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Lover boy... PART ONE .⋆♱

ℌ𝔲𝔰𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔡! 𝔍𝔬𝔢𝔩 𝔐𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯 𝔛 𝔚𝔦𝔣𝔢! ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

PART TWO.⋆♱

.⋆♱ summary: It is no secret that many men don’t particularly enjoy their wives having a group of friends to go out with, unwind with, laugh with, and come home late from. Joel Miller has never understood that. He likes watching you get ready. Likes the music drifting from the bathroom, the dresses laid across the bed, the way you turn in front of the mirror and ask him what he thinks as if he is not already half in love with every version of you. He likes knowing you have a night that belongs to you. Because when it is over, when you are warm with cocktails and laughter and ready to come home, you always call him. And Joel always answers. He shows up with your playlist already playing, cold juice waiting in the cupholder, and enough snacks to prove he knows you better than anyone. He thinks he has planned for everything. But he has not prepared for what you decide to do with the peach rings. .⋆♱ a/n: Since I can’t get husband!Joel out of my head, I had no choice but to write a second part to Mirror, mirror on the wall... Hope you enjoy it!!!🦋 .⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the end, Domestic Fluff, Tipsy Reader, Drunk Flirting, Light Dom/sub Elements, Switch Dynamics, Sub Joel Miller, Use of “Good Boy”, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Food Play, Candy, Light Cum Play, Aftercare, Gas Station Snacks As Foreplay. .⋆♱ wc: 11.615 k .⋆♱ Request for Joel and Tommy Miller are always open <3

Saturday night started with Fleetwood Mac drifting out of the bathroom and Joel pretending he had not been listening to the same soft, hypnotic rhythm of Dreams for the past twenty minutes.

He was on the bed with his back against the headboard, one leg stretched out and the other bent lazily at the knee, a book open in one hand that he had not actually read beyond the same two paragraphs since you’d disappeared into the bathroom with your makeup bag, your curling iron, half your perfume collection, and the kind of determined expression that usually meant the bedroom was about to become a staging area for decisions he did not fully understand but always enjoyed witnessing. The door stood half open, and light spilled through the gap in a warm stripe across the floorboards, carrying with it the faint hiss of running water and your voice rising every now and then over the music when a lyric caught you in just the right place.

Joel didn’t smile much when he was alone. It had never come naturally to him, not even in peace. But the corner of his mouth had been sitting in that almost smile for a while now, stubborn and helpless, because there were some things marriage had taught him no amount of age or bad habit could defend against. The sound of you singing too loudly in the bathroom was one of them. Not perfectly. Not even close, sometimes. You had a dangerous faith in high notes after two glasses of wine and a worse one when you were sober, but there was something about that song that made you softer instead of louder, your voice warm and careless as it slipped through the half open door. You sang like you were living inside the song instead of performing it, like the words belonged to you for as long as they passed through your mouth, and Joel had discovered early on that there was a kind of happiness in hearing someone you loved be unselfconscious in the next room.

That was the word for it, maybe. Unselfconscious. Safe enough to be noisy. Safe enough to take up space. Safe enough to scatter clothes across his side of the bed and shout, “Don’t look yet,” as though he had not seen every inch of you in states far less organized than this.

He looked at the open book again and absorbed none of it.

From the bathroom, you called, “Joel?”

“Hm?”

“Are you listening?”

He lifted his eyes toward the door. “To what?”

“To Stevie Nicks.”

“Been hard not to, darlin’.”

Your laugh came out bright and immediate. “Rude.”

“Didn’t say it was bad.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied you got enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm is a compliment.”

“In some contexts.”

“Joel.”

He turned the page only to keep up appearances. “Sorry, ma’am.”

There was a pause, and then something small hit the bathroom door from the inside. A makeup brush, maybe. Or a hair clip. He didn’t know. You owned enough tiny objects to arm yourself for a siege.

He shook his head and looked back down, still smiling despite himself.

He liked this part more than he had ever thought he would. That was the honest truth of it. Years ago, before you, Joel might have thought this kind of waiting would annoy him; the music, the clothes, the questions that did not have one correct answer no matter how many times you insisted they did, the slow transformation of the bedroom into a disaster of fabric, jewelry, perfume, and half zipped handbags. He might have mistaken all of it for fuss. For delay. For complication.

Now he understood it as anticipation.

There was something almost ceremonious about the way you prepared for a night out with your girls. It was not simply putting on clothes and leaving the house. It was the choosing. The trying. The little rituals of becoming the version of yourself the night required. You did your makeup with a concentration that made him go quiet, then ruined your own seriousness by turning a mascara tube into a microphone the second Bad Romance came on. You held earrings against your neck and turned your head in the mirror as if consulting some invisible jury. You sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it with your eyes closed. You changed your mind three times, sometimes four, and every version of you that stepped out for his judgment looked so good to him that he was, admittedly, useless as a critic.

Joel had learned not to say that too early.

If he said “that one” right away, you accused him of not looking closely enough. If he hesitated, you accused him of hating it. If he said he liked all of them, you told him that was sweet but unhelpful. Marriage, as far as he could tell, was a long and humbling education in answering questions for which the truth was not always the point.

The bathroom door opened a little wider.

“Okay,” you said from behind it. “First option.”

Joel closed the book around one finger and looked up.

You stepped out barefoot, still in the soft robe you wore while getting ready, but holding a dress against the front of your body by its hanger. It was black, short enough that Joel’s eyes gave it careful attention before he remembered he was supposed to be evaluating rather than reacting. You stood at the foot of the bed with your lips pressed together, trying to read his face before he’d said a word.

He knew better than to speak too fast.

“Well?” you asked.

Joel looked at the dress, then at you. “That the one you wore to Pat’s birthday dinner?”

“No. That one had sleeves.”

“Right.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Do you actually remember that?”

He gave you a look over the top of the book. “You wore it with those little gold earrings that look like knots.”

Your mouth parted just a little, pleased despite yourself. “Hoops, Joel. They’re hoops.”

“They got knots in ’em.”

“They’re twisted hoops.”

“That’s what I said.”

You laughed and looked down at the dress again, your thumb smoothing over the fabric. “So?”

He took a second, more because he wanted to watch the way you waited than because he needed one. “It’s pretty.”

“Pretty good or pretty pretty?”

“Pretty dangerous.”

Your face changed, and he felt the satisfaction of it low in his chest.

“Dangerous,” you repeated.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That sounds like a… husband answer.”

“Ain’t I your husband?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you get to be lazy.”

Joel’s brow lifted. “You ask me what I think, I say you look dangerous, and somehow I’m lazy.”

“You didn’t specify why.”

He set the book aside at last because pretending had become insulting to both of you. “Alright. It’s got that neckline you like, the one that makes you stand different.”

You blinked.

He continued, because now you had asked for it. “The skirt hits high enough that you’ll keep tugging at it when you sit, but not because you don’t like it. Because you know it looks good and you’ll want to act like you don’t know.”

Your expression softened into surprise.

“And,” he added, eyes moving back up to yours, “if you wear it with those black heels that make you mean, you’ll spend all night pretendin’ you’re not enjoyin’ everybody lookin’ at you.”

You stared at him.

Joel waited.

Then you said, quieter, “The black heels make me… mean?”

