You can’t quite read it. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you cross the room with that stillness of his, the kind that always makes you feel slightly breathless, like he sees more than he’s letting on.

“You look...” he begins, then shakes his head slightly, and settles on, “Nice choice.”

You smile faintly. “You picked it.”

He lifts a brow. “I only paid for it.”

But when he opens the door for you and rests his hand at the small of your back to guide you out, it lingers half a second longer than it needs to.

*****

The restaurant is candlelit and quiet, tucked away in a side street near Tribeca. There’s no paparazzi, no flash, no hoards of billionaires and old money. Just polished wood tables, flickering glass votives, and the hum of conversation and jazz guitar.

You’re led to a corner table, partially hidden behind a column. It feels private in a way that’s intentional but not overbearing. Safe.

He lets you sit first. Lets you order first. Doesn’t correct your wine choice, doesn’t dominate the conversation. He just watches you, interested, relaxed, the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth when you make a dry joke about the bread being better than your ex’s personality.

“I find that’s true of most sourdough,” he murmurs, swirling his wine.

You laugh. It’s easy. Too easy, maybe.

He doesn’t reach for your hand. Doesn’t touch you when the waiter pours wine. But his eyes keep returning to your mouth when you speak, your collarbone when you shift, your knees when you cross them beneath the table.

There’s a comfort in his presence tonight like neither of you are pretending. The conversation is slow and honest. Not about business. Not about image. Not even about the contract.

Just music. Food. People-watching.

At one point he tells you a story about nearly getting expelled from school - something about a stolen Vespa and a fire alarm. His voice is drier than the martini he’s sipping, but there’s a trace of fondness in it. You can picture it: younger Harry, scruffy, sharper around the edges. Still a little dangerous, even back then.

“Were you always like this?” you ask, eyes narrowing slightly as you lean on your elbow.

“Like what?”

“Intense. Observant. Kind of terrifying.” That earns you a slow smile.

“No,” he says simply. “That came later.”

You don’t ask what made it happen.

******

Over the main course, grilled sea bass for you, rare steak for him and the conversation turns unexpectedly light.

You mention how you once tried to learn French and gave up halfway because your tutor was too attractive. He gives you a flat look across his wine glass.

“Is that how it works with you? You get distracted by good bone structure and abandon all ambition?”

You lean back in your chair, unbothered.

“Only when the bone structure’s worth it,” you say, meeting his gaze over the rim of your own glass.

You lift your glass and glance at him over the rim. “Can I ask something?”

His brow rises. “Yeah.”

“What was your ex like?” Harry pauses.

You didn’t mean it to come out that way, so casual but you hold his gaze anyway. He leans back a little, arms resting loosely on the counter behind him.

“Lucy?” he says after a beat. You nod not expecting an answer. Not a real one. But he gives it anyway.

“She was... smart. A strategist. No illusions.” A faint smile flickers at his mouth, more memory than fondness. “We were good on paper.”

“But not in person?” His eyes lift to yours.

“No.”

You don't press. Instead, you say, “I always wonder what people leave behind in breakups. The stuff no one else sees.”

Harry looks at you for a long moment, quiet. Then, finally, he says, “She said I cared more about control than connection. That I didn’t let people close.” A small breath. “And she was right. I liked being needed more than being known.”

You blink. “That’s… honest.” He smiles faintly.

“You asked.”

“I guess I’m just not used to men who talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they’ve thought about it.” Harry shrugs.

“Maybe I’ve had to.” You don't say anything to that. Just take another sip. There’s a heaviness in the air now, not uncomfortable, but weighty. Meaningful. He studies you again.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Anyone serious?” You let out a short laugh.

“God, no. You think men date girls like me?”

His eyes darken a little. “I think they want to.”

You hum, gaze falling to your mug. “Wanting isn’t the same as staying.”

That lands somewhere between you both. Harry doesn’t push further.

By the time dessert is offered, you’re both sitting a little closer. Not touching. But the air between you is warm now. Easy. You shake your head when the waiter appears with the menu.

“Too full.”

“Coffee?” Harry asks, already glancing at the waiter.

You nod. “Always.”

The waiter disappears. Harry leans back slightly in his chair, studying you in that unreadable way he has.

“What?” you ask, suddenly aware of how soft your voice sounds in this place.

“Nothing,” he says. Then: “You’re different when you’re not trying.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’m trying most of the time?”

“I think you’ve had to,” he says. “Tonight... it doesn’t feel like work.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just study him. Most men like to see only what you show them, the curated version, the practiced smile, the performance.

Harry, on the other hand, seems to watch for what’s underneath.

It’s disarming. And you don’t know what to do with it.

You wait until the coffees arrives before you ask it, timing it so the clink of spoons and the low hum of conversation soften the edges of the question.

“I've been meaning to ask. Why wasn’t sex in the contract?” you say, casual on the surface, but watching him closely. “Very unusual for a man of your stature to not want a woman in his bed that he is paying for."

Harry pushed back his cup and for a moment, he looks at you as if weighing whether to laugh it off or answer honestly.

“Because I didn’t want that to be what you thought I was buying,” he says at last, his voice low, deliberate. “I wanted your presence, your attention… without you wondering what it might cost you later.”

You tilt your head, a faint smile playing at your lips. “And here I thought you just had saintly self-control.”

The corner of his mouth curves, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Don’t mistake restraint for disinterest.”

The line lands heavier than you expect, settling between you along with the unspoken things neither of you dares to chase just yet.

******

Outside, the night is warm and quiet.

He offers his jacket when he sees your arms are bare, and you let him drape it over your shoulders. It smells like him, bergamot and something smoky, and it makes your stomach twist in the most inconvenient way.

On the walk back to the car, there’s a moment.

You pause at the curb as Luca pulls up. Harry lingers behind you, and you feel the brush of his hand on your lower back, not possessive, not overt. Just steady.

You glance at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks for dinner. I had a really good time." you murmur.

His voice is quiet. “Any time.”

And the way he says it, soft, sincere, like he means every syllable, makes something inside you flicker dangerously close to wanting.

