Warnings: Confessions & angst, car crashes, mentions of death, amnesia, drugs & drinking, gun violence, kidnappings, canon style violence, gun violence, oral sex (male and female receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, slightly cum play
Comments: You were a childhood friend of Javi Gutierrez, falling in love with him. When you tell him how you feel, you are crushed to learn that he doesn’t feel the same way. Rushing away from him and having an accident that makes you completely forget him, until you tag along to a billionaire’s birthday party where there are supposed to be famous actors in attendance.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
A/N: This loosely follows the movie The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent but we realized we are horrible at remembering, having only seen it once.
** The Nic Cage portrayed in this story is the character from TUWOMT and not the real life actor Nicolas Cage. The character is one that the actor in question played himself. Therefore, this is NOT RPF
Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
You are the best friend that he could have ever asked for. Possibly at times his only friend. Allowed on the compound whenever you wanted, you would come to play with him, watch movies with him and for a while, Javi would feel normal. It didn’t matter that he was older than you. You didn’t have any expectations of him, there weren’t any of the stern lectures about how he was supposed to act a certain way or be less emotional. It was okay that he liked movies that made him cry when he was with you. Splashing around in the pool while the two of you recreated the scene from Jaws or running through the olive trees screeching and screaming lines from Star Wars, pretending you were on Endor and racing speeder bikes through the forest. Laying in the movie room and making yourselves sick on popcorn and soda while you watch your favorite movies on repeat and argue over which one was the greatest of all. Laughing innocently while Javi got to pretend that his world wasn’t scary. You are probably the person that he cared for on this planet most of all. His person.
At twenty two years of age, it’s clear to you now that you love Javier. Perhaps you’ve always loved Javi. Since meeting him as a child after your family moved to Mallorca, he has always been there for you. He’s older than you but you’ve never thought of him as an older brother. You have always thought of him as your best friend and as soon as you turned eighteen, you realized you’re in love with him. The night of your birthday, he had invited you over to the compound and given you a beautiful necklace. Engraved with your birthdate and a beautiful diamond in the middle, it took your breath away. At that moment, you wanted to kiss him but you refrained, not wanting to ruin your friendship. Now though, it’s eating you alive. You need to tell him how you feel. So on this beautiful spring day, you drive through the compound until you arrive outside the villa. “Hola.” You greet the guard standing near the stairs making your way up to the front door.
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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader
｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k
｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.
｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!
dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!
dr. richards asks a favor of you…
The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuitry, like the very air itself has been charged.
You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.
You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.
It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.
That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.
You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss.
You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.
It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.
It’s not plausible.
You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.
“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”
You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.
He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.
“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”
“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”
Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.
You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.
He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.
“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."
You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.
Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”
You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”
He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.
“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”
Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.
You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”
“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”
You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"
“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”
Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.
He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”
You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.
Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”
“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”
Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.
You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.
“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”
You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”
Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”
It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.
Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”
“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”
He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.
You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.
“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”
“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”
Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.
Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.
Would you let him touch you?
You should say no.
You really should.
This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.
Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”
The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.
"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."
You have no choice but to obey.
The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.
White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.
It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.
You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.
You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.
The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.
The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.
Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."
You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.
"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.
He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.
Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.
"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."
"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.
"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."
He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.
You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.
"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.
It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.
"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."
You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.
"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."
Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.
"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."
You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.
"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.
The command makes your stomach twist.
You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.
"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.
You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.
"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."
You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."
Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"
You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."
"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"
You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.
You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."
"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."
Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.
He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."
Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"
He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."
He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.
He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.
You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.
White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.
Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"
"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."
Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.
“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”
You don't hear the rest.
The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.
Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up from the inside like you took an injection of kerosene.
"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."
"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."
He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.
"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."
Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.
You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.
Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.
The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, calloused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.
“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.
You suck in a sharp breath.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”
You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breathing is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.
Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”
Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.
“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”
You glance down.
There's a very pronounced tent straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.
You moan at the sight, your hands twitching with the need to touch.
"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.
You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.
Reed kisses you.
Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.
It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.
He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides past your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.
When he pulls back, you chase him.
"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."
"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"
Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass nowhere to be seen as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up your body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.
You cry out into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.
He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.
You keen.
“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”
You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.
Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”
Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.
He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”
“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”
A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.
“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”
"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."
Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.
You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.
Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.
“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”
Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.
You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”
You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.
Reed sinks to his knees.
It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.
He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.
It makes you shiver.
“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the same. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”
His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.
“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”
He curls his finger experimentally.
You choke on a gasp.
He adds another.
The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.
“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”
Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”
You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—
“Oh my god—”
“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.
“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”
He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.
You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.
Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.
The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.
His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”
Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.
Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.
And then, without warning, he presses inside you.
The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.
It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.
Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.
You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.
His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.
Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.
Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.
“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”
“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”
You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.
“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”
You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.
“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”
You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.
“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”
Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.
Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”
His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”
It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.
You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.
You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”
Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.
When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.
“Reed—!”
Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.
His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.
With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.
His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”
Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.
You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.
The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.
MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.
also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.
prompts: “Are you flirting with me?” “Have been for years, but thanks for noticing.”
main masterlist • prompt masterlist
You tapped around the usual controls you could reach from the chair behind Din's as the cockpit of the Razor Crest groaned to life around you. "How's the hyperdrive looking?"
Din kept moving his gloved hands along the main console as he answered. "It's online." He gave his helmet a quick tilt as he pushed one more button above his head. "For now."
Din exhaled a heavy breath and wrapped his hands around the joysticks, giving them a squeeze before he maneuvered the gunship off the ground. The breath you let out was one of relief; the two of you had certainly been trapped on worse planets before, but you were glad to see the sight of it fading below you.
"Glad you're confident in your work." You failed to hide your growing smile as you relaxed and let Din take care of the rest.
"This isn't a confidence problem." Din spared a look at you over his shoulder before he lifted his hands to grasp the hyperspace levers. "The Crest just manages to surprise me from time to time."
With that, Din pulled back, and the stars stretched out before you. They then burst into the familiar plethora of blue and white swirling lights, beginning yet another long journey through hyperspace.
Hopefully one that you wouldn't get forcefully pulled out of. Again.
But you were still stuck on what Din had said: This isn't a confidence problem. That drew a pleased hum from you, one that you didn't bother to keep hidden from him. It wasn't like he'd get it, anyway. Not if he hadn't the other countless times you'd done it.
"I like that."
Din, now leaning back in his chair, swiveled in his seat to face you. His helmet was tilted in genuine confusion. "Like what?"
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you instead gestured to him with your chin. "The confidence."
Din shrugged. "Comes from experience."
You smirked and kept your arms crossed over your chest. "I'd like to see what kind of experience."
Din didn't move, but his tone spelled out all the confusion you likely would have seen on his face if it wasn't covered by his helmet. "Was getting pulled out of hyperspace hours ago not enough experience for you?"
That time, you really did let yourself roll your eyes as you laughed and stood to your feet. Honestly, the tally of your advances versus Din's own cluelessness was getting difficult to keep track of. "Fair point."
You stepped over to Din and set a hand on his armored shoulder.
"It's been a long day. I'd say it's time for some beauty sleep, but you've already got the first part covered." You gave his pauldron a squeeze and turned around. "And no, rest isn't an option this time."
You could only get a few steps away, however, when you suddenly heard Din stand up behind you. "Wait."
You froze in place and looked at him over your shoulder, lifting your brow as you awaited him to retaliate with some kind of meaningless yet humorous joke.
Instead, you saw him nervously shifting his weight between his feet. Even his gloved hands were pulling tight into fists before he asked a question you never thought you'd hear.
"Are you flirting with me?"
As surprised as you were to hear the words, you didn't miss a beat with your response. "Have been for years, but thanks for noticing." You flashed him a wink and started walking forward again, letting your sudden adrenaline carry you. "See you in a few hours."
You had only just started to cross the cockpit's threshold when Din found his voice again. "What?"
You laughed to yourself but didn't stop your stride as you stepped over the ladder towards the storage space you had claimed as your own private bunk. The door slid open for you, but before it could close, something—or someone—stood in the way.
"Hold on."
Din sounded out of breath, and when you turned around, you saw him leaning against the metal material of the storage room's threshold. His body was still rigid, the same way it looked when he was preparing to leap into battle.
"You can't just... after you..." Din gestured absently behind himself, to the open cockpit.
You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest again as you fully faced him. "I know this incredibly obvious revelation is somehow news to you, but it's not to me, and I'd really like to get some sleep."
Din just shook his helmet in pure disbelief. His modulated voice was lower than usual when he spoke again. "All this time?"
You huffed and looked down at your boots. "What did you think I was doing?"
Din's tone with thick with embarrassment. "Being nice."
You laughed again. You couldn't help it. "Of course you did." You reached forward and tapped your knuckles against his helmet. "Your skull must be as thick as your beskar."
You stood back where you were before and watched Din carefully. His visor was focused on the floor, and his gloved fingertips were fluttering thoughtfully on the hand he had propped up by his head.
You closed your eyes and sighed. His cluelessness was even worse than you thought it was.
"Listen, Din, you clearly need some rest. Just... go to sleep and we can talk about this later. Okay?"
Din's helmet snapped back up to you at that. "No. I'm sorry, let me just..."
He leaned off the threshold but continued to stand in it, keeping the door open for himself. His gloved hand palmed his helmet as his chest rose and fell with a frustrated breath.
"Kriff."
You chuckled and shook your head at him. "Din, it's really not that big of a deal."
Din stared at you before his armored shoulders deflated. "It isn't?"
You let out a softer breath as your chest squeezed. "I didn't mean..." Now you were the one palming your face. "Not like that. I just meant that I'm not offended or anything."
Din tilted his helmet. "Offended by what?"
You shrugged, too overcome by your newfound embarrassment to look at him as your stare returned to your boots. "You not reciprocating."
Din let out a sigh so heavy that you had no choice but to look up at him again. He had changed his position so that his hands were set on his hips as he shook his helmet.
"That's the thing." His visor found your gaze before he nodded. "I've been trying to."
Now, it was really your turn to be shocked. You blinked at him a few times as your heart somersaulted in your chest. All this time, you thought your flirting was just a vain effort to get the attention of a man who would never be open to you or what you had to offer. You were starting to wonder if you had somehow managed to miss something.
You found your voice, but it was only a squeak. "What?"
Din gestured with a gloved hand behind you. "I'm not good with words, so I tried to do things. Like helping you set up this room. And cleaning your weapons." The next part was a mumble you nearly missed. "And making you that blanket."
You whipped around, spotting the blanket—your favorite, by the way—that had just shown up one day on your makeshift bunk. You huffed in disbelief and turned back around to face him. "That was you?"
"Who else?"
It was Din's turn to laugh, though it was only a raspy chuckle for him. He even turned your own question back on you.
"What did you think I was doing?"
And your answer was nothing different. "Being nice."
Din let out the biggest sigh you'd ever heard from him, and you couldn't even blame him.
Oh, the irony of it all. Maybe you were actually the clueless one.
"So..." You clasped your hands behind your back and rocked on your heels. " What now?"
Din shrugged. "Hell if I know." He gestured with his helmet behind him. "I think I just proved I'm not the most qualified in this area."
You spared another glance at the blanket. "Clearly, I'm not much better."
Din looked off to the side the way he always did when he was planning something. After a few heartbeats, he nodded to himself and looked at you again. "I might have an idea."
You lifted your brow. "Yeah?"
Din nodded again. "We should switch."
"Switch what?"
Din shifted his weight and used his finger to gesture between the two of you. "Techniques?" The suggestion came out as a question. "I'll try words, and you try actions."
You hummed in consideration before ultimately nodding. "Okay, yeah. I like that idea." You smirked at him. "You first."
Din, for once in his life, stammered. "What? I—Well, I can't just..."
"You can." You took a step closer to him. "You have something to say to me. I know you do."
It was then that something overcame Din, and you could see it in the way his posture relaxed into something much more familiar and comfortable. His visor gave you a steady once-over as he took a smaller step closer to you.
"I have a lot of things I want to say to you."
You let yourself embrace the flustered feeling even as you let out an impressed whistle. "That was good, Djarin! You're learning." You gave his armored shoulder a pat.
Din gave his helmet a soft tilt. "Your turn."
You grinned, letting your hand fall from his shoulder to instead grasp his arm. You other hand rose to meet it, and gently, you pulled him further into the room, causing the door to slide shut behind him. Din looked back at it in surprise, but when he looked at you again, he didn't seem displeased.
"I'm offering you my bunk." You gestured back towards it. "Because I want you here, but also because I don't want you sleeping on that sorry excuse for a bed down in the hold anymore."
Din chuckled at that, the sound thick with both amusement and admiration as he nodded. "Fair enough."
You helped him get settled into the bunk with you, draping the blanket he had apparently made over both of you as the final touch. Your face was the closest it had ever been to his visor as you laid beside him. Surprisingly, he was the one to break the brief silence.
"This is a good start."
You smiled, humming once more before getting close enough to rest your face against his cowl. "I agree."
The gloved hand you felt on your back was enough evidence of the fact that he was just as comfortable, now, and not as clueless as you had thought him to be.
blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.
warnings - nsfw, mdni 18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???
author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...
One shot requested by: anyomous
wc: 18.3 k
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.
“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.
You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”
“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”
“You’re not six.”
“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”
Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.
“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”
“I know, I know.”
He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.
“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.
Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.
You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”
“I do not forget.”
“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”
You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.
And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.
“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”
Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”
“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”
Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”
You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.
Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”
“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”
He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”
“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”
Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”
You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.
“Did it get fixed?”
Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.
“You bet it did.”
She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.
Joel’s watch. Working.
You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.
You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”
Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.
“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”
She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”
You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”
Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”
You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”
For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.
Then you glanced up—and froze.
“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”
You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.
“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.
“Love you too!”
The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.
The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.
“Hey!”
You turned.
Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.
“What—?”
Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.
Steady. Familiar.
You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.
His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”
He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.
“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Y‘know I can’t.”
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.
“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”
He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.
You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.
“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”
You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.
Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”
“I always do.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”
You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.
Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.
The taillights disappeared down the street.
And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.
That was the last quiet night.
┈┈・┈┈
The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.
You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.
The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.
You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.
Good.
Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.
You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.
Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.
You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.
You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.
Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.
You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.
Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.
The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.
The silence stretches long and thin.
Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.
The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.
You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.
You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.
You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.
You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.
For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.
The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.
You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.
Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.
You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.
The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.
You sit for a while, just breathing.
Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.
Your wedding ring.
It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.
Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.
Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.
Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.
The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.
That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.
“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”
Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.
That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.
You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.
That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.
The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.
It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.
You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.
Another sound. Closer this time.
You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.
You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.
Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.
She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.
“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.
She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.
You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”
Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.
“Nod if you’re alone.”
Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.
“Walk.”
She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.
Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.
“Community,” you mutter.
The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.
You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”
“That right?”
“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”
She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.
You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.
They’re cold. Wild. Protective.
He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.
“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.
He doesn’t blink.
You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.
“Back off, I swear I’ll—”
“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.
Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.
“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.
“Goddammit!”
She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.
“Kill her already, Joel!”
Joel.
The name stops you cold.
Joel.
It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.
Joel.
“...What did you just say?” you whisper.
The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.
Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.
For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.
Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.
Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.
You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.
You look up.
The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.
“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.
He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”
No.
No, no, no.
The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—
It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.
Your Joel Miller.
Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.
Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”
The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.
“Darlin’...”
You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.
Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.
Joel takes another step.
“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”
You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.
The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”
You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.
“Christ…” you whisper.
You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.
Then, you fall.
Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.
You forgot this.
The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.
Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.
The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.
You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.
He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.
You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.
He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.
Then—his voice, raw, breaking:
“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”
You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.
Again?
The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?
The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.
Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.
He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.
┈┈・┈┈
The church wasn’t much.
A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.
It was perfect.
Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.
“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”
Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.
You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.
“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”
“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.
Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”
“You always this confident at the altar?”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”
There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.
“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”
You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”
“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”
“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.
“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”
You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.
“Never,” you whispered.
He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.
The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.
Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.
When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
┈┈・┈┈
You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.
Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.
You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.
That’s when you hear it again.
You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.
“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”
That voice.
Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.
It’s all impossible. It has to be.
“Joel?”
His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.
For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.
You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.
“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”
You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.
His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.
But all that comes out is your name.
It roots you to the floor.
You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.
He says it again. Softer this time.
Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.
When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.
Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.
For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.
And then—
You take a step back. Another. Another.
Distance.
You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.
You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”
“Darlin’, it’s me—”
“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”
His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.
You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.
He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.
“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"
“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”
“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”
“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”
“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”
Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.
He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.
And then—
Bang.
The door slams open.
“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.
You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.
You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.
Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”
“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”
You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.
Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”
“Tommy—”
“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”
The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.
Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.
Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”
You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.
Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.
You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.
You don’t cry. You just listen.
Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.
“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”
Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”
“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”
“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”
A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.
Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”
“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”
Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.
When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”
The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.
“She flinched when you touched her.”
Joel says nothing.
“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”
Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.
Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”
A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.
“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”
The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.
Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.
You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.
┈┈・┈┈
To say you’re skittish is an understatement.
Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.
The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.
Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.
Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.
Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.
Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.
You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.
Almost.
But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.
They never complained. Not once.
Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.
He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”
You nod. You never know what to say back.
He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”
You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.
Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”
You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,
“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”
He means it. You can tell.
Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.
Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.
You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.
When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.
Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”
Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”
You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”
She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.
A son. You hadn’t known.
Your pulse stutters.
Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.
No. You can’t do that. Not yet.
Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”
She.
The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.
Then you see her.
Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.
It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.
Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”
Right. Ellie.
She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.
Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”
You nod once, your throat too tight for words.
She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”
“I remember.”
“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”
Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”
You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.
The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”
She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.
You raise an eyebrow.
“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”
Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”
“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”
You just stare at her.
She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.
“I’ll live,” you say quietly.
She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.
“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”
You stiffen. That one hits bone.
“Okay, too soon.”
You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”
“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”
“He wasn’t always.”
“Yeah?”
“He liked to dance.”
That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”
“He did. Badly.”
She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”
You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.
“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”
The question hits you like cold water.
“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”
“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”
You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”
Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.
You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.
She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.
And then—
Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”
The name slices through you like wire.
Sarah.
You blink, too slow, too hard.
“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”
You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.
She’s staring at you.
And her whole face has gone still.
“Oh.”
Just that.
And you know.
Instantly.
Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.
“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”
Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.
You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”
You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.
Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.
You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.
Gone. Forever fourteen.
Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.
You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.
Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.
Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.
“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”
Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”
You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”
Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.
You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”
Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”
Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.
You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.
You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”
Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.
Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.
Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”
Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.
A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.
Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.
“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.
You shake your head, stepping back.
He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.
“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”
He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”
You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”
“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”
You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.
“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”
He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.
Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.
He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.
He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”
You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.
He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.
“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”
You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.
You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.
You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.
You reach out.
He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.
You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.
Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.
He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.
The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.
By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.
Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.
By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.
Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.
Tonight is like every one of those nights.
It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.
“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”
You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”
That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.
Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”
Joel freezes.
“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”
He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.
“I just know it.”
His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.
Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”
Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.
He doesn’t flinch away.
“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.
He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.
Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.
When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.
“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”
Joel’s head snaps up.
“What?”
You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”
He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.
“Don’t say that,” he rasps.
“Joel—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”
You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.
“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”
“You already lost me.”
“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”
Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.
You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.
He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.
He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.
But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.
He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.
“Don’t,” you whisper.
He blinks. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t go.”
The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.
Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.
You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”
“I said don’t go.”
That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.
He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.
He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.
You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.
You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.
You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.
He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.
His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.
He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.
It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.
You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.
And this new ritual continues.
Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.
The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.
By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.
He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.
Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.
The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.
Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.
“Maybe next week,” you say
He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.
And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.
Sometimes you thank him.
Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.
Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.
You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.
But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.
You curse softly under your breath.
Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.
Went to help at the barn.
Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.
You can borrow whatever of mine you need.
—J.M.
You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.
Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.
Your bras.
Your panties.
God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.
The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:
Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.
You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.
You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.
When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.
Soft flannel. His.
You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.
You hesitate anyway.
“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”
You slip it on.
The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.
And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.
The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.
You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.
“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.
But what you mean is thank you.
It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.
He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.
Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.
Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.
No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.
But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.
C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.
You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.
Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.
You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.
You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.
Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.
One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.
You take me so good, baby. Always have.
You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.
Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.
You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.
The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.
You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?
You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.
The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.
The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.
Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.
Guilt, maybe.
You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:
You might be falling in love with your husband again.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
He was early.
You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.
When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”
You smiled. “You too.”
He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.
The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.
“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”
You looked up. “Uh?”
“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”
You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”
He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.
“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”
He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.
“You love her.”
He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”
You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”
That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”
“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”
His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”
After that, the tension broke.
You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.
And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.
“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”
You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.
“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”
“She sounds smart.”
“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”
You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.
Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”
It was nice. Simple.
By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.
“Joel—”
“Nope.”
“C’mon, at least let me—”
“Darlin’, don’t even try.”
You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”
He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”
You laughed. “Don’t be.”
He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.
When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.
At your front door, he stopped.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”
“Me too.”
He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”
You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.
“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”
“Terrible at this?”
“Adorable,” you corrected.
“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”
You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”
And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.
It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.
“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”
You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”
“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.
That made you laugh. “You sure?”
He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.
The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.
And that, was the start of it all.
┈┈・ ☣・┈┈
Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.
The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.
Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.
You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”
Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”
Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”
Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”
Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.
He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.
Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.
You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”
“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”
You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.
Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.
Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.
“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.
She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.
“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.
You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.
The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”
Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.
“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”
You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”
Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”
You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.
Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.
“This one’s from us.”
“You didn’t—”
“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.
The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.
It’s a photo.
A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.
You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.
Your throat closes.
You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”
“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”
You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.
“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.
Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.
You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.
Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.
You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.
Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.
It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.
A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.
“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”
“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.
He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”
“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.
He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”
“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”
People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.
“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.
He bends, leans in. “I said—”
You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.
“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”
He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.
The he moves.
Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.
You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.
A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.
You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.
Joel’s there.
Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”
The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.
Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.
Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.
“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”
He doesn’t.
You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.
That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.
Then he sees you.
The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.
Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.
“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”
You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.
He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.
Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.
You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.
The fear comes slow.
Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.
He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.
Then you pull away.
“Stop,” you say.
He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”
You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”
His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”
“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”
He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You scare me, Joel.”
The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.
He blinks. “What?”
“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”
“You are mine.”
You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”
“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”
He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.
You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”
His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”
“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”
“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”
He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”
“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”
He stops cold.
The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.
“No.”
“Joel—”
“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”
You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”
“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”
You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”
“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”
“Joel…”
He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.
“Don’t—stop—”
But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.
The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.
You go still.
Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.
“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”
You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.
“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”
You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.
Because your hands are already moving.
You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.
Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.
“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”
“I couldn’t let it go.”
He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.
The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.
The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.
You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.
“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”
“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.
“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”
“Okay.”
He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.
Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.
Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.
You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.
He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”
He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.
“Take it off,” you instruct softly.
He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.
Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.
“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”
He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.
You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.
You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.
Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.
You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.
There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.
You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.
Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.
“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”
“Darlin’.”
“Yes?”
He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”
You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.
Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.
The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.
In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.
Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.
Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.
“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”
His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”
Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.
Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.
Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”
You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.
He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.
Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.
“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”
You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.
Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.
“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”
His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.
He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.
“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”
Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”
You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.
Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.
You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.
“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.
He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”
The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.
“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.
Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.
You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.
The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.
Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”
His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.
You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.
The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.
“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”
He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.
You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.
Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.
“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.
He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .
You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.
“I’ve missed you.”
He groans like you stabbed him.
“...I love you.”
He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”
Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.
His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.
His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”
“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”
“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.
His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.
You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.
“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”
“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”
His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.
You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.
Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.
Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.
“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”
“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.
His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.
He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.
No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.
Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.
He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.
“What are you doing.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Are you going to make me guess?”
Mwah!
“Joel…”
Mwah!
You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”
He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.
“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”
He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.
Then he began to speak, low and raw.
“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”
“I know baby.”
“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”
Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.
“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”
“I know darlin’.”
His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.
“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.
He swallowed.
“My wife.”
You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”
You smiled wider than you have in years.
“My husband.”
The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.
You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.
And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.
summary: Joel grapples with guilt and shame. But there's no quitting you.
cherry masterlist
warnings: joel pov, age gap (20s/50s), smut [piv sex, m!receiving oral, facefucking (kinda), praise kink], sugaring (kinda, we're getting there), reader is a sex worker, smoking (reader), internalized shame, self deprecation, guilt, emotional vulnerability, mentions of grief and death, mentions of food/eating
a/n: thank you for reading and thank you for so much support and love for this story <3 i hope it can keep living up to the expectation it has. joel gets the pink aesthetic chapter cause I said so.
Time stands still.
Blinks furious, accusing eyes at him.
It has for years, since Tess died, since Sarah died.
Now, it seems to be moving again, wresting around him in gales, the grasping fingers of the past never far behind him.
For years, Joel has felt inert, unable to move forward in any way that mattered. Each day adopted a kind of monotonous routine that gradually became suffocating.
Maybe that’s what led him here, to this — the violent, sudden reversal of long established misery. It had felt like reopening a wound, going to that club.
It wasn’t the same as he remembered it when he was younger. Bygone days of underage drinking and hours of pool and darts played in the slanted yellow light cast from hanging lamps shaped from colored glass. It used to be just a bar, a country bar, at that.
Now, it was dirty and skeevy. He felt the grime as soon as he walked in, not sure what part of a distant past he was trying to reclaim. Joel had felt exactly what he was, sitting there at the bar, three Fridays in a row—an aging fool trying to stick his foot into the past.
Maybe if he could go back to that bar he used to go to with Tommy, he could go back to a time before his kids, before Tess, to a time before he lost everything.
He hadn’t expected to be approached by anyone. The guilt had folded, doubled and redoubled. Chastity had been his last straw, so dewy and fresh faced and young, her hand on his thigh, leaning into his side, filthy words on her lips that probably would have worked like a charm on any other man in the place.
After he turned her down, watching her bottom lip tilt down in a pout, he’d resigned to finish the drink he never started and get the hell out. Stop haunting a place that didn’t exist.
But then you appeared; curiosity hung heavily on your lips, knowing eyes accessing him with a pointed accuracy, whispering truths that Joel didn’t like to admit to himself. You hadn’t solicited him, not really, and maybe that was exactly why you were the one he could stomach a night with.
That surprising intuitiveness had drawn him to you, drawn him back to you, again and again, desperate to bask in the halo of understanding light you provided, however feigned it might be. Your guesses about his grief, light on a teasing, coaxing tongue, both right and wrong about it, had drawn him to you. He could tell you about losing Tess, maybe even one day tell you about Sarah.
It hadn’t boded well that he was thinking of returning while also thinking that he would only see you that one time. Bury his feelings down your throat and never think about you again, return to the tired existence that made up his daily life.
If it hadn’t been for the horses, the weak hope that Ellie might talk to him again someday, that even if she didn’t she might one day need him, he probably would have killed himself.
No, he hadn’t intended to return, to that light, to you, even to the club, at all.
It was a mistake he didn’t want to repeat.
No matter how good you’d made him feel, he wasn’t that kind of man.
Or, he used to be able to tell himself he wasn’t.
But between the first time and the second, he’d dreamt of you.
The nightmares he’s suffered of his wife and daughter in the intervening years disappeared in lieu of dreams of you watching him with darkened, understanding eyes from across a dimly lit room, waiting for him, reaching an offering hand toward him. It’s a gaze that always whispers it’s okay.
To let go, to forget.
Reassurance that he isn’t betraying anyone or anything.
The dream always ends the same way, you smiling, curling into smoke when his hand finally touches yours.
So he went back, and went back again and again and again. And the dream became a sort of reality, a hungry retelling each Friday night. Waiting, watching, listening to Chastity’s chatter. Waiting for the moment you stepped inside and sweep your gaze through the room to settle heavily on him, for the moment you approached and said something witty and half surprising, to play just a little coy with him, feeling like he was your prey, and not minding at all.
The snatches of truth you revealed about your life were always short lived and choked off. He collected them in his hands, feverishly, selfishly tucking the tumble of your voice between his ribs for safekeeping. Collecting information like rain in a barrel, one drop at a time.
Patience tempered the feeling, made the play you enacted each weekend palatable, until the day Tommy held him up and he was late, became witness to exactly what you meant when you said he wasn’t like other men.
The round, innocent cut of your gaze meeting his across the room, the offering, beckoning glance, another man’s hands on your body.
He had not intended to ask you that night to—well, be his sugarbaby, but there was no reason to wait after witnessing that. It had been so clear to him, how uncomfortable you were, how unlike yourself you held your body. Even your voice had been different, pitched higher and softer.
Maybe you put on a different skin when you’re with him, become someone different entirely. But he thinks he sees parts of the person you really are, tiny glimpses into you, peering through the cracks in a barbed, overgrown fence.
The memory of you persists long after he leaves you, the soft give of your flesh in his hands, the flash of your silhouette in his peripheral vision, the scent of your perfume, dark and intoxicating, woven into the fabric of his clothes, nestled in his hair. It’s hard to scrub you from his skin. Hours later he still catches hold of the smell of you lying close by.
Summer passes him by quickly for once, aided by the distraction of your body, your laughter and teasing, each weekend. Then, by some miracle, Ellie had been standing on his porch when he arrived home, sunlight curling around her in an echoing corona of light, like she’d always been there.
They’d talked, had dinner. It was something.
He’d whittled away at the instinct to tell you about it all week, scrubbing the thought from his mind until he saw you again, more melancholy than usual and trying to hide it, a little less flirty, smiles less disarmingly ready.
Another gentle truth laid in his hands, though this time by choice, not a slip of the tongue. He wonders if you’ll regret it and snap closed like a clam.
He dared to hope you might start, when you texted him, sent a photo of yourself doing as he asked. Joel had checked the card’s transaction history to make sure you really had used his card, and not just placated him with a nice picture.
You’d spent thirty dollars on cake. Good.
He hoped that it would encourage you to spend it on something else. Clothes, maybe.