“They do.”

“How?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You walk differently in ’em.”

Your smile started small. “Different how?”

“Like you’re about to ruin somebody’s life.”

You laughed then, delighted and embarrassed all at once, and the sound went through him with a warmth so clean it almost hurt. You turned on your heel and disappeared back into the bathroom, calling over your shoulder, “That one goes in the maybe pile.”

Joel watched the empty doorway for a moment.

Then he reached for the book, opened it, and did not read.

The music changed then, the first low, gritty pull of Sex on Fire slipping through the bathroom door, and you made a pleased little sound from inside, the kind he could picture without seeing it: your head tipping back, your shoulders moving, your hand finding a brush or lipstick or bottle of something as though the song had made the decision for you. He heard drawers slide open, hangers scrape, the soft thump of clothing landing somewhere it probably shouldn’t. Every now and then your reflection crossed the thin vertical slice of the bathroom mirror visible from where he sat, and Joel caught fragments: your bare shoulder, the line of your neck, your hand lifting to your mouth, the flash of an earring.

Joel looked down at the book again and pretended not to hear the way you sang that one lower, less pretty and more amused, like you knew exactly what the song did to the air between the bedroom and the bathroom.

It was not that he needed to watch.

It was that he liked being allowed to.

There was a difference he did not think most men understood. Watching you get ready was not about possession, though there was some quiet, old fashioned part of him that took a dangerous kind of pride in knowing you would come back to him at the end of the night. It was about being the person who saw the before and after, the decisions no one else would know had taken place, the little anxieties that passed through you before you stepped out looking like nothing in the world could touch you. Your friends would see the final version. The bar would see the smile, the dress, the gloss, the confidence. Joel saw the bobby pins between your teeth and the mascara face and the way you frowned at one shoe because it had betrayed you once on a sidewalk crack two summers ago.

He loved the finished thing but he loved the making of it even more.

You appeared again with the second option, this time actually wearing it.

Joel’s spine straightened before he could help it.

It was not as obviously dangerous as the black dress. That was the trouble. This one did not announce itself. It was softer, the color warm against your skin, the fabric skimming rather than clinging, the straps delicate enough to make his hands feel suddenly aware of themselves. You came out smoothing your palms down the front of it, looking at him with uncertainty he immediately disliked.

“I don’t know,” you said.

Joel’s eyes lifted to your face. “Why not?”

You glanced down. “Maybe it’s too simple.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he said again, firmer.

Your gaze flickered to his. “You like this one?”

“I do.”

“You said the other one was dangerous.”

“This one is too.”

You let out a little disbelieving laugh. “Joel, you cannot call every outfit dangerous.”

“I can if they are.”

“That’s not helpful, baby.”

He sat forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and looked at you properly. “That one’s quieter.”

You went still.

He chose his words with more care, because he could see now that this mattered differently. “Not plain. Not simple. Quiet. Like… it doesn’t need to try so hard.”

Your face shifted with that, some of the doubt giving way to something more tender.

“It looks like you, that's why.” he said.

The room changed.

Just a little. Just enough.

You looked down again, but this time not because you were unsure. Because you were trying to hide the effect of him.

Joel’s voice softened. “You look beautiful, baby.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile. “You’re supposed to be helping me choose, not making it harder.”

“Didn’t say I was good at the job.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“I’m honest.”

“That might be worse.”

He huffed a laugh. “Probably.”

You walked to the full length mirror near the dresser and turned sideways, studying yourself. Joel watched you with a concentration that did not feel casual anymore. There were things he could have said and didn’t. That he liked the way the dress made your shoulders look delicate when he knew perfectly well you were not fragile. That the soft color made him think of summer evenings and your mouth after wine. That he liked how comfortable you seemed inside it, how much less you performed when you forgot he was watching and assessed yourself with those quiet, devoted eyes.

Instead he said, “Can you dance in it?”

You glanced back. “That’s your deciding factor?”

“If you’re goin’ out with the girls, yeah.”

That made you smile properly. “I can dance in it.”

“Can you sit in it without complainin’?”

“Yes.”

“Can you eat fries in it?”

You laughed. “What kind of question is that?”

“A practical one.”

“I can eat fries in anything.”

“Not true. Green dress from New Year’s.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That dress was tight.”

“I remember.”

You tried to glare at him, but your smile ruined it. “Maybe pile?”

“Maybe pile.”

You turned back toward the bathroom, then paused at the doorway. “You really like it?”

Joel’s expression settled, the humor easing into something steadier. “Yeah, darlin’. I really like it.”

You disappeared before he could say more, but he saw the way your shoulders lifted, lighter than before.

That was another thing he liked. Not the insecurity, never that, but the privilege of being trusted with it. You did not hand those little uncertainties to everyone. You did not ask just anyone, Is this too much? Is this enough? Do I look like myself? You asked him. Only him. And every time, something inside Joel answered before he did: I see you. I’ve got you. Come here, let me look.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and glanced toward the window, where the last of the evening light was thinning into blue. You had been excited about tonight all week. Girls’ night, you kept calling it, though there was always a touch of ceremony in the way you said it, like it meant more than drinks and dinner and too many shared appetizers. It meant being someone besides wife for a few hours, not because being his wife trapped you, but because Joel knew love was healthiest when it left the door open. He liked that you had women who made you laugh loud enough to lose your breath. He liked that you came home with stories, with lipstick half gone, with your feet aching, with that loose, tipsy warmth that made you affectionate and bossy and far too honest.

He especially liked the part where you came home to him.

That thought was enough to make him look back down at his hands and smile secretly to himself.

The bathroom door opened again.

“Okay,” you announced. “Final option.”

Joel looked up.

And forgot, briefly, that he was supposed to be civilized.

You had chosen a dark denim dress he had not seen before, something different and fitted with a neckline that was not indecent but still made him sit very still. You had added jewelry this time. Not all of it, not yet, but enough: small earrings catching the light, a bracelet at your wrist, a necklace resting just above your collarbone. Your makeup was half done, your hair still not quite finished, and somehow that made it worse. Not polished yet. Not complete. Still in the middle of becoming. Still his to see before the world got the final version.

“Well?” you asked, more quietly this time.

Joel’s gaze traveled down and back up with deliberate restraint. “That’s the one.”

Your brows rose. “You’re sure?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Didn’t need to.”

You looked down at yourself. “Why?”

Because I want to cancel your night and keep you here, he thought, and immediately decided not to say that because he was, contrary to some evidence beneath his pants, a decent man.

Out loud, he said, “You’re comfortable in it.”

You softened. “That’s your reason?”

“One of ’em.”

“What’s the other?”

He leaned back against the headboard again, eyes on you. “You keep lookin’ at yourself like you already chose it and you’re waitin’ for me to agree.”

Your lips parted, then closed. You glanced toward the mirror, caught, and laughed under your breath. “That is extremely annoying.”

“Being right?”

“Yes.”

You walked closer, stopping between his knees at the edge of the bed. Joel tipped his head back to keep looking at you, and for a moment the music from the bathroom seemed to move farther away, softened by the doorway and the warm air and the fact of you standing so close that he could smell the coconut lotion on your skin. You reached down and took the book from beside him, glanced at the cover, then at his face.

“Space for idiots,” you read aloud. “What page are you on, baby?”