*****

The car ride is quiet, but not awkward. You rest your head against the window, the city blurring past, your hands folded neatly in your lap. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to fill the silence. There’s something in that restraint that makes your chest ache.

When the lift doors open into the penthouse, he lets you step out first. You toe off your heels by the door, your feet aching. He watches you do it.

Usually, this is the part where things turn, where the evening shifts toward the bedroom or the door or some awkward negotiation of roles. But Harry doesn’t move toward you.

The city is quiet beyond the glass, the skyline flickering in reflections across the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside the penthouse, the air is dim and hushed. The kind of quiet that makes you whisper without knowing why.

You’re barefoot now, wineglass still in hand, standing near the window with the lights behind you. Harry’s across the room, jacket long since discarded, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms. The top two buttons undone. No tie.

He watches you as you sip.

“You always this quiet after dinner?” you ask softly.

“Only when I’m thinking.”

You glance over your shoulder. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks over, slow and steady, until he’s standing beside you. Not touching, not even close enough for that but near enough that you can feel the heat of him. The energy, low and humming between you.

He lifts his glass. “That you surprise me,” he says.

You look up at him. His face is unreadable again, except for the faint crease at the edge of his brow, something thoughtful, something unsettled.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” he says, after a beat. “It’s not.”

A quiet settles. You can feel the air shift.

And then, very slowly, he reaches out, just two fingers, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. Not possessive. Not practiced. Just… tender.

Your breath catches.

He notices. His hand lingers for a second longer than it should, fingertips grazing your jaw, and your eyes meet his.

There’s a flicker, something unsaid that flickers like a match.

You tilt your face slightly toward his. Not a move. Not an invitation. Just enough that your lips are close now. A breath apart.

He leans in.

You think he’s going to do it.

And for a split second, you want him to.

But he stops.

Right there.

His nose almost brushing yours, his voice low, rougher than before. “If I kiss you right now…”

You wait, heart thudding. “What?”

“I won’t stop there.”

Your pulse stumbles. Silence. You can’t breathe.

And then, he takes a breath, blinks once, and leans back. Withdraws his hand. His jaw tightens.

“I’ll say goodnight,” he murmurs, stepping away. “Before I forget why I shouldn't.”

You’re left alone by the window. Wineglass warm in your hand. Cheeks flushed. Mouth parted.

And it takes longer than you’d like for your heart to settle.

*****

You close the bedroom door behind you with a soft click.

The hallway still echoes with the ghost of his voice -"If I kiss you right now..." and it replays in your head like a song you can’t turn off. That low, deliberate tone. The pause. The way he looked at you like he wanted to break every rule he’d written. And every rule you had created.

You lean against the door and exhale. Your wineglass is still warm in your hand, your fingers loose around the stem.

God, what was that?

You have been with men before. Rich men. Powerful men. Men who expect, who assume, who take. You know how to play the game. Know how to read their body language, when they’re bluffing, when they’re bluffing themselves.

But Harry…

He didn’t touch you like you were his. He didn’t kiss you just because he could.

He pulled back.

I won’t stop there.

The words twist in your stomach. Not fear. Not nerves. Just heat - low and unexpected. You hadn’t even planned to flirt tonight. This wasn’t one of those outings. No show to put on. No flashbulbs, no high-slit dresses, no lipstick like armour.

Just dinner.

You push away from the door and sets the wineglass down on the side table. Shrugs off the black blazer he's given you to wear after dinner. It smells like him now - warm cedar and something deeper, expensive, but not try-hard.

You catche a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room. Bare shoulders. Sleep shorts. Hair down.

There’s something disarmed about you tonight.

You don't like it.

No...you do. That’s the problem.

With Harry, you keep losing your balance. One moment your fully in control, smiling sweetly while he watches you from across a crowded room. The next, your standing by a window with his hand on your face and the air thick with something that doesn’t feel transactional at all.

You brush your fingertips over your cheek where he touched you. It’s still warm.

Maybe it was nothing. A moment. Men like him probably collect moments and forget them by morning.

But the way he looked at you...

You shake your head.

This isn’t that kind of story. You don't get caught. You can’t afford to.

You climb into bed, but the sheets feel too cold and your thoughts too loud. Your body still humming from how close he’d been. From how close you'd got to tipping into something dangerous.

From the fact that he could have kissed you - and didn’t.

And that not kissing you somehow felt even more intimate.

*****

You stare at the hallway for a full thirty seconds before moving.

Your bare feet are silent on the polished floors, your heartbeat anything but. The silk of your sleep shorts whispers against your skin, and your arms folded across the oversized blazer you still hasn’t returned. His blazer. Your knuckles brush the edge of the lapel as you walk, stupid how grounding it feels, how steady.

You don't know why you're doing this.

That’s a lie.

You do.

You're not sure what you want, exactly. But it’s definitely not lying awake in a cold bed while your brain replays the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes when he said, "I won’t stop there."

Your hand lifts before you can think too hard. One soft knock.

You nearly walk away right after.

But then you hear the low creak of floorboards, the muffled shift of movement. The door opens slowly, only a little at first. And then fully.

Harry stands there, shirtless, in black drawstring trousers. Barefoot. His hair mussed in a way you have never seen, looser, softer. He blinks once, adjusting to the hallway light, and then looks at you properly.

Still quiet. No surprise. Just him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you say lightly, your voice smaller than you expected. “Too quiet.”

His gaze lingers on your face, then drops to the blazer. His blazer. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough from sleep. “You want to come in?”

He looks at her a second longer, not just at her, but into her, like he’s weighing the exact meaning of why she’s here, now, like this.

You hesitate. Not because you're unsure but because this is you. The girl who always knows what you're doing. The one who’s paid to be five steps ahead, to own a room, a man, a night. You don't knock on doors. Not unless you're paid too.

But you nod.

He steps aside. You brush past him and into the warmth of his room.

It smells faintly like cedar and laundry and something darker, lived-in. There’s a glass of water by his nightstand, a few papers on the desk in the corner. Everything is neat, except for the tousled bed and the way your presence seems to warp the air around them.