Maybe you could justify that to yourself, marking it up as something you’re doing for him. As far as he can tell, that’s something sugarbabies do. Buy nice clothes to wear for the person giving them money.
You don’t.
The text message itself had been a surprise. He’d only heard from you once before, when you’d called to say you had gotten your period, did he still want to see you?
Your voice had curled in his ear, syrupy sweet and so soft, nice to hear outside that hotel room, those short weekend days. He’d been about to tell you yes, ‘course he did. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do anymore without your company each weekend. There had been times before when you hadn’t had sex.
But then you continued, just as sultry, you won’t be able to fuck me, but that’s what my mouth is for, sweetheart.
It made him feel. . .ill. Like he was using you, which he kind of was, and maybe that was why he was having such a conniption about the credit card.
He would never admit that it had also made arousal curl viciously around the base of his spine. There’s something about you that makes him feel like a horny teenager. Maybe that’s just part of the job.
The mirage of who you are shimmers in and out of existence, clear as day one moment, nearly opaque the next.
Parts of your slip through the facade, careen into the light so suddenly that you seem just as blinded by it.
Does it matter who you are? Everything you say to him could be a lie, something you made up on the drive to the hotel. He’s just the fool willing to believe whatever you say, basking in the attentions of a much younger woman, addicted to your laugh and the way your pussy hugs his cock.
The thirty year age difference, a chasm filled with rushing water he doesn’t dare look down into, the gulf of an ocean spreading ever wider and deeper the closer he feels to you. But he leans into it anyway, leans into the drowning, looks over the edge.
He wants to pretend it doesn’t matter.
Tess flashes through his mind, the severity of expression she would wear if she knew, the scoff of her voice. You aren’t that stupid are you, Texas? It’s a fucking act.
He thinks about you all week, when he’s currying the horses, talking to the couple of hands that work on his ranch. You loom in his thoughts, a snaking tendril that worms between the grooves of his mind.
The thoughts reach a crescendo at night, blotting out nearly everything else, the guilt returns because he jacks off in the home he’d once shared with someone else, remembering the scent of your skin, the sharp, panting breaths as you came, the curl of cigarette smoke on your tongue, the warmth of your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist.
He can’t help but think everyone in his life would be ashamed if they knew what he was up to, if they knew how young you were, how fucking enamored he is with you. Tricked by a whore.
Friday finally arrives. He showers and brushes his hair and trims his beard and thinks about all the grooming you probably go through each week. He drives with the windows down and sees the afterimage of you in the passenger seat, looking out the window as he drove you across town that very first night, the barely there anxious curl of your fingers at the edge of your skirt, the tilt of your face into the hot spring air.
There had been something unexpectedly lovely about that, the unabashed delight in your features when you thought he wasn’t looking, leaning into the wind.
It’s fall now, just as warm as it was then.
The sun is shunting toward the horizon when he gets to the hotel. The late afternoon sun is hot on his shoulders, loosening the knot of muscle along his spine. The parking lot is emptier than usual, blue shadows overtaking the lush, carefully curated plant life in their raised garden beds.
Joel is passing the fountain in the center of the lot, the splatter of tiny drops of water smacking against the paving stones, white and gray beneath the sun, when another car pulls into the lot behind him.
He turns and finds its you, in that beat up, ancient car of yours, green rusted brown in places. The engine coughs as you turn it off and step out. You don’t see him, shucking off the sweater you had over a dress you wear. The color matches the lipstick you have on, the same shade from the picture you sent. It contours to the dips and valleys of your body, loosening at the knee and ending mid-calf. A little slit shows the skin of your leg in flashes.
You run your hands over your hips and waist as you examine yourself in the window’s reflection. Joel watches you turn to the side and straighten your spine, suck in your stomach and push out your chest.
You frown at your reflection, apparently not satisfied with the way the neckline sits over your bust, then brighten when you turn and catch a glimpse of him.
“Joel.”
“Darlin’,” he greets, holding out a hand for your bag that you pluck from the backseat. You deposit it in his hand without a fuss. “You look real pretty.”
“Like it?” You pucker your lips at him in a teasing way. “I wore it just for you.”
Joel means the dress and he thinks you know that.
He presses a hand to your back, feels the warmth of your skin through the delicate fabric, assaulted suddenly with the scent of your skin, the lingering raw, human smell of you, like sun and road dust and bluebonnets, curling lazily around the darker, sexier twist of your perfume, amber and spice and vanilla.
“It’s a nice dress, Cherry.”
Your heels click against the marble as you cross into the hotel, swerving toward the front desk to pick up the keycard, then traipse to the second floor.
As soon as that familiar door clicks closed behind him, Joel realizes that maybe you aren’t comfortable using that credit card because he doesn’t exactly treat you like anything exceptional, still keeping to the pattern established before your little agreement.
He should take you out, to restaurants and on dates. He’d caught onto that much from the shit he read online, sex, companionship, how similar it really was to a real relationship with a little money thrown in.
He’s still treating you like a whore.
Joel puts your bag on the chair in the corner and finds you nervously running your hands against the dress again. The room is cast pink, lightening the color of the dress.
“You really like it?” There’s a thread of something coy curled in your voice, a serpent protective of the catch of real anxiety nestled between its coils.
“Jesus, honey, yeah I do. Don’t know how I couldn’t.”
Your shoulders loosen subtly, face relaxing by increments.
You slink forward, pressing your hands against his chest, the cradle of your hips fitting against his. “It’s just you never said anything about it.”
“What do you—”
You walk him backward until he feels the bed against the back of his knees. He sits, cups his hands against your thighs, the soft material tight against your skin. Something clicks into place in his mind. “Cherry,” he says, “did I buy you this dress, darlin’?”
“Sure did, cowboy.” He can tell you’re trying to hold up that sexy, careless facade of yours, bracing for him to snap at you. After last weekend, the cracks he saw in your armor, he knows better.
“Thought I said not to call me that?”
“You like it,” you tease gently, fiddling with the edge of his hair, one hot hand sliding into the collar of his shirt to press against his back.
He doesn’t mind it, but it brings Tess to mind, the way she used to call him Texas.
“Sorry,” you say softly in his ear, the crooning of a creased and folded apology, tucked behind his ear. “I’ll stop.”
“No,” he answers. There’s a hollow ache in him somewhere, like a missing tooth the tongue forgets isn’t there. “That’s all right.”
Joel slides one palm against the back of your knee, tracing the silky fabric to your thighs and hips and the pouch of your belly. You tremble slightly, like a leaf caught in the wind. “You bought it today?”
“Yeah.”
“That explains it,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of your waist to your back, down to the firm flesh of your ass. “I ain’t had time to look at my phone today.”
“Busy?” You coo distractedly, petting his hair again, curling your fingers behind his ear, along the slope of his neck. A shiver drags a heavy hand up his spine.
He captures your hand, curls both of his around yours. “You look so goddamn pretty in it. I’m mighty proud of you.”
“Oh,” you say, voice shaking a little before you laugh. The acrid, bracing crest of anxiety around you fades entirely. “I really wanna fuck you in it.”
You push more firmly against his shoulder until he falls back against the mattress. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”
“Have you?”
You nod, fingers curling along the waist of his jeans, tugging impatiently like you really, really mean it. “I did.” You seem better, this week, more like the sultry, coy, in control version of yourself he’s known most of the summer, even if he’s better at spotting the fear that circles you.
Better might not be the right word, but you have your mask fixed firmly back in place. Gone is the woman that had swooned when he covered her throat with his hand, that had left breadcrumbs of her worries he could try to follow.
You’re opaque again, a chameleon.
You sink to your knees, looking up at him with those dark, knowing eyes he sees in his dreams, beckoning him into the well of understanding, drowning him in it.
He notices, now, the slight narrowing of your eyes, the subtle tilt of your head. Calculating, assessing. It staggers him to see it so plainly. “What is it, Joel?” Your red lips curl at the edges, lashes fluttering down. “You don’t want me to use my mouth?”
Need loops around the base of his spine in aching spirals. His cock is hardening, the tips of your fingers running along his length.
“Please tell me what you want.” You breathe the words out, half a moan.
“Baby.”
Before he can help himself he’s covering your hand, sitting up, guiding your hand slowly along his length. “Do you want it in your mouth?”
Your eyes go soft, docile like a lamb, relaxing into his palm, offering your metaphorical neck.
It’s real and not real, he thinks, he has to know that.
You want it; you also know he likes knowing you really want it.
Instead of answering, you shake off his hand and tug the zipper of his jeans down. Joel cradles your cheek, watching you through hooded eyes, hating himself and not hating himself. Your lips part, a bright flash of white teeth, little pink tongue.
Your eyes flutter shut when you take the tip of him into your hot mouth, cheeks hollowing. Joel bites down a moan at the sight of your red lips stretched around his length. You glance up at him, tongue curling around the head, flicking along the slit until he hisses.
You hum at the sound, eyes rolling back briefly, and flatten your tongue, taking him deeper into your mouth, pushing him into the side of your cheek.
A tangle of need unfurls in his stomach. He smoothes his thumb over the bulge in your cheek. It apparently satisfies you because you swallow him down again, taking the rest of his cock in your hand, stroking what you can’t take yet. You bob your head in a steady rhythm before pulling back with a gasp to spit against the head and drag your fist over it.
Joel pinches your chin between thumb and forefinger and kisses you, a messy, hot, tangle of tongues, that leaves him breathless. Your lips and skin are so soft against his, rough and chapped from days spent in the sun. You taste like him, musky and salty and bitter, like the chalk of cosmetics and the press of cherry just beneath from your chapstick.
“Touch me?” You request when he pulls back, the shape of your voice quietly pleading, so achingly desperate he almost believes it. “Please?”
“My girl,” he coos. “Look at you.”
You shiver, fist stuttering around his cock before resuming its steady pace. “Please?” You push your body closer to his. “Joel?”
“Ain’t you sweet, beggin’ for it.”
You whine and take him in your mouth again, setting a steady pace that has stars crowding the edge of his vision. Joel balances one hand on the back of your head, and you still, letting him push you gently down, gagging lightly around him, until your tongue sweeps out against his balls, so warm and tight.
Joel shifts his hand to the back of your neck instead, stoking your shoulders, cooing sweet words that he’s only half aware of. “Good girl,” he mumbles, “You take me so good.” You could pull back if you wanted to, but you don’t. You linger there, breathing harshly through your nose, choking around him, throat tightening when you swallow.
When he pulls you back up, your eyes are distant and needy, saliva pooling at the corner of your mouth, a glimmer of spit connecting your mouth to his cock, separating slowly to land between your breasts.
You stick out your tongue, licking away the wet, teeth scraping over the pretty red of your lips after. His palm is still slotted against the back of your neck, holding you in place, with his other hand he traces the bust of your dress before tugging it down. “Jesus, darlin’,” he mutters. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
A shiver seems to break you in two, gooseflesh raising in its wake over your arms. “Joel,” you say, his name broken in two on your tongue. Your hand moves in slick stokes over him.
“So good for me,” he says, squeezing your chest, one breast and then the other, the soft flesh filling his hand, the stiff peaks of your nipples pressing against his palm. “You’re doin’ so good for me.”
You swallow him down again without warning, fucking yourself on him, taking him over and over to the root, nose nestled against the dark curls at the base. His eyes roll back, a pleasure so intense it nearly blinds him clawing at him.
You shuffle ever closer on your knees, tracing your fingers up his thighs and back down, curling your arms around his back beneath his shirt, nails caching on the fabric.
You pull back with a gasp, still jerking him in your fist as you lie your cheek against his thigh. Your lips are slick with spit, lipstick smeared at the corner of your mouth but otherwise intact. There’s a hazy, dazed look in your eyes, needy, tears gathered at the corners and in the delicate webbing of your lashes.
“Are you going to come?” You murmur, voice strained, then cough delicately. The sound is phlegmy and husky. You tap his cock against your face, your cheek and lips, and Joel almost does come, nearly paints your pretty face. “I want you to,” you murmur. “Please.”
“C’mere,” he mutters, and offers you a hand up. You stand on shaky legs and pause.
“Joel,” you say softly, still holding his hand. “Can you help me with this?”
“‘Course, honey, c’mere.”
He shifts to tug the tight material of your dress over your thighs and hips, until it’s ruched around your waist. You push him back and climb into his lap, fingers of one hand drifting down over your bare tits, your torso, to the apex of your thighs, and draw your underwear to the side. They’re white lace, thin and nearly translucent with your wet.
The slick shine of your pussy in the orange and pink light from the window makes his cock twitch against his stomach. He tilts his head back and groans when you rub it and buck your hips against him.
He wants you to sit on his face, fuck yourself against him, claim and reclaim him, mark him as yours, but your fingers curl around his dick again and the thought dissipates. You stroke him slowly from root to tip, fist squelching as you twist your wrist.
“Darlin’,” he groans, gripping your hips in tight fingers, wishing he could see all of your naked skin. “Jesus, honey, put it in.”
You laugh, the sound sweet but not innocent, not by a long shot. You release him, slide your pussy along his length instead, hot and slick against his cock, his stomach. “Can I tell you a secret?” You ask, bracing your hands on his shoulders when you lean over him, working into an agonizingly slow rhythm. “Joel?” His name is like the snap and pop of chewing gum in your mouth, teasing and demanding all at once.
“Yeah,” he grunts, watching the movement of your tits, the curve of that pretty red fabric beneath them, against your supple skin.
“I like,” you pant, tilting your face down to his, your mouth nearly touching his. “I like when you look desperate.” The warmth of your cunt is snug around the length of his cock when you stop the movement of your hips. He swears he can feel the pulse of your need, the throb of your heartbeat.
“Uh-huh,” he grunts, thrusting up against you, knees protesting the movement. “Well, I’m plenty that.”
You moan softly, meeting him, shallow thrust for shallow thrust. “Good.”
“I won’t last like this, darlin’,” he grunts, slotting his hands on the curve of your waist. There’s sweat glistening at the hollow of your throat, a thin sheen of it caressing the space between your breasts. You look dewy and he’s reminded of your age difference when he palms your breasts, his skin against yours.
Joel braces for the usual wave of guilt and shame, but it doesn’t come.
You press your hands over his, closing your eyes when he squeezes the pliant flesh. “Fuck me then, sweetheart. Put it inside.”
Joel squeezes your breasts again and runs his hands down your body, eyes hungrily tracing the details that make up you, tiny scars and stretch marks and divots, a bruise near your hip, the downy, thin fuzz of hair on your arms and belly.
You brace your hand on his and lift your hips when he encourages you to, watching with hooded eyes as he guides his cock to your entrance. The vise of your cunt around him is tight and wet and hot. The way you look saddled around him is something he never wants to forget. Your spine arches as you adjust to the size of him, still holding his hand.
“Good job, baby,” he grunts.
You shutter and reach down to feel him, spreading your folds around him. “Rub you pussy,” he says.
Maybe you think he hasn’t noticed, but he knows that praise makes you lose yourself to him. And losing yourself means the camouflage of you comes undone, and you emerge in the wake of it. Something real that gives him something to hold onto.
“Look at you,” he coos, just to watch you shiver and curl in on yourself, flush with pleasure. “Takin’ me so well.”
You cup your tits in your hands, head still tilted back. “Darlin’,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
Hazy eyes meet his, the soft wash of your body against his, like the roiling of a calmed ocean with a strom at its back. “Good girl.” Your lashes flutter against your cheeks briefly, against feverish, sweat dampened skin. “Doin’ so good. You look so pretty.”
Your chest stutters with stilted breath. He’s known it for months, since that first or night with you, but seeing it so obviously pries a wellspring of desire open in him. He isn’t going to last long, and if he weren’t so fucking old, maybe he could treat you better.
Joel traces your body, the mountainous range of your spine, the warm spill of your breasts in his palms, the folded sea of your pussy, parted against him, pushing and pulling. You jolt and falter when he nudges his thumb against your clit, lightly stroking until an unexpectedly loud moan rips from your throat, puncturing the air.
He thrusts up into you, feeling the drip of your cunt on his thighs and hips. “That’s it.”
“Oh, fuck—”
He meets your hips thrust for thrust, his knees protesting each movement, fucking up into you, tits bouncing, slow and hard, even if you try to urge him along, pressing your hand over his, trying to force him to put more pressure on your clit.
“Please,” you beg, sounding near tears, a sob caught in your throat. “Please, I can’t come.”
“I know,” he consoles, maybe a little condescending.
You moan softly, hips circling messily, eyes rolling back. “Please.”
He touches you everywhere but where you need, hips and belly, spine and thighs, the curve of your ass.
When Joel presses his hand to the side of your throat, your hand captures his wrist and tugs it back down, cupping it with yours over your chest instead.
The push and pull of the week before, you grappling with letting go, hesitating and backtracking and trying again, is gone. You aren’t letting that vulnerability through again. It feels like a door slamming closed in his face.
He circles your clit with expert touch, watching your face, the little o of your mouth when you get close, the wrinkle of your brow, almost a look of pain right before your orgasm washes over you, a sea of ecstasy washing over your features that pulls the look of calm back.
You grip his wrist and beg him not to stop, voice soft against the silent hum of the room, body painted in slashes of bloody red and cotton pink. Joel slams hard into you when he feels your cunt pulse hard around him, gripping him so tight it's impossible not to come.
He grunts lowly, dizzy with the pulse of you, the needy way you keep moving until you can’t anymore, until he feels overwrought and sensitive inside you.
You collapse against him, trembling, thighs spasming on either side of his hips, whining when he doesn’t stop touching you, the aftershocks of pleasure threatening pain.
He breathes you in slowly, one deep inhale after another as he softens inside you, clinging to the memory, weaving it safely away. When he slips out of you it's with a rush of wet. You laugh weakly against his shoulder, lips brushing his collarbone.
“Joel?”
“Hm?”
“I’m hungry.” The word is lazy in your mouth.
It may not be the confessional he wishes for with you, but it's something. He pats your hip, “Well, get up then.”
You don’t move, curling your fingers into his shirt. “Just one minute.”
~
There’s a little restaurant not far down the road from the hotel, at the very edge of the town. It’s a diner more than anything, open at all hours of the day, serving cheap eats, overlooking the vast spread of nothing to the west, just the vein of a highway cutting through the rust brown earth, like a river through a desert.
It’s a local hangout spot for teenagers who queue up at the window outside and order ice cream, laughing too loudly in the salmon evening light. The sky purples at the rim of the bloody, rouge horizon, pale sandy walls of the place splashed with their shadows, caressed and highlighted by subtle brown trimmings. The sun is a lazy golden eye, blinking down at the earth, a bored cyclops.
You perch elegantly on the chair across from him on the patio, primly holding the remains of a burger between your thumb and forefinger, chewing slowly. Crumbs tumbling toward the painted red checkered tabletop.
Before leaving the hotel, you’d changed out of your pretty red dress, stained, now, by both of you. Joel had apologized and you had grimaced. “Well, it was your money, after all.” Before he could derail the shame, you’d giggled to yourself, hips swaying into the bathroom. “Guess it served its intended purpose.”
The sun creates a halo behind your head, a pink-orange flame that seeps across the land in a searching way, not quite landing anywhere it could settle. The red lipstick is back in place, and you carefully wipe the corner of your mouth when you finish chewing.
You’d admitted to hesitancy in eating around him. “I don’t like to fuck with a full stomach so I’ll just get something little,” you said on the drive over, smoking a cigarette, breeze caressing the soft slop of your cheekbone, the ring of your lips when you took a drag.
“Who said we’re gonna have sex again?” He’d glanced at you, raising a brow. You’d only rolled your eyes and shook your head, pressing your mouth together to hold in a laugh. He’d rolled his eyes back, “I’m beggin’ you to get somethin’ if you’re hungry. As much as you need.”
So, the burger. And a milkshake with a cherry nestled in the whipped cream on top. Good.
You brush your fingers off and tilt your head at him. “You could take a picture, you know. So you always have something nice to look at.”
“Cute.”
“Thank you,” you smile slyly, deliberately mishearing his tone. “I can send you a nude, if you want. Y’know, for your spank bank.”
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know about you,” he requests.
The world seems to flatten and quiet, the point of his focus narrowing to you and only you. You hum and cross your legs, flowy skirt falling in delicate waves around your legs, the parted fabric showing the soft, sun warmed skin of your calves and the creases and wrinkles of your knees.
“Like what?” You answer tilting your head to the side, mouth curling at the edges. “Something dirty? Something real? Both?”
All of it.
He can’t say that, though.
And Joel understands what you’re asking — who is he asking for? You? Or the person you present to men who pay you for sex?
Even though he does it regularly, it makes him feel wounded and ill at ease.
“Something real.” He plucks a french fry from the basket between you, smells your perfume on the back of his wrist when he lifts it to his mouth.
You tilt your head, eyes petering around the patio as you think, red lips pursing just slightly. Joel runs a hand over his beard, waiting you out, wondering if you’re thinking of a convincing lie or debating whether to tell him something true to you, the woman in a vintage floral skirt.
“Okay,” you smile. “I have something.”
“Tell me.”
“Patience is a virtue, you know,” you smile and it's seductive but honest. Or maybe he’s not able to tell anymore, too close to you to see you clearly. You fuzz and blur, coming in and out of focus; he thinks about his hand on your throat again, your hand pushing his down. No, there are things you don’t want him privy to.
“And it ain’t one I possess.”
You laugh and sip the remains of your milkshake. He watches the white foam crest like a tiny wave on the pink ocean of your tongue when you lick cream from your top lip.
“And yet, I think you may be the best man I know.”
The stark honesty leaves him reeling, but you don’t let him linger on it. “I told you once that I grew up really poor.” You wait for him to nod before continuing; he remembers. “We lived down the road from this farm. A big farm. A lady lived there with her dog. She had one horse. I bothered her everyday for a whole summer about riding the mare. She made me learn how to take care of her first, but I think she just couldn’t manage herself anymore. We sat on her porch in the evenings, shelling peanuts, listening to the radio and the cicadas. She said that was what life was about.”
You fiddle with a napkin and glance away, waving a flippant hand, swatting away memories, something else he can’t see. “I never felt. . .I don’t know, more free than the couple of times I got to ride her. Just around this little corral, but still. The lady died that fall and the mare was sold and the farm stayed empty. It was my dream for a really long time to. . .make that real again.”
Joel stays silent for so long, chewing the impossibility of that over, that this truth locked inside you, the little girl’s dream inside you, was a life he made for himself.
“Sorry,” you say suddenly, that not-quite-quelled-panic look spreading over your features as it sometimes does. Your voice becomes a purr, an elongated jostle of desire and dread and calculative readjustment. “That wasn’t—”
“Did you ever get to ride again?”
You blink hard, brows creasing. The tension around your shoulders loosens. “What?”
“Did you ever get to ride a horse again?”
“No,” you breathe, air puffing your cheeks out as you exhale. It’s cute, endearing. “No. Lessons were. . .there was no way my family could afford it. We could barely afford groceries.” You watch him carefully when you say it, watching for a reaction, though he doesn’t know which. Whatever test that statement provides, he seems to pass it.
You continue after a moment, twirling the straw in your cup, “Then I started college and well, I still didn’t have money or time. I don’t know anyone rich enough to keep horses.” Your gaze turns wistful and soft, “When things get hard, it’s something I let myself dream of.”
Joel opens his mouth, questions turning in his mind, this added layer to you, but your voice pops like gunfire. “Your turn.”
He thinks for a moment, watching the crash of the sun into the earth, the blue bleeding over the ground. “Well,” he starts, rubbing his jaw. “I play guitar. I—”
Your eyes widen. “Really?” Then, reprimanding, “Joel, that is not a fair trade off in the slightest.”
He smiles. “You wanna let me finish or. . ?”
“Okay, all right. Go on then.”
“I play guitar. Not well, but I like to. It helps me think.” You tilt your head against the center of your palm, posture relaxed. “I taught myself, watching my dad play. He wasn’t never gonna teach me, so I paid attention, got the hang of it when he wasn’t lookin’. Then I taught my brother, my kids, too.”
“Brother,” you say, reaching across the table to draw your fingers along his forearm. “Is he the little brother or big brother?”
“Little. Tommy.”
Your nails feel nice, the looping cursive of them over his veins soothing in a way he can’t put to words. “Tommy,” you repeat. “Of course you’re the older brother. You have that kind of energy.”
“What kind is that?”
You shrug and don’t answer, examining him in a way that makes him feel like you can see inside his chest. “Your dad?”
“Not worth the breath I’d waste on him.”
“Mine either,” you admit, tilting your head inquisitively. “Tell me something else?”
He hesitates for a moment, figures he might as well. What did it matter, really? “I wanted to be a singer.”
“A singer?” You gasp, mouth falling open. “No. Really?”
He laughs. “Swear.”
You close your eyes then, like you’re imagining his voice. “Oh, yeah,” you say, a smile pulling at your lips when you open your eyes again. “I can hear it.”
He chuckles. “Darlin’, I’m a terrible singer.”
“Liar. What’s your favorite song to play? Or sing?”
Joel breathes out, a long push of air between his lips to give him time to think. But sharing with you is easy, you’re so removed from his everyday life, it’s tragedies.
“Future Days.”
“Pearl Jam.”
“Yeah. You know it?”
“I remember seeing the cassette tape in your truck.” You nod to yourself, seeming satisfied by the answer. “It’s a good song.”
Joel leaves his arm between you on the table, relishing in the caress of your touch, eating the last of his fries slowly. “That was two things,” he says, teasing.
“And?”
“Tell me somethin’ else, honey, so we’re square.”
You hum and smirk. “Wanna hear what I was going to say if you said you wanted to hear something dirty?”
“Lay it on me, honey.”
You glance around surreptitiously, but the nearest occupied table is across the patio and consists of two lovestruck looking teenagers engulfed in each other. “I’ve never actually done anal.”
Joel chokes, then coughs as you laugh, sitting back against the chair, smirking at him. “Don’t know what I was expectin’. You serious?”
“Mhm.”
There’s an embarrassed heat in his chest that he knows is showing on his face because you turn your head and bite your lip. “Quit laughin’ at me.”
“I’m not,” you say, trying to sober up despite a laugh slipping through to land around his cold fries. “It’s cute.”
He grunts and rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Was you really gonna let me—”
“No, not right then.”
You’d let him touch, though. Let him put his finger in you. Jesus, had you not wanted him to? “Trusted me enough not to?”
“Not to stick your dick in my ass without warning or prep? Yeah, I guess so.” You arch an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?”
Joel stands and offers you a hand up; disposing of your trash, before pressing a palm to your back, angling you back to the parking lot. The breeze lifts your skirt, brings the smell of dust and ozone and desert flowers with it. “No. I got better sense than that.”
Better morals, too. There’s a hot, swift unfurling of the anger coiled in his chest. For the unknown, faceless men you’d dealt with before. He wonders, at the things you must have endured.
“See? We call that being a gentleman.”
“So you keep tellin’ me.”
It’s hard to take as a compliment, considering the competition he has.
You settle yourself in the passenger seat, as usual, and turn to him when he settles in beside you, clicking your seatbelt into place. The late sun makes you glow, coating you in a filmy rose and yellow. “I’ll let you, though. If you want. You can take my anal virginity.”
Something behind his naval lurches, curls a hard fist around the arousal in his stomach. “Lord, you might kill me.”
“So I keep hearing.” You reach over and stroke the back of your hand along his cheek, fiddle with his hair. It’s familiar, intimate move. He holds still, worried you might stop. A neon sign flashes on over the diner, red and teal. “You’re blushing. You want to.”
He clears his throat, runs a hand over his chin, and turns on the truck with a rumble to back out of the parking space. Warm air rushes into the cab that you turn your face towards, eyes closing in what he can only describe as bliss.
Joel fiddles with the radio for something to do, landing on a station that isn’t playing a commercial. “I never done it before either,” he says gruffly.
“Really?”
He nods, glances over at you and back to the road. You look pensive, considering.
“Joel?”
“Hm?”
“That, um, actually—it’s really hot.” When he glances at you again, you seem genuinely flustered. “If you want to, I’m willing.” You cast your darkened gaze down, lashes fluttering, obscuring your eyes.
“You sure?” He isn’t sure why he’s asking, like you’re a virgin saving yourself for marriage and he’s some kind of rouge trying to get you to give it up early.
“I trust you.”
It makes any argument that he has die on his tongue. A kind of primal satisfaction overcomes him, slippery and disarmingly warm, it curls in a tight parabola around his heart and lungs. “Well, all right, darlin’. Okay.”
You laugh again. “I was going to say most men would be more excited but you look plenty excited. Want me to take care of that?”
He catches your hand when you reach over, pressing it back between your own legs. “I’d rather look at you.”
“Isn’t that distracting?”
“You sucking me off isn’t?”
You laugh and turn toward him, back against the door, seatbelt twisted awkwardly around your torso. “You may have a point.” You bite the corner of your nail, watching him. He can feel your gaze careening over his skin.
“Just don’t care to die in a fuckin’ car crash.” The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them.
It strikes a dissonant chord, and for a moment you don’t say anything and Joel isn’t sure how to brush over it, or step over it. Tess and Sarah’s faces flash through his mind.
That is something he can’t tell you about.
“It would be great not to,” you agree, a mirror smoothness to your words. You’re thinking, gaze shrewd and watchful, body subtly braced. He hates it.
Joel clears his throat awkwardly when you continue. “Okay, so blowjob is too distracting and watching me touch myself is really going to steal your attention, so what’s left?”
His spine relaxes. He shifts in his seat, leaning his elbow against the open window and propping his head against his fist. “Jesus, waitin’ til we’re back at the hotel?”
“I could flash you.”
He chuckles. “You know that ain’t the first time you’ve offered.”
“And you keep saying no for some reason.” When he glances over, you’ve relaxed again too, fingers loose in your lap, shadows creeping blue across your skin. You catch his gaze and flirt with the hem, so he sees a strip of skin. “C’mon, Joel,” you plead. “This time I want to show you my tits.”