Joel did not blink. “Page I’m on.”

“You haven’t moved in half an hour.”

“Book’s dense.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

He looked up at you, and the truth sat in his face before he bothered with words. “You were more interestin’.”

Your expression changed in a way he felt more than saw. Softer at first, then pleased, then something else underneath it, something playful sharpening around the edges.

“You like watching me get ready.”

He could have denied it. He had enough pride left to try, maybe. But you were smiling at him like you already knew, and Joel had reached an age where lying badly in front of a beautiful woman was more trouble than it was worth.

“Yeah,” he said.

Your smile widened. “Why?”

He slipped his hands to your hips, not pulling, just settling there because you were close enough and he wanted to. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You don’t answer enough of them.”

“That ain’t true.”

“It is.”

He studied you for a moment, thumb moving once against the fabric at your side. “I like seein’ you happy.”

The playfulness in your face dimmed into something tender.

Joel kept his voice low, almost plain, because that was the only way he knew how to say things that mattered. “Like watchin’ you choose things for yourself. Like watchin’ you get excited. Like knowin’ you’re goin’ out and gonna have a good time, and then you’re comin’ back here after.”

Your hand came to rest lightly against his shoulder. “To you.”

His eyes held yours. “To me.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then your phone buzzed somewhere in the bathroom, and the moment broke gently instead of shattering. You looked toward the sound, then back at him with reluctant duty.

“That’s probably them.”

“Then you better finish gettin’ ready.”

You sighed dramatically. “You’re kicking me out?”

Joel’s hands tightened slightly at your hips before he released you. “If I was kickin’ you out, you’d know it.”

You leaned down and kissed him, quick at first, then not quick at all when his hand came up to the back of your neck and kept you there a moment longer. You tasted faintly of cherry lip gloss and smelled like perfume he knew would linger on his shirt after you left. When you pulled away, his eyes stayed on your mouth.

“You’re going to mess up my gloss,” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh. “Consider me warned.”

You straightened, but before you could leave, he caught your wrist and turned it gently, his thumb brushing beneath the bracelet you had half fastened. “You want this one?”

You looked down. “Yes, please.”

He stood, taking the two ends carefully between his fingers. For a man who spent his days handling lumber, concrete, and power tools, Joel could be surprisingly patient with delicate things when they belonged to you. He bent his head, brows drawn in concentration, and fastened the clasp with more care than the tiny piece of jewelry probably deserved. You watched him do it in silence, your wrist resting in his hand, and he felt your gaze on the top of his head like warmth.

“There,” he murmured.

You turned your wrist, making the bracelet catch the light. “Thank you.”

He didn’t let go right away. His thumb slid once over your pulse. “Text me when you need me.”

“I will.”

“Not when you think you might need me. When you need me.”

Your smile was immediate, but you didn’t tease him for it. You knew the difference by now between control and care, between Joel trying to hold you back and Joel needing to know there was a line of safety between your night and his hands.

“I promise,” you said.

He nodded once. “And drink water.”

“There he is.”

“What?”

“My old man.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek. “My handsome old man.”

“That ain’t better.”

“It’s a little better.”

“It is not.”

You laughed as you slipped out of his hold and back toward the bathroom, leaving him standing by the bed with your perfume on his shirt and your bracelet’s warmth still ghosting across his fingers. He watched through the open door as you leaned close to the mirror again, reapplying gloss with precise little movements, then stepping back to check the whole effect.

The song changed once more, and the first dramatic beat of Bad Romance filled the bathroom. You gasped softly in recognition before turning it up, already reaching for your mascara tube like it had been waiting all night to become a microphone.

“Oh, I love this one.”

“I know,” Joel called.

You poked your head out, eyes bright. “Yeah?”

He sat back on the bed, reaching for the abandoned book out of habit rather than interest. “You play it every time you’re gettin’ ready.”

Your smile went strangely soft. “You really do pay attention.”

Joel looked at you over the book, the answer too obvious to dress up. “Told you I did.”

For once, you didn’t make a joke.

You just stood there for a second in the warm bathroom light, half finished and already beautiful, looking at him like you had found something precious in the middle of an ordinary evening. Then you disappeared again, singing along under your breath at first, until the French part came and you gave up on pretending to be subtle altogether. Joel heard the sudden lift in your voice, the ridiculous confidence of it, the way you leaned into every syllable as if the bathroom mirror were a stage and the mascara tube in your hand had been made for exactly this.

Joel lowered the book a fraction, watched the flash of your hand in the mirror, and decided there were worse things in life than being married to a woman who performed Lady Gaga to an audience of one.

And then he let his head fall back against the headboard as the house filled with music, perfume, and the living proof of you.

By the time Joel made it to the bar, he still had the ghost of your perfume on his shirt.

He noticed it when he stepped out of the truck and the evening air shifted around him, cool enough now that the heat of the house seemed to fall away in pieces. It was faint, almost gone beneath sawdust, soap, and the clean cotton of the shirt he had changed into before leaving, but it was there all the same. Something soft. Something yours. It followed him across the small parking lot like a hand at the back of his neck, and by the time he pushed open the bar door, Joel had already made the private mistake of wondering if you were singing already in the car with your friends, laughing too loud and checking your gloss in the passenger mirror.

The bar was warm, dim, and familiar, full of the kind of Saturday night noise that didn’t ask much of a man. A game played on the television above the counter with the volume low. Country music hummed somewhere under the voices. The place smelled of beer, fried food and old wood. Joel liked bars like this. Nothing polished. Nothing trying to impress anybody. Just a room where working men could sit down, drink something cold, and pretend their knees did not hurt when they stood back up.

Tommy was already at a table near the back with a couple of the crew and one electrician they used often enough that he had become less subcontractor and more permanent nuisance.

Tommy lifted his chin when he saw Joel. “There he is.”

Joel pulled out the chair beside him. “Y’all start without me?”

“Hell, I was born startin’ without you,” Tommy said, sliding a beer toward him. “You’re the one who likes showin’ up after everybody’s settled.”

Joel sat and reached for the bottle. “Had things to do.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

That was all Tommy said at first, which was how Joel knew his brother had decided to behave for at least three minutes. Maybe four, if God was feeling generous.

Eugene nodded at Joel over the basket of wings. “Miller.”

“Eugene.”

“You missed Tommy explainin’ why he could fix the Cowboys if Jerry Jones would just take his calls.”

Joel took a drink. “Ain’t sure the Cowboys deserve that.”

Tommy pointed at him. “See, that right there is why I don’t talk football with you. No vision.”

“I got vision. I can see you’d make it worse.”

The table laughed, Tommy included, though he gave Joel a look like he was storing the insult for later. It was easy at first. Easier than Joel had expected. The beer was cold, the chair was comfortable enough, and the men around the table were talking the way men talked when nobody’s wife was close enough to tell them they were all repeating the same argument they had every other week. Work bled into football, football into truck problems, truck problems into Eugene insisting he knew a mechanic who could “hear a bad alternator from across a damn county,” which nobody believed and everyone encouraged.

Joel listened. Mostly.