Harry leans against the edge of the windowsill, arms crossed. Watching you. Not like a man sizing up an opportunity. Like someone trying not to cross a line he drew himself.

You turn to him. “Harry.”

“You okay?” he asks, voice still soft, careful.

“I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Something in his expression shifts. Not lust. Not smugness. Just… understanding.

His tone is almost teasing when he says, “I take it you’re not here for a midnight strategy meeting.”

You smile faintly, a flicker of relief easing the tension that had been coiling inside you. "Not unless it involves pillows," you say softly, trying to keep the mood light.

But before you can even catch your breath, he’s already in front of you, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

His eyes darken, sharp and searching. "What are you really here for?"

You feel the weight of that question, more than just words, more than curiosity. It’s a challenge, an invitation, a promise all rolled into one.

You meet his gaze, steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

"I came because I needed to be close," you whisper, voice low. "Close to something real."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, the guarded man slips away, replaced by someone raw and vulnerable.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

"And now that you’re here," he murmurs, voice husky, "what do you want to do with that?"

The air between you crackles, electric, tense, ready to ignite.

You take a small step closer, heart pounding, breath shallow, and the space between you disappears.

He closes the distance, his breath warm against your skin as his hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your jaw. Every nerve in your body ignites under his touch, the tension building with a delicious intensity.

Your eyes flicker shut for a moment, savoring the charged silence between you, before you lean into his palm, needing the reassurance of his touch.

His lips find yours, soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. Then the kiss deepens, slow and consuming, like a flame growing steadily, threatening to engulf you both.

Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, matching the rapid rhythm building in your own veins.

When he pulls back just enough to whisper, “Tell me what you want,” his voice is rough, edged with desire and something more vulnerable.

You meet his gaze, breathless but steady. “I want to stop pretending,” you confess, “even if just for tonight.”

He smiles, a slow, genuine curve that lights up his eyes. “You sure?”

"Certain."

His hands explore your body with reverence, tracing every curve and hollow, igniting every nerve ending. The world outside ceases to exist, there’s only this moment, this connection, raw and electric.

As he guides you toward the bed, the anticipation coils tighter, every touch a promise, every glance a silent vow.

When your lips meet again, it’s with the full weight of all the things left unsaid, all the emotions barely held back.

Tonight, you’re no longer just an arrangement. You’re something more.

It’s nothing like you imagined.

It’s more.

Hot. Unsteady. All control gone. His lips are rough with need, one hand cupping your jaw like he needs to feel your shape to believe you are real. You melt into him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, kissing him back like your whole body’s been waiting for this exact moment.

He groans against your mouth, pulling back just slightly.

“Tell me to stop,” he says hoarsely.

You breathe against his lips. “Don’t you dare.”

His mouth crashes back into yours.

The urgency is clumsy, breathless, a collision of desire and hesitation. His mouth finds yours again, rough and demanding, swallowing every gasp you manage to catch. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the press of his body against yours.

You don’t make it to the bed right away, not at first. Your back finds the wall beside the door, his hand bunching the hem of your shirt as your knee slips between his legs.

Slowly, the frenzy begins to ease. His hands trail from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter with a possessive firmness. His lips descend to your neck, teeth grazing lightly before sucking a mark that leaves you shivering. His fingers slip beneath your shirt, fingertips burning trails across your skin, seeking every sensitive spot.

Your breath hitches as his hand finds the curve of your breast, palm heavy and warm. His thumb circles your nipple, coaxing it hard beneath his touch, while his other hand slips lower, brushing against the waistband of your underwear. The friction between your bodies is electric, sending waves of heat pooling deeper.

He presses against you harder now, his length straining urgently, teasing the seam of your underwear. Your hips rock forward instinctively, desperate for more. His hand moves boldly, sliding your panties aside, fingers teasing your wetness through the slick heat that’s already pooled. You let out a low moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he explores you slowly, deliberately.

The wall no longer feels cold, it’s the heat of your bodies clashing that fills the space. His mouth returns to yours, tongue slipping past your lips, claiming you with hunger and tenderness all at once.

When he finally lowers you from the wall, guiding you toward the bed, every touch is charged with intent.

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the buttons on your shirt, fingers brushing against his as he helps guide them free. Each button undone feels like a small surrender, a permission granted to the space growing between you. The fabric parts slowly, sliding off your shoulders to reveal the smooth skin beneath, exposed and vulnerable under the dim glow of the room.

He watches you intently, eyes dark and hungry, but there’s a tenderness there too, like he’s memorizing every inch. Your hands trace over his bare chest trying to remember every touch.

His lips follow the bare expanse of your collarbone, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down to your breasts. You arch into him instinctively, hands sliding behind his back to peel his trousers away.

When the fabric falls away, you take a moment to drink in the sight of him, strong, exposed, the curves and lines you’ve been craving now tangible beneath your hands.

He leans in again, lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s deep and slow, filled with reverence and hunger both. Your hands explore his back, tracing the muscles that tense beneath your touch, while his hands roam your curves, mapping the soft planes of your body.

Every moment stretches out, slow and deliberate, as you shed the last of your reservations, piece by piece until there is nothing left but the heat between you, the rhythm of your bodies beginning to move as one.

His fingers slide slowly, teasing your skin as he parts your underwear, the heat between you rising with every inch. You breathe out a soft, shaky sigh, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“God, you’re already so wet,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice low and thick with desire.

You arch your back, lips parting as his tongue flicks over your skin, slow and deliberate, drawing a moan you can’t hold back.

“Harry...” you whisper, voice trembling, “Please...”

He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes burning with need. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” you admit, heart pounding. “I want all of you.”

His smile is a wicked promise as he moves upward, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hands roam your body, fingers tracing every curve, every sensitive spot, making your skin flush.

His fingers slip inside you slowly, carefully, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, voice husky.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from moaning louder. “Yes... more...”

He responds with a steady rhythm, thrusting slow and deep, hands gripping your hips, holding you close.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he breathes, voice rough, lost in the moment.