The road beyond the windshield is empty, night leaping across the red dirt, the empty, cloudless sky, in great bounds. “Go on.”
“Well don’t sound so excited.”
“Darlin’, you know what a thing like you does to a man?”
You run the backs of your fingers along his arm, light along the road popping on ahead of you like God reaching down to screw in each bulb, a vast, echoing world ahead of you. How many miles could he drive before you hit some other tiny town?
“What?” Your fingers lace with his, soft folds of your hands enveloping his, holding it against your thigh. “Tell me what I do to you.”
He chuckles, thumbs at the back of your wrist, traces the veins in your hand. “You’ve ‘bout wrung me dry, Cherry.”
A laugh, loud and unabashed bursts out of you. “You’re keeping up well for an old man.”
“Watch it.” The corner of his mouth twitches. He has to clench his jaw to keep from laughing. “You gonna show me or not?”
Your laugh turns to a giggle. “Joel?”
He glances over, and you lift your shirt, wriggling on the spot so they bounce, nipples stiffening against the cooler air before you pull it back down. His eyes flick to yours, the back to the road.
You look brighter than you ever have in that moment, wild eyed and youthful. “You actually looked.”
“Little hard not to, Cher.”
“I’ll make a dirty old man out of you yet.”
You’re teasing him, but he thinks you might be right.
The truth is, no matter how much he agonizes over it, he isn’t able to stop himself from coming back to you. You tug him in like the tide of the ocean, the rotation of the moon around the earth. There’s something nameless there between you, some kind of understanding that he needs to see through.
summary: Joel gives you a credit card. You're hesitant to use it.
cherry masterlist
warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [piv sex, semi-public sex, a lil tiny bit of ass play, dry humping, fingering, choking but not really], sugaring (kinda, we're getting there), praise kink, reader is a sex worker, smoking (reader and joel), self destructive tendencies, internalized shame, self deprecation, emotional vulnerability, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, struggles with letting go of control
a/n: this is definitely one of my favorite chapters so please let me know what you think! thanks for reading!!
Joel gives you a credit card.
It feels like dead weight in your hand, like a venomous snake wrapping around your palm and wrist, twisting higher until it can curl around your throat.
He’d given it to you the night you tasted cherry soda on his tongue, and kind of, but not exactly, agreed to be his sugarbaby.
Just thinking of it makes you feel ill. Not because you have any qualms about it widely, but because it makes you feel beholden to a force you can’t control. His hands are gentle for now, coaxing and gasping, but how long could that last? How long before the hand that fed you, struck you instead?
How long until this became a mistake?
For several weeks you’ve been dancing around the credit card, hoping that he doesn’t ask you about it again. He’d only inquired once and you’d managed to push the conversation off. You can only assume he’s checking his statements and seeing that you aren’t using it.
What would you use it on? Are you supposed to take it on a shopping trip like a pet on a leash?
You’ve never in your whole life had money lying around, and can’t imagine what people buy for fun. Using it on necessities is out of the question.
You think of the caressing hand again, imagine it forming a fist. And how would whatever you used the card for be held over you if this tentative, slightly volatile thing came crashing down around you? You won’t be able to pay him back.
Still, you’ve been with no one else, keeping that promise at least. You pass the club by entirely and go directly to the hotel. Very often you spend Friday and Saturday with Joel. If you stay a second night, he gives you double the cash he usually does, and although you know that’s fair, it makes you feel sick.
Because you like spending time with him. It’s hardly work if you enjoy it. The pleasure you feel means you don’t deserve what he gives you. There are some weekends, just as before his gold plated offer, that you don’t fuck him at all.
Desperate nuggets of truth lie buried in the quietly spilled words on those days, admissions about your lives outside that room, the half-agreement you’ve come to. It almost makes you feel worse. You’ve often accused Joel of unnecessary feelings of guilt, but your shame runs so deep it fills you like a swollen sea.
Your battered car hums beneath your thighs as you pull into the hotel parking lot near the back and kill the engine.
The afternoon sky is a cheerful azure, fingers of warm sunshine reaching across the deserted parking lot. A sheaf of springy, white clouds tumble across the horizon that will dissipate in the heat before they ever have a chance to pass before the blazing sun.
You sit in the heat for a moment, warmth soaking into your bones, relaxing the muscles at your shoulders until the warmth becomes oppressive. Before you climb out into the yellow sunshine pouring through your cracked front windshield, you reach for your little red purse and rummage through it, digging past hand sanitizer, condoms, a pack of gum, several crumpled napkins, a half empty pack of cigarettes, and a cherry chapstick, until your fingers close around the dreaded card.
It’s cold to the touch, black metal etched with his name. You hadn’t known credit cards could be made of anything other than the standard plastic.
Joel Miller.
You hadn’t known his last name before, and Miller is so common it’s almost as though he doesn’t have one. You’d only googled far enough to see that he made his money from owning a construction company before toggling away from it, terrified you might stumble upon a Facebook account filled with family photos.
You run your thumb over his name slowly, watching the sun reflect off it, the metal heating slowly in your hand, before abruptly tossing the card in your glove compartment and snapping it closed.
It feels like a trap. It feels like not trying hard enough.
You push open the door and adjust your skirt, glancing at yourself in the reflection of the window. It’s different to your usual, but you’re no longer going to the club, so you figure it might be okay to branch out, seeing if Joel might like to see you in something else.
Despite it all, you want to please him. It’s important you please him.
The skirt is longer, an airy material that falls somewhere around your mid-thigh with a slit up the side, a baby tee that shows a tiny strip of your belly. The colors are brighter than Joel will be used to. You look less like a sex worker and more like. . .you, you suppose.
The air is sticky with humidity, rife with July heat and the syrupy slowness that comes along with it as you cross the now familiar hotel lot, all smooth white paving stones, Spanish arches, and lush, carefully manicured trundles of greenery, leading to the cool interior of the hotel.
It’s nothing like cracked asphalt of the club parking lot, stained with brown rust and raven drips of gasoline that reflect swirls of oily rainbows, leading to a depressing building sandwiched between an abandoned auto parts store and a decrepit aluminum recycling plant.
It’s still intimidating to walk into the hotel without Joel. Your heels click on the stone as you navigate the lobby, the deep greens and browns, the heavy smell of something comforting and rich perfuming the air.
A flock of expensive looking people are exiting the bar when you enter, chattering amongst themselves, eyes ghosting right over you as you head toward the front desk.
Reception is a little chilly with you, but has a key card ready, for which you’re thankful.
When you push open the door to room 202, Joel is lying back on the bed’s still made up sheets, one arm tossed over his eyes. His thighs are spread wide, a strip of skin showing between his t-shirt and jeans. The jeans are unbuttoned and half unzipped, a trail of hair leading down his belly. Your mouth grows dry at the sight.
“Hey, darlin’,” he greets.
“Hi, Joel,” you answer, dropping your bag by the door, lifting your leg with a bent knee to fiddle with the straps of your heels. “Rough week?” You ask, balancing on one foot.
A long suffering sigh deflates his chest. “Somethin’ like that,” he mutters. There’s something stronger than just the defeat of a long week in his voice. You consider if you should ask him about it, continuing to struggle with the clasp of your heel.
“Want to tell me about it, sweetheart?”
Joel moves his arm, eyes running over you slowly, gaze caressing the curves of your contorted body. “Cherry,” he answers. “C’mere. Lemme do that for you.”
This is the problem you’ve been encountering with Joel, the burr in your side that you’ve yet to learn how to breathe around.
You aren’t used to a man who wants to do things for you, whose pleasure, whose needs, are satisfied by taking care of you. It’s the credit card all over again.
“I can get it.”
“C’mere,” he beckons again, voice firmer this time as he sits up, not asking anymore, not really.
You unfold yourself and perch next to him, offering him your ankle. He curls one hand around the delicate bone and lowers it to his lap, expertly popping the clasp open with a twitch of his fingers.
You lift your other leg and the second shoe follows the first. “Thank you, Joel.” His hand slides along your flesh, curls against the back of your knee before you find yourself suddenly on your back beneath him.
The sheets are warm from his body heat, his scent clouding around you. He smells so good it makes you dizzy. Joel smells like sun warmed skin, the tang of bergamot and comfort of oiled leather, the ever present red dust that swirls along the highway.
A delicate thread of want unfurls in your belly, curls lazily and longingly between your legs.
You turn your head and bury your nose in the bicep of his t-shirt, thick muscle flexing beneath your mouth, and watch him through one slitted eye.
His eyes travel over your body, the heat of it tearing through your chest. A shock of hair falls out of place and into his eyes, brown with a thread of gray. “You look real pretty, darlin’.”
“You like it?”
He makes an assenting noise, running one large hand over the meat of your thigh, the jut of your hip and curve of your waist. He gathers your hands in his and pins them above your head so your breasts lift and your shirt rides up. “Yeah, I’d say so.”
“I was hoping you would,” you bite your lip and roll your hips against his, letting your eyes flutter shut. “I dreamed about you.”
His mouth whispers along your throat, your shoulder, down your bare arm. Gooseflesh rises in his wake. “Did you?”
You open your eyes and blink up at him. The afternoon sunshine breaks through the lowered blinds, shaping bars of alternating shadow gray and garnet across his skin. You hum, assenting, and spread your legs invitingly beneath him. The longer skirt makes it a little more difficult, but the split up the side helps.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s not PG, I’m afraid.”
He chuckles and caresses your waist with his free hand. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,” he says, pinching your nipple softly through your t-shirt. You inhale sharply and wriggle closer to him, until you feel the zipper of his half undone jeans against your pussy. “I dreamed about you too.”
“And was it a very innocent dream?”
Joel thinks for a moment, the gentle pattern of his caresses lulling you. “Half innocent.”
“Well I always end up naked one way or another.”
He chuckles, absorbed in tracing your waist, the curve of your hip, the swell of your ass. He doesn’t offer the dream, and you don’t offer yours.
“Joel?”
“Hm?”
“You can tell me, you know,” you say, flexing your fingers in his grasp, trying to ignore the pulse building between your thighs.
The attention drives you crazy.
You hate to keep comparing him to those other men, holding them side by side, but you can’t help it. So often it had been as though you weren’t really there, a pretty vehicle for their pleasure and nothing more. When they touched you, it wasn’t like this.
“I think that’s what I’m here for and I’m a good secret keeper.”
“Nah,” he shakes his head dismissively. “Not sure where to start with it all. Go on and tell me somethin’ good about yours.”
The anxiety you’ve stepped around all week floods your throat, and you have to take a moment to remember you aren’t supposed to be that with him. “It all, huh? Sounds serious.” He doesn’t fold to the bait of your joke, waiting for something real, a confidence to be handed over, as per your little agreement. Wasn’t it so that sugardaddies offered their sugarbabies advice? You don’t want to tell him. “I’m afraid I might not be able to offer that to you.”
He searches your eyes, something tells you he knows you’re holding back. “Well shit.”
“Yeah. I can make something up though, if you’d like,” you offer and curl your leg against his hip. “Or you can tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Darlin’—”
“C’mon,” you whine. The way to Joel’s interior, you find, is by not making it about him. “Distract me from my terrible week.”
To your surprise, or maybe just the way in which he does it, he deflects. “There’re other ways I can distract you.”
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” You arch your back and his eyes flit briefly to your tits.
“Go on then.” His voice is light, teasing. There’s a glint in his eyes that you’ve seen appear more and more over the last couple months. “Distract me.”
Feeling a little disgruntled and somehow tricked, you tug one of your hands from the vice of his grip, the gentle crush and pressure of the weight of him holding you down, but not really. He nudges his leg more firmly between yours, delicately sliding up the fabric of your skirt until it’s bunched around your hips.
You press your knee against the outside of his thigh, hooking your calf there to better feel the rough denim of his jeans against your skin, palming his half hard cock.
“Joel,” you mumble his name, delighting in the scratch of his beard against your throat when he lowers his head. “Yeah, sweetheart, just bury it inside me instead.” You squeeze the bulge of him in your palm until he groans. “Let me fuck it out of you, baby.”
A curl of pleasant surprise nestles in your chest when he doesn’t release your hand, instead running his free hand over your body again, slotting against the dip of your waist, trailing the backs of his fingers over your belly, before slowly tugging your shirt above your chest.
Your fingers become clumsy, fumbling with the zipper, distracted by his mouth against your skin, pushing his jeans down until he steps out of them.
“I wanna suck your cock, Joel.” Your voice is nearly a whine, needy, and after the week you’ve had, you desperately want to please him, just so he’ll call you good. This is something you can do right, and get the cool wash of those words against your ears, having the deep aching need to please, soothed. “I want you to fuck my face.”
He palms your chest, pinching your nipples into taut little peaks. “Too bad,” he mutters and sucks one nipple into the warm, soft cavern of his mouth.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
“Please,” you beg, arching into his mouth, “tell me what you want. I want to give it to you.”
Joel tucks his fingers into the band of your underwear and tugs them down your legs, decidedly not answering you, leaving you to flounder in the searing press of his gaze and touch.
He presses his hand against the side of your throat, thumb digging into the soft flesh beneath your chin. You think he just means to turn your face but your whole body shutters and he pauses.
“Oh,” you murmur, inhaling sharply through your nose, eyes rolling back, bottom lip caught between your teeth. An embarrassed heat floods your face, hips lifting to meet his.
He pauses and watches you carefully. “You like that?”
You don’t mean to answer. You need to think, be calculative. What does he want? Who are you supposed to be for him? “Yes,” the word is breathy and laced with need, misting between you on the air, a barely there whispered admission. “Ye-ah,” you repeat, still meaning to say nothing, voice snapping cleanly in two.
Carefully, he shifts his hand to cup your throat. It’s tentative and exceedingly gentle, and you sense that it’s the first time he’s done something like that.
There’s no pressure, you can still breathe normally, but it makes your mind go fuzzy and white. “Uh-huh.” There’s understanding in his voice, something about you clicking into place for him. You can’t begin to guess at what, not really able to at that moment.
You clutch at his wrist to keep his hand there, desperate not to lose the warmth of it. “Hey,” he says, when you try to urge his fingers to tighten. “No. I don’t know how to do it right and I ain’t riskin’ hurtin’ you.”
Fuck.
Trying to get him to choke you. You have no idea if that’s something he’s into.
Not about you, can’t let it become about you.
“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to regain control of the situation. “Sorry—”
“Baby.”
You still and meet his gaze. This has gotten away from you, lust and need leading the way, leaving your better instincts behind.
Fuck. Fuck.
You need to get it together.
“I want you to let go. That’s all. Quit thinkin’ so damn much.” His thumbs churns slowly over that delicate softness beneath your chin. “Let go for me.”
You want to. It’s all you want. You want to shove yourself into his waiting hands, let him trace the contours of your want and reshape it however he wants, as long as you get to let go. You’re holding it together so hard, begging the seams of your life not to split up the middle, gripping tentative control in ever weakening fingers, that you feel as though you might snap.
He keeps stroking your throat and gradually you relax in his arms. “There she goes. I’m gonna fuck you now, darlin’.”
“Yes.”
He laughs and the sound is more like a grunt. “You want that?”
“I want you to fuck me.” You can’t be any clearer for him. “I’ll beg, Joel. Tell me to beg.”
But he doesn’t, he thrusts against you instead, cock splitting through your damp folds. The head of his dick brushes your clit and you jolt.
He reaches between your bodies and grips himself, repeating the action until you keen.
Almost reluctantly, he releases your throat, pulling away to push your knees apart, stare down at your aching, swollen cunt. He runs one finger through the damp mess, teasingly tracing your hole, massaging your clit, the pressure steady but light, not enough to make you come, just enough to make you desperate.
His finger traces over your puckered asshole and you squirm. “You wanna fuck my ass, Joel?”
“Christ,” he mutters. “You might kill me.”
You grip his wrist to keep his hand there and arch an eyebrow. “Oh but you want to.”
He leans over you and kisses you deeply, his finger still tracing the tight ring of muscle. He pushes his thumb against it, the wet of your pussy helping ease his way.
Your stomach clenches and loops with each stroke, hips and thighs twitching, until he finally sinks it in, just briefly and shallowly enough for you to feel the burn and then pleasure of it, before he pulls away, stroking again.
“I want to fuck you any way you’ll let me, Cherry.”
You shiver and cup one hand against the back of his neck, pulling him down into another sloppy kiss, shoving your tongue into his mouth, tracing the sensitive skin behind his ear with one finger. He’s driving you fucking crazy.
When he pulls back he looks a little dazed. “Am I that good for you, cowboy?”
“Quit callin’ me that,” he grumbles, finally pulling his hand away from your ass, cupping your pussy briefly before tracing shapes against your clit, with more pressure this time.
“I can’t help it, you kinda look like one.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you do me a favor and play with your tits?” He thrusts against you again and this time you watch. The tip of him brushing over your clit repeatedly, fingers divorcing the flesh of your thighs as he holds them down, before he finally guides himself to your entrance. He’s heavy inside you, so full you feel as though he’s touching every part of you, brushing against lungs and heart.
The pace he sets is languid, building slowly into something brutal, harsh thrusts punctuated by a slow pull out. You feel every inch of space given before you’re filled again. It’s slow and deep and hard and drives you.
Your stomach curls into knots, looping rings of pleasure that never quite meet their peak. You dig your fingers into his ass, the divots at the base of his spine. Sweat beads at the base of your throat and behind your knees.
The wet sound of him inside you fills the room, crossthreaded with the slap of skin, the pant of his panting breath and yours.
He’s not touching your cunt and when you whine he lets out a breathy laugh. “Look at me,” he murmurs, adjusting the angle of your hips.
You shift your eyes to his immediately, clouded with need and want. Joel cups the side of your throat again and your eyes roll back so hard your vision goes white. “Yeah, there she is. C’mon, darlin’, you can do it. Come for me. Good.”
It’s the sound of his voice’s praise, the soft, warm pressure of his hand lying on your neck, the repeated brush of him against your clit in this new angle that sends you plummeting over the edge, pussy contracting so hard and tight that Joel curses.
“Good job, baby,” he coos and you preen. “Where do you want me?” His hips drive into yours harshly again, settle fully against the cradle of your body. Your core aches, still pulsing with pleasure, leaking down your thighs. Joel grunts, the sound pained. “Tell me.”
“In my pussy,” you breathe. “Please come in my little pussy—”
You feel the moment he comes. He grunts, thrusts becoming sloppy until he finally stops and half collapses on top of you.
Your mind fuzzes with warmth, dopamine flooding your veins, leaving tack marks on your brain. Neither of you attempts to pull away, and you lie to yourself that that’s okay. You feel the combined mess of you leaking between your thighs, Joel’s softening cock, as he strokes your back and kisses you and doesn’t move.
Distantly, you remember your rule, that you don’t fall sleep with the men you fuck. But Joel’s breathing is even against yours and the tide is impossible to pull back from. And it feels nice in the circle of his arms, the cool AC buffeting around you when it kicks on.
Afternoon passes languidly into evening as you nap, bars of light sliding across the room, over your tangled, connected bodies.
Joel eventually nudges you up and awake. “Want to go for a swim before dinner?”
You do, even if you don’t want to get up, don’t want to leave behind the curl of his arms, the vast restless pulse of the safety of his body.
He pulls out of you and the loss and emptiness makes an unknown emotion swell in the back of your throat that you don’t dare examine at that moment, or maybe ever. Joel pulls you apart, stares down at the mess and makes a satisfied sound you don’t think he realizes he does.
Once you decided on exclusivity and Joel revealed that he’d had a vasectomy years before, you’d dispensed with condoms. You have a feeling you both like the feeling, the way it looks, more than you’d like to admit.
You reluctantly follow on shaky legs, cleaning off in the bathroom quickly, feeling flushed and embarrassed and distant when you meet your eyes in the mirror above the sink. The self deprecations come flooding in.
Whore. You wanted the excuse. If you’re doing this out of necessity why do you fucking like it so much? You’re using him; you like it too much. That’s why you won’t use that fucking credit card, because it’ll be him and them and everyone else that earn it, not you.
You turn away from your accusing gaze.
Joel puts his hand against your spine as you leave the room together. It makes you feel worse, because you like it.
The end of the day is lazy with heat, chlorine choking the air, sharp in your nose, when you pass through the hotel’s back patio to the pool.
Despite the weighted heat and the sweat that immediately beads at the base of your spine, the pool is empty, as it has been almost every evening of the summer, aside from you and Joel. It feels private, the high mason walls of orange and white stone closing you in its fist, cast a light pink in the late light. The warm, soft safety of being encased against the world.
For a while, you sit in the lounge chairs and pass a cigarette back and forth, breathing in the hot air, listening to the rustle of orange trees, whose citrus smell twins with the smell of dust and pool water, leafy branches quivering in the slight breeze, drooping onto the small, blotched green wooden table between you.
It’s nice, and nice makes you anxious.
“Want a drink?” He asks, passing back a cigarette, blowing smoke away from you. “Think I’m gonna get a beer.”
You’d paused, considering. “Jack and coke?”
His brows jump up in surprise, one hand scratching over his chin. “Really?”
Oh. Oops.
“I can order something else, if you prefer,” you offer sweetly, fluttering your lashes at him. “What do you want me to drink?”
Joel frowns, sits at your feet, he runs the back of his fingers from your knee to your ankle and back again. “No, that isn’t—Get what you want. Jack and coke.”
“Joel.”
“Mm?” He’s looking at you, fingers caressing your skin so soothingly.
“Jack and cherry coke, if they have it.”
His face relaxes, creased forehead ironing out as he laughs. “I thought the cherry part was implied?”
“Only if they have it. Okay?”
“All right.”
You take his hand and stroke your thumb against the inside of his wrist. “I’m serious. Don’t go out of your way. Regular coke is fine.”
“I know.”
He’s gone longer than necessary, and when he comes back, he carries a bottle of jack, a crystal tumbler that winks in the sun, and a pack of cherry coke, one can missing. His lone beer is cradled in the crook of his arm.
“The bar didn’t have cherry coke.”
It presses something unknowably tender into your chest, and you detest him for it. Why couldn’t he have just said the hotel didn’t have any, brought you the wrong drink, forgotten your drink, coaxed you to drink something else?
He hands you the drink he mixes on the little pine green table. The lowball glass is cold against your fingers. Joel wades into the pool with his beer, apparently entirely at ease with himself, with you.
“You didn’t have to go out of your way,” you offer, not even managing something witty in the face of his consideration.
“Wasn’t out of my way,” he answers.
You move to sit at the edge of the tiled pool, towel beneath your legs, and think about how you should not drink. The breeze caresses you softly, enfolds you in its embrace as you sip and light another smoke.
Joel mosies around the pool, and you watch the water ripple around him, admiring the thick muscle of his arms and shoulders, sheened with sweat and water, the softness of his stomach and the attractive gray at his temples. He’s unfairly good looking, and you think it each time you take a moment to look him over. His wet hand passes over his beard as he examines something floating on the water, drops of moisture rolling down his collarbone and into his chest hair.
Jesus, it’s like he does it on purpose.
Alcohol has always loosened your tongue, brought forth the thoughts caught in the snare of your heartstrings. It makes it easier to answer Joel’s request from before, to tell him about your week.
You only mean to have one drink and then keep going because the ache of familiarity lures you into complacency, into allowing yourself to forget. The drink itself is a reminder you don’t want to think about.
This is one of your boundaries, since the first night you ever walked into that club across town, the one whose parking lot and neon lights and sticky floors you haven’t seen for more than a month. You do not drink while you’re with a man. It never led to anything good.
But the shape of that long standing order has changed with Joel. The nature of this relationship is so unlike the temporary, unfettered ones you’re used to having with transitory, temporary men. And despite your experience, your good sense, screaming at you not to, you’re beginning to trust him.
You want to trust him, to deliver your truths into his desperate, aching palms; hands that would count the contours and edges of your life outside these hours with him, tally them as precious as they cut his hands raw.
He’d gone out of his way to get you cherry coke, just because you prefer it, and you aren’t sure anyone else has ever taken you into consideration that way, men paying you for sex or otherwise.
What does it matter that you prefer cherry coke? What possessed you to request it at all? You should have let him bring you a beer.
A self deprecating, punishing, shame-laden thought passes through your mind. Maybe the only good thing about you is between your legs. Maybe there’s a reason you ended up whoring yourself out.
And maybe, a distant part of you knows, there’s a bigger reason you don’t drink, it makes you melancholy and pathetic, a lamb with its neck cut open.
You keep talking about things you know you shouldn’t share, the tie between your mind and tongue lazy and unspooling. The thought to stop will come and then slip away, caught between the currents of misplaced trust, thrust into the waiting palms of a man who will only like you as long as you service him, as long as you remain unburdened and fun and only melancholy about things men find sexy to be melancholy about. Your relationship with your father, money problems they believe they can save you from.
And Joel clearly wants to save you from that. A week after you started coming straight to the hotel, caught somewhere between escort and sugarbaby, he had asked why you hadn't used the card he gave you, and you’d choked on the question.
It looms like a wraith in your wallet, swims to the forefront of your mind, currently baking in your car’s glove compartment.
You’d almost used it at the grocery store one week, when your careful budgeting failed you and a hiked price laughed. Instead, you’d couponed and put back a couple items you could live without for the next week.
Water drips down Joel’s shoulders, beads in sparkling pockets at the hollow of his throat and the crease of his elbows. It’s distracting and you’re vaguely aware that you’re rattling on about school again, about the research you worked on that week, the writing you got done and didn’t get done.
With effort, you manage to stop the torrent of words that spill forth like a storm. It’s only in the silent vacuum the absence of your words leaves behind that you realize how much it’s been bothering you.
If asked, you would say that you aren’t stressed out. And as long as you put it out of your mind, ignore it, you can pretend that you aren’t, that your whole life doesn’t depend on this, that who you want to be doesn’t hinge on this, on you having the wherewithal to finish the program, to steel yourself and have the tenacity to make the money you need to finish it.
If you look down, will the grime and dirt you feel in your soul show on your skin?
A wave of disgust with yourself washes over you, curdles thick and unpleasant in your stomach.
The sparrow of your cat’s curiosity is on an entirely different track. The warmth of his hands settle over your thighs and brings you back to the here and now; reminding you that you’re losing the threads of who you’re supposed to be with him. Again.
He isn’t supposed to know you like this, see this side of you, but, you suppose, that line became blurred the moment you agreed to exclusivity, if not necessarily the rest.
It would really become something else, the moment you use that credit card.
It smarts.
You don’t want to rely on the whims of a man, who could turn on you and rip all his support away. Relying on anyone is antithetical to you, and this relationship you’re constructing with him only serves to press a heavy hand against those sore spots.
The soft dig of blunt nails into your skin, tempers the feeling. It brings you back to the world before you, sun on your skin, cool water around your calves, the rough, calloused feeling of Joel’s hands against the tops of your thighs.
The sun burns bright and red on the horizon, sinking toward the dusky purple rim of the earth. The world narrows again, your focus whittling down to him, to this compartment you live in with him each weekend.
“Help me in?” You ask when he opens his mouth, afraid of what he might say.
He moves his hands around your legs, tucks his palms against the back of your thighs. You support most of your weight, pushing away from the warm tile to drop into the pool that spills and crests orange and pink on deepest cerulean in the fading light.
You circle your arms around his neck, the wet press of his body sliding against yours. He’s solid against you, firm and soft in all the right places. The cheap fabric of your bathing suit is thin, and you can feel the scratch of his chest hair against your nipples through it.
He grunts, arm winding around your hips.
Weak threads of need blossom in your chest, imagining what you must look like, pressed together in the water.
Hot, probably. Though some people might take umbrage with his mature hands against your skin. But you like the comparison, like the way his scarred, experienced body looks curled around yours.
He fucked you in front of a mirror the week before, thick cock splitting you in half from behind, arms held at a folded but not uncomfortable angle behind your back. You looked good together, not just in a vaguely well, porn-y way, but in a contrasting way. You have a feeling you’d feel the same way if you ever stood side by side in formal wear. A knot of worry lodges in your chest. Maybe something is wrong with you, for liking how you feel and look with an older man.
“Sorry,” you say, still feeling unbalanced, from the alcohol but more from how much you want to tell him, how much you want Joel to solve your problems, or at least to cradle your face in his hands and say he understands.
You’re soothed almost immediately, because he does some iteration of that.
He shakes his head, cups your cheek briefly. “I said I wanted to know.”
“So, now you do.”
He nods, then prods you impossibly closer to him in the water. You feel the pull of his leg hair against your smooth skin, tucking your feet together beneath the water.
“Don’t seem like you want me to know.”
“I guess I don’t.”
He tugs you though the water, into the deeper end of the pool until the water reaches just above your chest. You feel the shift of alcohol within, how much of a mistake loosening your inhibitions was.
But you’re supposed to give him what he wants, and he wants to know, even if he won’t say it. “My advisor rejected my proposal for grant funding this week.” The words tumble from your mouth. “So he won’t submit it and won’t give me much helpful feedback as to why.”
“Sounds like he’s the problem.”
“Hm. Maybe.”
Or, maybe it’s you, like always. There’s some part of you that just doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t belong in that world, isn’t good enough for it. You know it, your family knows it, and so, apparently, does your advisor.
Joel doesn’t, though.
“I don’t know much about that kinda thing, but seems like he ain’t bein’ fair to you. Can you ask for somebody else?”
Joel’s hand is warm against your spine. Warmer than the pool water, left to boil in the direct sunlight for most of the day. The air suddenly feels chilly as shadows creep across the tile.
“Not really.” You shake your head. “It looks bad. Like I’m uncooperative or like I’m not able to adjust to obstacles. Something really egregious would have to happen.” You don’t give Joel time to formulate a response, not sure you can bear it at that moment, cupping your hand against him beneath the water. “This isn’t fair you know,” you tease. “I want you to tell me what happened to you this week too. I’m supposed to make you forget your problems, remember?” You say, stoking the length of him slowly.