He answered when spoken to, laughed once when Tommy told a story about a homeowner who had tried to explain load bearing walls after watching three videos online, and corrected Caleb when he started blaming the wrong supplier for the late windows on the Henderson job. For a while, he was present enough to pass. Present enough that no one had reason to look too closely.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was nothing, just a notification from the weather app, but his hand was halfway there before he stopped himself.

But Tommy saw.

Joel knew he saw because Tommy did not say anything.

And that was worse.

His brother only took a slow drink from his beer, eyes forward, mouth doing that almost smile that had gotten him into trouble since they were boys. Joel ignored it. He was good at ignoring Tommy when he had to be. Had decades of practice. He folded his arms, leaned back, and focused on Eugene arguing with the electrician about whether the bar’s fries had changed.

“They’re thinner,” Eugene said, offended down to his soul.

“They ain’t thinner,” the electrician said. “You’re drunker.”

“I’ve had two beers.”

“Exactly.”

Eugene pointed at the basket. “A man knows when a fry’s been disrespected.”

Tommy shook his head. “Lord help whoever marries you.”

“Too late,” Eugene said. “My wife married me for my standards.”

Joel glanced at the television, then, without meaning to, toward the phone he had set face down near his elbow.

Still nothing.

He had told himself he would not sit at home waiting, and he hadn’t. Technically. He was at the bar. He had a beer in front of him and Tommy beside him and enough noise around him to count as social participation. But there was a part of him that had never left the bedroom, never left the sight of you standing between his knees in that dark denim dress, asking whether he liked watching you get ready as if the answer had not been sitting all over his face.

He wondered if the bracelet had stayed clasped.

He could picture you too clearly: your head bent toward one of your friends across a table, your drink held between both hands, the necklace catching low light at your throat. He could hear, in his mind, the way you laughed when something truly caught you off guard, not the pretty laugh you gave strangers but the full one, the one that made you lean into the nearest person and lose the thread of your own sentence.

Joel took another drink.

Tommy leaned sideways. “You hear a word I just said?”

Joel looked at him. “What?”

Tommy smiled slowly. Not too wide. Just enough to let Joel know the trial had begun.

“I said,” Tommy repeated, “that Ricky’s cousin backed his boat into his own garage door last summer.”

Joel stared at him.

The table went quiet for half a beat.

Then Caleb snorted into his beer.

Joel frowned. “What?”

Tommy’s smile widened. “Nothin’. Just checkin’.”

Joel set his bottle down. “You’re full of shit.”

“I am,” Tommy said easily. “But you still didn’t know.”

Eugene leaned forward, delighted. “Uh-oh.”

“No uh-oh,” Joel said.

“Oh, there is definitely an uh-oh,” Eugene said. “Man’s body is here, soul’s elsewhere.”

Joel gave him a flat look. “My soul’s mindin’ its business.”

Tommy rested an elbow on the table and turned more fully toward him. “Where’d you go, big brother?”

“Nowhere.”

“Mm. That why you’ve looked at your phone four times since sittin’ down?”

“I have not.”

“You have,” Caleb said, earning himself Joel’s stare and immediately lowering his eyes to his drink. “I mean… maybe three.”

Eugene shook his head gravely. “No, four. I respect accuracy.”

Joel sighed through his nose. “Y’all got nothin’ better to do?”

“We did,” Tommy said. “Then you started actin’ suspicious.”

“I’m not actin’ suspicious.”

“Joel,” Tommy said, voice dry as dust, “you just missed an entire made up story about a boat.”

“I was thinkin’.”

“About?”

Joel did not answer fast enough.

That was his second mistake.

Tommy’s expression changed in the exact way Joel hated: softer first, because he knew, then amused, because he was Tommy and mercy had never been his strongest quality.

“Ah,” Tommy said. “There she is.”

Joel picked up his beer. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say her name yet.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, now fully enjoying himself. “She’s out with the girls tonight.”

Eugene’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. That explains it.”

“Explains what?” Joel asked.

“The watchfulness,” Eugene said, like he was diagnosing a condition. “The haunted look. The sad little phone glances.”

Joel pointed at him with the neck of his beer. “Ain’t nothin’ sad about me.”

Tommy laughed. “Brother, you look like a dog tryin’ to pretend he ain’t heard the treat bag.”

The whole table broke.

Joel stared at his brother for a long second. “You been waitin’ all night to say that?”

“Came to me just now.”

“Should’ve let it pass.”

“Couldn’t. Gift from God.”

“You and God need better hobbies.”

Tommy’s grin turned sharp. “So how long before she texts?”

Joel looked back to the television. “Don’t know.”

“But you got a guess.”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.” Tommy tipped his beer toward the phone. “You’ve been watchin’ that thing like it owes you money.”

Joel jaw shifted. “She’s havin’ fun.”

“Didn’t say she wasn’t.”

“She don’t need me hoverin’.”

“Nope.”

Joel glanced at him, suspicious now. Tommy’s voice had changed just slightly. Less bite. More brother.

Tommy shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t hoverin’ if you’re waitin’ to be called.”

Joel looked down at the beer bottle in his hand, thumb worrying at the damp label. That was the trouble with Tommy. He could be an ass for twenty straight minutes and then say something too close to true with no warning at all.

“She looked happy when she left,” Joel said, before he could stop himself.

The table went quieter, not silent, but softened at the edges.

Tommy nodded. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Good.”

Joel kept his eyes on the bottle. “She gets excited about this stuff. The gettin’ ready. The music. Showin’ me half her closet like I know a damn thing.”

“You know more than you pretend,” Tommy said.

Joel glanced over.

Eugene leaned in. “Oh.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “Tommy.”

“What? I’m celebratin’ your growth.”

“You’re about to celebrate eatin’ through a straw.”

Caleb laughed too hard and tried to hide it behind his bottle.

Tommy only smiled, entirely unafraid. “See? That right there. That’s my brother’s love right there.”

Joel took a drink because it was either that or smile, and he wasn’t giving Tommy the satisfaction.

Eugene, unfortunately, had found blood in the water. “So she tried on outfits before?”

Joel looked at the ceiling.

Tommy answered for him. “Oh, absolutely.”

“You weren’t there,” Joel said.

“Didn’t have to be. You got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face of a man who’s been asked whether two dresses are different and knows his life depends on the answer.”

The table laughed again, and this time Joel let himself huff the smallest breath of amusement because, damn it, it wasn’t entirely wrong.

“They were different,” he muttered.

Tommy snapped his fingers. “Hear that? Expert witness.”

Eugene leaned forward, solemn. “How different?”

Joel looked at him. “One had sleeves.”

The laughter came louder this time.

“Hell,” Eugene said, wiping at his eye. “That’s marriage right there.”

Joel shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Y’all are idiots.”

Tommy’s grin softened. “Maybe. But you like watchin’ her get ready, don’t you?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

That was a question he could have dodged with something gruff. He could have told Tommy to mind his business, could have insulted Eugene’s wings, could have stood up and gone to the bar for another beer he didn’t need. But the night had been built around that exact truth, and maybe it was still sitting too close to the surface because your perfume was on his shirt and your bracelet’s clasp had warmed beneath his fingers before he left.

“Yeah,” Joel said finally. “I do.”

No one laughed.

Tommy watched him, expression quieter now.

Joel cleared his throat and kept his eyes somewhere past the table. “She gets all worked up about it. Not nervous exactly. Just… alive, I guess. Music playin’, clothes everywhere, talkin’ to herself in the mirror like she’s negotiatin’ with a hostile witness.”