You reach up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the heat of his skin under your fingertips. “Don’t stop.”

His fingers part you gently, sliding inside with deliberate care, every inch coaxed in slowly, letting you adjust to the delicious fullness. You bite your lip, a low moan escaping as the stretch melts into steady, exquisite pressure.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with need. His thumb circles your clit lightly, sending jolts of heat spiraling through your body.

You arch your back, pressing into his touch, breath hitching. “More,” you whisper, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He obliges, curling his fingers inside you, hitting the spots that make your knees tremble. His mouth finds yours in a fierce kiss, tongue swirling, matching the rhythm of his fingers teasing you relentlessly.

His other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he slides deeper, slower, each movement deliberate, worshipful. “You’re so wet for me,” he groans, voice husky.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for every inch. His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting softly, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.

His fingers flick expertly at your clit, each stroke building the pressure until you’re trembling, gasping beneath him.

“Harry,” you cry, hips bucking, “I’m so close."

He matches your pace, thrusting slowly inside you while his fingers circle your clit, driving you higher and higher.

With a strangled moan, you shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through your body as your muscles clench around him. He holds you through it, steady and sure, before following with a deep groan of his own, filling you completely.

His lips trail down your neck, across your collarbone, until they reach the curve of your breast, kissing and teasing until your breath quickens. Then, slowly, deliberately, his mouth travels lower - down your stomach, across your hipbones - each touch feather-light, sending shivers racing through your skin.

You gasp softly as his warm breath brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, fingers parting you gently, exposing the place that’s already glistening with desire.

"I've got to taste you baby."

His tongue flicks out, tasting you with slow, deliberate strokes that make your whole body tighten with anticipation. He circles your most sensitive spot, teasing the flat of his tongue over your folds, coaxing a low, involuntary moan from deep inside your chest.

“Tell me how you want it,” he murmurs, voice husky and thick with need.

You tremble, hips arching upward. “Slow... and steady,” you whisper, voice barely audible but full of want.

He obeys, tongue swirling in lazy circles, flicking and tracing, his lips sucking softly before moving to nibble gently along your sensitive flesh.

Your fingers grip the sheets as pleasure coils tighter, building with every skilled movement. He slips a finger inside you, matching the rhythm of his tongue, sending shockwaves through your body.

“Jesus Harry,” you moan, voice shaky, “Don’t stop.”

His hands grip your hips, anchoring you, as he intensifies the rhythm - tongue teasing, flicking, pressing just right until you’re gasping and trembling, riding the edge of release.

With a final, deliberate flick, he sends you tumbling over the edge again, your body convulsing with pleasure as he holds you steady, lips soft against your skin.

As you come down from the waves, his eyes find yours, full of warmth and something unspoken, connection, trust, and raw desire.

You trail your fingers along the curve of his hips, your eyes dark with want as you slowly lean down, lips grazing the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. Your breath fans over him, teasing, inviting.

Your tongue flicks out, soft and warm, just as you begin to explore, ready to take him fully into your mouth.

But before you can, his hand presses gently but firmly against the back of your head, stopping you mid-motion.

His eyes meet yours, intense, calm, holding an unspoken command. “Not yet,” he murmurs, voice low and steady.

You pause, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding not from rejection, but from the weight of his control. The way he’s holding you back isn’t denial; it’s something else entirely.

He cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheek with slow tenderness. “I want you. All of you. No rush,” he says, voice thick with need.

You look up at him, a slow smile curling your lips as the tension between you shifts. There’s trust here, in his restraint, in the way he’s telling you that he wants this moment to be right, not rushed.

You lean back just enough to meet his gaze fully, the heat between you simmering, deliciously suspended.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice soft but full of promise.

He pulls you up into a kiss, slow, deep, filled with everything he’s been holding back. His hands travel your body with reverence, reminding you that this night is about more than just urgency.

The unspoken tension lingers, thick and sweet, as you both settle into the slow burn, savoring every breath, every touch, every moment together.

He deepens the kiss, hands sliding from your waist down to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as his lips never break contact with yours. Your breath hitches, heart pounding wildly against his chest. You press closer, feeling the steady heat radiating from him, every nerve alive with anticipation.

His mouth trails down your jaw to your neck, leaving hot, demanding kisses that make you shiver. Your hands roam his back, memorizing the firm muscles beneath your touch.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his voice is low, thick with desire. “Tonight is about you. Every inch of you.”

You nod, eyes heavy-lidded, your body already aching for more.

He settles you gently onto the bed, lips following your every movement, hands exploring with reverence and urgency. His touch is both commanding and tender, a perfect balance that leaves you breathless.

Slow and deliberate, he takes his time undoing the last barriers between you, every second a promise.

As he finally enters you, the sensation overwhelms every nerve ending, a perfect blend of tenderness and raw, urgent passion that steals your breath. The slow, full stretch gives way to a deep, steady pressure that fills you completely, making your muscles clench instinctively around him.

His hands grip your hips with possessive strength, anchoring you as he sets a deliberate rhythm, thrusting deep and slow, allowing every inch of connection to register, every gasp and shiver to fuel him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough and low.

Your breath hitches, a soft moan escaping your lips as he begins to pick up the pace, hips rolling with increasing urgency. The slick glide of skin against skin, the slick heat pooling between you, wraps you in a haze of sensation.

He leans down, mouth capturing yours in a fierce kiss, tongue dancing with yours as his hands roam, one trailing down your side, fingers teasing your clit with light, circular strokes that send jolts of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” he growls, breath hot against your skin.

You arch into him, gasping against his mouth as the dual sensations overwhelm you, the stretch inside, the teasing outside, building toward a crescendo.

“Faster,” you whisper, voice trembling.

“Fuck, you’re mine,” he groans, his pace growing more demanding, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

Your hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as your body trembles, hips meeting his in a frantic rhythm. The tension coils tighter, muscles tightening, breath catching in your throat.

With a strangled cry, you shatter, waves of pleasure crashing through your body as your muscles clamp down on him, every nerve on fire.