Your head is still swimmy with alcohol, the earth tilting and rolling around you. You wonder what it would feel like if he fucked you like this, if it would feel like floating. “I reckon you’re right,” he says after a minute. “I mentioned I had kids.”
Surprise shuffles through your mind. You had not expected him to answer, only thought he’d let you distract him. You take your hand away from him and loop it back around his neck.
“Yes. Two daughters. Your wife had a son.”
He clears his throat. “Didn’t know you remembered all that.”
“And forget where your sense of everlasting guilt comes from? Absolutely not.”
His mouth twitches, he pushes closer to you. Your entire world is subsumed by him, reality narrows to this dim, warm, close corner of the pool. “Cute.”
“I’m listening.”
Joel doesn’t answer for a long moment, jaw ticking. “One of my girls, Ellie, we ain’t talked in a long time. Couple years. Didn’t think she’d ever—” He stops, emotion rolls over his features, like that familiar grief.
Ah, here, the thing you sensed, the other grief he didn’t speak of.
“Anyway, she came by this weekend. On her own.”
You don’t dare ask what happened. That’s the sort of question that ruined things, dredged up anger. It’s a bit of a red flag, that he has a child he doesn’t speak with.
“And it was—”
“Good. Good. It was real good.” He doesn’t elaborate and you waffle between pressing him and leaving it alone. You open your mouth when he continues, “I don’t want to. . . hope, I guess. But I think she might be comin’ around.”
You run your hands across his back, tracing the long ridge of his spine. He’s told you something real, something that truly matters to him. “It’s okay to have hope,” you assure him. “Good, even. Some might even say necessary.”
“Yeah, ‘til it blows up in your face.”
“I hope she comes around, Joel.”
He nods, still looking unbearably soft. “Yeah, me too.”
There’s a little smile on his face that you don’t think he knows is there.
“What’s your other daughter’s name?” You figure it must be okay to ask, since he told you about one daughter.
Joel looks at you sharply. “What?”
“You have two daughters right? Or did I misremember and you just didn’t correct me?” You tease, not sure why he looks so startled, unsure why he might not want you to ask.
He clears his throat, “Yeah, I do. Sarah.”
“Sarah,” you repeat. “Have you been talking with her?”
“Yeah,” he nods, seeming to recover a little, “Yeah, I talk to her all the time. “
You breathe a little easier when his voice softens again, shoulders relaxing. “I think that was an even trade,” you needle. It wasn’t and you know it. You had complained, this was deeply personal to him.
He laughs weakly and presses you into the side of the pool, water lapping gently around your shoulders. He crowds close to you, as the shadows cast from the hotel gain ground, encroaching on your secluded corner of the pool.
You figure you must be invisible to the eyes of anyone in the hotel. The angle of the wall and fountain, the bright awning of the umbrellas protecting you.
It’s not that you mind, you’ve been in much more compromising positions, been viewed in worse ways than this one, but privacy seems to matter to Joel. He likes to keep what’s his to himself. So, you wait for him to make the choice. Does he want to fuck you in the hotel’s pool?
He kisses you, the start of it soft, morphing rapidly into something else, something more desperate and wanting. His tongue curls hungrily against yours, teeth catching at your bottom lip.
Big, warm hands slide up your spine, fiddle with the strings of your bikini top. The buoyancy of the water makes it easy to lift your hips and wrap your legs around his waist. “You mind if this comes off, darlin’?”
“I’d dance naked in the lobby for you, if you asked.”
He grunts, surprised laughed tucked against the inside of your lip. “Well, I won’t ask for that. I’m not too good at sharin’.”
You push your hips against his, rolling yours against his slowly,before you reach behind your back and unlace the tie of your top. Joel takes it from you, smoothing a thumb against your hip as he tilts back a little to look at you. “Ain’t you pretty.”
“I do have nice tits.”
He laughs again, the sound louder this time. “I mean—Jesus, you make me—all a’ you, not just your tits.” He cups your breasts in his hands, squeezing and kneading until you bite your lip to hold back a moan.
Minutes pass in silence, the lap and sway of water against the tile, the rustle and shush of the orange trees, as he kisses you and feels you up. He seems content to trace the curve of your body fitted against his. You keep a steady roll of your hips against his, feeling him steadily grow hard against your core.
“I want it in my mouth,” you tell him again.
“Startin’ to believe you really like it.”
You pull back, tilting your head. “I do.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do,” you repeat. “Like the way you taste, the way you feel.”
“Darlin’, you ain’t gotta lie to me. I know you aren’t daydreamin’ about sucking off an old man.”
Your whole body clenches and curls against him. He really has no idea how wrong he is, but you know it’s an ongoing worry. He feels like a dirty old man and doesn’t like that he does, or maybe he likes it and thinks that he shouldn’t. “I am actually. I do. Can I tell you something?”
“Anything, Cherry.”
“I like having my mouth full.”
He cups your face in his hands, hips rolling lazily against yours, and rubs his thumb against your mouth. “That’s not good enough,” you mumble against the pad of his finger before sucking it into your mouth.
He grunts, thrusts against you, hands hot against your body, moving you against him.
You pant against his shoulder, moans muffled against his throat as he gropes your chest, deft fingers tweaking your nipples.
“Could I make you come like this?”
“Oh, fuck,” you murmur, a little caught off guard. “I. . .maybe? No one has ever tried.” You’re already sore and sensitive, the water and his hands alternating temperatures that make you twitch and writhe against him. He’s cooing at you and it feels so good you don’t care if it makes you come or not.
The attention and the way he cradles you is good enough to make you feel satisfied, even if you shouldn’t.
Minutes pass, as he plays you like an instrument, body straining against him, fingers of pleasure curling around and around your spine, the aching, pulsing maw in your belly. “Lemme hear you.”
You shake your head and Joel has the audacity to laugh, even if it's strained, stained with need. “Joel,” you mumble when he rocks you more firmly against his straining cock. “I’m gonna—”
“I know, go on.”
It’s a combination of his cock against your core, brushing against your clit, and his hands on your aching nipples, but he makes you come, deft fingers playing you like an instrument. It’s not fucking fair, and makes you wish you hated him. It’s a pulsing, lazy kind of pleasure that crashes through you in waves and leaves you trembling in his arms.
Never, in or outside of sexwork, has any person ever made you come so regularly or so well.
Quitting Joel, wherever you have to do it, will be like quitting a drug, will be living giving up the sun, for many reasons, but also because of this. You’re sure it’s an anomaly and no other man will ever match him.
You’re still quivering, fingers latched around his arms, trying to catch your breath, when he murmurs a question.
“Why won’t you use that card I gave you?”
For a long moment you’re so disoriented you can’t understand the question. The air smells like citrus and deception.
Your chest heaves against the ripple of the water. “Wh-what?”
“You know I googled this sugardaddy thing.” He doesn’t look happy to be uttering the word aloud. Googled or sugardaddy, you can’t tell.
Your muddled thoughts squirm into a wriggly line. “Oh. Did you see lots of porn?”
He laughs, surprised. “Yeah. That ain’t the point.”
You feel its unfair that he’s talking to you about this now, when your mind is mush and fucked out and his cock is still hard against you, making your legs twitch everytime he brushes your core.
“This is an ambush, Joel,” you accuse weakly. “This isn’t fair.”
“Tell me why. According to a couple websites and the porn, I ain’t doin’ a very good job of this.”
“Oh. What kind of porn do you normally watch?” You ask, genuinely curious.
He pinches your side. “Focus right here,” he says, just a tad demanding. It gets your attention nonetheless. You sober up and meet his gaze. “Tell me, so I can stop feelin’ so goddamn bad about it.”
“You feel bad about it?” Surprise is thick in your voice.
The levity in the air is wiped away as surely as chalk from a board, the dust still settling uncertainly.
His jaw works and for a moment, you think you’ve ruined it, like water cupped in your palms slowly draining away. He clears his throat and struggles for a moment, jaw tense. “Yeah.” The single word is barbed, pointedly sharp. You tense and fight the urge to pull away from him. You prepare soothing, gentle, general platitudes, bracing for something you can’t stop, when he breathes out harshly and tries again. “Makes me feel like I ain’t. . .holdin’ up my side of things.”
Oh. Maybe this is your chance to actually give him something real, some real part of yourself that you don’t really want to hand over, but that you think he might deserve after telling you about his daughters.
“I don’t think I deserve it.” The words are slippery and ill fitting on your tongue. You’ve mostly told Joel the truth of things, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. “When you. . .pay me. . .it doesn’t—it feels like I’ve earned it. It’s an exchange.” You mean to explain more, but the words lodge in your throat and will not spill forth.
You just look at him and hope he understands what you mean. “You aren’t using me, I want you to—”
“It’s not that,” you amend quickly. “It makes me feel like I won’t deserve it.”
His shoulders relax. “I’m not earning that degree for you. That’s all you. Because you’re smart.”
“You think I’m smart?”
“Hell, honey, you could run circles around me. You don’t get into a program like that for nothin’. Far as I can tell you ain’t some nepo baby.” It’s a joke but you can’t laugh because if you do, you’ll cry.
A new fear rises out of the depths of your scorned, aching heart - this, this understanding, will make you want to tell him more, let him in inch by inch.
“No one has ever called me that before.”
“What’s that?”
“Smart.”
You’ve been called a whore and a slut and gritted your teeth through so many months of indignities, striving to hold on, one more day, one more hour.
You’ve been called haughty, and high and mighty, and an ungrateful brat. Your mother’s face swims before your face, how she’d scoffed when the acceptance email came, said that you’d never ever make it through, it wasn’t worth it to ever try. You’d waste all your money and end up back where you started.
Why couldn’t you be grateful for the things she’d worked hard for and given you? She’d asked. Because you were ungrateful, wanted too much.
You’ve never been called smart.
Something in his eyes softens and you have to look away because it looks dangerously close to pity.
You release your legs from around Joel’s waist, the flood of water against the skin that had been pressed to his is like ice. “Can I have my top—”
But he’s already helping you with it, retying the strings when you turn.
Shame and embarrassment make turbulent twins in your chest, chasing each other, swallowing one to birth the other. Why would you say that? How do you adjust, calibrate to the whore that just wants to—
“Cherry?” Joel’s palm is warm against your spine, turning you gently back to face him. “Listen, I know. But I want you to use it.”
You open your mouth to protest but he continues quickly. “Just once. For me. I don’t care what it's on. Just get yourself somethin’, somethin’ you wouldn’t get even if you had a couple bucks lyin’ around. Don’t have to cost much if you don’t want, it just has to be something you wouldn’t get yourself. Start small. Can you do that, darlin’?”
The words for me stick.
“Yeah.”
“All right. Let’s get you out, you’re shiverin’.”
It’s Wednesday.
You’re sitting in your car on campus in a crisp, starched button up that itches at your throat, slacks and kitten heels, red lipstick that you’ve fretted over getting on your teeth all day. You’re twirling Joel’s credit card between your fingers, trying to decide if he really meant what he said, that anything would do, that he really wants you to use it.
It’s sick how much you want to please him. And pleasing him means letting him take care of you, give you things, and this is one of the things he wants.
You pop your door open and cross the street to the fancy coffee shop that you pass several times a week. Often you stop in the window to admire the pastries they make fresh everyday. It’s fifteen fucking dollars for a little tart, nine for drip coffee. It’s not justifiable in any sense of the word, not on your budget.
When you step inside the barista smiles at you and when you tap Joel’s card against the terminal and tip her, no alarms sound, lightning doesn't lash out from the sky and strike you down.
You carry your cake and fancy iced coffee and receipt back to your car and eat it in silence with the air conditioning as high as it’ll go. It’s good, maybe not thirty something dollars good, but it's good and you feel like you might cry while you eat it.
Surely Joel will know about the transaction, but you still take a picture with the cake before you finish it, smiling. You hesitate sending it for a moment, before deciding he’d like it.
Still, it feels silly, stupid.
did it, you text simply, happy?
His response takes a while, even though he reads it immediately.
Good girl. How’s it feel?
Fucking wonderful, suddenly. Amazing. It makes you wish you’d called him.
good. i liked not paying for it. some old man covered it for me.
summary: Joel comes back to you like clockwork. He has a proposition for you.
part 1 & 2 to cherry
warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [f!receiving oral, semi-public car sex], praise kink, reader is a sex worker, protective and defensive Joel, misogyny, smoking (reader), reader briefly soliciting a man who is not Joel and is fairly degrading to her (they don't sleep together), poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, mentions of hunger and eating, mentions of violence and self destructive tendencies, very hurriedly edited
a/n: please let me know what you think! thank you for reading!
Joel becomes your regular.
Each Friday, you shimmy into a too short dress and make the long drive out to the club, far enough away from the town you live and work in to avoid anyone you might know.
You smoke, and drive with the windows down, listening to the ancient rattle of the engine, the whine that sounds like a threat, the slow buckling of delicate machinery.
The very last thing you can afford is a mechanic. The tenuous tightrope you walk would snap beneath your feet, send you plummeting into the abyss of true financial disaster.
It makes you sick, a curl of dread settling in your chest, writhing in the pit of your stomach along with all your other woes, until you turn on the radio to drown out the thoughts, drown out the sound of the failing engine.
One wrong move and your whole life collapses before your eyes. The shame that wells up into the back of your throat is debilitating, to have to return home and look your mother in the eyes and say she was right, going to school was a fool’s dream, a mistake that could fill oceans of other worlds.
So each Friday, you swing through the doors of the club, little red purse on your shoulder, fingers adjusting the hem of your dress that barely covers your ass, ready to work.
Since meeting Joel, things have been a little easier. He tips well and you’ve been able to afford better groceries, have time to relax on Saturdays because you don’t need to work again.
He pays you so much, you feel guilty for accepting it. Then nauseated because you’d fucked him for it, and finally shame for the whole terrible cycle. Guilt for being paid, when he was the one seeking out a whore in the first place.
Still, he’s gallant compared to most and you don’t dare to let yourself assume Joel will be there.
But each Friday, Joel is already there, patiently waiting for you at the bar like he never left in the first place.
The static edges of your brain immediately settle, your worries fade from your mind. It gives you one less thing to fret over. Joel is familiar now. You know how to handle him, what he probably wants you to say and do, what gets him off the quickest, what he enjoys the most.
You don’t have to try on a new personality, carefully consider and construct each word you speak, be the fantasy they want for a few hours.
With Joel that all sloughs away. You don’t have to think for the next few hours.
You aren’t willing to admit to yourself that you hardly put up a front with Joel. Often, the real parts of you unspool in his lap, your real worries and fears, desires and wants. He satisfies you like no man ever has, and you’ve told him things you don’t dare speak aloud in your real life.
Crystal chastises you, reminds you of the few things she’d taught you, the few rules that get her through this life unscathed, the first night you tossed yourself to the wolves and got burned.
They’re all the same. And if you start to think a man isn’t, he’ll just disappoint you. Her brow had lifted, lips puckering around a cigarette. Or break your heart.
Chastity, on the other hand, seems to think you’re in the beginnings of a Pretty Woman situation. She’s a romantic and not yet broken, peering out at the world through rose colored glasses, even here.
She encourages you. Even keeps Joel company until you get there some evenings, when you’re late on purpose just to see what he’ll do, half hoping sometimes that Crystal will smile and say someone else took him home with a knowing glint in her eyes.
But he’s always there, waiting patiently, guiding you out with a hand softly laid against your back, finger tracing your spine.
This evening, Joel is nowhere to be seen.
You’ve stalled long enough that Crystal stopped by the bar. She’d dug her nails into your arm and cautioned you again against relying on one man, smoke from her cigarette billowing into your face. “What are you going to do? Go home empty handed and cry? He isn’t here. Get over it and get on your knees.”
You’d shaken her off roughly. “I’m deciding.”
“Baby this is the busiest we’ve been in months. Take your fucking pick, huh?” Her cigarette ash had landed on your arm before she spun away, angry for god knows what reason.
Five minutes have passed since then, time allotted to yourself to cool down and stop the shaking in your hands, overstimulated from the amount of people in the room, Crystal’s closeness.
The room sways with heat, bodies jostling in cresting waves around you, bathed in unholy red light, neon and flashing. One of the dancers takes her top off and the din of men roaring at her makes something better ignored twists in your gut.
Before you can go work the crowd, a man sidles up to the bar, a beer bottle already in hand. You don’t look at him but you can feel his gaze, appraising, assessing.
You can’t wait any longer than you already have for Joel so you push your chest out and squeeze in your elbows. You let out a dreamy little sigh that sounds more like a moan, so your tits lift and fall, strain against the neck of your top.
The neckline of your dress is low, plunging between your breasts, already not much left to the imagination.
“Well, look at you. You don’t look like you’ve been run through yet.”
Men have said much worse to you. The disgust you feel barely registers, so it doesn’t show on your face, in your body language.
Not that he would notice if it did.
Instead, you assess him quickly.
What kind of woman did he want you to be? More like what kind of girl. He clearly thinks you’re young, maybe new to the job, naive even.
You giggle and turn toward him, fluttering your lashes. “Am I being that obvious?”
“Nah,” his eyes flick over you, hungry and wolfish in the dim, ruby light. “I’m just no stranger to a whore. How old are you, honey?”
Joel had once asked you the same question, though in a different tone, an agonizing, guilty one. This man clearly has no such qualms.
The back of his free hand presses into your thigh, sliding back and forth over your skin. His touch feels wrong, after so many weeks with only one man, too warm and a little damp and uncomfortable.
His hand looks ancient against your skin, leathery and unforgiving; the skin between the fingers dry and cracked.
Joel’s broad palms flit to the forefront of your mind, the familiar creases and grooves, scarred and seasoned and skilled. You dream of those hands, long for their firm touch on your skin, between your legs and in your mouth.
You like the way Joel’s hands look against your skin, aged by not old.
You push Joel from your mind and keep your eyes down, blinking shyly. Nineteen year old you, new to this, embarrassed at being called a whore maybe. “Just turned nineteen last week.”
“Well happy birthday, sweetheart.”
You giggle again and fidget a little when he curls his hand around your leg, then shifts his fingers to the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. Testing you, seeing if you’d squirm.
You do a little and he grins. “You like that?”
“Yeah,” you say breathlessly and turn toward him. “I could, um, I could make you feel good too?”
“Aw,” he lifts his hand to run a finger along your cheek, the edge of your mouth. “How many men you fucked so far?”
You count on your fingers, pretending to think. In your peripheral vision, you watch his grin grow. “Four? So far. But one of them fucked me a couple times.” Your voice is bright, a little defensive of your single digit number.
“Only need one hand to count ‘em all up? You are green, girl.”
He releases his beer and runs his finger along the bust of your dress. Crimson light pulses over his face, convulsive and metamorphic. His touch makes your skin crawl, beads of moisture slip over his fingers and onto your skin.
It’s unpleasant to say the least. The wooden bar feels far away and sticky beneath your elbow, his touch rough and demanding when he gropes you, pinching your nipple.
You moan quietly, biting your lip until he releases you. “Oh, I guess so.”
This corner of the bar is dark, and although the club is packed, there’s a breadth of space between you and the next person at the bar. It’s clear he wants to look at your tits, so you turn toward him, your back to the crowd, and push your chest into his hands.
“And so fuckin’ sweet,” his hand trails higher on your leg. A familiar floating feeling overcomes you, your mind slipping away from your body, the comfortable distance your mind provides from the world. Only distantly do you realize you haven’t felt that with Joel in awhile. “You wanna suck my cock and I’ll be your lucky number five?”
“Yes,” you murmur.
He laughs and squeezes you hard. “How much you cost?”
You open your mouth when you catch sight of a familiar shadow across the room. Joel, ever faithful, apparently, just a little late.
Dizzying relief washes over you, followed by a self loathing so intense you feel it curdle and squirm in your belly.”
You widen your eyes at him, then glance away. If you want me, come get me.
The man next to you doesn’t notice, too busy staring at your chest, sliding one finger beneath the neck of your dress, pinching your bare nipple when he gets to it, muttering in your ear about fucking you right here, showing everyone what a little slut you are. His breath is hot on your skin.
A shadow falls over you.
“Howdy, Cherry.”
“Joel!” You jerk back in feigned surprise.
The man releases you reluctantly, hand sliding back from your leg and chest. Your chest feels sore from his clumsy ministrations and not in a pleasant way. “Oh god,” you say, clasping the man’s hand against the counter. “I’m so sorry. I totally forgot I was meeting Joel.” You roll your eyes, the picture of a too ditzy girl.
“Well, now, honey, see, we already agreed—”
The shadow looming over you seems to grow thicker. Joel’s hand slots firmly against your back.
The man clears his throat, “Hey all right, I get it.” He looks at you again, one last soul sucking appraisal. “I’ll find you some other time then, baby.” His hand lands on your ass and squeezes before he pulls away.
Joel starts to turn after him, but you hook a hand against his elbow. “No. Don’t, please. That’s just part of it.”
“He ain’t got the—”
“Joel.”
He meets your gaze, eyes flicking over you, assessing for a long moment. “All right. You okay?”
“Of course I am,” you dismiss.
You tuck your hand in his elbow and tilt your head toward the door. But he doesn’t budge. “I’m serious.”
You blink. “So am I, sweetheart. That was nothing.”
“Nothin’,” he scoffs and shakes his head, but gently guides you ahead of him.
Joel walks you across the crowded club as he has for many, many weeks in a row now. Too many weeks. You feel the penetrating, disapproving gaze of Crystal on your back.
No doubt she saw him start to turn, how defensive the slope of his shoulders have been. It scares you a little, too, that he apparently feels that protective over you. A bigger part of you likes it, feels safe in the cup of his palm.
The air outside is hot, penetrating in its humidity but not stifling with the acrid tang of sweat and wanting bodies. Spring had long since transitioned to summer. Even there, in the desolation of the long concreted strip of this poor industrial area, you can hear the songs of night bugs.
“Not everyone is as gentlemanly as you, as I’ve been telling you for many months,” you remind him. “That’s just how they are. They want to treat me like a whore and I let them.”
Joel’s jaw is clenched tight, and for a moment he doesn’t answer. “Yeah,” he acquiesces when you reach his passenger side door. “Don’t mean it’s right.”
“Remember the night we met? And I said if you were a different kind of man I’d say I was freshly eighteen?”
“Yeah,” he answers warily.
You lean against the side of the truck. “Well, he’s that kind of man, sweetheart.”
He’d wanted to defile you, make you feel the grimy life you’d entered into. The worse part was, as used to it as you were, it still would have stung. He still would have made you feel like trash.
Joel doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze persistent in sweeping you from head to toe and back again. You wish he wouldn’t have seen what he did, because it seems to have unsettled him. He buzzes with a violent, rattled energy. “I didn’t like seein’ him touch you like that.”
Your stomach sours, a pit opening up that your anxiety plummets through. Fuck. You’re ruined in eyes. Can’t pretend you’re anything other than what you are now.
“I’m sorry you had to,” you breathe. “Really. I thought you weren’t coming. I’m saving to fix my car so—”
Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t what I meant.”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He opens the door for you, and, like always, gives you a palm to balance on as you settle into the cab.
The answer never comes.
Instead of shutting the door and moving back around the cab, he braces one thick forearm against the open door, and looks you over. Joel hooks his opposite hand against the back of your knee, thumb rubbing a soft circle into the flesh.
You reach for him, untucking the hem of his shirt from his jeans to run your fingers along his belly, the indents of hidden hipbones. You get as far as unbuttoning his jeans when his free hand captures both of yours. “Hold up. I need to. . .We gotta talk.”
“Oh?”
“How do you—” He stops and thinks for a moment and you wait, touching him lightly again when he releases your hands. Joel’s skin is warm against your hands, sweat beading on his sides in the heat.
You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans. His face is shadowed and hard to read. “What? Whatever it is, I want to give it to you.”
“Ain’t that,” he says, breath hitching a little. He coils his fingers around your wrists and holds them still. You let your fingers go slack in his and he squeezes. “Hell with it,” he mutters, glancing up at you to search your eyes. You tilt your head, waiting. “I worry about you damn near all the time and—”
A bright red flag swings up in your mind and you bristle, hackles raising. You keep your voice sugary sweet anyway. “Do I need to remind you of what this is? I’m not your girlfriend, Joel—”
“I know.” He interrupts, thumb tracking back and forth over the back of your hand. It sparks a confusing warmth. “That isn’t what I meant. We go through this song and dance every week, me comin’ here and pretending like we don’t know what’s about to happen.” He shakes his head and doesn’t continue, eyes fastened to the ground for a long moment as he thinks.
His jaw works, muscle straining in his throat. Sweat beads in the hollow and you wish more than anything to taste him, sweep your tongue up his throat, feel the bristles of his beard on your lips.
You meet his gaze and hold it for a long moment when he glances back up, deciding that you believe him, that he understands. “Say it,” you murmur softly, sitting up so your faces are close together, his breath falling over your lips. “Tell me.”
The muscle in his cheek twitches, fingers tightening on your wrists, like you might disappear once the words flood out. “I want you to come to the hotel, stop comin’ to this godforsaken place. Just come to me.”
“You’re asking for—you want. . .exclusivity?”
“I guess so,” he sighs, slowly releasing your hand to rub his jaw slowly, nodding almost to himself. “I’ll send you money every Friday, even if I can’t make it out here. Book the hotel, so you can still get away if you need to. If you need somethin’ I want you to tell me. For groceries, rent, hell, I can get your car fixed—”
He seems in no mood to stop talking for once, so you cut him off, shock rolling through your body from head to toe. Already the lines between you are blurred, twisted together into something more than just paid for sex.
This is something else altogether. Uncharted, dangerous waters.
“Joel, wait, hold on. I think. . . you’re describing a sugarbaby,” you point out and he winces. “I don’t mean to offend you, but can you afford something like that?”
“You don’t gotta worry about that.”
“Kinda do,” you say, tilting your head to keep his eyes on yours. “It’s, like, the whole point.”
“I mean I’m good for it.”
You eye him, still unsure. You like Joel, but you aren’t stupid enough to trust any man at his word. “Are you serious?”
He dips his head. “Yeah.”
It’s a much more intimate and personal, formal, arrangement. How much he would expect from you, what he would pay you?
You say as much.
“I know. We got things to talk about. For now, would ya consider it?”
“Yes.” The agreement jumps out of you before you can stop it. There’s no harm, you tell yourself, no harm in thinking about it, talking about it.
Joel slides his broad, warm, achingly familiar palm up your thigh instead, leaving your fingers hooked into his belt. You stroke your thumbs there, and his breath catches, sways in the warm breeze around you.
It’s quiet for a long moment. The lot is desolate around you, the buzz, pop, and flicker of the streetlamp at the corner, the distant hum of traffic on the main road, and the ever present hum of cicadas your only company.
“Well, okay. Good.”
Your favorite word on his tongue, the sweet caress of it lodging in your belly, wanting.
“Do you want me to start calling you daddy?”
He chuckles, the sound pleasant and surprised, like a balm to your worry.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” His eyes slide over you, hook into your gaze as his fingers trail up the inside of your thigh. “Don’t mean much, but I’m sorry for being late.”
“It means something. I really didn’t want to suck that guy’s dick.” You pluck at his belt buckle again, but leave it in place when his shoulders go still. “You want to tell me about it, sweetheart? Why you were late?”
He pushes you back across the seats, the leather is warm against the wings of your shoulders. The encroaching darkness paints him in shadow, hands warmer than the humid air when they press your knees wide. “This is what I want.”
“Okay.”
Joel looks up at you, then around the deserted parking lot. Some of the lust clears from his gaze.
“This parking lot has seen much worse, Joel.”
You get the sense that he’s forcibly letting go, unfurling, untangling the hesitation. You spread your legs wider, trying to show him it’s fine, you don’t mind. It’s not like you have a whole lot of honor to defend in any case, and the parking lot is deserted besides
He leans over you, huge in the door of the truck, imposing.
Thick fingers tug your underwear to the side, slide through the folds of your pussy, already damp. “C’mere,” he says, the slurred word like a command, arm threading behind your back to tilt your hips in his direction.
The position is slightly uncomfortable until Joel squeezes your thigh and shifts your leg a little, bent against the seatback.
His gaze locks on yours, intense and dark, one finger pushing into your slowly.
Heat blooms in your chest, travels to your throat to lie there in a thick heap. He slides a second finger into you, treading now familiar ground inside you. His fingers move at an agonizingly slow pace, building up the pulsing heat inside you. His face is shadowed, brows tugged down over his eyes in concentration.
You arch your back, a moan caught in your throat when he strokes your walls, thumb heavy against your clit, messily trailing back and forth across your pussy.
He fucks you slowly, watching your face until you squeeze your eyes closed and roll your hips against his hand, back arched against the seat.
You gasp when he presses his mouth to your cunt, lips sealing around your clit, tongue flicking before he sucks harshly.
You comb one hand through his hair, blinking down at him to watch him finger you, eat your pussy like a starved man. He groans quietly when you pull his hair, short locks falling through your fingers softly.
He grips your ass and pulls you closer, encouraging you to close your legs around his head.
The warm weight of an orgasm curls in your gut, twinning around your spine, reaching feathered hands between your ribs, a sharp contrast to the way his facial hair feels on your thighs, a rough burn that you adore.
He’s patient about drawing it out, taking it slowly from you, to wind your pleasure around his fingers like puppet strings.
Joel groans against you when your cunt pulses around his fingers, the pleasure he gives you like a slow moving storm, a gradual blooming through your veins, body straining to keep his mouth against you, until it passes and exhaustion replaces it.
His tongue sweeps through your folds, he retracts his fingers and you shiver when you feel his tongue dip inside you instead. Only when you whine does he pull away, swiping his fingers on a napkin in the door.
You sit up slowly and adjust your skirt, flip down the vizor to glance at your face. There’s something in your features that you like and don’t like, like you’re freshly fucked but, rosy eyed too, virginal.