Eugene smiled into his beer.

“She asks me things she already knows the answer to,” Joel went on. “Then gets mad when I don’t answer right. Changes her mind six times. Sings too loud. Throws somethin’ at the door if I get smart.”

Tommy’s mouth moved with fond amusement. “Sounds awful.”

Joel glanced at him. “It ain’t.”

“I know.”

Joel looked back down at the table. “I like that she’s got that. Her friends. Her night. Somethin’ that’s hers.”

“And you like that she comes back,” Tommy said.

Joel’s thumb stilled on the bottle.

There it was again. Tommy cutting through all the noise because he had known Joel too long not to.

“Yeah,” Joel said, voice lower. “I like that part too.”

The silence that followed was brief but real. Even Eugene managed not to ruin it immediately, which Joel supposed counted as growth.

Then Tommy, because he was still Tommy, lifted his bottle and said, “To Joel, then. Patron saint of marriage.”

Joel pointed at him. “Do not toast me.”

Too late. The table raised their bottles.

Eugene added, “May his phone buzz soon and his dignity survive.”

“It won’t,” Caleb said.

“My dignity’s fine,” Joel muttered.

Tommy clinked his bottle gently against Joel’s. “Sure it is.”

The conversation moved on after that, but the teasing stayed alive now, circling back whenever Joel lost focus. They talked about the Henderson job, about a supplier who kept sending warped lumber and pretending not to understand the problem, about whether Tommy’s truck was making a new noise or the same old noise with more confidence. Joel answered, argued, listened.

Mostly.

Then his phone buzzed.

Every head at the table turned at once.

Joel froze with his beer halfway to his mouth.

Tommy grinned. “Well?”

“Could be anybody.”

Eugene pointed at the phone. “A man says that when it ain’t anybody.”

Joel picked it up with as much dignity as he could manage while five grown men watched him like he was about to open a verdict.

Spam.

A damn package delivery scam.

Eugene groaned. “Cruel.”

Caleb slapped the table. “That shouldn’t count.”

“Count for what?” Joel asked.

Everyone got too quiet.

Joel looked from one face to the next. “Y’all bettin’?”

Tommy took a drink.

Joel stared at him. “Thomas.”

“Don’t Thomas me in public.”

“Are y’all bettin’ on when my wife texts me?”

Eugene lifted one hand. “Not officially.”

“That mean yes?”

“That means there’s no written record.”

Joel leaned back in his chair and stared at the lot of them. “Grown men.”

Tommy nodded. “Barely.”

“You’re all pathetic.”

“And yet,” Tommy said, “you’re the one who checked a spam text with hope in his eyes.”

Joel’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

The table erupted.

“Goddamn,” Eugene said, delighted. “Tommy got him.”

Joel turned the phone face down on the table. “I hate every one of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Tommy said. “You’re in love and inconvenienced. Different thing.”

For the next twenty minutes, he did better. Or tried to. He kept his eyes off the phone, though leaving it face down on the table made it somehow louder in his awareness. Tommy told a story about Maria talking him into buying overpriced candles because apparently “she loves a house that smells like a pie nobody had to bake,” and Joel laughed in spite of himself.

Then Joel’s phone lit up again.

This time, the screen showed your name.

Joel picked it up before anyone said a word.

you awake handsome? 💕

His face changed before he could stop it. He felt it happen, which made it worse.

Tommy did not miss it.

“That’s her.”

Joel turned slightly away. “Mind your business.”

“Look at him,” Eugene said, voice full of wonder. “Man just got ten years younger.”

Joel typed with one thumb.

Always.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

He waited, the bar fading around the edges.

your wife misses you

Something in his chest softened so sharply he had to look down to hide it.

Good thing your husband’s close.

Your response came almost immediately.

good because i might need him soon

Then another one:

not yet tho don’t rush me i’m having fun!!!

Joel laughed under his breath.

Tommy’s face softened before he covered it with a grin. “She good?”

Joel nodded. “She’s good.”

“Need you?”

“Soon.”

Eugene raised his beer. “Countdown resumes.”

Joel sent one more message.

Have fun. Text me when you’re ready. Drink some water.

Your reply came fast.

yes daddy

Then:

sorry

yes handsome

Joel shook his head, smiling down at the screen.

“Disgustin’,” Eugene said. “Absolutely no shame.”

Joel set the phone down, but this time he left it face up. “Eugene.”

“What?”

“Eat your fuckin’ wings.”

“I am busy witnessin’ romance.”

“You’re witnessin’ me losin’ patience.”

Tommy laughed. “Nah. If you were losin’ patience, he’d know.”

Eugene looked at Tommy. “Would I?”

Tommy nodded. “You’d be bleedin’.”

“Fair.”

The next stretch passed easier. Hearing from you settled something in Joel he had not wanted to admit needed settling. You were happy. You missed him. You would call when you were ready. It gave his attention a place to rest, and for a little while he managed to stay with the men around the table, even if Tommy occasionally glanced at the phone and smirked like a man enjoying a long, slow sunrise.

When the message finally came, Joel saw it the moment the screen lit.

you can come get me now handsome

A second later:

pls 💕

He was already standing.

The table erupted before his chair finished scraping back.

Tommy pointed at him. “There he goes.”

Joel grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Shut up, Tommy.”

“You didn’t even finish your beer.”

“Bill me.”

Eugene slapped the table. “He actually said the thing.”

Caleb laughed. “Man didn’t even pretend to think about it.”

Joel slid his phone into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Y’all done?”

Tommy leaned back, grinning, but there was affection beneath it now, clean and unmistakable. “Go get your girl.”

Joel looked at him.

For once, he didn’t have a smart answer ready.

Because that was exactly what he was doing.

Not rescuing. Not retrieving. Not obeying, though he knew plenty of men would call it that and think themselves clever. He was going to get his wife because she had asked for him. Because the night had brought you to that loose, shining place where you wanted his hand on your back and his truck waiting at the curb. Because he had promised that wherever you went, he would be there when you wanted to come home.

So he nodded once.

“Tell Maria I said hi,” Joel said.

Tommy lifted his beer. “Tell your wife she owes me ten bucks.”

Joel paused. “For what?”

“For bein’ exactly as predictable as I said you were.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed. “You bet on me leavin’ before eleven thirty?”

“I bet on you leavin’ the second she said please.”

Eugene raised a finger. “Which he did.”

Joel shook his head and started toward the door. “Y’all can go to hell.”

“Drive safe, lover boy,” Eugene called.

Joel didn’t turn around.

He lifted one hand, middle finger raised with calm precision, and the laughter followed him all the way out into the night.

Outside, the air had cooled further, and the street shone faintly beneath the parking lot lights. Joel climbed into the truck, shut the door, and let the quiet close around him. For a second, he sat there with both hands on the wheel, smiling despite himself like a fool in the dark.

Then he started the engine.

He did not drive straight to you.

Not yet.

Because he knew you. Because he knew the shape of the next hour before it happened. Because girls’ night always left you thirsty in a very specific way, craving something cold and sweet that was never soda.

Joel turned toward the gas station two blocks over, already making a mental list.

Fruit juice. Cold.