After a few deep, steady thrusts, he slows, his breath heavy and warm against your neck. You feel his hands on your hips, steadying you, and an unspoken invitation to take the lead.

You shift, sliding your hands down his chest as you rise, your knees pressing on either side of his hips. His eyes darken with desire, watching every movement as you settle onto him, your body molding perfectly against his.

You lean forward, lips brushing his collarbone, then trailing slow kisses along his jawline. His hands roam your back, fingers digging in lightly, grounding you as you begin to move.

You set the pace, slow at first, hips rolling in a seductive rhythm that sends a delicious burn deep inside. You watch his face, mesmerized by the way his eyes close, lips parted, breath catching with every stroke.

“Fuck, you look incredible,” he breathes, voice rough with need.

You smile against his skin, picking up the pace just a little, hips grinding, riding him with a steady, controlled sway that makes his hands tighten on your hips.

“You feel so good wrapped around me like this,” he groans, voice thick.

You lean down to capture his mouth in a fierce kiss, tongue tangling with his as your hips roll faster, each movement igniting a fire that blazes hotter between you.

The world narrows to the slick glide of skin on skin, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, breath mingling, heartbeats racing.

When you finally lean back, resting your hands on his chest, your gaze locks with his, full of heat and promise.

His breath catches, and he groans low in your ear, fingers digging into your hips to keep you steady. “Fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this.”

You lean down, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss, tongues dancing in perfect sync. The taste of him is intoxicating, salty, warm, urgent.

Your body moves with a confidence you didn’t know you had, each grind and roll a statement, a claim. You feel him respond, his hips thrusting up to meet yours, the friction building between you both unbearable.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice breaking slightly.

Your muscles clench, pleasure spiraling out of control as you ride the wave, moans spilling freely, filling the room. His hands roam your body, every touch sending shivers down your spine.

When the climax finally crashes over you, it’s like fire bursting through every nerve ending, raw, fierce, beautiful. You collapse against him, breathless, your skin slick with sweat.

He follows soon after, his groan deep and guttural as he spills inside you, holding you close, skin slick and glistening in the soft light.

“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice thick.

You collapse into his arms, breathless and sated, the quiet afterglow wrapping around you both like a warm blanket.

---------------------------------------------------------

We finally got there and I hope it was worth the wait. I've been dying to get this chapter out! I won't lie, these next few chapters will be 🔥

Taglist: @katssecretdiary @pedrosgrogus @bunny-pancake @littlewitchgirly @sesdeuxyeux @notyourlovemonkey

[pedrosgrogu]

new fav fic dropped

[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Six: The Auction

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

You treat your mouth as if it's Heaven's gate, the rest of you like you're the TSA, I wish I could go along, babe, don't get me wrong

You hear his footsteps before you see him.

He’s just finished a call .... that deep, low voice trailing off as you step out from the guest bedroom into the warm amber light of the penthouse. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because the second he sees you in that dress - the sheer Dior number you tried on days ago, the one he couldn’t even form words around - Harry Castillo stops mid-step like you’ve knocked the breath out of him.

His jaw tightens. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, before flicking away like he’s trying to be polite. Like he knows better.

“Too much?” you ask lightly, giving a small twirl, pretending you don’t see how he’s gripping the back of one of the dining chairs like he needs something to hold onto.

“It’s a charity gala,” he replies, clearing his throat. “You might bankrupt a few men.”

"Well that is in my job description."

You laugh but just as you’re about to step closer, one of the dress’s delicate straps slips from your shoulder.

The fabric dips. Skin flashes.

But Harry moves faster than your fingers can. He’s already there, one hand at your waist, the other reaching up to hook the strap and slide it gently back onto your shoulder. His touch is careful. Light. Like he’s fighting every instinct in his body to keep it that way.

Your breath catches.

You look up and he’s watching you far too closely.

Neither of you moves.

His fingers are still at your shoulder.

“You should wear things like this more often,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Only not around other men.”

You tilt your head. “Possessive, Mr. Castillo?”

His mouth curves, but his eyes don’t soften. If anything, they darken.

Something about you calling him that - Mr. Castillo - made something primal stir in him. Not quite a growl, but close.

Like he wanted to claim the title. Claim you.

“No,” he says quietly. “Practical.”

Then, like the moment never happened, he steps back. Straightens his cufflink and his bow tie. Gestures toward the door.

“Car’s downstairs.”

But his voice is lower than usual. Rougher. And when you walk past him, you can feel his gaze pressing between your shoulder blades the entire way to the elevator.

---

The elevator doors glide shut, trapping the silence between you and Harry.

You lean against the velvet lining of the car, the hem of your dress pooling around your thighs, your skin still tingling where his fingers lifted the strap.

He stands beside you with too much control, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, like he’s trying to focus on something far away. But the tension’s still there. You can feel it in the way he keeps shifting his weight. Like if he stands still for too long, he’ll do something reckless.

Down in the private car park, the black Mercedes is already waiting. Luca opens the door without a word.

Inside, the cabin is dark and quiet. Leather, low jazz, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to your senses. You slide in and cross your legs, watching him through the corner of your eye as he takes the seat beside you.

There’s space between you, but it feels irrelevant.

His thigh brushes yours once as the car pulls out, just a graze and it shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. You sit up straighter, suddenly aware of every inch of your skin.

You catch him watching you.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to the window. “Not a thing.”

But his fingers are tapping against his knee like he’s keeping time to a rhythm only he can hear.

You lean toward him slightly, just to test it. “You didn’t say if you liked the dress.”

“I didn’t think I should.”

You smile. “Why not?”

He finally turns to you. Slowly. “Because I’ve had a long day. And you’re wearing something that makes me forget my own name.”

The silence between you deepens.

You laugh, a little breathless. “That’s dramatic.”

He doesn’t smile. “That’s honest.”

And for the rest of the ride, neither of you speaks.

But his hand rests a little too close to yours on the seat, and he doesn’t move it when your fingers brush his again, once, then again, then stay.