It’s terrible.
Maybe Crystal is right and you’re playing with fire, asking to be ruined, but you don’t care. Not at that moment.
“Are you at the same hotel?” You ask, just to say something, snapping the mirror closed with a bit more force than you mean to.
“Yeah, same place as always.”
You lean forward and reach up to swipe your thumb against the seam of his lips instead of lingering on whatever you saw in your own face. “Did you think I’d agree?” You ask, pulling your hand away, sucking your thumb into your own mouth for just a second, to taste yourself from his mouth.
“I was feelin’ optimistic we’d, uh, spend the night together even if you told me to fuck off,” he answers, sounding distinctly flustered. The blue night air crests in gentle waves around his features. Nighttime seems to soften him.
You smile, “Well I still haven’t really said yes.”
“Yeah,” he nods, patting your thigh, tongue running over his bottom lip. “But I got a good feelin’. You hungry?”
“Hungry?” The word is foreign to you. You can’t remember the last time someone asked you if you were hungry. And the truth is you really are. You’ve been short on groceries for days and you can’t spare the money for that sort of thing. “I, uh—”
“Yes or no?” The question is gentle. “And I’m payin’. Clear?”
This is what he wants, you realize. Someone to take care of. The realization smarts, you aren’t good at being taken care of.
This is what you’ll have to deal with, if you say yes to him.
A fist closes around your lungs. The word is hard to produce for a long moment. “Yeah, I am.”
“Good.” Joel stokes your thigh again. “Good girl.” He pulls back and closes the door, leaving you momentarily disoriented. It feels as though your whole world has spun on its side with one question.
The drive is an exceptionally short one. It doesn’t even give you time to offer to blow him.
Five minutes down the highway, a lone shack sits at the side of the road. Yellow and pink neon light blinks down at you, an electric buzz in the air as Joel parks and you stand in line together. It’s the first time you’ve been in public with him somewhere other than the club.
Does he want everything that usually comes along with a sugarbaby? Paying for you and fucking, sure. But being out in public together? The companionship aspect?
You watch him, wondering if you want it. Wondering if you aren’t already living some part of it. Crystal’s words flash through your mind again.
“So, what’re you thinkin’ about?”
Joel is squinting at the sign, bathed in a pink glow. Your legs still feel shaky from his mouth and fingers and something in your belly clenches at the sight of him just standing there.
You peer at the menu with more ease than Joel seems to manage. “Need me to read it to you?” You ask, digging an elbow into his ribs softly.
“Ain’t that old.”
They have ice cream, which seems to be what most people have ordered. But you need real food, something that won’t make you sick after a bite or two on an empty stomach. “Fries. And a cherry coke.”
“Cherry, huh?” He slides an arm behind your back and squeezes your hip. Aside from a middle aged woman that glances at you sharply, no one pays you any mind. “That where the name comes from?”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, Yeah. So maybe I have a penchant for cherry.”
“Uh-huh. You sure you don’t want a burger or somethin’?”
The thought of having to perform for him later, fuck him, with a full belly makes you feel ill. “Very sure.”
He orders and pays and you try not to feel weird about him buying you a three dollar basket of fries and a coke. Especially when he apparently wants to help you with rent and to fix your car. It chafes. You hadn’t sacrificed, entered this life at all, to have someone else take care of you.
You sit on the lowered tailgate of the truck and listen to the fuzzy sound of the radio playing from the shack, slowly eating one fry at a time, watching Joel’s hands, the curve of his knee hitched on the bed of the truck, pressed into your hip, the other extended toward the ground.
The night is exceedingly calm, the air balmy and a little cooler than in the city.
One by one the other diners toss their trash and drive away in a cloud of red dust, leaving you and Joel looking out over the pocked, jagged landscape alone.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he says eventually. “You sure you’re all right?”
He’s still thinking about that other man.
You grin and rub a comforting hand against his forearm. “Just thinking about what you said. Do you come here a lot?”
He shakes his head and lets you put your legs into his lap as you sip your drink, crushing his burger wrapper in his hands. “First time. I drive by it every time I come through this way though. Usually busy.”
“How’d you know I was hungry?” You ask, offering him your drink.
“I pay attention,” he says, taking a long sip.
You chew on your bottom lip. A ring of truth crowds his words. By Friday, you’re usually on your last couple bucks and hungry. Have you been hungry every time you were with him? You hadn’t even noticed.
You don’t have a sharp, witty come back for him, not this time. Being exposed to the night air, stars winking bright in the sky above you, the soft singing of the shack’s owner makes an intense melancholy wrap around your chest. You feel small suddenly, and like you’re making all the wrong choices, that none of it will matter in the end. Your family will still be right about you.
Joel rubs your calf slowly and seems content to sit in silence. You chew on the end of your straw and watch him. “You know you’ve never kissed me?”
“Yep.”
If he were any other man, you wouldn’t dare ask. You brace anyway, because you’ve learned the hard way that they can flip on a dime. “You don’t want to?”
He thinks for a moment. “I wasn’t sure it was somethin’ you did. And I didn’t want to—Jesus, I already felt so bad about what I was doin’.”
Expectation lingers in his gaze, a question unasked. “Some men don’t like it, so I always wait for them to do it.”
“Don’t like it?”
“Who wants to kiss the mouth of a dirty little whore?” You say lightly, a joke but not really. “Putting your cock there is fine, of course.”
He clears his throat and seems ashamed for some unfathomable reason. “Don’t get all guilty about it, Joel. I really do like blowing you.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. He hesitates, then says, “I like eating your pussy, since we’re exchangin’ truths.”
You laugh, the sound exploding out of you. He grins when you clutch your belly. He doesn’t often smile with his whole face, and he’s more handsome for it when he does. “Well,” you laugh, “I didn’t need you to tell me that. It’s painfully obvious.”
“Uh-huh. C’mere.”
Tears of mirth are still rolling down your cheeks when he pulls you close and kisses you. It’s surprisingly chaste, or at least begins that way. His tongue sweeps in against yours when you open your mouth. It’s intoxicating and intimate and you don’t ever want to stop. You can feel his beard scrape your cheeks and lips and you like the sharp feeling of it.
He tastes like cherry coke.
“Cherry,” he says against your mouth when he eventually pulls back, “Yeah, I get that now.”
summary: You never expect Joel to come back, let alone to search for you.
part 2 to cherry
warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [f!masturbation, voyeurism aka joel watches reader self pleasure, piv sex, f!receiving oral, clothed man, naked woman], praise kink, a little bit of a voice kink, reader is a sex worker, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, smoking (reader and joel), mentions of violence and self destructive tendencies
a/n: please let me know what you think! this chapter is a lot of character establishment and, ahem, smut. maybe some of you can guess where this is going, id love to hear if you have theories even if its a little early to have them. thank you for reading!
You don’t think about Joel.
He was unexpected and rare, and you would never see him again, nor be with that kind of man in a place like this ever again, and daydreaming about it wouldn’t help anyone. It would make everything that much harder.
A couple weeks go by and you forget about him, just another in a long line of men.
The only time you dare to let your mind drift to him is late at night in your own bed, fingers between your legs in the dark, the remembrance of his voice whispering praise.
It always pushes you over the edge.
It’s not the first time you’ve tucked away an unexpected part of a man, kept in your imagination, to get off. That Joel’s voice keeps cropping up when you’re alone, least expecting it, for much longer than some others, means nothing.
But then, one evening, things change.
“Cherry!” Chastity hisses your name as soon as you cross the threshold into the club, metal hinges squeaking as it swings shut behind you. It’s a little conspicuous, to be flocked together like a bundle of flighty hens near the doors. She’s standing with Crystal, cigarette hanging from the side of her perfect pouty lips, looking distinctly unhappy.
It makes you nervous. The owner of the club knows you operate there, but he doesn’t like you being too obvious about it, and you would not put it past him to call the cops. He has the benefit of denial, and safety of his sex, that you don’t.
“That fella is back. Asked for you by name at the bar.”
“Who?”
“I never got his name that time he was here.” She taps her chin, thinking. “Older, real deep accent, kinda gruff,” she muses. “Ringing any bells?”
A blankness sweeps though your mind, shuffling through the last few men you’ve been with, unable to pin down who she’s talking about. It’s such a remote possibility that it doesn't even occur to you, until—
“Oh, c’mon, Cherry, that real sad one everybody talked to—”
“Joel?”
Her eyes flash, face lighting up. “Is that his name?”
You blink at her tone, the excitement in it.
Crystal tilts her head at you, cool and assessing. “What's your deal with him?”
You shake your head, meeting her gaze head on. “Don’t have one.”
“He’s at the bar,” Chastity chirps, nudging you. “Don’t keep him waitin’. Go on.”
Surprise sends a thrill swirling up from your belly when you peek out onto the floor and catch sight of a familiar silhouette. “Damn, he really is.”
“Bad thing?” Crystal asks as Chastity’s fingers dig into your arm.
“I just didn’t think he’d come back.” And you are good at this, good at reading men, knowing things about them, and he’s surprised you. A vinegary squirm of worry twists in your belly. A man fixated on one prostitute never bode well.
Joel is sitting at the bar, leaning against the wooden countertop like he never left in the first place. “Did you fuck him?”
“Blew him,” you answer distantly, trying to decide how to feel.
“Must have been some head.”
Maybe you’d been a little more enthusiastic than usual, but at the end of the day it had just been a blowjob. No reason not to put his dick in whoever was available.
Maybe it had more to do with the other stuff. The dead wife stuff, the guilt stuff. The telling him he was special stuff.
Fuck.
Crystal looks on, her gaze heavy and disapproving. “Be careful,” she advises, head tilting, eyes narrowing. “Remember what I told you.”
You need no reminders, no cautioning.
Still, you cross the floor, navigating tables, girls carrying drinks, dancers leading men away for private dances, the raucous laughter of tables full of drunk, reaching hands, though not for you, not yet.
Maybe not at all, at least not tonight.
And, despite yourself, despite the worry like a lead balloon in your chest, you feel an undeniable thrill. A ribbon of need unspools in your belly, slips lower between your legs.
Maybe he’ll fuck you this time.
Joel turns when you near the counter, like he senses you behind him. He straightens and nods, appraising eyes falling over your body. You tuck your elbows in delicately and tick out your hip when you stop next to him.
“Hi, sweetheart. Didn’t expect to see you here again,” you smile and lean against the counter, crossing one heeled foot behind the other.
“Howdy,” he greets. “I’m sure you’ll tell me why you didn’t expect it. Teach me some kinda lesson.”
You smile and press one hand over his forearm. He’s wearing an olive green t-shirt that softens his eyes. “Lesson? Did I learn you somethin’ mister cowboy?”
He ignores your jibe. “Suppose you did.”
“Hm,” you lean in. “Is that an invitation?”
“Yeah. If you’re willin’.”
“Oh, well, of course, Joel, anything for you.”
Joel eyes you for a minute and you just smile at him. “I swear, I have never met a man that didn’t take a whore at her word.”
That gets you a surprised laugh. “Now, darlin’—”
“C’mon,” you interrupt, “let’s get a move on.” You tilt your head and glance around. “Unless you’d like to peruse your options a little more—”
He rolls his eyes and places a hand against your back, guiding you back toward the entrance you’d just come through. You aren’t sure you’ve ever had such a quick turn around.
Crystal and Chastity have blessedly already departed from their station just inside the door, though you can feel their eyes on your skin, somewhere in the shadows of the club behind you.
Joel holds the door open for you and ushers you through it ahead of him, fingers light on your spine.
The air is warm, the still setting sun an orange flame on the horizon, coating the parking lot in shades of rose and salmon. The smell of warm asphalt and gasoline rises up to meet you, settled between the dust of the wasteland beyond the town.
“I came back twice, and you weren’t here,” he says as you cross the lot toward his truck. “Or, maybe, you was busy with, uh, somebody else.”
You frown. “Didn’t someone else offer?”
“Yep. Wasn’t interested.”
“Really?”
“Figure we kinda got an understanding about each other. After the last time.”
Hm, so you were right. It was the emotional unloading that brought him back, not the head he’d gotten.
It was probably easier not to have to explain everything again. Not that he would have had to, the second time around. He could have just fucked someone, since his secrets were safely lain with someone else.
And was it really easier to come back three times? To this desolate stretch of highway? That fancy hotel he stayed in could probably press a button and get him an escort.
“Well,” you answer. “Just for any future endeavors, you should know I’m strictly only there on weekends, usually only Fridays and Saturdays.”
Joel opens the passenger door for you. You slide into the shadow of it, leaning back against the seat, the fabric cool on the backs of your thighs.
“All right,” he leans one forearm against the side of the open door, opposite hand on his hip. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He’s close to you. The frame of his body blotting out the streetlight behind him. The evening light softens his features a little, rounds out his jaw, lightens the color of his eyes.
A soft tug behind your navel gives rise to worry in your chest.
You’re glad he came back, more than that, you’re flattered by it. Your thirst to be praised slaked by the knowledge that he had come back for you, waited for you.
The rational part of you knows it means nothing at all. You’ve spent enough time with enough men, to know they’ll fuck pretty much anything.
You lean forward and loop your fingers into his jeans, tugging him toward you as dusk settles in, a quiet yawn of the day slotted between you and nothing else. If you offered, would he let you get him off right here?
His skin is warm against your fingers, the wings of his hipbones muted through a layer of fat and muscle.
There’s a decision to be made here, how close he wants you to actually get. Does he want to talk about his wife again? Does he want you to know more about him? There’s always the possibility they turn violent, if they thought you were treading where you shouldn’t be. A hard lesson learned and never forgotten.
A sudden thought occurs to you as you ponder, tugging and touching until his hips are flush with yours. The hand on Joel’s hip moves to brace against the top of the truck. “Were you there through the week? Joel, everybody knows a club like that on a weekday is just sad.”
“All right,” he mutters, and, you notice, rolls his eyes. It makes you smile. “I’ll keep Saturdays in mind.” He slides out of your grip and instead offers you a hand to balance on. You accept it, arranging yourself delicately on the seat, tucking your legs to the side, as Joel watches.
You lift a brow when he doesn’t shut the door, eyes hooked into your legs, the fabric of your dress bunches the very tops of your thighs. At the very least, he’s letting himself look at you freely this time. “I can flash you if you want.”
His gaze jerks up to yours. “I have really pretty panties on today,” you offer.
There’s a startled quality to his features that makes you laugh. He doesn’t know how to handle you, what to make of you, and you like that.
But then he leans down, his face very near to yours. He’s looking at you, eyes hungrily sliding over your skin. Joel palms your thigh, the tips of his fingers slipping beneath your dress. “Why don’t you save it for me?”
“So you can guess the color?”
“Mhm.” His hand curves over the top of your leg, between your thighs. “Somethin’ like that.”
You uncross your ankles and let them fall open a little. “Look at you,” you tease. “What happened to all that guilt?”
“Trust me it’s there.”
“But?”
He pulls back and closes the door.
The cab is warm with trapped spring air. Joel settles in beside you, sticking the keys in the ignition without looking over at you. “She’s been gone for a little more than a year,” he says to the windshield, the falling darkness. The truck rumbles to life, the neon lights of the club passing by in a flash, the glow sprinting over his features. You notice that the box of cassette tapes is gone. “And I had my kids young.”
You nod, not sure what to say, waiting for a little more before hazarding a reply.
He struggles with it for a moment, grapples with his own thoughts and how much he wants to tell you. “You was right,” he glances back at you and away. “About bein’ lonely,” he hesitates, thinking for a long moment, “so this ain’t a bad thing.”
And that’s all you get, left to twist apart the lines and find meaning. You wring the sentences dry, looping them around your fingers, counting the words.
It strikes you suddenly that there’s something more going on. He lost his wife, the relationship more like a partnership than anything romantic. But he has children, a family, and a man that had been fulfilled for years on that alone, wouldn’t suddenly be desperate to get his dick wet.
Something else happened. Besides the loss of his life partner, that constant presence, he’d lost something else too.
You don’t dare ask. It’s too complicated and close, especially when he’d gone to such lengths to bring up the fact that at least one daughter is older than you, and possibly the other, considering you’d lied about your age.
Night falls in a blue-gray sheaf around you, casts him in shadow and light as you pass beneath streetlights. A chord in his throat strains, jaw clenching and releasing as he drives, no doubt thinking about what he’d just said to you, agonizing over it again.
You can only think about how your mouth had touched him there, had tasted the salt of his skin beneath his jaw, how you’d like to do it again. Tell him to pull over and climb into his lap and make out with him on the side of the road.
You wonder what it’s like to kiss him, to feel the scratch of his beard against your cheeks and lips.
“There’s nothing wrong with this,” you soothe, curling up on the bench seat. “Really. And I’m not just feeding you a line.”
He nods, and you reach to take his hand, put it back between your legs. “Jesus,” he mutters, but his thumb strokes the inside of your thigh.
“Am I really your first?”
“First, uh,” he pauses and doesn’t seem to know what to call you, clearly not wanting to call you what you are.
“Whore?” You offer with a grin. “Hooker? Call girl? If prostitute isn’t to your taste, of course.”
He mutters something under his breath, takes his hand from between your legs and rubs it over his chin. You like the sound it makes, the scratch of his beard against his palm. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, you’re my first.”
A laugh lurches out of you, a brighter sound than you intend. It’s genuine, and by the way his mouth twitches up, he knows it.
He puts his hand back on your leg, though not on the inside of your thigh where it had been.
The last few minutes of the drive are silent. You run your nails over the inside of his wrist, distractedly looking out the window, watching nice neighborhoods roll past until the hotel appears, it’s beacon of warm white light like a homing signal.
His hand leaves a warm imprint on your leg, like a suddenly removed branding iron, the air cool in the space left behind.
Joel once again rounds the truck and a hand down before you have a chance to even open the door. He balances his hand against your spine like you’re a lady and not a whore he’s paying for, no matter what he wants to call you.
A curl of rarely felt embarrassment slices through your chest when you cross the lush, posh lobby. The same woman is at the front desk, and she and Joel repeat their exchange from the previous time. Her face remains pleasantly professional, but you can sense her distaste this time around. A thick cloud of judgment wreathes her.
There are people milling around the lobby, perched at the bar, and thankfully none of them spare you a glance.
He’s in the same room as before, the brass plated 202 winking at you in the low light of the hall before the door swings open.
You perch on the bed like the first time and wait. He takes his time about sitting down next to you and taking off his shoes, workman’s boots, you notice, still at odds with the hotel he stays in.
Curiosity burns bright in your chest. To ask him what he does for work to dress like that and drive the truck he does, but stay at a hotel like this one.
“First whore,” you muse when he sits back with a groan. “Hm. Can I ask how I’m performing so far? Living up to the fantasy?”
He ignores your jabbering, shaking his head in a defeated, embarrassed kind of way. “Can I ask—”
“What? How I ended up fucking strangers for money?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, then rubs it over his jaw. The silvered strands stand up, mussed. You lie your hand on his thigh, reaching to push it back into place. You’re close, nearly nose to nose. “Jesus. Yeah. If you wanna put it like that.”
“What other way is there to put it?”
“Well, you been usin’ the word whore a whole lot.”
There’s the beginning of a joke there, but you take it out at the knees.
“You wanna call me a whore?”
Something dangerous and unsure bleeds into the air. You wonder if he does.
Does he want to indulge that side of himself?
It doesn’t matter to you either way. Most of them like some element of that. Degrading you in some way because they all believe you’re beneath them. The receptionist’s face flashes through your mind.
To your surprise, he brushes over it. “How’d you end up doin’ this?”
The truth burgeons at your lips and flutters free before you can think better of it. It’s rare that your tongue gets the better of you. “I need to pay for school.”
“School?” He asks, sounding genuinely miffed.
“College,” you clarify, then tilt your head at him. “Please tell me I don’t look that young.”
He rolls his eyes. It’s starting to become a familiar gesture. “You screwin’ with me?”
“Don’t you want me to screw you?” You purr. When he just gives you an unimpressed, flat stare you sigh and then stifle another laugh. “What? What do you want me to say?”
“No, it makes a whole helluva lot more sense than—” He looks at you again and you grin. You both know that whatever he says next will get him in trouble. “I was just thinkin’ when you first sat down next to me that you don’t really fit in.”
You open your mouth and he holds up a finger. “Don’t.”
“Fine,” you smirk. “I’m very privileged that I don’t . . . fit in, I suppose. I very easily could have.” You think about leaving it at that but figure you might as well just tell him. “I grew up poor. I worked all through undergrad, forty hours a week and classes and everything. And then. . .by some miracle I get into my dream grad program. No one else in my family has ever gone to college. My assistantship takes up any time I’m not working on my dissertation but it also doesn’t pay nearly enough.”
You feel something tinge in the pit of your belly when you realize he’s actually listening to you. Paying attention to the words coming out of your mouth, gaze intently focused on you. “Dissertation,” he mutters. Then, “Workin’ in retail not stimulatin’ enough for you?”
If anyone else had said it, maybe you’d take offense, but it comes out of his mouth like a lighthearted joke not a judgment. Though maybe he’s judging you, too. You tell yourself you don’t really care if he is, but it’s not quite ever true.
And, the people who use your services are very often the ones who judge and detest you most.
“Too much time for too little money,” you dismiss with a wave of your hand, as nonchalantly as you can. “I waited tables for a while but. . .I don’t know. I was tired and falling behind because the shifts were so long and. . .more money, I guess, for less hours, doing this. I thought about being a stripper but I’m not athletic enough.” You tack the joke on at the end, to redirect him away from what you’d just revealed.
It gets a laugh out of him. “You lyin’ to me about all this?”
“Cross my heart it’s all true. That kind of sob story only works on the very worst kind of man.”
So many of them want to hold the misery of your life in the cup of their palm, taste the daddy issues and loneliness and poverty and think themselves better, and believe you broken and easy, something they could close their fist over and feel the shards of your life bite into their hands.
“Guess I’m not that kind of man, since you told me.”
“I don’t get that sense.” You smile, “There’s time for you to disappoint me yet, though.” You expect it. His lust will eventually turn to disgust.
Joel just nods, and then touches your knee with the backs of his fingers. “You want these shoes off, darlin’?”
“Do you want me to take them off?”
“Not what I asked,” he corrects. “They look mighty uncomfortable.”
“Actually they’re not too bad.” Still, you nod, and he kneels to take them off for you. He slips one heel off, then the other, and you still can’t believe you’re here with him again. Your rarity, kneeling in front of you.
His thumb divots the flesh of your ankle, the scrape of the calloused pad tracing over your skin.
You tilt back as he works his way higher, lying against the softness of the comforter somehow already imbued with his scent. It’s cool against your skin, against the flushed and warm feeling sweeping over your skin.
Was he here the night before? Did he nap there earlier? Leave his clothes on the bed while he showered? You imagine all the paths his hands might have taken, all the ways he might have led himself back to that skeevy club. Did he have to convince himself to come back? Had he looked for you again the very next night?
Anticipation makes you squirm, and he chuckles under his breath.
Maybe there’s more to him than you thought.
Good. It just means there’s more to discover, more to dig your teeth into.
“So, what do you want from me tonight, Joel?” You stretch your arms behind your head and arch your back, lifting one foot onto the bed to tuck beneath your opposite knee.
Joel presses his fingers higher until they catch under the hem of your dress. “I wanna watch you.” His fingers touch your underwear and a knot of anticipation curls in your belly.
You hadn’t expected an answer, not when you’d done most of the leading the time before.
“Watch me?”
He doesn’t elaborate and you sense he’s a little remiss to actually ask it of you, whatever he wants.
“Like with another person or—”
“No,” he clips in, hooks his fingers in your panties but doesn’t pull them off. His hands are warm on your hips, against the curve of your ass. You want him take them off, want him to tug them down your legs and spread you open. You help him along, folding your legs open until your dress is bunched entirely around your hips. “No, nothin’ like that.”
He shifts one hand to your core, rubs your pussy through the thin fabric still covering you, not looking away from your face as he does.
It takes you a moment to realize what he means. “Oh. And you’ll just watch?” Hesitation works over his face, then something else you can’t quite put a finger on. “Just want to make sure you don’t want to fuck me.”
He snorts. “Not that I don’t.”
“Then what’s this about?” You coo, gripping his forearm, pressing his hand harder against your core. Just the pressure makes your pussy clench. “I promise I can do better if you let me touch you.”
He leans over you, one hand braced against the mattress. “I wanna know what you look like when you come. You didn’t last time. Couldn’t get it outta my mind that I don’t know. That I didn’t get to see it.”
Oh.
“I’m sure you could make something up. Surely your imagination isn’t that poor?”
He just shakes his head, looks you over. Indulging in the simple act of looking at you, gaze hooked into your skin and tangled in your hair. It’s delightful.
The ghost of his voice praising you echoes through your mind, whispered words you’ve replayed when you’re alone. You arch your back, not willing to admit that you desperately want him to tell you how pretty you look.
“I could fake it,” you tease, voice breathless to your own ears.
“I’d know.”
You roll your eyes. “Sure, sweetheart.” He doesn’t answer, eyes flicking over you again. You’ve been looked at a lot over the last year, but this is something different.
It’s heavier.
Needier, somehow.
Like he’s not just finally looking at you but really seeing you. Seeing more than a warm hole at the very least.
“How do you want me, Joel?”
His eyes drift to yours, something hungry and wanting deep in his gaze. Joel’s hand caresses your hip, slips unhurriedly down your thigh, and comes to a stop at the hinge of your knee. His thumb slides against the back of your knee, against the sensitive, oft untouched spot. A shiver traces gooseflesh along your skin, nipples stiffening against the fabric of your dress.
Joel watches you closely and doesn't immediately answer.
It’ll be agony to touch yourself for him when you want so badly for him to do it for you.
“This will be the second time you don’t touch me,” you say archly, tone just a little haughty, just a little whiny.
“Didn’t say nothin’ about not touchin’,” he teases, blunt nails tracing up your side to cup your tit in his hand, tweaking your nipple sharply.
You gasp and push your chest into his hand. He squeezes the supple flesh, big hands trailing down your body again, fitting against the curve of your waist. “Lift your hips.”
It’s easy to oblige, and you’re rewarded with a warm, “Good job.” It makes your belly clench like nothing else. He slides your panties off, leaves them caught around your ankles, a desperation fixed in his gaze when he pushes his fingers between the folds of your cunt.
His thumb finds your clit, swirling slowly against you, the pressure and pace agonizingly slow, but expert.
Your eyes roll back, lips parting, and a distant flutter of thought murmurs in the back of your mind that his wife had been a lucky woman.
He abruptly takes his hand away, leaving you chasing nothing, hips bucking toward an invisible master for a long moment.
“You comfortable here?”
“Ye-ah.”
His chin tilts down. “I’m really askin’ you here, darlin’.”
You feel flushed and stupidly horny but manage an inkling of sass in response. “And I really am.”
He chuckles. “You wanna get undressed for me?”
Actually, you’d love nothing more than to have the warmth of his gaze settling heavily over your naked skin.
You sit up slowly, and he pulls away as you do, staying nose to nose with you for a long moment before he’s gone, plucking your underwear from around your ankles before he goes.
He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, folds his hands together across his belly and waits, head tilted. It’s a go on then kind of look. It’s kind of infuriating, and more than a little hot.
“Hm.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just wondering about that guilt again,” you smile and curl your fingers around the hem of your dress and shift onto your knees. Your thighs feel damp; you wonder if he can see it.
He raises a brow at you. “I’m ignorin’ my better judgement.”
“You must want this pretty bad then.”
He dips his head once in a nod, eyes fastening to the carpet. “I really wanna know.”
“So I shouldn’t start begging for your huge cock to be inside me?”
He laughs, the sound genuine and thick. “You don’t want that?”
“Penetration doesn’t do much for me.”
“Ain’t that honest of you.”
“I thought that was what you wanted? Thought you really wanted to know?”
He nods, jaw ticking in clearly repressed amusement. “Yeah. So only beg for it if you really want it, I guess.”
You peel your dress up and over your head, letting it fall to the floor at your side, leaving you bare. You draw your hands up your side to cup your tits in your hands. Joel just looks eyes hooking into different parts of you, the meat of your thighs, the curve of your waist, your breasts when you let your hands drop, nipples hardening in the cool air of the room.
You fold yourself backwards against the headboard and prop your legs open wide. “So?”
Being naked in front of veritable strangers has become a strange but regular part of your life. You’re almost used to it. Still, some part of your mind breaks off from the rest of you, walling off the mortification at being that exposed. At times, it’s like you’re gazing down at yourself, floating above it all.
His eyes slide up from your cunt to your face, gaze working across you in starts and stops when he suddenly stands.
You frown and start to draw your legs in but—
It’s that fucking pillow situation all over again. He gives you the cushion from the chair, so your arm and elbow are supported. It’s a much more comfortable position if a little less sexy. “Gentleman,” you say softly when he moves away again.
He snorts, and you understand how rare a man you have with you. Not just for someone like you, but at all. He doesn’t just look, he sees. It makes you feel more vulnerable than sitting naked in front of him does.
But somehow not in a bad way.
You swallow and try for levity, to chase away that ache behind your breastbone, of being seen. “I bet you wish I’d left the heels on.”
He doesn’t answer and your cunt pulses. “What do you want from me, Joel?”
“Do it like I ain’t here.”
“That is a tough ask.”
And a vulnerable one. It feels more intimate than if he was inside you.
“Just wanna know what you look like.”
You shift your hips, heat blooming in your belly at the look on his face, the way he just sits there, hesitantly leaning forward. “Okay,” you murmur. You let your eyes flutter shut, running one hand down your belly to your pussy, spreading your legs wide.
All in all, not the weirdest demand you’ve ever gotten. It is the first time a man has insisted on knowing what you really look like when you come. It’s also not really a demand. If you’d have said no, you doubt he would have tried to convince you otherwise, or made a fuss at all.
But why? Why does he need to see so badly?
Because. . .what? You made him come? It’s a little funny.