Something salty.

Something sweet that was not chocolate.

Water too, even if you rolled your eyes at him.

He pulled into the empty pump lane, parked, and went inside with his keys in one hand and purpose in every step. The fluorescent lights were too bright after the bar, the aisles too narrow, the cashier too bored to care about the man who walked in looking like he was preparing for a very small, very specific emergency.

Joel headed straight for the refrigerated section.

You liked orange juice sometimes, apple if you were tired, but after a night out you always wanted something sharper. He chose a cold mango juice, then grabbed a bottle of water because he knew better than to trust your relationship with hydration. In the snack aisle, he paused longer. Barbecue chips were safe. Vinegar chips were riskier but had a better chance if you were in the mood for something strong, which after drinks and dancing you usually were so he grabbed both.

Then he stood in front of the candy.

Chocolate was out. He remembered that too clearly. The way you had curled into yourself in the passenger seat last time, one hand on your stomach, looking wounded by your own choices. You had insisted you were fine. Then accused the chocolate of betrayal. Then fallen asleep against the window with your hand still tucked in his.

Joel scanned the shelves.

Gummies. Sour belts. Licorice. Hard candy. Things bright enough to look poisonous.

Then he saw them.

Peach rings.

He reached for the bag without thinking too hard about it. They looked like something you’d laugh at, which was reason enough.

At the counter, the cashier looked at the collection of items and then at Joel.

Joel met his eyes.

The cashier wisely said nothing.

Joel paid, gathered the bag, and headed back to the truck. Once inside, he set the juice in the cup holder, tucked the snacks on the passenger seat, and took out his phone to text you.

On my way.

Your reply came a few seconds later.

YAY

Then:

put my songs on please

Joel shook his head.

Already did, he typed, even though he had not yet.

Then he opened your playlist, the one you used when you were getting ready, when you were cleaning, when you were happy enough to sing without shame. The first song spilled through the speakers as he pulled back onto the street, and for a second he heard you in the bathroom again, voice too loud, bracelet catching the light, turning in front of the mirror while asking him which version of yourself the night wanted.

He had never understood men who complained about waiting.

Not when this was what waited at the end.

The first thing Joel saw was your smile.

Not the dress, not the heels, not the little purse hanging from your shoulder or the way your friends clustered around you beneath the yellow glow of the bar sign. The smile reached him before the rest of you did, bright and loose and impossibly open, the kind of smile you wore only when the night had been good to you. It hit him through the windshield with such force that he eased his foot off the brake a little too slowly and had to remind himself he was still in the middle of the street with another car waiting behind him.

He pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking softly, and there you were.

You turned at the sound of his truck like your whole body knew it before your eyes confirmed it. One of your friends said something, probably teasing you, because you laughed and swatted at her arm without looking away from him. Joel saw the moment you decided not to play it cool. You never played it cool very well after a girls’ night, and he had long ago stopped pretending he didn’t love that. You came toward the truck with a little too much enthusiasm and not quite enough caution, heels clicking unevenly on the pavement, one hand raised in greeting as though he were much farther away than ten feet.

Joel put the truck in park and got out before you reached the passenger door.

“Hi,” you said, breathless and delighted, like you hadn’t been the one to summon him.

Joel shut the door behind him and let himself look at you properly.

You were still in the dark denim dress he had chosen without needing to think about it, but the night had softened you around the edges. Your gloss was worn down at the center from drinks and laughter. Your hair had loosened a little at your temples. The bracelet he’d fastened earlier still circled your wrist, catching light when you lifted your hand toward him. Your eyes were bright, not dangerously drunk, not gone from yourself, just warm with the kind of tipsiness that made you affectionate and honest and entirely without patience for distance.

“Hi, darlin’,” he said.

You stepped into him without hesitation.

Joel caught you with one arm around your waist, steadying you before you could pretend you didn’t need it. Your hands landed on his chest, fingers curling into his jacket, and you tipped your face up with such immediate expectation that he bent and kissed you because there was no other reasonable thing to do. It was meant to be quick. A greeting. A soft thing. But you made a small pleased sound against his mouth, and Joel had to pull back before the curb, your friends, and the driver behind him all became problems he was expected to care about.

“You came,” you murmured.

His thumb brushed once against your side. “You asked.”

“That’s sooo romantic.”

“That’s transportation.”

“It can be both.”

He huffed a laugh despite himself. “You have a good night?”

“The best.” You turned halfway toward your friends, still holding onto his jacket like you intended to keep him anchored there. “Tell him I had the best night.”

Pat lifted her hand with the solemnity of a witness in court. “She had the best night.”

Nat added, “She also stole half my fries.”

“I shared my dip,” you protested.

“You licked the spoon.”

“It was my spoon.”

Joel looked down at you. “Was it?”

You blinked up at him, considering. “Not really.”

That made your friends laugh, and Joel felt his mouth move before he could stop it. He liked seeing you like this with them: silly, adored, unguarded. There was something generous in the way women gave each other permission to be loud. The whole group seemed warm from it, eyes bright, coats half buttoned, conversations still overlapping even as they said goodbye.

“You got her?” Pat asked Joel, smiling.

Joel tightened his arm around your waist. “I got her.”

“You always say that like I’m luggage,” you complained.

He looked down at you, deadpan. “Luggage usually walks straighter.”

Your mouth fell open at his words then you turned to your friends with great dignity. “My husband is bullying me.”

“Your husband got here in under ten minutes,” Nat said. “I’d let him.”

Joel pointed toward the truck. “C’mon, baby. Before your friends start makin’ too much sense.”

You accepted a final round of hugs, promises to text when everyone got home, and one whispered comment that made your eyes widen and your cheeks warm. Joel pretended not to hear it, partly because he hadn’t caught the words, mostly because he understood from your face that it was not intended for him and would likely have made him grip the steering wheel too hard.

He opened the passenger door for you.

You stopped and looked at the seat.

Then at him.

Then back at the seat.

The gas station bag sat there, carefully placed beside the cold juice in the cup holder.

Your face changed completely.

“You got me snacks.”

Joel reached past you, picked up the bag, and held it until you climbed in. “Move your feet in.”

“You got me snacks,” you repeated, softer this time, like this was not a practical arrangement but a marriage vow renewed beneath fluorescent streetlight.

“Seatbelt.”

“I know.”

“Do it.”

“I am doing it.”

“You’re lookin’ at the chips.”

“Because you got me chips.”

“I also got you water.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That was less romantic.”

“That was necessary.”

You finally clicked the seatbelt into place, then looked up at him with such open affection that his chest did something inconvenient. “Thank you, handsome.”

Joel paused with one hand on the door.

There were versions of that word he could handle. Teasing. Casual. But this one came warm and tipsy and sincere, wrapped around the sound of his name without using it, and for a second he had to look away toward the street just to keep his face in order.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher. “You’re welcome.”

He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed in.

You were already digging through the bag.

Joel put the truck in drive. “At least wait till we’re movin’.”

“I’m assessing.”

“You’re rummagin’.”

“I’m a woman with needs.”

“I’m aware.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Joel Miller.”

He did not look at you, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He pulled away from the curb while your friends waved from the sidewalk. You waved back so enthusiastically that your bracelet slid down your wrist, and then you immediately returned to the bag with the focused determination of a treasure hunter.