*****

The ballroom is gold and glass and artifice.

Everyone looks like money and boredom. Women in gowns that sparkle too much. Men in suits that cost more than most people’s rent. Waiters floating past with champagne flutes and practiced smiles.

You’ve been to rooms like this before - too bright, too cold, too fake. All glassware and gallery lighting and beautiful people pretending they don’t care about being seen. Normally, you’d slip right into the rhythm: chin lifted, eyes half-lidded, mouth tilted just enough to suggest you’re thinking something deliciously wicked. But tonight, something feels different.

Harry stands beside you, tall and impossibly composed, a whiskey glass resting casually between his fingers. He’s in a tux that could make saints misbehave - crisp lapels, black bow tie, cufflinks like polished obsidian. But it’s not the tailoring that has your breath catching in your throat. It’s the way he wears it, with that same quiet control he always has. Like the room could collapse around him and he wouldn’t spill a drop.

He isn’t looking at you. Not exactly. His gaze is on the crowd - politicians, collectors, benefactors, and the kind of women who wear their diamonds like they earned them in blood. But you feel him all the same. The heat of him, inches from your skin. The brush of his thumb over your shoulder every so often, like he’s keeping track of you without needing to.

“You always this popular at these things?”

His mouth twitches. “Not usually.”

You glance at him, smile curved with just enough edge. “Is that modesty or boredom?”

He shifts slightly, leaning just a touch closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “It’s honesty. They’re all here to be seen. I’m here because of the board.”

“And me,” you say before you can stop yourself. Light. Breezy. But your tone gives you away.

His eyes flick to you. Still unreadable. Still maddeningly calm.

“You,” he says slowly, “are the only part I’m enjoying.”

A silence stretches between you, subtle and full of things that don’t belong to this room. For a second, it’s just the two of you. Not the table full of crystal. Not the murmurs. Not the charity. Just you, and Harry, and that taut thread humming between your bodies.

He’s not clinging. Not possessive. He doesn’t touch you unless he has to.

But he sees everything.

The eyes that follow you across the room. The way someone at the far table leans over to whisper to his friend when you pass. Harry doesn’t react, not with his face but his body tightens. Just slightly.

“They’re just curious,” you murmur, taking a sip of champagne. “New girl on the scene.”

“They don’t know what to do with you.”

You glance up. “You do?”

He doesn’t answer.

*****

The night was long. Longer than expected.

You’d been at Harry’s side for hours, playing the part, smiling at strangers, letting your body say taken without needing to touch him too much. You were good at this. But tonight, there was something sharper in the air. Something watching. Waiting.

And he was tense.

You could feel it in how quiet he’d gone. The way his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his tumbler, his jaw set tighter than usual, like he was bracing.

He hated nights like this, not because of the wealth or the attention. That didn’t faze him.

It was the questions. The assumptions. And most of all, the mentions of Lucy. It was like something was in the air tonight.

You saw it happen across the room, before the auction, a man with too much money and no sense of boundaries making a direct line toward Harry. His smile was thin, hands buried in the pockets of his suit like he didn’t need them.

You stayed close.

“Harry,” the man greeted, too familiar. “Didn’t expect to see you here… not without Lucy.”

There it was. Sharp, casual cruelty wrapped in silk.

Harry’s face didn’t change. But you had come to learn that stillness. It was his version of flinching.

The man glanced over at you next, eyes raking over you with all the subtlety of a scalpel from the corner of your eye. “And she must be...”

“She’s with me,” Harry said flatly. A line in the sand.

But it wasn’t enough.

The man raised an eyebrow. “Of course. I just didn’t realize you were...what’s the word....transitioning so quickly.”

That did it.

Harry's smile had frozen on his face. His fingers tightened around the tumbler of scotch. And then... silence.

After that, his mood shifted. He became colder, quieter. Professional.

You watched as something locked tight in his chest.

"Excuse me..." Harry muttered, walking away, causing you to follow two paces behind him to catch up as he made his way outside to the terrace that overlooked the Manhattan skyline.

You can feel the way people are still looking. Wondering. Whispering. About Lucy. About you. About what this is.

“They’re watching you,” you murmured, barely moving your lips as you stood beside him.

He doesn’t answer. Just swirls the amber in his glass, eyes scanning the skyline like it might give him an out.

You stepped closer, your arm brushing his lightly. He flinches, only just, and that’s enough.

You speak again, softer this time.

“You don’t have to keep pretending this doesn’t bother you.”

He turns finally. Looking at you. Really looking.

And you see it, the war behind his eyes. The fight between holding the line and letting something break.

“It’s fine,” he says, but it’s not. “I knew it would come up eventually.”

“So why does it still hurt?”

That gets him. His jaw tightens.

You reach for his drink, taking it from his hand and set it down on the ledge. He watches you, silent.

You lean in, just enough so that only he can hear.

“If you want them to stop wondering,” you say, low, daring, “maybe we give them something to talk about.”

He stared at you like you were flipping the ground beneath his feet. He says your name like a whisper.

“It’s part of the job,” you say, and it should sound cold, transactional but it doesn’t. It sounds like a challenge. Like a plea.

He hesitates.

So you do it.

You step into his space, pressing one hand to his chest like a question, and you lean in slow, eyes on his, lips just barely brushing his.

You give him every chance to pull away.

He doesn’t.

And before you know it, you rose to your toes and kissed him. Your lips meet, a breath of a kiss, not frantic or desperate, but weighted. Real.

He tastes like scotch and restraint. You taste like something dangerous and soft.

You expected him to freeze.

To flinch, or frown, or pull away. To remind you that you were on his arm for show, for optics, not for this.

Instead…

He kisses you back.

His hands find your waist like muscle memory, slow and certain. Not possessive. Not performative. Just there. Solid. Warm. Anchoring you to the moment.

His mouth is soft but sure against yours, and for a second, maybe longer, you forget you're surrounded by too many eyes. The pressure of his lips lingers, enough to draw a soft catch of breath from you. Enough that no one in the room is left guessing.