And you want to fake it, just to know for yourself that he wouldn’t be able to tell. But something in you really wants him to know too, so you won’t. He wants to see? Fine, you’ll show him.
Still conscious that he’s there, that it’s a show too, you push out your chest, part your lips, hope you look sufficiently like you might be in a porno.
It helps that he teased you, touched you. God, you’d like to know what his fingers feel like inside you. His are bigger than yours, would stretch you wider, reach deeper parts of you.
The wet sound of your cunt fills the room, the quiet pant of your breaths clouding the air. You start with one finger and quickly press another inside. You wish he would have let you come before, that he would have kissed down your body and put his mouth on you.
Your whole body clenches tight, pussy contracting around your fingers, when you think of him lifting his head, mouth wet from you, to say you were doing good.
He could just talk and you’d probably find a way to have an orgasm without any touching at all.
You slide your other hand from your belly to your chest, thinking of his hand there earlier, squeezing, how much skin he’d covered, and pluck at your nipple. The image of his mouth there follows, the sound of his voice vibrating against your chest, his cock at your entrance, slowly pushing forward, giving you time to adjust to his size because of course he’d do that.
Good girl.
You can practically taste the words.
You arch your back and moan softly, lips parted to the cool, filtered hotel air, thrusting your fingers steadily.
Even in the fantasy, he doesn’t kiss you.
“Christ. Open your eyes.”
The demand is a grunt pierced with want.
You blink into the dim light of the room that suddenly feels brighter than the sun. Blinking is like reentering Earth’s atmosphere. It’s too warm, the cascading rush and ache of pleasure intensifying when you meet his eyes. A hot flushed feeling rushes into your chest, makes you feel like all the air was suddenly sucked out of the room.
“Will you touch yourself too?” You ask, sliding your fingers out, spreading yourself for him, the slick pooling between your thighs, the clench of your pussy around nothing. “Please?”
He shakes his head again. “You ain’t came yet.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Then, a little hesitantly, “What are you thinkin’ about?”
You hesitate, watching him rub a rough palm against his jeans, the prominent bulge forming there. If you tell him the truth, that you’d been thinking about him, he probably wouldn’t believe it.
“You aren’t going to believe me,” you murmur, curling your fingers, thumb sweeping messily over your clit.
“Try me.”
“You.”
“Now that’s a damn line if I ever heard one.”
But there’s a pretty flush in his cheeks, a desperation in the way he shifts his hips. He doesn’t give much away, but not everything can be hidden. “It usually is a line. But right now, it isn’t.” You let your eyes flutter shut again.
“What about me, darlin’?” His voice is strained, and you want to look at him so badly but don’t.
You don’t answer immediately, thinking about him fucking you again, calling you good, saying you were doing good.
“Thinkin’ up somethin’ believable?”
You look at him again, and bite your lip. “It’s just that you told me not to beg for your huge cock,” you say breathlessly, pinching your nipple, hips thrusting against your own hand. “But that’s what I want.”
“What?” He laughs a little, the sound choked. “Though it didn’t do nothin’ for you.”
“You’re using your hands, too.” And then, almost without meaning to, you continue, “Wanna know what it feels like inside me.” You moan the last word and don’t mean to, the line between your own desire and this being work becoming more blurred by the second. It isn’t supposed to feel this good, you aren’t supposed to actually want him.
“What else, honey?”
“I’m thinking about you eating my pussy.”
The image comes suddenly to the front of your mind again, the bow of his head between your legs, the strain of his vocal chords when he groans into you, the scrape of his beard against your thighs. You know he’d make it good, that he’d use his fingers too, push them so deep inside you you’d discover new corners of yourself. You see him kneeling, his clenched eyes and his hand fisting around himself, the tilt of his brow when he touches himself because he just can’t help it.
“Oh, fuck—” You mutter and then the quiet, fuzzy crash of your orgasm floods your veins, cunt pulsing. You rub your clit through the pleasure, a noisy little whine bringing you back to yourself, that you pinch off, throttling it midair.
Too real, you think distantly, muscles spasming and then going loose in bliss.
A few minutes pass in silence, the sound of your breathing and his and the shush and hum of the central air.
“You were quiet.”
You blink lazily at him, stretching so your back arches, trying to remember that you’re just his whore right now. It’s work, it’s now about you.
“I thought you wanted authentic?” The corner of his mouth curls, and worry creeps into your throat. Stupid, to really show him. Every ounce of bliss is suddenly sucked from your veins. “Was that not good? Let me make it up to you—”
“No,” he interrupts, sounding very serious about it. “No. Nothin’ like that. You did real good.”
Good.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Okay.”
You watch him shift uncomfortably and rub a palm against the bulge in his jeans again and imagine him stroking his cock, his hand so much bigger than yours on it. Your mouth waters, but you feel unmoored, adrift. You try to shake yourself, get a handle on yourself and climb back into the cradle of this role you know so well. You’re not you right now. “C’mere, darlin’.” When you look at him, he just says, “Said you wanted it.”
A command, this time.
Better, you don’t have to think, don’t need the moment to shake yourself.
You rise and saunter over to him, bracing one hand against his shoulder to go to your knees. Joel stops you, presses his hand to your hip, fumbles in his back pocket for a wallet, from which he pulls a condom.
“Let me,” you coo, sinking to your knees between his spread thighs, feeling the tense, thick muscle beneath your fingertips.
Joel hisses when you unzip his jeans and pull his cock from the confines, giving it a few strokes, tracing the weeping slit at the head with your thumb. He’s silken and firm in your hand and part of you just wants him to ask for your mouth again so you can taste him.
You tear open the foil and roll it on with deft fingers, eliciting a groan that makes your cunt leak. “My, my, sweetheart, you are so sensitive.” You climb onto the chair with him, straddle his lap. He looks up at you with a faraway look in his eyes.
You stroke one hand through his hair, the delicious realization that he’s still fully clothed making you drip, though you wish to feel his skin against yours.
Joel is gentle with you when he guides you onto his cock slowly, hands anchored on your hips, fingers denting your flesh.
You breathe through the slight burn of the intrusion, the angle, until it subsides into that heavy, full feeling.
You want to languish in the feeling, just stay seated there, but this isn’t for you.
Before you can lift your hips, Joel’s hand is sliding along your spine, up and down, over the blades of your shoulders, down the middle of your spine and back up. “Stay there,” he mutters. “Just like that.”
Your nipples harden, a groan gets caught in your chest. “Joel,” you whisper, just to say something, clenching around him. “Fuck.”
“Thoght penetration didn’t do anything for you?”
It doesn’t. But usually when you’re getting fucked it isn’t like this. “I—”
His palm fits against the back of your neck, right where your skull meets your spine. A bolt of pleasure races down your spine, curling hungrily in your lower belly, waiting.
He tilts your head back gently, carefully, while his other hand explores your body, touching all the places you take for granted. It’s demanding and you like that it is.
His hands are hungry, greedy in their exploration. And you love it. You want him to want to touch you.
It’s a part of this that you like, that you don’t like to admit that you like. That fucking stranger, losing control, is like a drug. It’s heady. Fucked up, sure. But it makes you feel good in the moments you don’t think about it. It only sometimes ends badly.
Joel’s hand settles at the dip of your waist and slowly traces its way upwards.
You let your eyes flutter shut when he circles your nipple slowly with his thumb, cupping your tit in the wide expanse of his palm. When he leans in and sucks the taut peak into the warmth of his mouth, you groan and dig your nails into his bicep.
Wet rushes between your thighs, hips involuntarily rolling forward.
The rough denim feels good, and the destructive part of your brain hopes that it leaves a mark on your flesh.
Joel gives your other breast the same treatment, suckling at your nipple until you whine this time, fingers of pleasure racing across your skin like licks of lightning.
“Keep doin’ that,” he commands.
You push your hips against his, setting a slow, rolling pace. From the angle he holds you at, you can’t shift your weight onto your knees to really fuck him.
His hand slides back down, across your belly to the apex of your thighs. He leans back, to look at his cock disappearing inside you, you would guess. You hear more than see him lick his thumb and press it to your clit, an immediate, steady, heavy pressure that makes you jerk in his arms.
“Careful there, darlin’,” he mutters before his mouth closes around your nipple again. “Said I was using my hands too, right? When you were thinkin’ about me.”
He releases your neck then, and you tilt forward to brace your hands against his shoulders. You set a steady pace.
There are parts of this you have to fake.
Sometimes, oftentimes, it’s all fake.
It frightens you a little that none of this is.
The moan that looses from your throat is yours, the words you want to beg him with are your own.
His hips lift to meet yours, and the room grows warm, the salty, musky scent of sex blotting out the astringent, cleaner smell. It mingles with his cologne and you hope it sticks to your skin. You hope it says layered on your skin, that you can bring it all the way back to your apartment with you.
It makes you feel insane.
Your pussy contacts around him, the beginnings of an orgasm tightening your core. “Come, baby,” he says. “I can feel it.”
A desperate plea catches in your throat, your thoughts a tangled mess of confusing want and knowledge that this isn’t supposed to be something you want. “Please,” you murmur. “Joel.”
The sound of his name on your lips sets him into a frenzy. Thrusting harder, fingertips more searching, more demanding.
“I got to see it, now lemme feel it.”
Your second orgasm makes your vision flash white, swirling around you in waves as Joel groans in your ear and rocks your hips against him until he stills, coming hard. You reach between your bodies and touch where you connect, some insane part of you wishing you could have felt him come inside you.
You ache, in a good way.
Joel tucks his arms around you and you have no choice but to lie your head against his shoulder, kissing the space, your taut nipples brushing against his shirt.
Minutes pass in silence as you both come down, breath evening, pulses slowing, Joel’s palm keeping a steady pressure against your spine.
“Stand up for me?” He asks. His hand stills, and you realize you were about to fall asleep on his chest.
You’ve fallen asleep with clients before, but not like this, not in their arms and int their laps. Embarrassment flashes through you with a vengeance. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” you mutter and pull back. “I’ll go, I meant to—”
“No.” He breathes the word out quick. “No. Just want to clean you up.”
When his cock slips out of you, you feel empty. Still, you lie back on the bed, naked and touch yourself, feeling the mess he’d made of you.
He ties off the condom and trashes it before zipping himself up. Your muscles ache, a wrung out feeling.
Joel returns to you and hands you a washcloth. You’re grateful he doesn’t try to do it for you. The intimacy of that might have actually killed you.
You pull your dress back on and wait, expecting him to hand you money and see you out.
“You mind if I smoke?” You ask.
“Go on.:
You lean over the side of the bed and feel his hand brushing against the back of your thigh, pushing your legs open. A whine pushes past your lips when he touches your pussy. “Can I see you next weekend?”
“I’m still here right now,” you turn on your back and light your cigarette, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “You can fuck me again, Joel.”
You like the way his hands look on your thighs, the way your knees look against his hips.
“Might be too old for that right away.”
“Ah.”
“Can I taste you?” The question is quietly murmured, his eyes still locked on your cunt. “Then I can fuck you again.”
Your body clenches and you grab his wrist. “Yeah. Please.”
He does just that, eats your pussy and then fucks you again. He grips your hips in his hands and fucks you slow and deep from behind. It takes everything in you not to lose your head and drool into the pillow he places beneath your chest, nipples brushing the sheets.
You smoke again and Joel asks you something about school, about your life.
When he finally drives you back to your car, insistent on it, frowning when you tell him you’d taken a cab the last time, fingers of sunshine are reaching across the empty, desolate lot.
He catches at your elbow, there’s a flush of something in his face, something you can’t quite put your finger on.
“Will I see you next weekend?”
You blink. “Do you want to, Joel?”
“Cherry,” he takes your chin in his hand then strokes your cheek, saying your name just to say it. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Then I’ll see you next weekend.”
“You’ll wait?”
You raise a brow and push open the door. “No. Just don’t be late.”
He doesn’t drive anyway until you wave, safely inside your car.
summary: Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.
warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [m!receiving oral], reader is a sex worker, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, smoking (r and joel), loneliness, joel struggles a loooooot with guilt, mentions of grief and past romantic relationships, smoking, r is referred to as cherry due to not giving her actual name out (only used once, will be used sparingly), first part in a series though this part can be read as a standalone, new parts every tuesday
a/n: yeah, yeah, yeah, we've all read it before, age gap, etc. but this is my version of this kind of trope. this is the first part in a series that is mostly completely written and that I've dropped and come back many, many times, edited to hell, and then rewrote. It's like, my baby and exactly what I want from this type of relationship. write the fic you want to read and all that. let me know what you think if you read!
Curiosity ruins your life.
It sets a wheel in motion that you are powerless to stop, unable or just unwilling you might never know, like a cat that sees a sparrow beyond it’s window and decides prowling along a too high, too narrow branch, is worth it.
Your sparrow looks like a man, handsome and sad and weathered and just a little like a cowboy if you use your imagination. If this were a saloon and not a club, if there were some jaunty tune being played on a twangy piano, double swinging saloon doors at his back, not the pulse of too deep bass and the flash of girls’ teeth in the dark. Pulsingly red, dim lighting, the shadows of dancers on the walls, sticky floors and reaching hands, neon lights.
He doesn’t belong.
You watch one girl lean against the bar, proposition him, leave a few minutes later, pouting just a little.
Chastity flounces away from him, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, like she’s a girl again, like there’s something real in her name. You push away from the wall where you watch from the shadows, wasting time, decidedly not making any money though you can’t seem to help it.
You’re entranced; you need to know.
You catch her elbow as she passes by.
“What happened?”
“Just not interested, I guess.” There’s a glow in her eyes, lingering on the surface of her skin. “He’s kind, really. Not like they usually are, thinkin’ they’re doing you a favor.”
“Why does he keep coming here, then?”
This is the third week in a row he’s sat there, pretty and unavailable. You’d considered it a waste of time and put him out of your mind the first two times.
She shrugs, giving a flirty wave to someone over your shoulder. “One of my regulars is here,” she says. “I don’t know, I get the sense he’s real lonely. Maybe he just wants to sit and have a drink.”
Weren’t there better places to just have a drink, to feel less lonely?
He’s good looking and seems sad, and, well, there’s something about him, repeatedly unintentionally reeling in women he apparently doesn’t want.
It’s a waste of time.
It’s impossible for you not to walk over, sidle into his space at the bar, close but not too close.
“You look lonely,” you greet, leaning against the counter next to him. Close enough to lean in and smell his cologne, close enough that he won’t have to work to see down your shirt.
“Howdy,” he answers, eyes flicking up to yours briefly before fastening to the bartop again. He’s nursing a drink that’s long gone warm and watery.
You eye him for a moment, the sharp line of his jaw, the lines by his eyes, the way his t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. He looks tired up close, drawn in a way that points your compass toward grief. “You look like you could use another drink.”
His eyes slide up again from the cherry red wood of the bar to meet your gaze. He blinks and settles back on the stool. There’s surprise in the pretty depth of his eyes. A brown color, cast darker, maybe, because of the low lighting. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I already said no to your friend. Chastity.”
He says her name so gently, it makes you smile.
“You remember her name.”
“Well I just talked to her.”
You shrug and hop up on the barstool next to him, adjusting your skirt as you go. He might be surprised at how little a girl’s name, fake or otherwise, mattered to so many men. “Oh, sweetheart, trust me I know. I’ve been watching you all night. I won’t bother you for long, I promise.” You can’t waste your whole night with someone who won’t pay you anyway, no matter how enticing the flutter of their wing.
“Huh,” his eyes flick over you again. “Seems like there’s plenty of willin’, uh, customers, to go around.”
The way he says it makes you want to giggle, and one slips out before you reign it in. He’s oddly polite, and strangely shy. Maybe even awkward, but in a charming, warm way.
“There are,” you say and wave down the bartender, gesturing at his poor excuse for a drink with one hand. “But you’re different.”
“How d’ya figure that?”
You don’t answer for a moment, smiling at the bartender when he sits the drink down in front of you.
You push the whiskey in front of him and then slide the much held onto glass from between his loose fingers. His hands immediately circle the new glass, like it’s some kind of fucked up security blanket. It’s hard not to notice how nice his hands are, thick fingers and broad palms lined and scarred from work. He wears a watch on his left wrist, the green band worn and stained in places. His hands tell a story, that he works with them everyday, blue collared and tired, tanned from the sun, a tiny sliver of paler skin peeking out from behind the watch face.
When you look up, you find him already looking at you. At your face, surprisingly. When you push out your chest, elbows narrowing subtly in towards your waist, his eyes don’t move. You tilt your head at him and he raises a brow.
“Every girl on this floor thinks you’re a widower,” you explain with a shrug. “They have since you first came in three weeks ago. And, usually widowers out looking for a girl treat them a certain way.” Your mouth twitches up into another smile, “So you’re special.”
You glance up and meet his eyes. “And I won’t ask, but I kind of agree with them. You have that look.”
He breathes out sharply. “How’s that?”
You tip your chin against your palm. “Sad. Like you’re ashamed to be here, and really lonely, but not in a desperate way.”
“Jesus,” he mutters and takes a sip from the glass. He makes a face and pushes it away. “All that just from me sittin’ here?”
You blink and tilt your head at him. “Well, you’ve been coming back. Was I right?”
There’s a long pause, like he’s considering not responding or agreeing. But then he says, almost defeatedly, “Yeah. Most of it, anyway.” He releases the lowball glass to slide one hand down his face, fingers scraping roughly over his beard before cupping his chin.
“Sorry to hear that.”
He just nods.
“All right, well, I was being honest about not bothering you and I’ve satisfied my own curiosity. I’ll leave you be, and I’ll tell the other girls to leave you, too, if you really don’t want to be approached. I could suggest somewhere better though, where you won’t be bothered, if you only want a drink,” you lean in, brush your hand against his arm. “And, if you take my word on nothing else, take it on this: the drinks here are shit.”
His skin is warm beneath yours; there’s a scar along the top of his forearm, a scrape and pull of hair against your nails when you let your hand slide off and turn away.
Before you can vacate your seat, his hand covers yours, and you pause.
The touch is brief but warm, and enough to make you stay. You can suddenly feel the eyes of all the other girls working that night on your back, hot with jealousy, holding their breath, curious as the cat finally stepping off the window ledge, that much closer to the sparrow.
You cross your legs and prop your chin on your fist again, watching him spin the glass on the bartop and not drink it, not say anything. “You don’t really look like you belong here,” you murmur, reaching out to trace your nails along his forearm absently. “You don’t really fit in here.”
In fact, no one has ever looked more uncomfortable. Nervous, you see that all the time. But not this.
He clearly wants something that he doesn’t know how to ask for. Or, maybe it’s the shame and the loneliness again, tangled up and impossible to unravel.
“We could just talk, you know,” you say gently. “Or. . .sit together. You don’t seem like much of a talker. And sometimes it's enough to have another warm body in the room.” You don’t say it, but you could pet him like this too, nails against his wrist, catching at the dark hair on his forearm.
He fidgets with the watch on his wrist, looking down at it like it holds the answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask. After a long moment, he scoffs. “Startin’ to see why I’m special.”
You nearly backpedal, but the gruffness is directed inward, not at you. The last thing you need is to offend him, not see the swing of a fist and flinch fast enough.
You nod, knot between your shoulders smoothing away again. “Yeah. It’s usually about the. . .companionship more than anything else. You’re missing someone and that’s okay. I can fix that. Or, ease it, at least.”
He turns to look at you fully then, eyes flicking over your form, and you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. This isn’t a place you really fit in. Like him. There’s something different about you, that’s not like the others that have approached him.
You just smile at him again, run your nails along his arm again.
“Do you have somewhere quiet we can go?”
His gaze casts away, and he clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“All right, sweetheart. Ready to go now?”
A tendon in his jaw jumps when he clenches it hard, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. You’re afraid for a moment that you read it wrong, his tone and the shape of his shoulder, and he is about to hit you, but the turmoil seems to be turned inward once more.
Instead of answering, he tosses back the rest of his drink and stands, offering you a hand as he goes. “You’re right about the drinks.”
“Gentlemanly of you,” you say and take his proffered hand, balancing heavily on him as you stand. “And I usually am.”
His fingers are light against your spine as he guides you out of the dim interior of the club, the pulse of light coating him in harsh reds and blues before you push through the doors out into the parking lot. “Not a compliment I usually get.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame,” you coo as he directs you across the pavement. “You are exceedingly polite.”
This is usually the scariest part, getting into a car with a man you don’t know. By the time you get to their room you’re settled, but this is where you’re always reminded of the risk you’re taking, the very real danger you could land yourself in. That anything could happen to you, and that probably no one would know or care if something did happen, that no one would look for you.
He stops beside an older pickup truck and opens the door for you with a squeak, hand offered for you to brace yourself on again. “Well I’d like to know who isn’t calling you a gentleman,” you say with a smile as he releases your hand.
It earns you another amused huff, before he closes the door and rounds the hood.
The interior of the cab is worn but clean. In the dark, you can only make out a few details. A tree shaped air freshener hangs from the review mirror that no longer puts off any smell. There’s a woven mat spread over the leather bench seat, a friendship bracelet knotted around the gearshift, a tangle of straw wrappers in the side of the door and an empty pack of cigarettes on the dash.
The dome light flickers back on briefly when he opens his door.
You’re plunged into shadows again just as quickly, but the flash of light is enough for you to see the box of cassette tapes by your toes that you’d missed.
The truck rumbles to life beneath you, a calming purr against the bare backs of your thighs. It reminds you, just briefly, of evenings spent in a different truck. More rundown than this one, more likely to break down on the side of the road than get you to your destination, the smell of cigarettes and your mother’s perfume thick on the air, billowing up from the stained fabric seat.
Pushing the memory away, you point to the box. “Mind?”
He inclines his head slightly. “Go ahead.” Then, “Seatbelt.”
“Who bothers with seatbelts?” You ask, crossing your ankles delicately, plucking up the box to deposit on your knees.
“Me,” he grunts.
Well, so do you, but the men you find yourself with usually don’t. They want to put their hand high on your thigh and talk about their car as they drive. They want you to lean over and suck their cock.
This man puts one hand on the steering wheel, the other along the back of the seat, as he reverses out of the parking spot.
Jesus, he’s good looking. The relief of his face is sharp, plunged into shadow and light as you pass beneath streetlights.
When he pulls out onto the highway, lined with scrubbrush and cacti and hot red dust, both his hands anchor on the wheel. He doesn’t even glance over at you, and remains quiet. It unsettles your nerves further, just a little. Either he’s nervous and worried about what his dead wife would think of him, or driving you to the middle of some open plot of desert next to an emptier stretch of highway to kill you.
You pick through his cassette collection as he drives to calm your nerves and try to glean something about him from it. He asks you twice if you’re cold, despite how hot the night is. “I’m fine,” you say. “Really. It’s actually a little warm.” He rolls down the windows so the sweltering summer air filters in.
You’re grateful for the warm air, for the soft caress of the late breeze against your face.
It feels good on your skin, chilled from the air conditioning at the club. He must have noticed your cold hands when you touched him.
At a red light, you hold up one of the tape cases. “You have good taste.”
Johnny Cash, Garth Brooks, Pearl Jam, Metallica, Halican Drops are only a few you skim over.
“Well, ain’t all of it mine.”
“Whose are they?”
He hesitates for a long moment. “My daughter,” he answers eventually. “She left ‘em in here.”
You nod. “She has good taste then.”
The light flickers green and the truck rolls forward again. His pretty face is still, unmoving, revealing nothing. You admire it anyway, the curve of short graying hair behind his ears, the scar along the bridge of his nose, the way he blinks hard, thinking something over, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “That don’t bother you?”
“What?”
“That I have a kid?”
“Does it bother you?”
He doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tightens again as he runs a hand over his chin.
Thinking again, you suppose, as you cross from one side of town to another. It’s a wealthier area, usually you only see the inside of the motel down the road from the club.
Eventually, he pulls into the parking lot of a hotel, imitating Spanish style vistas in a way that feels real, the front entrance manicured and clean.
It’s a nice hotel, one of the locally owned ones with charm, not a soulless chain. He kills the engine and looks at you through the dark, through the yellow light of the buzzing streetlamp on the corner.
“Yeah.” It takes you a moment to realize he’s answering your question, if it bothered him that he has a kid. You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already out of the cab, door slamming behind him.
He’s at your side of the vehicle before you have a chance to reach for the handle, holding your door open and offering you another hand. It’s strange; you try not to think about it. “Why?”
“I figure you two must be about the same age.”
Ah. Still, surprising for a man to care.
“You must have had her pretty young.”
He doesn’t answer you again, hand pressed lightly to your back, like this is a date and you’re a lady he’s taking home, guiding you toward the brightly lit, glittering facade of the hotel.
It’s very odd and sweet and totally unexpected. This isn’t how this usually goes, how any of this usually goes, and it almost makes you resent him.
As much as you can resent someone you just met and who you’re about to fuck and forget and be paid for the privilege. Still, it stings, persistently itches at the inside of your skin, in a way that makes you wish he’d just be rough with you instead.
“You’re never going to see me again after tonight. I’m just an ear, sweetheart. You can tell me and I’ll keep all your secrets.” You say it low, leaning into his side; intimate and just a tad sweet, a secret between lovers.
“Sweetheart,” he repeats.
Oops. Maybe the familiarity was a mistake.
“What’s your name?” You course correct as he pulls open the heavy front door for you. “Doesn’t have to be your real name. Just need something to call you if you don’t want me calling you sweetheart.”
The hotel is different, too.
You’ve become accustomed to flickering neon motel signs seen though tattered window shades, rough, threadbare carpet beneath your knees, rust stained shower drains, furniture a decade or so behind the times, a persistent smell of mothballs and grease that permeated the lobby, if you even got to pass through it. Most times there was no need, a parking space right in front of a too flimsy door, a chain lock that hasn’t been attached to the wall in at least a year. The belch of refrigerant that only ever served to make you sneeze and cool down the room not at all.
“Never said that,” he grunts.
“Okay.”
The lobby is cast in a strange white, gold light. A quiet kind of elegance seeps in around the edges of your vision, deep green walls and softer cream accents, dark woods and crystal that you fear might be something more expensive.
Plants thrive in the front window, lending an air of carefully curated locality to the space. The employee at the front desk greets you as you go by, not a hint of judgement in her carefully schooled features. “Good evening, sir,” she inclines her head at the pair of you.
“Ma’am,” he answers, just as polite. You like how he sounds, how his voice touches the farthest reaches of your lungs when it reverberates against you. You feel bad for it, but you can’t help but notice how at odds he is with the place, and wonder briefly what he does for work.
The rest of the lobby is deserted.
There’s a bar, you notice, and a restaurant, empty at this hour.
The warm ghost of his fingers against your spine again urges you slowly along through a dark wooded archway and then up the stairs.
He seems mindful of your heels and how short your dress is as you ascend. You wouldn’t mind if he tried to look up your skirt or touched the back of your thighs, but he doesn’t.
“Joel,” he says when he unlocks the door to room 202 with a keycard.
“Hm.” The room is intimate but not small, dominated by a large bed, sheets a crisp, clean white. The furniture here, too, is dark and quietly luxurious. It smells nice, not like cheap disinfectant and dollar store room spray. “Joel,” you repeat, and perch on the edge of the bed, cool against the backs of your legs. “That’s a nice name. I don’t even mind if it’s not your real one.”
Joel fidgets with the lock, then slowly sits down next to you. He seems tired. “You got somethin’ I can call you, darlin’?”
“Darlin’,” you say, imitating his drawl. The sound of his voice is comforting. It reminds you of the people you had grown up around, of your mother; your own accent shaken like a bad habit when you finally got away from them. “I like the sound of that.”
“So you don’t got a name?”
“Not really, no.”
He leans close to you, there’s a hint of laughter in his voice for the first time. “That’s a damn lie.”
You smile, flutter your lashes down, just a tad of innocence. “They call me Cherry.”
“Cherry,” he repeats, trying it on for size. “Why?”
“Why not? They have to call me something.”
You aren’t fond of it, in truth, but you were loath to pick something like Chastity or Divinity or something worse. At least Cherry had a meaning, connected to something more.
“Hm.” He looks like he’s thinking it over, eyes on the far wall and then back on you, watching you curl your legs up on the bed, palms braced on the mattress behind you. “I think darlin’ might work better.”
“You’re giving me a name?”
The beginning of a smile tugs at his mouth. “I reckon so. There a reason they call you that?”
You lie back on the bed. “Doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you want, Joel. I don’t mind.”
He looks at you, eyes flitting over you again with a sudden clarity. The crease between his eyes deepens and then something firm settles in his gaze. “You mind me askin’ how old you are?”
You blink hard, surprised, like cold water was thrown over you. “How old do you want me to be?”
Something pained passes behind his eyes. That’s a first for you. That coy little response usually gets you a laugh and a worryingly low number as a reply. “That ain’t—I really want to know.”
“My real age?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
When he doesn’t answer you slide your hand across the bed, rest your finger tips at the base of his spine and work into the tense flesh. If anything, he goes more rigid, so you let your hand drop. “My, my you are riddled with guilt.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, well, if my wife knew I was with a woman half my age she’d crawl out of her grave to take me into it with her.”
You shrug. “But she doesn’t know. And we aren’t really doing anything uncouth.”
“Uncouth,” he murmurs, a huff of reluctant, almost laughter on his tongue. “You are somethin’ else.”
You aren’t sure where to place that assessment. Supposing it’s a compliment, you pay him one back. “Well, I don’t think I’m half your age.”
“You gonna tell me how old you are?” The question is barbed on his tongue, a sharp rebuke to your teasing. This is serious to him, and means the difference between spending the night with him, or wasting time getting back to the club, finding another john. You need the cash, you need him to decide.
You have only a brief moment to consider if you should lie or not. But really it’s an easy choice, older is clearly going to soothe him. You tweak it and add a couple of years. If it soothes his conscience, let him relax, the lie is worth it.