“Oh my God,” you said.

Joel glanced over briefly. “What?”

“You got barbecue chips.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And vinegar.”

“Wasn’t sure which version of you I was pickin’ up.”

You clutched the bag to your chest. “You know me so well.”

“I try.”

“No, you do.” Your voice turned soft enough that he looked at you again. “You really do.”

The light ahead turned red, and Joel stopped. The truck idled quietly beneath you both, music playing low through the speakers; your playlist, the one you had asked for, the one he had put on before he left the gas station. You noticed it then, properly, your eyes going wide as the opening notes of a familiar song rose in the cab.

“You put my music on.”

“Asked me to.”

You stared at him for a second, and he could feel the look even without meeting it.

Then you leaned across the center console as far as your seatbelt allowed and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you.”

His hand tightened briefly around the wheel.

“Love you too,” he said.

The light turned green.

You settled back only because the belt gave you no other choice, unscrewed the cap on the juice, and took a long drink. Joel watched from the corner of his eye as your shoulders relaxed in immediate satisfaction.

“That’s the good one,” you said.

“Mango.”

“Mmm.”

“You always want somethin’ cold after.”

“I know.”

“You say that like you’re the one who bought it.”

“I manifested it.”

Joel let out a low laugh. “That what we’re callin’ it?”

“Yes.” You took another drink, then pointed the bottle at him. “I thought about it, and then my husband appeared with juice. That's Magic”

“That’s not manifestation. That’s me stoppin’ at a gas station.”

“My husband is my manifestation.”

Joel gave you a quick, dry look. “You been drinkin’.”

“Yes,” you said happily. “That’s why I’m so insightful.”

He shook his head, but there was no hiding the smile now.

The city moved past in streaks of late night light, shop windows dimmed, traffic thin, sidewalks carrying the last loose clusters of people spilling from restaurants and bars. Inside the truck, the world felt smaller. Warmer. Your playlist filled the spaces between you, one song sliding into the next while you alternated between sipping juice, opening the barbecue chips, and telling Joel a story about your friend’s coworker that began with “you remember the one with the weird boyfriend?” and offered him absolutely no names he could use to place anyone.

“Which weird boyfriend?” he asked.

“The weird boyfriend.”

“That narrows it down.”

“You know. The one who brought his own fork to the wedding.”

Joel frowned. “What wedding?”

“You remember.”

“I do not.”

“You do. I told you.”

“Darlin’, you tell me a lotta things.”

You gasped and pressed a hand to your chest. “You don’t listen to me.”

“I listen plenty. I just need characters introduced before chapter five.”

You laughed, nearly dropping a chip, and Joel reached out without looking to steady the bag before it could spill into your lap.

“There,” you said, pointing at him. “That. That’s why I married you.”

“Because I saved the chips?”

“Because you support women.”

“That too.”

You leaned back against the seat, pleased. “Anyway, the weird boyfriend was there tonight.”

“At girls’ night?”

“No, at the place.”

“Existing?”

“Suspiciously.”

Joel nodded with all the gravity the story apparently required. “Can’t have that.”

“And he saw her, and he acted like he didn’t see her, which is so much worse than seeing her.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t say sure like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re lost.”

“I am lost.”

You laughed again, brighter this time, and the sound filled the cab so completely that Joel missed half the next turn in his own head and had to refocus before he drove past it. He liked your stories even when he couldn’t follow them. Maybe especially then. The point was not always content. Sometimes the point was the way you came alive telling him, hands moving, eyes bright, outrage and delight trading places across your face. Sometimes love was listening to a plot with no structure because the person telling it was the only part that mattered.

Then the song changed and you froze.

Joel saw it happen in real time: the first dark, pulsing notes, your instant recognition, the gasp you gave like the universe had personally handed you a gift.

“Oh my God, Joel.”

He braced himself. “What.”

“This one.”

“I know.”

“No, no, this is my favorite.”

“You got about forty favorites.”

“Not like this one.” You reached for the volume before he could stop you. “This one is sacred.”

Then Enjoy the Silence filled the truck, low and hypnotic, turning the cab into something smaller and darker and warmer than before. You started singing almost immediately, not loudly at first, but with that pleased, dreamy confidence you got when a song caught you exactly right. One hand wrapped around the juice bottle like a microphone, your shoulders moving with the beat, your face lit by passing streetlights and pure, ridiculous joy.

When the line you loved came around, you pointed at him with the bottle and sang only the first few words before letting the rest dissolve into a dramatic hum, because even tipsy, even glowing, you knew Joel would pretend not to like it if you gave him too much of the performance at once.

“Sing,” you ordered.

Joel’s eyes stayed on the road. “Absolutely not.”

“Joel.”

“Song’s called Enjoy the Silence, baby. I’m just respectin’ the title.”

You burst out laughing. “That is such a dad answer.”

“That is a correct answer.”

“You know the words.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Then sing.”

“Ain’t happenin’.”

“For me?”

His jaw tightened just slightly.

“That ain’t fair.”

You kept singing anyway, leaning into the rhythm as if the truck were a stage built for an audience of one. Joel lasted longer than you expected. Almost impressively long. Then, right when you glanced at him with that wide, shameless smile he had no defense against, a few low words slipped out under his breath, more spoken than sung.

You stopped instantly.

He regretted everything.

“You sang.”

“I did not.”

“You sang part of the chorus with me.”

“I breathed near the melody.”

“That’s singing.”

“That’s just me, survivin’ you.”

You twisted toward him, delighted. “You like this song.”

“I like quiet.”

“The song is literally about that.”

“Then let’s honor it.”

“No. Now you have to sing more.”

He looked at you once, quick and helplessly fond. “You gonna finish the song or not?”

Your smile turned enormous, and then you did finish it, but this time softer, looking at him more than the road, like the fact that he had given you even that reluctant little piece of the song had meant something far bigger than it should have.

It probably did.

By the time the song ended, you were flushed from laughter and effort, your hair falling a little more out of place, your gloss almost gone. You took another drink of juice, then reached across the console and rested your hand on his thigh.

Joel glanced down.

Then at the road.

Then back down, briefly.

Your hand was warm and careless, fingers spreading over denim with no real agenda at first. Just contact. Just I’m here, you’re here, I missed you, isn’t that enough? But you had a way, especially like this, of turning tenderness into trouble without changing much at all. Your thumb moved once. Slowly.

Joel inhaled through his nose. “Baby.”

“What?”

“That hand got a plan?”

You looked out the windshield with exaggerated innocence. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m just… appreciating you.”

“Appreciate higher up.”

Your gaze dropped to your hand. “This is your thigh.”

“I know where it is.”

“So it’s fine.”

“It’s gettin’ less fine.”

You laughed softly and leaned closer, the seatbelt catching you again. “You’re very handsome when you’re trying to be responsible.”

“I am responsible.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Your fingers squeezed gently. “Veeery.”

Joel’s jaw ticked once, though the rest of his face stayed calm. “You’re gonna sit back and eat your chips.”

You made a small sound, thoughtful and dangerous. “Yes, sir.”

He glanced at you then, and the look on your face was enough to make him regret the entire conversation.

“No,” he said.

You blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your smile came slowly. “Joel.”

“Not in the truck.”