They’ve all turned to watch.

Because this isn’t a polite, red-carpet kiss. This isn’t a staged photo op.

It’s something else entirely.

And when you finally pull back, his eyes are wide. Something fractured. Something lit. Dark. Steady. Searching for something you’re not sure you want him to find.

“What are you doing?” he says, voice rough as he learns close to your ear.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, your heart secretly pounding.

“What you pay me for,” you say in a serious tone, leaning into his ear in return. So close he could smell your perfume.

But your hands are shaking.

And Harry? Harry can’t look away.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then slowly back to your eyes. “Right.”

A beat passed. Another.

“I didn’t know you’d do that,” he said.

You shrugged lightly. “Neither did I.”

But you hadn’t kissed him to prove anything.

You’d kissed him because in that moment, watching someone try to tear him down, watching him freeze under the weight of something unsaid, you’d wanted to give him something real.

Even if it was just for a second.

He exhaled, looked away briefly, then back again. The tension in his jaw had faded. Slightly.

But something else had taken its place.

A new kind of silence. Charged. Complicated. Wanting.

You didn’t move.

*****

The ballroom glittered with warm light, all golds and creams and flashes of silver as champagne glasses caught the glow of the chandeliers. You stood at Harry’s side, close but not too close, the memory of last night’s kiss still warm at the edges of your thoughts. You hadn’t talked about it. Not directly. Not yet.

And now, here, in front of a hundred strangers and a black-tie stage, you felt it again. More eyes on you than usual. Some whispers, a few questions, about Lucy, about Harry’s last gala date, about you. You felt the pressure building in the air between you both.

So you kissed him. Just once. Just enough to stop the noise.

And now you sit besides him as the auction rolls on, the velvet-draped room humming with soft applause and the clink of glasses. You're half-listening to the auctioneer’s polished voice, but most of your attention is drawn to the man beside you.

Harry.

He sits with that same unreadable calm, tuxedo still immaculate even hours into the evening, legs crossed, one hand resting on the stem of his glass. But it's his other hand that keeps stealing your focus, where it lingers on the back of your chair, his thumb occasionally brushing your bare shoulder.

It’s nothing overt. Nothing anyone else would notice.

But you feel every graze like a whisper against your skin. Slow. Intentional. Grounding.

You sip your champagne just to distract your hands, your thoughts, the warmth that keeps blooming low in your belly. You’re used to attention. Used to touch. But not like this. Not so… patient. So unspoken.

“Cold?” he murmurs, voice low, leaning just slightly toward you.

You glance up at him, eyes meeting for a second too long. “No,” you say, lips barely moving. “You?”

He just gives a small smile. “Not anymore.”

You try not to show it, but your breath catches. He sees it. Of course he sees it.

The auctioneer tapped the microphonei, calling the room to attention. “Lot thirty-four,” he announced, “is something very special, generously donated by the Larkstone Foundation. A private weekend for two at the Larkstone House .... an architect-designed modernist villa in the Catskills. Glass-walled, secluded, complete with a chef-prepared tasting menu, a private library, and lake access. No cell service, just clean air, stars, and silence.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. You glanced at Harry.

“Sounds like your idea of hell,” you said under your breath.

He didn’t look at you. Just swirled the scotch in his glass.

“No cell service,” he murmured. “Sounds like heaven.”

Bidding started at five thousand. Someone at the front raised a numbered paddle. Six. Seven. The numbers rose steadily, casual for the kind of crowd this was.

You nudged him slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re interested.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry—”

He raised his hand.

The auctioneer pointed. “Twelve thousand. Thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

You felt your throat tighten. Not at the number but at the way he said it. The quiet, certain lift of his arm. Like it wasn’t a question. Like it wasn’t for show.

The bidding went higher ....thirteen, fifteen, seventeen.

He didn’t stop. Not until twenty-three thousand.

The auctioneer grinned. “Sold to Mr. Castillo.”

You said nothing as the applause swelled politely around the room. Only when the moment passed, and people turned back to their conversations, did you lean closer and murmur, “You planning to go alone?”

He turned, gaze sweeping down to your bare shoulder, where your dress slipped slightly as you leaned in.

“Not particularly.”

You straightened, arms folded, trying to keep your voice light. “It’s just an overpriced AirBnB in the woods.”

“No,” he said quietly, watching you. “It’s a place you can breathe.”

The next lot was announced, but you barely heard it.

You should have said something. Anything like 'That's extra". Should’ve reminded him that this wasn’t part of the arrangement. That kisses and countryside getaways and the way he looked at you , none of that was in the contract.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

*****

The car hums beneath you like a sleeping thing.

You’re staring out the window, eyes tracing the shapes of streetlights and silhouettes, trying to regulate your breathing, trying to feel normal again. Professional. Unmoved.

But your lips still tingle.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You kissed him because people were watching. Because they were whispering about Lucy. Because it was strategic.

That’s what you tell yourself.

But the truth is, your pulse had already started racing the second he looked at you with that edge in his eyes. Like you’d unraveled him.

You shift your legs, folding your hands in your lap.

This is work.

That’s all it is.

It’s part of the arrangement.... a necessary illusion. Something to keep the narrative believable.

Only it didn’t feel like illusion. Not when his mouth softened against yours, or when his hand hovered at the small of your back like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

You didn’t imagine how he lingered, or the way he whispered your name just before pulling back like it startled him.

Your chest tightens.

You can’t fall for this. For him.

He’s not yours. You’re a role, one he’s paying for. A mask he’s chosen to wear to distract the world from whatever cracks exist in his real life.

You repeat the line to yourself like a mantra.

“This is just for work.”

And yet, the kiss replays in your mind on a loop. Not the crowd. Not the whispers. Just him.

Just how he kissed you back.

****

He shouldn’t have done it.

He knows that.

It was dangerous....crossing that line. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be.

You kissed him to prove something, to distract, to help him save face. He knows your game. You're good at it. Smooth, sharp, devastating.

But what he didn’t expect was the way it felt.