Besides, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll never see him again, after tonight.
“I’m twenty-seven.” You press one hand over your heart, “Scout’s honor.”
He squints at you. “Serious?”
“If you were a different kind of man I’d guess I’d tell you I’m freshly eighteen and you would believe it.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, not laughing.
“I look. . .younger, I guess,” you say, earnestly as you can. That is true, at least. “Which is important in this line of work. I also don’t think men can really tell how old women are, most of the time anyway. I’d show you my ID but I think that’s bad business practice.”
“No, I believe you.”
“Why? How old did you think I was?”
He thinks for a moment, and then finally sinks down beside you. He stares up at the ceiling, fingers threaded together over his stomach. “At least twenty-two is what I was tellin’ myself.”
“So if that’s half, you must be. . .forty-four?”
“Try fifty-two,” he grunts.
You think for a moment. “So not half your age, exactly,” you murmur, tentatively reaching out to touch him, waiting to see if he tenses up again when you stroke your fingers over his beard.
He really is unfairly handsome.
It’s no wonder all the girls had tried with him. A pretty, sad, lonely widower that just needed someone to talk to.
Still, you wouldn’t mind if he did want to fuck you.
“Close enough,” he says.
“Is that why you said no? To Chastity?”
Chastity, as far as you know, really is freshly eighteen.
Those dark eyes meet yours. You can see streaks of gold in them, even in the dim lighting. He doesn’t stop you when you move your hand from his face to his chest, slowly rubbing back and forth. “You’re real good at this.”
“At what?”
“Gettin’ me to say more than I should.”
“It comes with the territory. Besides, isn’t that the point? You can say it to me, and it won’t matter in a couple of hours. Like speaking into a void. Wishing it away.”
He swallows and looks back at the ceiling, covering your hand with one of his own to pause its path. You can feel the echoing beat of his heart against your hand. It’s an oddly intimate move and for a moment you’re taken aback and unsure what to do. “One of my daughters is older n’ you. Than all of them girls that—” He glances at you. “Hard not to feel like a dirty old man.”
“You’re a dirty middle aged man at worst.”
A grunt of surprised laughter leaves him. “You’re funny.”
“I know. It’s part of my charm.” You move your hand again and he releases your fingers to let you, eyes closing. The tension pulling at his neck and shoulders loosens as he finally relaxes. “It’s a good age though, really.” You notice the sheaf of little gray hairs starting to creep into the hair at his temples, a few in the bristles of his beard. It’s more honest that you usually dare to be, that you usually can be.
You like older men; like the lines by Joel’s eyes and at the curve of his cheek when he smiles, the worn, steady quality of his palms, the gray hair, the not yet faded strength in his shoulders. “A handsome age. Girls like an older guy, you know.”
“Uh-huh. Now you’re just sayin’ shit.”
You mean it though. He’s a dream, in more ways than one. You wonder what he’d think of you if you told him this isn’t your day job, that this is simply a means to an end, that you are more than this, a girl literally and figuratively on her knees.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to at least take my clothes off?” You offer. “I promise I’m pretty.”
He laughs again, still that slightly surprised huff, and the lines by his eyes crinkle up. “You’re plenty pretty right now, darlin’.”
“See? A goddamned gentleman if I’ve ever met one.”
He chuckles, there’s a looseness in his limbs now. You’ve satisfied something at least, enough to have him relax.
You don’t ask, but he tells you a little of his wife, then. It wasn’t a love marriage, it seems, but convenience. She had a child from another man, him, a daughter from another woman, and it made sense for them to be together. Logistically and realistically and for tax reasons and trust reasons. But they lived together and shared everything, adopted a third kid together. His kids moved out years before, and now he’s alone so much of the time, now. They were companions and partners and he loved her in his own way, even if it hadn’t been strictly romantic.
It had been complicated, tangled. He seems like he still isn’t sure what they really were together. But he misses her, loves her still.
“So you’ve never been in love?”
He blinks. “No. I guess not. Not like that.”
“That makes two of us.”
“You? Really?”
“It just doesn’t seem to find me.”
Joel doesn’t ask what you mean by that.
You listen and touch him, tracing the thick veins in his arms, the minute wrinkles by his eyes and the lines in his forehead. His is a face you’ll never forget for how long you’ve been gazing at him. It’s a face you won’t want to scrub from your memory the moment you leave the room.
It’s nice to know you were right, that he is just lonely, just unused to being alone.
Joel is a stranger, but it doesn’t really feel like you met him just hours before. You move his shirt and feel the outline of a scar on his side, the coarse hair on his belly, and he doesn’t stop you.
He acquiesces when you tug it further up and then over his head. Some of them don’t like to be kissed on the mouth, so you don’t, pressing your lips along his neck and chest and belly. You listen to the hitch of his breathing, the sigh of his lungs. He closes his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounds nervous.
It’s impossible for you not to notice when he gets hard. Your skimming fingers and the close heat of the room seem to have been enough. “It’s all right to want this,” you murmur. You cup the bulge of him and squeeze gently. Air hisses through his gritted teeth. “Relax,” you coo and look into his face for a moment, his closed eyes, rubbing him gently through the thick denim of his jeans, relishing in the harsh breath that leaves him.
Joel opens his eyes and meets your gaze. His stare is heavy and watchful, but he nods.
With deft fingers, you unbuckle his belt. You have to look away to get the button undone and slide his zipper down. His breathing hitches when your fingertips brush his lower stomach, the dark thatch of hair that draws your hand lower.
He groans lowly and threads one arm behind your back, tugging you into his side when you circle your fingers around the base. He’s bigger than you expected, thick. A whine spills out of his throat when you move your hand down him slowly and then back up, thumb sweeping over the already leaking head.
“You like that, huh?”
“Damn,” he mutters against your hair; the brush of his facial hair against your temple is a delicious little scratch.
You turn your head to suck a harsh kiss against the side of his throat. He tastes like the salt of sweat there. Familiar and somehow new. “Been awhile, sweetheart? Is this all it takes?” You squeeze a little tighter as you twist your hand up.
He takes the teasing in stride, but shutters in your grip all the same, arches into your hand. It’s desperate, and he’s trying to keep it in.
You like them like this, shivery and needy, and had not expected this man to be that way. You move your fist along his length, warm and heavy in your palm, pulsing with need in your grip. It makes you feel powerful in a way this moment usually makes you feel dirty.
You curl your fingers softly through his hair, watching him closely. There are spots of color high in his cheeks, eyes clenched closed. “Let go,” you murmur. “It’s just me and you here,” you assure. “Don’t keep it in.”
He grunts softly, a breathy fuck whispering past his lips when he suddenly covers your hand with his. For just a second, he guides your fist, then stops. “Hold on. You sure?” It’s a panted question.
“Sure?” You tilt your head, confused.
“It ain’t what we agreed on, necessarily.”
You laugh and sit up, stroking him from root to tip slowly, twisting your wrist. “Do you want me to stop? Kind of already in the middle of something here.”
“Christ, no,” he grunts.
His palm moves to press flat against your spine when you sat up. You expect it to wander, but it stays in place, warm against the naked expanse of your spine exposed by your top, like he’s supporting you.
“Mhm.”
He arches into your hand again when you move your hand faster, eyes fluttering shut. It really must have been awhile for him, or he’s incredibly sensitive, and you aren’t sure which is better. Warmth pools heavy between your legs, a formless ache that twists in a curl up into your gut.
You want to touch yourself, and wish Joel would be a little more handsy, that he’d slide his fingers beneath your skirt and push your panties aside. His hand arcs from your hip to your spine and back again.
Instead, you lean over and take him into your mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers, one hand against the back on your head now. “Warnin’ woulda been nice.”
You pull back and spit lightly against him, rubbing the tip against your lips, and keep stroking him, fast and firm. You glance at him and then shift to move to the floor between his legs, not stopping the movement of your fist. “I’m about to suck your dick,” you say. “Unless you don’t want that. Is there something else you want from me?”
You slot yourself between his legs, curl one hand on his stomach and squeeze the other around the base of his cock. “Please?” A whine slips into your voice that you don’t work to put there. “You taste good.”
There’s an oddly conflicted look on his face, lust tangled up with that earlier guilt, the shame of what he’s doing.
You slow your hand and rub his thigh. “Don’t feel bad about it. I promise I don’t.”
Sometimes, you have to lie. You do feel gross and disgusting and used.
You aren’t lying to Joel now; there’s no need to.
He covers your hand, big palm running up your arm to cup your elbow as he sits up. It’s surprisingly, so strangely, tender.
He surprises you again by reaching back with his other hand for a pillow. “Here,” he says and drops it on the floor. You want to tell him this is nothing, you’re used to kneeling on much rougher surfaces, fiberglass laden carpets that haven’t been vacuumed in years, scratching and leaving a rash that persisted until the day before you found yourself back there again.
Instead, you wriggle forward onto it, the cool relief on your knees immediate, twisting your hand up his shaft as you go.
Joel cups your cheek and presses a thumb over your mouth, spreading the shine of spit and precome left there against the seam of your mouth. You part your lips, and he touches your tongue, depresses the pad of it there until you close your mouth and suck gently, curling your tongue around him and let your eyes flutter closed for a moment.
“Hell,” he mutters, caressing your cheek again when you release his thumb, waiting patiently for you to open your eyes. “Look at you.”
A shiver tightens at the base of your spine. The light praise punches you squarely in the chest. You want him to keep looking at you like that, a songbird in a cage, a docile thing to do what he asks, for him to say that again.
You let him lower your head to slide your tongue against his balls before flattening your tongue against the base of him, licking slowly up to the tip. You suck lightly, not looking away from him, running your tongue along the slit. He tastes like salt, a clean muskiness.
“Can you take all of it, darlin’?”
You pull back with a little gasp and cough, feel the cup of his palm slide to your chest. “Yes,” you murmur, rubbing your thumb against the sensitive tip until he hisses through his teeth. “I can try.”
You take his cock down your throat slowly, relaxing your esophagus, stroking what you can’t take yet. His palm is against the back of your head, guiding you down and then back up. “Good girl,” he mutters, the glow of that praise taking up residence in your chest again. “Takin’ me so well.”
A fiery need pulses through your pussy, an ache that sits hollow between your legs, as you bob your hand, taking a little more of him each time, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. “C’mon, baby, you’re almost there. Know you can take it all.”
The praise settles itself deep in your chest, thick and welcome. He guides you back and you take a gasping breath, coughing and looking up at him through tear webbed lashes. For one horrible moment, you think he might kiss you, but he just rubs his thumb against your lips again.
You jerk his cock, not looking away from his eyes, the sound of your spit and his precome squelching in your first.
His head tilts back, lips parting. You’re treated to the sight of his throat working, thick muscle contracting, veins standing out in a prominent green against the sheen of damp, golden skin. Joel’s hand slides to the back of your neck, then the top of your shoulders, palm flat against your spine.
You lean down to suckle at the head again, and take a breath before sliding his thick cock down your throat, until your nose nestles against the thick thatch of hair at the base. The burn makes you choke around him, but you hold yourself there, tongue sweeping out against his balls.
“Good girl,” you hear him mutter, the sound distant, throat contracting when you swallow around him. “Good job, darlin’.”
You draw slowly up, and then look at him, releasing his dick with a pop. “I want you to come in my mouth.”
Fingers curl against your jaw and draw you down. He hisses when you circle your tongue around him, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge of his orgasm. His body strains against you, hips bucking up to follow your mouth when you pull back. “Please,” you whine and lick the pulsing vein. “Please, Joel.”
He grunts and then moans when you seal your mouth around him again. He pulses in your mouth, bitter and warm but not altogether unpleasant. You swallow it all, sucking until he makes a pained noise and pulls you up.
You lick your lips and watch him flop back against the bed, hands beneath his head. “Jesus Christ.”
“Just me.”
His laugh is exhausted and weak.
You crawl up beside him, taking the pillow with you from the floor, ignoring the agony between your legs, how soft the bed feels beneath you. Just the slightest brush of his fingers against you would probably make you come. The need is so intense your thighs ache, muscle spasming in little jumps.
Still, you lie next to him and watch him breathe, chest rising and falling evenly. You brush a hand against his chest, the wiry curl of hair like lightning over your skin. He’s falling asleep and trying not to. “I can go.”
He blinks and looks at you and the expression on his face tells you he forgot for a moment. He forgot that you’re whore, forgot even, maybe, that you aren’t his wife.
“Do you smoke?” You say, to soften the blow of it.
“Not usually.”
“Do you smoke right now?”
“Sure.”
You turn and scrabble for your purse, fishing in the depths for the carton of cigarettes. His fingers brush gently against your curled legs, against your ankle and calf and then jerk away, remembering himself with sudden alacrity. “Here,” you murmur, flopping on your back next to him. You flip the package open and pull out a cigarette and the lighter you stuffed inside earlier.
You light it, blowing smoke toward the ceiling and hand it off.
For a while, you pass the cigarette back and forth, fingers brushing, shoulders pressed together, before you curl over his stomach and put his soft dick back in your mouth. This time it only takes him a few minutes to come, sensitive and too spent to hold off longer, panting quietly into the warm air of the room.
You sit up, after, and peer in the mirror across the room to make sure you don’t look too much of a mess.
Joel smokes again and then stubs the cigarette out in the tray on the bedside table, shifting to search for his wallet.
He has the gall to still look a little embarrassed.
You take the cash out of his hand, doing a quick count, smiling, before you throw a leg over his hips and push him down, bracing your palms against the mattress by his head. You take a long look at him, knowing you’ll never see him again. Too guilt ridden, loneliness soothed for the moment. Shame will keep him from ever returning. You memorize his face, his shoulders and arms, the feeling of his wet cock between your legs, pressing against your underwear where your skirt had ridden up.
“Don’t think about this too hard, okay?”
“Think about what?”
“About needing something.”
He blinks and you shake your head. “It was okay. To need this. You’re welcome to come find me again anytime. Goodbye, Joel.”
With that, you roll away, adjust your skirt, and slink toward the door.
You hear him shift on the bed as the door snaps closed behind you, and sense there was something he wanted to say. But you don’t turn back.
You ask the woman at the front desk to call you a cab back to the club, to your car. Joel tipped so well, or maybe just overpaid so much, that you don’t need to go back inside.
When you get back to your tiny, shitty apartment that you can barely afford, there’s no other face that you can conjure but his when you finally touch yourself in the darkness of your too hot bedroom, fingers working quickly, not bothering to hold back the moan in your throat. The sound of his voice, his praise, won’t soon fade. It loops on repeat in your mind, imagination trailing to what his beard would feel like on the inside of your thighs, if his cock might feel good inside you.
Sweat beads at the backs of your knees and under your breasts, hips lifting toward an invisible mouth.
When you come, you feel like you should mourn it being over.
You decide you will not think about him, about why he affected you this way when none of the others ever had.
summary: it was only supposed to be fun... never meant to be serious. after a string of failed relationships, you didn't want your heart broken again. until harry changes everything.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader
content warning(s): mutual pining, fwb to lovers (is that even a trope lol), reader has insecurities / fear of being hurt again and falling in love, harry is a sweetheart (as usual!), yelling, light angst with a happy ending, no use of y/n.
word count: 2.6k
a/n: so i said i was gonna only focus on writing my two unfinished WIPs, but i forgot that i committed to this writing challenge for @burntheedges Summer Tunes Writing challenge and this was sitting in my drafts just waiting to be finished. honestly, i'm such a sucker for harry and writing this story kind of broke my heart lol. anyway, hope y'all enjoy <3
song: how to be a heartbreaker by MARINA
Love never did come easy for you. You had plenty of failed relationships, but nothing hurt more than your most recent relationship.
Promises broken.
A future destroyed.
And your heart completely shattered.
You hadn’t expected him to cheat on you months after proposing to you and making promises that he never intended on keeping.
So, you had made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t get into any serious relationships anymore. You didn’t want to open yourself up to the possibility of getting hurt like that again.
Nothing serious. Just brief flings here and there. You didn’t want to commit yourself to one singular person and put your heart in someone else’s hands anymore.
Time and time again, you were always left disappointed.
Until him.
Harry Castillo.
Harry was in love with you. You had known him for years—a daughter of one of his mother’s friends. She had introduced the two of you in hopes that something would come out of it, but it never did. Neither you or Harry ever crossed that boundary.
Then, you got engaged. He saw how happy you were, how excited you were to finally have your fairytale ending. He never did like the guy, but he was supportive if it meant seeing you happy.
But when you told him that the engagement was off and the relationship ended, he couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. Still, he was there to pick up the pieces and try to put you back together.
It didn’t work.
What had happened hardened you.
Made you reckless. Closed off.
From everyone.
From him.
Harry stood along the sidelines and watched you get into one night stands, flings with a variety of men that never lasted because you were always the first one to leave. You had become someone who broke hearts instead of being the person with one.
So, he told himself that nothing between the both of you could ever happen. Harry came to terms with the fact that he would only ever be a friend to you.
Then, he met Lucy. He was completely enamored with her. Head over heels. Butterflies in his tummy. She was different, but there were moments where it felt too forced.
He was going to propose to her. In Iceland. He had it entirely planned out.
But it never happened. She said, “love is supposed to be easy, Harry.”
He never understood what she meant. Harry was sure that he loved Lucy.
But it wasn’t until the first night he spent with you did he realize what Lucy really meant.
Because loving you had always been easy. It came second nature to him.
And so, he came over to your apartment the night Lucy broke up with him. Neither of you were sober that night—drowning each other’s problems in alcohol, numbing the pain.
Harry couldn’t remember who kissed who first, but he remembered very vividly how it felt to slide into you the first time. It was like you were made for him, fitting so perfectly against him. He remembered the sounds you made, the expressions on your face when you came undone.
And he remembered how deeply in love he was with you.
Lucy was his distraction. A way for him to move on from you.
Harry should’ve known it wasn’t going to work.
Because there was no one like you.
Harry wasn’t sure when the relationship he had with you shifted.
Because what was supposed to be a one night stand ended up becoming more frequent nights spent together.
Friends with benefits. It wasn’t supposed to be serious. That first night, you told yourself it was just Harry. It was bound to happen eventually. Nothing besides sex would ever happen.
But you never expected the feelings that lingered afterwards. He had always been there for you.
Picked up your broken pieces.
Held you when you cried.
Told you that everything would be okay.
But even as you spent more and more nights with him, you told him that it was just only going to be sex. It couldn’t ever become anything more.
He understood. Agreed, even.
But one night, he let it slip. Said he loved you.
You scrambled away from him and began to pull on your clothes.
“No,” you muttered. “No.”
Harry cursed under his breath. He sat up, pulled on his boxers and walked towards you.
You moved away. Tears threatening to spill over.
He crossed the line.
Harry wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get you back.
And that scared him. Fucking terrified him.
Because if he lost you, his entire world would unravel.
“I—I’m sorry. I just got caught in the moment. I didn’t mean it,” he lied. He’d lie to you and to himself if it meant you coming back to him.
“You can’t take that back,” you said, voice shaky. “And we both know you’re lying, Harry.”
Harry tried to reach out for you, but you just shook your head. You were fully dressed now, ready to leave at any moment.
“I’m serious,” he whispered, pulling his shirt back on. “I don’t know why I said it. I know this is just sex, it’s just—”
“We can’t keep doing this,” you interrupted. “It’s too much. You are too much.”
“Me?” Harry asked. He could feel his heart breaking as the minutes passed. He could feel you slipping away. “Is it so bad to open yourself up to love again? You got hurt. I understand that, but—but he wasn’t for you!”
“And you are?!”
Harry took a step back. He noticed the walls that you were beginning to put up around yourself. You were shielding yourself from him.
“And what if I am?” He whispered. It was so quiet that you could have sworn you didn’t hear it. His eyes were glistening with tears that pooled around them.
“You can’t be. You aren’t,” you answered. “No one is.”
He blinked. His tears trickled.
And he felt his heart break.
Because of you.
Harry brought a hand up to wipe his fallen tears. He took a deep breath, nodded once and then turned his back to you.
It was all you needed to turn on your heel and leave.
He looked over his shoulder.
You did too.
There was a silent understanding that if you left, this would change everything.
You hesitated, opened your mouth to say something—anything—but you just shook your head and left.
Not because you didn’t feel the same way.
But because you did.
And you didn’t want to put yourself in a position to get hurt again.
So, you ended whatever this was with Harry and left.
Days turned into weeks. You thought that you would feel better after leaving. Thought that it wouldn’t matter if you did love him too.
But you couldn’t even explain the pain you felt. It hurt more than finding out your ex-fiancé was cheating on you.
Because Harry had always been the one consistent person in your life.
You thought that if you closed yourself off from love, kept your heart only for yourself, that this wouldn’t hurt as much.
But it did. Every fucking day, you missed Harry.
Missed his texts, his FaceTime calls.
Missed his voice.
Being in his arms.
His lips.
You loved him and you wondered if there was a part of you that always did.
And on a day where you would normally go and visit him, you hesitated over his contact number. You knew he wouldn’t contact you, wouldn’t try to reach out and apologize.
Because you leaving meant that he wasn’t going to chase you. It was a decision that you made in the moment and Harry wasn’t going to go after you if you didn’t want him to.
He understood your pain—your fear—but he was braver than you. Stronger than you. Because he would put himself out there for love time and time again.
And you wouldn’t. Loving someone meant giving them your heart, opening up to the possibility of getting hurt.
You didn’t want that pain.
Harry didn’t either, but he knew just how magical love could be with the right person.
And that was enough to take a risk.
You couldn’t call him. Even if you did, you knew he wouldn’t answer.
So instead, you decided to go to his penthouse.
You weren’t ready to give your heart to him yet, but maybe you were just ready enough to give him a small piece of it.
Because you knew that Harry had given you his heart already.
Harry had thrown himself into work. He felt your absence immediately. Things that reminded him of you throughout the day just broke his heart even more because he couldn’t send you a text or give you a call.
You made it clear that you didn’t want him.
And maybe you never would.
So, he tried to pick up pieces of his heart that you broke.
But it hurt. It fucking hurt.
Because Harry still loved you, even if you weren’t ready to love him back.
Every night, he battled with himself to not call you. To not reach out. To not check in to see how you were doing.
Because even if he was hurting, he was still thinking about you. Harry was sure that you were hurting too.
He believed that if you didn’t love him or felt the same way, you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did.
Or at least that’s what he told himself.
Because the plenty of nights he shared with you wasn’t only sex. It was intimate and fueled with so much passion. He didn’t even have that feeling with Lucy and he was going to propose to her.
No. With you, everything felt easy. Felt natural.
It wasn’t just sex.
Not in the way you kissed him.
Not in the way your body moved with his.
It was so much more. It always had been.
And tonight was no different. Harry was sitting in his living room, dress shoes scattered and tossed carelessly to the side. Blazer draped over the back of the love seat, white button up shirt wrinkled with the sleeves folded to his elbows and a few buttons undone at the top.
He was nursing his first glass of scotch. He had planned to spend the entire night drinking until he had fallen asleep.
Until all of his pain was numbed.
Until he couldn’t feel it anymore.
But he heard his doorbell ring. Followed by a couple of knocks. Harry glanced at his watch. He wasn’t expecting anyone and there were only a handful of people who could just come up to his penthouse without being notified of their arrival. He checked his phone. No missed calls or texts.
It couldn’t be his family.
And if it couldn’t be them, then it had to be you.
His heart skipped a beat in anticipation. Hope filled his veins. Harry set his drink down on a coaster on his coffee table and walked to his front door.
A few more knocks. Another ring of his doorbell.
Impatient, he thought.
It was definitely you.
The corner of his lips curled up.
Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door and turned the handle to open it. Harry looked up and saw you standing on the other side of it.
“Harry,” you whispered.
“You’re here,” he answered.
“Can I come in?”
Harry nodded, opened the door even further and then stepped aside to give you space to come inside.
You walked inside, hands jittery at your sides as you looked around. You noticed his shoes, the blazer that looked to have been tossed carelessly. Then, you saw his glass of scotch and a bottle right next to it. You sighed. You caused this.
You turned around to face him once you heard the door close.
“Why are you here?” He asked.
“I don’t—” you started, biting your lower lip nervously. You moved your arms to cross over your chest as you looked at him.
He looked like a complete wreck.
All because of you.
“You hurt me,” Harry interrupted quietly. He moved his hands to the pockets of his dress pants. He tightened his jaw and stared at you. “But I can’t help myself because I still fucking love you.”
He stepped forward. Slowly. Closer. You didn’t move, so he took another step towards you.
“And I know you’re scared,” he continued. “Scared to love again. Scared to give your heart to someone else. I get it.”
You dropped your guard. Just enough for Harry to see how scared you were. Tears trickled down your cheeks as you looked at him. He was close now, but didn’t reach out for you. Kept his hands in his pockets. But you could smell his cologne, could feel the heat of his body.
“I can’t give you all of me,” you finally said. “And I don’t know if I will ever be able to.” You moved a hand to wipe at your tears. Harry let out a shaky breath. You looked up at him. His deep fucking brown eyes, puppy-like and filled with so much concern.
You loved him, but you weren’t ready yet.
“I’ll wait,” Harry said. He sounded so confident, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“You can’t promise that.”
He finally took one hand out of his pocket to reach out. His thumb lightly brushed along your wet cheek. You leaned against his touch and Harry whispered. “I know that promises don’t mean anything to you anymore, but I’m gonna be right here. Waiting. For you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re worth it,” Harry answered. “And with you, everything is easy. I’m gonna love you the way you deserve to be loved, baby.”
Baby, you gasped quietly.
“You deserve better than me,” you argued.
Harry shook his head. Stepped closer and brought his other hand to rest on your hip. He leaned down, brushed his nose against your own. “There’s no one better than you.”
“I’m just gonna break your heart,” you whispered.
“You already did,” he smiled. “But I’d let you break my heart over and over again if it meant that at the end of it, I get you. That you become mine, and I become yours.”
“Harry,” you mumbled, eyes falling shut. “I do love you…” you admitted quietly. “And it scares me.”
Harry’s heart jumped. His stomach did flips.
“I know, baby,” he whispered. The hand on your hip moved until his arm wrapped around your waist. Harry pulled you closer until you were flush against him. The hand on your cheek moved to cup the side of your neck. “I’m gonna show you that promises mean something. I won’t make you regret loving me,” he promised. “And when you’re ready to give me your heart, I’m gonna protect it until my last fucking breath.”
You inhaled sharply and finally wrapped your arms around his neck.
You believed him.
With every part of your being, you believed him.
Because Harry would never hurt you.
He held you tight. Harry’s arms wrapped around you even further the moment your arms looped around him. He let out a relieved breath and shut his eyes.
He would spend the rest of his life showing you just how much he loved you.
“I love you,” he repeated quietly. You tightened your hold on him. Harry did the same. “And I’m never gonna stop loving you, even if you push me away.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” you warned him, pulling back just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Loving me isn’t easy.”
He shook his head and let a small smile line his lips. “Loving you is the easiest thing in the world, baby.”
summary: harry’s never been in love before… until he meets you, which awakens a part of him that he never thought he was capable of.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader
content warning(s): minor spoilers so please beware!, love at first sight trope, harry is charming and completely smitten, mainly harry POV, harry + reader go on dates!, no use of y/n.
word count: 4.6k
a/n: i just finished watching materialists and i'm OBSESSED with harry so obviously the next best thing is to write for him. please heed the warnings, there will be a few spoilers mentioned in this story!!! hope you enjoy nonetheless bc i'm gonna be dreaming about harry for a long time (look at those CURLS in that second pic tho jfc 🥵)
Harry had given up on the idea of love. He hadn’t felt it before and he felt like life was just passing him by. Was something wrong with him? Was he just not capable of falling in love—being in love?
Lucy was a good match for him, but it felt forced. There was a mutual attraction, but something had been missing and he wasn’t sure what it was.
Not until she said that she didn’t love him. Harry realized at that moment that he didn’t love her either. Lucy said it was supposed to be easy, but he wasn’t sure anymore. He tried Adore’s services, but the matches didn’t feel real, didn’t feel authentic. These women just wanted him for his money, his height, his job. He checked a lot of the women’s boxes—he was a unicorn, which Lucy liked to put it.
But it never felt easy. He looked at each woman from a business standpoint, something transactional, but Harry yearned for something more.
Something deep.
Something real.
So, he canceled his membership and decided that maybe love was just never going to be in the cards for him.
And maybe that he didn’t need it anyway.
The dating scene in New York was horrific. To you, it felt like every nice man in the world didn’t exist. All the dates you had been on ended terribly—with some even ending early.
The men were either too judgmental or too self-centered, or worse—just wanted one thing and one thing only. Was it this hard to find someone nice? You thought maybe you had been too picky, so you lessened your expectations—that didn’t work either.
So, you decided to stop dating altogether and instead put your focus into work. If the universe wanted you to be in love, then maybe you should just be patient and let life do its own work.
Harry had felt instant attraction before, but the first time he laid eyes on you it felt like time stood still. You were laughing at something someone said and he felt a flutter at the pit of his stomach. He’s never seen you at any of his family’s parties before, he would have remembered you.
He ordered a drink at the bar as he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your smile was so warm, so kind, so genuine. He normally has this natural confidence in him, but when he saw you walking towards the bar, he straightened up and felt his heart race faster.
Maybe you were a friend of his sister-in-law, he wasn’t sure. His family’s parties were usually so big that he doesn’t remember who’s who. But he knew that he was definitely going to remember you.
The party was for his brother and his wife—a baby shower and gender reveal. A year after their wedding and they’re already expecting.
He felt you stand next to him and then he heard your voice, which only made him even more nervous because you sounded so sweet, so nice. Harry had taken a deep breath and then finally turned his body to face yours, but when your eyes met his own, he felt his stomach do flips.
“Hi,” you said with a small smile.
“Hi,” he replied with one of his own.
“Friend of the family?” you asked.
Harry shook his head. “Older brother.”