“I’m not doing anything yet.”

“No, but you’re thinkin’ about doin’ somethin’.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

You leaned closer, as close as the belt allowed, and lowered your voice near his shoulder. “What if I just missed you?”

Joel’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel. “Then you can miss me from your seat.”

“That’s mean.”

“That’s drivin’.”

You giggled, soft and delighted, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder again. Then another, higher, near the seam of his jacket. Joel kept his eyes on the road with the grim concentration of a man navigating far more than traffic.

“Darlin’.”

“What?”

“You are gonna make me pull over.”

“You say that like it’s bad.”

“It is if we wanna get home.”

You hummed near his ear, and the sound slid straight down his spine. “Do we?”

Joel exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“I am tryin’ to keep us alive.”

That made you laugh properly, and the warmth of it broke some of the tension before it could sharpen too far. You sat back at last, mercifully, and shoved a chip into your mouth with the offended dignity of a woman denied mischief.

“Fine.”

Joel glanced at you. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You’re crunchin’ aggressively.”

“These chips deserve passion.”

“They’re normal chips, baby.”

“They’re barbecue chips you bought me because you’re in love with me.”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t.

For a few minutes, the ride softened again. You ate chips, drank juice, and narrated fragments of the night in a rhythm that made more emotional sense than literal sense. He learned that someone named Beth had cried in the bathroom but “in a healing way,” that your friend Pat had declared war on a man named Oscar, that the cocktails were “too expensive but aesthetically correct,” and that at some point all of you had danced to a song of Bad Bunny that Joel definitely would have hated and you definitely expected him to hear later.

“You’ll like it,” you insisted.

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know.”

“I know myself.”

“You like my music.”

“I like you.”

“That’s basically the same thing.”

Joel smiled despite himself. “Dangerous logic, darlin’.”

“Well, I’m very smart tonight.”

“You’re very somethin’.”

You looked at him, delighted. “Say pretty.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Pretty.”

Your face softened at once, the teasing dropping away so quickly it almost hurt to watch. “You think so?”

Joel’s chest tightened.

He hated that there were still moments when you asked it like a real question. Not as play. Not fishing. Just some small old doubt slipping through the alcohol warmed looseness of you. He reached across without thinking, took your hand from the chip bag, and brought it to his mouth. His kiss landed against your knuckles, slow and certain.

“I know so,” he said.

You went quiet.

The truck moved through the dark with the music low now, the sweetness of juice and salt of chips in the air, your hand still caught in his. Joel kept driving one handed longer than he needed to.

After a while, you said, “I like when you pick me up.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Why’s that?”

You looked out the windshield, thinking about it with an earnestness that told him the answer mattered to you even if the words came slowly. “Because everyone else is still loud, and then I get in here and it’s quiet. But not boringly quiet.” Your fingers shifted around his. “You quiet.”

Joel swallowed.

You continued, softer, “Feels like getting tucked into bed.”

He stared at the road because looking at you just then would have been too much.

“Baby,” he said, and the word came out rough.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“No, what?”

He shook his head once. “Just love you.”

You smiled down at your joined hands, almost shy now. “I know. I love you too”

He squeezed your fingers.

Then you ruined the tenderness, because of course you did, by lifting his hand and kissing the back of it before saying, with solemn tipsy sincerity, “And you have very hot hands.”

Joel barked a laugh.

“What?”

“Hot hands?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you’re goin’ with?”

“They’re big and competent.”

“Competent.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

You turned his hand palm up and examined it like evidence. “They can build houses.”

“Sometimes.”

“They can fix things.”

“On occasion.”

“They can open jars.”

“High praise.”

“And they can finger—”

“Finish that sentence carefully.”

You grinned, wicked and sweet at once, and Joel felt his pulse kick even before you said anything.

But you didn’t finish.

You only kissed his palm and placed his hand back on the wheel with exaggerated politeness.

“There,” you said. “Safe.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed.

Home came into view a few minutes later, porch light glowing where he had left it on, the driveway empty. Joel pulled in, put the truck in park, and shut off the engine. For a moment neither of you moved. The sudden quiet after the music felt intimate, almost too close. You looked at the house, then at him, then down at the snack bag in your lap as though remembering you had been entrusted with treasure.

“We’re home,” you said.

“We are.”

You turned toward him with bright, affectionate seriousness. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

Joel’s expression softened. “Always.”

“No, I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

You leaned across the console, slower now, and kissed him. This one was different from the curb. More warmth. More wanting tucked beneath the gratitude. Joel let you set the pace for a few seconds, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where the last of your gloss had faded. You sighed into him, sweet and tired and still electric with the night.

Then your hand found the front of his jacket and tugged.

Joel broke the kiss with effort. “House first.”

You made a disappointed sound. “Joel.”

“House. Water. Shoes off.”

“You have so many rules.”

“Somebody’s gotta.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then why are you using the voice?”

“What voice?”

“The grumpy husband voice.”

Joel tilted his head. “That the voice that got you home in one piece, baby.”

You considered this. “Maybe.”

“Then listen to it.”

You stared at him for a beat, then smiled in a way that made him instantly suspicious.

“Okay,” you said sweetly.

Joel narrowed his eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I’m being good.”

“Now I’m worried.”

You opened the passenger door before he could come around, which made him swear under his breath and get out faster. By the time he reached you, you had one foot on the pavement and one still in the truck, clutching the snack bag like a prize.

“I can walk,” you announced.

Joel looked down at your heels, then at the driveway. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

You stood.

Then your ankle wobbled once.

Joel caught you immediately with a hand at your waist.

You looked up at him. “The ground moved.”

“Sure it did.”

“It did.”

“Mean old driveway.”

“Exactly.”

He took the bag from your hand despite your protest, tucked it under one arm, and bent slightly. “C’mere.”

Your eyes lit. “Are you carrying me?”

“Looks like it.”

“I told you I can walk.”

“You also accused concrete of movin’.”

“It was!”

Joel shook his head, but he was smiling when he lifted you, one arm under your thighs and the other secure around your back. You went easily, immediately looping your arms around his neck, your face tucking into the warm place beneath his jaw as he kicked the truck door shut with his boot.

“You like carrying me,” you murmured.

“Don’t start.”

“You do.”

“You’re light.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re gettin’.”

You kissed his neck.

Joel stopped walking for half a second.

Then he kept going toward the porch with a slower breath and a firmer grip.

“Darlin’,” he warned.

You smiled against his skin. “What?”

“We are very close to makin’ it inside without incident.”

“That sounds boooring.”

“That sounds successful.”

You hummed, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I missed you.”

His face changed in the dark where you couldn’t see it.

“I missed you too,” he said.

And then, because you were you and the night had clearly not finished testing him, you lifted your head and whispered against his ear, “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Joel closed his eyes for one brief second on the porch step.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, victorious and warm in his arms, while he carried you inside with the snacks, the juice, and the certain knowledge that the hard part of his night had only just begun.

Apparently, Tumblr won’t let me post everything in one single post? So here’s the second part!

⋆♱ Beautiful dividers from @saradika-graphics and @thecutestgrotto

.⋆♱ Taglist: @mcthsman, @vanishintoyoubby, @pattwtf, @mrsnanamiller, @madisonauroraxx, @okiegal68