Your hand on his cheek. The weight of your body angled just slightly into his. The way your lips parted like you wanted more, but wouldn’t take it unless he did too.

He hasn’t touched a woman like that in… too long.

And not one who made his mind go completely quiet.

Now, sitting beside you in the car, he watches you staring out the window like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just shift the foundation of whatever this thing between you is.

He doesn’t speak.

Part of him wants to reach over, touch your hand, not to start anything, but to ask silently if you felt it too.

But he doesn’t.

He knows you’ll retreat. Turn this into theatre again. You’ll remind him, subtly or not, that your not his girlfriend, not his anything. That the kiss was part of the illusion.

And yet.

“You could be so much more,” he’d told you only a few nights ago.

Now he’s wondering if he could too. If what started as control .... a contract, a distraction.... is slowly slipping into something neither of you can manage.

He catches you stealing a glance at him in the glass.

You look away fast.

Too fast.

And his pulse answers that look in a way that tells him: it wasn’t just him.

You felt it too.

Even if you will pretend you didn’t.

*****

The door clicks shut behind you, muting the city.

You’re standing in the entryway of the penthouse, the weight of the night still clinging to your skin. He tosses his keys in the tray by the door like always. Shrugs off his jacket. But there’s something different in the air. Something thick. Unspoken.

You slip off your heels, toe by toe, trying to breathe normally. The dress rustles as you move, silk skimming against your thighs. You walk further in, letting the skyline wrap around you, lights glittering from the tall glass walls. Your reflection hovers beside his in the windows, your bare shoulders, his loosened tie.

He doesn’t say a word. Just watches you.

“Twenty-three thousand dollars,” you say. “For a weekend in the woods.”

“It’s tax deductible.”

You walk in like you belong because you do now. Your things are in the guest room. Your perfume clings to the hallway. You know where the mugs are without asking. He closes the door behind you, but you don’t move further in.

“Harry,” you say, turning to face him. “You didn’t buy a weekend. You made a point.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t look away. “Maybe I did.”

Your arms fold slowly. “Why?”

“Because I wanted it.”

You laugh, dry and low. “What exactly is it you think you’re going to get? A fantasy? A version of me off the clock?”

“No.” His voice is calm. Steady. “I know exactly what you are, Zara.”

You flinch before you can help it, not from the words, but the way he says your name like it’s something he keeps in his mouth when he’s alone. He takes a slow step toward you.

“And I know I can’t buy what’s not for sale.”

“Then why act like you can?” Another step.

“Because you kissed me. And then told me it was part of the job.”

You go still. His words land like something pulled from your chest, something you’d rather not look at too closely.

“I meant it,” you lie, because it’s easier than telling the truth. “Kissing you was a distraction. The room was watching. They needed a story. I gave them one.”

He nods once. “Right.”

But you can feel it, the way his eyes linger on your mouth now, like the ghost of that kiss is still there. Your whole body tightens, senses sharpened by memory. His breath, his hands. The way he didn’t touch you again for the rest of that night.

You should turn in. Head to your room. Draw the line again. Instead, you ask, “What are you going to do with the weekend?”

“I haven’t decided.” You tilt your head.

“You bought it without knowing who you’d take?”

“I knew.” He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t have to. You swallow. Look away.

“This is a transaction, Harry.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t get confused.”

“I’m not.” But when you look back, his gaze is soft. And tired. And something else. Something you can’t carry for him or return.

You try to say something, anything clever, but the air between you is charged, humming, like one spark would ignite it all. You cross your arms, a reflex. The strap of the dress slips again. Not much. Just enough.

He’s in front of you before you can react.

Fingers at your shoulder. Just the edge of his knuckle against your skin, lifting the strap delicately back into place. His eyes don’t move from yours.

You don’t breathe.

“Always falling off,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“Maybe it wants to,” you whisper, and instantly regret saying it.

But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk.

Instead, he lingers. One hand still near your shoulder. The other now at his side, clenched.

“I should go to bed,” you say quietly. He nods.

“Goodnight, Zara." You turn. Walk down the hall.

Close the door gently behind you. But sleep doesn’t come easily. And neither of you knows what to do with a silence that sounds a lot like longing.

---------------------------------------------------------

Oh my gosh!? Your feedback has been amazing and set such a high expectation! I hope I can meet it! Playlist should be ready tomorrow 🥰

Taglist: @katssecretdiary

[moonlitlilith]

The Arrangement - A Harry Castillo Fanfic Masterlist

She’s the lie he hired. He’s the truth she wasn’t ready for.

After a bitter breakup with Lucy, 50-year-old private equity billionaire, Harry Castillo, isn’t looking for love - he just needs someone beautiful, discreet, and uncomplicated to be on his arm for a high-profile week of events in New York. What he gets is you, an escort, 28 years old, with sharp wit, hidden depth, and zero interest in becoming someone’s fantasy girlfriend off the clock.

But Harry makes you an offer you can’t refuse: a week of luxury, five-star hotels, couture fittings, private jets, and a generous paycheck… in exchange for playing the part of his girlfriend at a string of galas, charity balls, and business dinners.

You aren't some downtrodden dreamer. You are funny, clever, and fiercely independent. You're doing this job to stay in control of your own life - not waiting for a saviour. And Harry isn’t trying to fix anyone; in fact, he’s the one who might be broken, and he doesn’t even realise it.

Warnings: 🔞 NSFW themes (slow burn but oh it burns), smut, Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour, deception, and dangerous amounts of eye contact, Contractual arrangements that spiral into genuine affection, Rich people problems + broken people pretending they’re not, Soft power games, Sharp banter + late-night vulnerability, Trust issues + protective instincts

Pretty Woman inspired but make it jaded

Chapter One - The Client

Chapter Two - The Gala

Chapter Three - The Penthouse

Chapter Four - The Boutique

Chapter Five - The Dinner

[shinugodda]

los angeles, ca 2025

[joeldarling]

my mouth wants to learn the veins from his dick so bad lmfao 🤣

[iamasaddie-deactivated20251105]

JOEL MILLER: triptych [pt. 1/4]