You widened your eyes and reached out to rest a hand over his forearm—a natural reaction from you. “Oh my god, you’re Harry.”
Harry looked down at your hand briefly and smiled, nodding in your direction. “That’d be me. Are you friends with my brother or…”
“I’m friends with Charlotte,” you answered, dropping your hand from his forearm. “I was teaching English abroad so I couldn’t make it to her wedding. I’m just glad I could make it for this event.”
“Where did you teach?” Harry asked.
“Philippines,” you smiled brightly. “It was amazing. I loved it there.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile too. You made him feel comfortable, despite the nerves he was feeling before you walked over. “And now? Are you going back there to teach?”
You shook your head. “It was only a two year contract. I have my certification now to teach English to non-native English speakers here in the States, so New York is home for now.”
Harry could hear the passion for your work in your voice and the way your entire face lit up. It was refreshing—talking to someone who actually enjoyed what they did for a living. “So you’re teaching at a school? Elementary?”
You let out a quiet laugh and shook your head again. “As much as I loved teaching younger kids when I was in the Philippines, my focus now is teaching adult learners. I work at a local community college.”
Harry smiled to himself. He heard the bartender set your glass of wine next to you and you turned away from him to thank the other man from behind the counter. The same genuine and kind smile lining your lips.
“You sound like you love your job,” he said.
“Oh, I do. It’s a lot of work, but it’s so rewarding. I try to tell my students that learning English shouldn’t ever replace their native tongue,” you continued. “That their native language is something to be proud of and that just because they’re learning English doesn’t mean it replaces the language they know and grew up with.”
“You must be an amazing teacher,” he grinned.
“I try to be,” you laughed quietly. You could feel your cheeks heating up as you took note of just how handsome he is. You had heard about Harry from your dinners with Charlotte, but she didn’t say how extremely handsome he was or how deep his brown eyes were.
“And I’m just in private equity,” he sighed teasingly.
“Well, at least you’re rich,” you laughed quietly. “I bet that’s nice.”
Harry shrugged. He wondered if this is where the conversation will shift, if the genuine authenticity he felt from you will disappear. “It’s a family business.”
“Oh, so it’s not what you would have wanted to do?” You asked, taking a sip from your glass. You lean against the counter of the bar and stare up at him. “If it isn’t, what would you have wanted to pursue?”
Harry tilted his head as he brought his own glass to his lips. He stared at you from the rim of his glass and then dropped his eyes momentarily to look down at his feet. “Not sure. I haven’t really had the chance to even think of what I would want to do if I wasn’t in the family business.”
“Hm,” you said, eyes looking up at him from top to bottom. “Maybe a model?”
He grinned. “Are you hitting on me?”
“And if I am?” you smiled, eyes staring deeply into his own.
Harry’s brows slightly raised at your forwardness and he glanced off to the side when he heard his name being called. Then, he looked at you and shot you an apologetic look. “Could I get your name?”
You smiled and shrugged. “Find me later if you really want to find out, Harry.” You turned on your heel and left him at the counter of the bar when the other guests approached Harry. You glanced over your shoulder to see his eyes staring directly at you as he nodded at whatever the other person is saying.
You and Harry kept stealing glances at each other from across the room. You could see the way his eyes lingered along your frame and you’re already three drinks in and feeling very brave.
When Charlotte and Peter found out they’re having a boy, the music only became louder and everyone began dancing. Harry’s eyes stayed focused on you as he walked through the crowd straight to you. He sat next to you and smiled to himself, tilting his head in your direction.
“Will you tell me your name now?” Harry asked.
You smiled and nodded, telling him your name as you turned your body to face his. You drape one of your legs over the other as you set aside your finished glass of wine.
Harry smiled. “It’s nice to officially meet you,” he nodded. “Now, would you like to dance?”
“Oh, I don’t—”
Harry interrupted you by standing up. He extended a hand out for you and maintained that charming smile. “If I say please, will you reconsider?”
You bit your lower lip and shook your head, slipping your hand into his own. He helped you to your feet and then led you onto the dance floor. One of his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he kept a tight hold on your hand. You bit your lower lip and moved your free hand to rest on his shoulder.
Being this close to him was intoxicating—feeling his broad chest remain flush against your own, his deep brown eyes staring directly at you as if you were the only person in the room, and god he smelled so good. You inhaled quietly and let your eyes fall shut, allowing him to lead you through the slow dance.
“Can I take you out to dinner?” he whispered into your ear.
You pulled back and opened your eyes to look at him. He’s still fucking smiling.
“Are you asking me out, Harry?”
“Would that be a bad thing?”
You stared into his eyes as you both sway side to side to the song. You had sworn off dating after so many failed dates, but Harry… Well, there was something about him that piqued your interest from the moment you laid eyes on him today.
“Well, no, but—”
His smile dropped and his eyes softened. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask if you were seeing anyone.”
You could feel his hold around you loosen, but you tightened your grip around his hand and pulled him back flush against you. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Oh,” he nodded slowly. “Okay, great. That’s—That’s great for me,” he chuckles quietly.
“But I kind of sworn off dating… at least for a while,” you admitted. “Lots of bad dates and I just—”
Harry spun you around and pulled you back into his chest, holding you tighter now. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he whispered. “Do whatever you want to do… and if after that date you decide you want to officially swear off dating, then I’ll go my own way and you’ll go yours.”
“You’re charming, you know that?” You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek.
Harry shrugged, though a large grin lined his lips. “So, is that a yes?”
“Okay, one date.”
“One date is all I need,” he smiled, kissing your cheek and holding you firmly against him as he continued to dance with you.
On your first date with Harry, he had taken you to one the finest restaurants in New York. It had taken you by surprise and you felt very out of your element. You weren’t used to dates like this. He was very chivalrous—he showed up with flowers, opened doors for you, pulled out your seat, and even offered his coat when he noticed you were getting cold.
And the conversation came easy. He made you laugh and you made him blush. How could someone like him be single? When he reached for your hand during the walk around the park, you looked up at him and found him smiling in your direction.
He didn’t kiss you on the lips when he brought you back home. Harry had just cupped your cheek, whispered that he had a great time, and kissed your forehead. It was the simplest gesture, nothing too grand or over the top, but you felt your stomach flutter with butterflies.
Then, you asked him out for a second date. He was grinning—dimples deep in his cheek as his hand dropped from your cheek to wrap around your waist. His strong embrace filled you with so much warmth, so much anticipation because for some strange reason, it felt like you belonged there. In his arms.
He insisted that he take you out to one of his favorite restaurants and you agreed with a smile. Harry kissed your cheek that same night before walking back to his car. He waited until you were inside before driving away.
On the second date, Harry wanted to surprise you. He took you to a sushi restaurant—something more casual, but still romantic nonetheless. He rented out the entire small restaurant just for the both of you. The look of surprise on his face made him feel proud, more confident that maybe you wanted to date him more exclusively.
Harry enjoyed spending time with you and how you had always given him your sole attention and focus. It even brought a smile to his face at just how kind you were to everyone you encountered. During the date, you were intrigued and interested in how the head sushi chefs were making the food.
It was such an intimate setting and it felt easy. Harry had to wonder if this was what Lucy said a year ago—love should be easy. With the right person, love can be the easiest thing in the world.
Throughout the date, you were becoming more touchy. A hand on his forearm or leaning against him as you let out a laugh that wracked your entire body. Even after the date when you both were walking around the same park again, he had taken your hand and you laced your fingers with his. Then, he felt your head rest against his shoulder and it made the flutter in his stomach more noticeable.
When he dropped you off at your front door, you had stared up at him with your big eyes and he wanted nothing more than to pull you into him and press his lips against yours.
But Harry didn’t. He wanted to respect you and your boundaries. You were playing with the lapel of his jacket before gripping it and pulling him against you. Harry’s hands had darted out to rest on your hips—to steady you, to ground himself.
“Are you gonna ask to kiss me, Harry?” you had whispered.
Harry’s lips parted as he stared into your eyes. The grip on the hips tightened and he gave you a single nod. He had taken a step forward, eyes completely dark and filled with desire. “Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”
You smiled and moved your hands to play with the hair at his nape, the curls at the back of his head. You leaned in—just enough for the tip of your nose to brush against his. Harry inhaled sharply.
“If you don’t kiss me now, Harry, I’m gonna think you don’t like me.”
Harry tilted his head and leaned forward, nudging your nose with his own. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He moved one of his hands to your cheek and leaned in to press his lips firmly against your own. He remembered how soft and warm your lips were, the sound of a quiet whimper escaping you, and the way his heart was racing. Harry hadn’t felt like this before—how even when he wasn’t around you, all he could do was think about you, or how the butterflies in the pit of his stomach fluttered whenever he saw your name flash across his phone.
It also made him feel special whenever you were together. You were kind and generous to strangers, but he always felt like the luckiest person whenever your attention was shifted to him. This was only the second date and Harry found himself wanting this to be more exclusive as the date continued.
The kiss lasted only a few more seconds—the both of you getting carried away before you pulled away from him. Harry remembered the look on your face. The small smile that lined your lips, the way your arms had loosely wrapped around his shoulders, your eyes gazing repeatedly down to his lips like you wanted more. Needed more.
“Where do you want to go for our third date?” he asked, whispering quietly as he brushed his lips with yours.
“How about I plan it?” you replied, pursing your lips to capture his own in a gentle kiss.
“Yeah?” Harry asked, dropping his hand from your cheek to join his other at your lower back. He laced his fingers and pulled you flush against him, the feeling of your body heat radiating against his own awakening something deep inside of him. Yearning. Desire. Need.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let me take you out this time.”
Harry smiled. He had always been the one to plan the dates, to cater to the other person that he was slightly taken aback at your offer. It made him feel giddy, excited at the possibility of what you would plan. “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll let you take me out this time.”
“Good,” you smiled and pecked his lips. “I’ll see you then?”
Harry nodded, but pulled you back into a deep kiss. This time—it was intense, more intimate, urgent. His lips moved with your own and his hands drifted lower until the tips of his fingers rested just above your ass. He wanted to reach down and squeeze, but he didn’t. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet.
“I’ll see you then, baby.”
On the third date, you had told him to dress casually. He called you just before he was about to pick you up, asking just how casual he was supposed to dress. You had smiled to yourself and told him casual enough to the point where he wouldn’t care if his clothes would get wrinkled.
So, when he picked you up—dressed in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt with sneakers, you practically wanted to pull him back into your apartment. The date could wait a little longer. You loved seeing him in a suit—had gotten used to seeing him dressed so formally—but seeing him like this, so relaxed and casual just made him sexier.
“This casual enough?” he asked, presenting you with another bouquet of flowers.
“You look hot,” you complimented and leaned in to peck his lips. He smiled when you pulled away and then took your hand to lead you outside of your apartment.
“So…” you told him. “We’re having a picnic.”
Harry grinned and pulled you close to him. You hadn’t yet closed the door to your apartment, but he leaned in and pressed his lips eagerly against your own. Without hesitation, he had moved his lips with yours, hand moving to rest on your hip. “A picnic sounds nice.”
He didn’t know what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect to be lying on a large blanket with you next to him. You both were looking up at the clear, blue sky talking about something so random. He felt his heart skip a beat when he heard you laugh—it filled his senses until all he could hear was you and how happy you looked. He wondered if this was what other couples felt like, if this is what they would normally do—have a picnic in the park, eat some food, then lie down in each other’s arms just embracing each other’s company.
When your laughter died down, Harry had moved to rest his hand on your cheek. You stared up at him, the smile still remaining on your lips. He felt like he could sense what you were thinking about, communicating with you through his eyes.
His thumb had brushed against your lower lip and he leans in, pecking your lips lightly.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry whispered. He felt the nerves begin to build and looked away from you for a moment. It wasn’t until you replied with a soft and quiet yes that he looked back at you.
“Would you want to date more exclusively? More seriously?” he asked in a rush. Harry’s eyes softened and the smile on your lips never faltered.
“I’d like that,” you answered instantly. “I’d like that a lot actually.”
“Really?”
“Really,” you repeated.
Harry let out a sigh of relief and leaned in to press his lips against yours again. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you lay on your back with him propping himself on his side to kiss you. He felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders—he couldn’t help but feel extremely overjoyed and happy that the feeling was mutual.
Almost six months later and now in a fully committed relationship with you, Harry finally understands what Lucy meant—love was supposed to be easy… and loving you felt like second nature to him.
You had been spending most days at his penthouse. There’s already a space in his closet for you and extra counter space in the bathroom. You manage to make this place a home—he’d come home and you’d be there in the kitchen, making dinner. Or on some nights, he’d catch you grading some papers. This felt easy. Being with you was easy.
Harry knew that he loved you the moment he laid eyes on you. It’s cliche—he knows—but every time he’s around you, his heart races. When he sees you smile or hears you laugh, it makes his stomach do flips. And when he’s holding you in his arms, his life feels complete—like the one thing that had been missing in his life is now here with him.
He hadn’t yet said he loved you because he wanted to do it right. He wanted it to be perfect. Harry had an entire date planned—he was going to take you out to the same restaurant from your first date. Take you for a walk around the park afterwards and then, he’d tell you how much he loves you. It was going to be romantic—something to remember for the rest of his days, but that morning… His entire plan was thrown out the window.
You were in his kitchen, dressed in one of his shirts, making breakfast. Harry had gotten used to this, but for some reason, that morning, he felt his breath catch in his throat. The sun shone through his large windows, illuminating you in a warm glow. He was dressed in a pair of sleep pants and a worn t-shirt as he stared at you, a smile slowly lining his lips.
He walked over to you and watched as your eyes moved from the pan and over to him. Harry bit his lower lip at the sight of your broad smile. You dropped the spatula and walked over to him, wrapping your arms loosely around his shoulders as you pecked his lips lightly.
“I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed,” you said. “Since you always like to surprise me, I figured I could return the favor this time.”
Harry chuckled and allowed his arms to wrap loosely around your waist. He held your body firmly against his own as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Why are you so good to me?” he asked quietly, hand coming up to rest on your cheek.
“Hmm,” you answered. “Maybe because I really like you.”
Harry grinned and pulled back to look into your eyes. His thumb brushed against your cheek as he tilted his head. “Yeah?”
You nodded, leaning against his touch. “Yeah,” you answered. “Consider yourself lucky, Mr. Castillo.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he reached behind you to turn off the stove. He lifted you off your feet to set you on top of the kitchen counter, moving his hands to rest at either side of you. He moved to stand between your legs as he felt your hands move to card through his hair.
“I am,” he whispered quietly. “Very lucky.” His eyes stared deeply into your own. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest—the nerves slowly beginning to build as those three words settled on the tip of his tongue. There was a tense silence that filled the air and it was almost like you could anticipate what Harry was about to say next.
Your hands moved to his cheeks, feeling the bristles of hair underneath your fingertips. You leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose as his hands moved from the edges of the counter to his rest on your hips.
“Baby,” he said softly.
“Harry,” you replied.
“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I thought I’d never be capable of love. It just always seemed so difficult for me, but you—loving you is easy.” Harry couldn’t help the tears that build in his deep brown eyes. The way you were looking at him now eased so much of the nerves and worry that he felt. “You make me feel—baby,” he sighed—his breath catching in his throat as he brought a hand up to wipe the fallen tear that trickled down his cheek once he blinked.
“Hey…” you whispered, kissing his cheek lightly. “I’m in love with you too, Harry.”
He pulled back. Eyes wide, features etched with shock. “You make me feel good,” Harry continued. “Valuable. Seen. Heard. Special. Every moment spent with you is always better than the last, and when I’m apart from you, I’m always counting the minutes until I can see you again.” He let out a shaky breath as he leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours as he whispered, “I love you. I think I loved you the first time I saw you.”
“God, I forgot how charming you are,” you teased, hands moving to his shoulders as you slowly wrapped your arms around him. “You made me believe in love again, Harry. I’m so glad I said yes when you asked me out… and to think, I could have missed out on this, on you.” Leaning in, you pecked his lips lightly. “And loving you is easy too. You make me feel safe and I’ve never felt that before… with anyone.”
Harry smiled and gently pulled you off the counter, your legs easily sliding around his waist as he walked you both to the large couch. He sat down with you on his lap as he brought a hand up to your cheek. “Move in with me?”
“Didn’t you know?” You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips with his. “I was slowly beginning to move my things in anyway,” you grinned.
Harry chuckled, firmly pressing his lips against your own. “I love you, baby,” he mumbled. “So much.”
“Mmm,” you smiled, pulling away briefly. “Gonna show me how much?”
His eyes darkened instantly and he wrapped his arms around your waist to swiftly lie you on your back against the couch. Harry settled himself between your legs as he leaned back in—eagerly pressing his lips along your jawline down to the side of your neck.
“Oh, baby, you know I will,” he grinned against you, peppering light kisses against your neck.
The feeling of his stubble tickled your skin, causing a fit of giggles to escape your lips. He smiled to himself and pulled away from you briefly to look into eyes.
“I love you,” he whispered, a content smile lining his lips.
“I love you too, Harry. Now get back here and kiss me,” you giggled, linking your hands together at the nape of his neck and pulling him back down to press your lips with his.
Harry smiled against your lips—contentment, relief, and happiness filling his entire soul.
Lucy forgot to mention that loving was only easy if it was with the right person.
Summary: Harry finds someone who wants him for something other than his money.
Warnings: no spoilers!, language, flirting, rom-com meet-cute vibes, food and alcohol consumption, reader has two roommates that fit the rom-com vibe, smut (18+ MDNI), dry humping, unprotected piv sex, longing/yearning
WC: 7.6K
A/N: I haven't seen the movie yet so there's no spoilers, don't worry! This is written just knowing what we know from the trailers.
The first day he came into your diner, it was raining.
Well, more like pouring, actually.
You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.
Harry.
He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.
That's when he spotted you.
He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.
"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"
You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"
He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.
"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.
You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.
"This is... good."
You giggled. "Thanks."
"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."
"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.
"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.
"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.
The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.
There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.
And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.
Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.
"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.
He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.
"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."
"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.
He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.
When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.
"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."
He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.
"I learn from my mistakes."
He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.
You had hoped it was the latter.
About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.
You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.
Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.
Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.
"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.
"Nothing that can't wait."
"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.
"You're worth waiting for."
It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.
"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."
"So what if I am?"
You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.
"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.
"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.
"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."
He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.
When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.
"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.
"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"
"Is that when you're free?"
You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.
"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."
You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.
"Anywhere?"
He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.
"Anywhere."
"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.
"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.
"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.
"Nova it is."
You laughed and shook your head.
"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"
"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.
"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"
"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.
"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."
He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."
He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.
You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.
"He's here!"
"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"
You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.
"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.
"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.
"It's Harry."
You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.
"What does he do again?"
"Who fucking cares!"
"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.
"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.
"I'm Harry—"
"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."
Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.
"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"
"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.
"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.
"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.
"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"
The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.
Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.
"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.
An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.
Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.
"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.
"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.
If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.
"You look—"
You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.
"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."
He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.
"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."
Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.
"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.
"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.
"Thank you," you murmured shyly.
The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.
"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.
You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.
"What? I never told you?"
You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.
"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.
And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.
"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.
"You said—"
"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"
You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?
Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.
"Ready?"
You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.
It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.
A far cry from your diner.
"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.
Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.
"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.
Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.
"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"
You giggled and nodded.
"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."
"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."
Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.
"Do what?"
"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."
"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."
"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.
When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.
"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"
"Red."
"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.
You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.
"That sounds really expensive."
"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.
"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"
He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"
You nodded and leaned forward, as well.
"I can't tell the difference, either."
You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.
"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.
"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."
After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.
"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."
You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.
"Amber."
He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.
"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"
"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"
"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.
Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.
"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."
He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.
"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.
You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.
"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.
"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.
"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.
"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.
You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.
"Sounds... interesting."
"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.
"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"
He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.
"I'm good at it."
"But do you like it?"
"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."
"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"
You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.
After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.
Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?
"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"
He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.
"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."
Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.
The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.
It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.
"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.
"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."
You frowned, confused.
"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."
"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.
"Yeah. Of course."
He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"
He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.
"I sure as hell hope so."
He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.
"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.
Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.
"Can I kiss you?"
He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?
You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.
He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.
You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.
He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.
Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.
You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.
That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.
"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.
"Maybe I should — I should take you home."
You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:
"Or you can show me where you live."
He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.
"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.
"Yep."
"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.
The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.
"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.
Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.
"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.
"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."
They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.
The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.
"Penthouse?" you squeaked.
He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.
Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.
You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.
Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"
He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.
"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.
"Do you like it?"
It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.
"Yes. I do."
You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.
"Then I like it, too."
His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.
When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.
"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.
"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.
You grinned. "I don't care."
Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.
In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.
You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.
His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.
Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.
"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"
You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.
"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."
You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.
He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.
When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.
He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.
He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.
"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.
You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.
"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.
He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.
He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.
"You borrow these, too?"
You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.
"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.
"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.
"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.
"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."
You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.
"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.
"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."
It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.
He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.
"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."
He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.
So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.
"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."
The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.
He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.
"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"
His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.
He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.
"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.
"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.
"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."
Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.
"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.
"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.
You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.
He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.
"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.
"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.
Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.
In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.
"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.
You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.
"Did you just move in?"
He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."
He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.
"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."
"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"
His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.
"Yeah, that's right."
You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.
"I have a confession to make."
Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.
"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.
"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.
"How about both?"
You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."
As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.
"Harry?"
"Hm?"
He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.
"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.
"What is it?"
"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."
Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.
"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."
You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.
"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.
"I know."
Truthfully, he knew before he even asked you out on a date. The months he spent getting to know you at the diner had him convinced. But when he told you what he did and showed you where he lived and your only reaction — your first concern — was did he like it? Well, that gave him all the hope in the world that you just might be that someone to help him decorate his home one day.
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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader
ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k
ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla
dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!
an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…
You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.
You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.
Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.
But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.
You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.
Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.
Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.
And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.
Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.
He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.
Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.
Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.
You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.
You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.
You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.
You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.
It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.
He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.
It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.
Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.
As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.
You should feel like an accessory.
Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.
You can’t tell which is worse.
Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.
You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.
There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.
You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.
You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.
The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.
It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.
You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.
Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”
“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”
“I work here.”
“Funny, so do I.”
“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”
He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.
He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”
Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.
You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”
You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”
“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”
“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”
Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”
You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”
That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”
You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”
You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.
The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?
“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”
“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”
He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”
You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.
You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”
His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”
You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”
Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.
You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”
Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”
He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.
Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”
You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.
This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.
Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:
Remind Harry to eat something before 3.
Book flights for Hong Kong.
Don’t fall in love with your boss.
That last one’s underlined. Twice.
The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.
You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.
The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.
You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.
You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.
Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.
You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.
“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.
You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”
He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”
You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”
Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”
You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”
Who possibly could?
You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”
“I’m not even fifty.”
“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”
Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”
You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.
Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.
You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.
“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.
He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”
“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”
“Watch it.”
“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”
Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.
But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”
It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.
Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”
“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.
He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.
You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.
When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”
You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”
Harry doesn't answer right away.
He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.
“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.
The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.
“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”
“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.
Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”
He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Come with me.”
It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.
Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”
He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”
You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”
Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.
Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.
It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.
Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.
You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.
Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”
He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”
“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”
“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”
“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”
Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”
You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”
He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”
“Harry.”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”
You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”
Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.
You glance over your shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.
“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.
Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.
You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”
And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.
You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.
You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.
Just a little.
The package arrived that same night.
A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.
There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.
Well, that and a note taped to the front.
Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.
“Make them think I built you myself - H.”
You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.
The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.
And there it was.
Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.
You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.
Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.
You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.
A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.
And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.
You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.
You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.
You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.
Hairy
Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.
You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.
You know this is deranged behavior, right?
You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.
They vanished, then reappeared.
Hairy
I’m aware.
But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.
See you at 8.
You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.
You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.
God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.
Friday comes both too fast and too slow.
You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.
You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.
Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.
You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.
Hairy
Found the tie, crisis averted.
Just need you now. Be there in 15.
You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.
The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.
It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.
You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.
Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.
The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.
You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.
You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.
But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.
The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.
With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.
The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.
Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.
He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.
You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.
The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.
For a moment, he just stares.
You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.
The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.
You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”
Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.
He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.
“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”
Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.
“We might as well.”
The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.
You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.
Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.
You also play your role perfectly.
You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.
The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.
“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.
“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Isn’t that bad for business?”
Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”
You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.
There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.
Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.
But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.
“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.
You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”
He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”
At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.
It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.
Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.
It’s just for you.
The awards are handed out shortly after.
Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.
You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.
You clap until your palms sting.
When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.
You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.
The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.
It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.
You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.
“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.
You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”
Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”
He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.
You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”
His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”
There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.
You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”
“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”
You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”
He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”
That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.
There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.
“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”
It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.
The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.
Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”
You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”
You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”
He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”
You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.
You give him your hand.
You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”
“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”
You give him your hand.
You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.
But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.
He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.
The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.
Harry draws you in close.
Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.
You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.
The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.
He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.
“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.
“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”
Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”
You nod. “It is.”
The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.
You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.
“Harry…”
He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”
It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words wash over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.
You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”
It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.
He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.
Can he feel yours?
“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”
Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.
“I…”
And then he kisses you.
And then you can’t speak at all.
It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.
His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.
Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.
It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.
Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”
You kiss him again before he can finish.
His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.
Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke
The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.
You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.
When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.
Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.
He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.
He swallows hard. “We should leave.”
Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”
The ride back to the office is a blur.
You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.
The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.
His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.
He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.
“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.
Two words. That’s all he says.
Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.
“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him
Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”
You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.
“Are you wet for me?”
You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”
He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”
“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”
Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”
His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”
You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.
His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”
“You,” you whisper. “You did.”
“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.
Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.
“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.
“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”
Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.
Still…
You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.
“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.
He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.
Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.
It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.
But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.
You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.
Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.
Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.
You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.
The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.
You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.
“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”
Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.
He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.
His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”
His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.
He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.
“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”
“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”
He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.
He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.
“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”
His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.
Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”
You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.
You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”
You do.
You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.
Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.
“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”
And you do.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.
Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.
“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”
You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.
“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”
Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”
The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.
“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”
He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.
You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.
Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.
It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.
It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.
“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”
“Harry—fuck—Harry!”
“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”
“Yes—yes—oh my god—”
“Say it.”
“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”
He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.
“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”
“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”
That’s all he needs.
He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.
New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.
The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.
Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.
The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.
“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”
It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.
“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”
Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”
You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”
Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”
Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”
Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”
You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.
Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.
You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.
MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.
anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!
pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader
you fuck joel miller, austin’s fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.
tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.
w/c: 9k
Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.
Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.
You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?
Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table and—
Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled “Pool for Dummies: First Steps,” just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.
“Another round?” she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. “Some guy just bought us drinks.”
Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.
Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.
But you’re only watching one of them.
Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while you’re watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.
His turn.
He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, until…
Suddenly, they’re on you.
Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You don’t even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.
His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.
“Oh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,” your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. “Adam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guy…”
“The twenty-seven-year-old,” you say. “He’s a baby. And I bet he’s circumcised.”
“You’re twenty-five. What’s your beef with circumcised guys?”
You skip that question because there’s no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.
“I like my men the way I like my cheese.”
“Old and stinky?”
“Aged!” you correct. “Y’all can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.”
Your table erupts in laughter.
It’s your oldest friend’s birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Miller’s Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dad’s, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.
And it’s not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.
You’re halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.
Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because it’s way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.
The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.
“Shit,” says the wall.
Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.
“You alright?”
Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. He’s even bigger up close.
“Oww,” you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”
“Doubt it. Looks to me like you’ve had a few too many.”
“You sure? Here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. “Do I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?”
“Your fault for not lookin’ where you were going.”
You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.
He’s raising an eyebrow, but there’s a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:
“How about I buy you a drink as an apology?”
The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:
“Go find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in there’ll want you.”
“I don’t want someone my age!” you call out after his retreating back.
“Too damn bad.”
He steps into the men’s room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?
“When you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,” your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. “He’s supposed to like you for your personality.”
“I don’t want him to eat out my personality.”
He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.
It’s hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.
At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the bar’s exit.
There’s a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dad’s number.
It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.
You try again.
Voicemail.
“I don’t sleep until you’re home,” you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. “Bet they’re deep in REM by now.”
You’re typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.
“Changed your mind?” you ask, trying to sound alluring.
He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.
“What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where’re your friends?”
“They stayed.”
“And they just let you stand out here by yourself?”
You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? That’s ridiculous. And the nearest driver’s twenty minutes away.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“I’m not telling you where I live, stalker,” you mutter, eyes still on your phone.
“Five minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.”
“So? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.”
“I ain’t leaving you out here alone.”
“Hey,” you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. “You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”
He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the bar’s parking lot in silence.
Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.
Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.
“Noooo,” you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No… way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.
The bar door opens again. You don’t look up to see who it is, and you don’t need to, because ten seconds later, there’s a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.
“Hey there, baby girl,” Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. “I got your message.”
His blown pupils freak you out, but it’s the fact that you can’t break his grip that makes your heart spike. You’re trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.
“What message?”
“You wanted me to follow you out.”
“No, I didn’t. I just wanna go home. Let go.”
You try again. He holds tighter. Now he’s pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.
“No need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookin’ at me.”
“Let me go!”
Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to scream—
“Hey, kid,” a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.
“You back off her or you’re heading back to college five teeth short.”
Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like it’s shelter from the storm.
“These cameras,” he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the bar’s exterior, “I’ll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you don’t have a scholarship.”
Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you don’t hear it. You’re gripping the man’s forearm, and he’s guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.
In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driver’s side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guy’s bike in New Moon.
He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you don’t even think to argue:
“Give me your address. I’m taking you home.”
Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the bar’s lot.
“You know that guy?”
“I know his name’s Adam, but I don’t know him. Don’t even know his last name. He’s a friend of a friend.”
“Goddamn criminal little punks,” he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices you’re trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. “You alright?”
“I’m… yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”
He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.
You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficult’s phone rings and he answers:
“Miller,” he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. “What the hell happened to Jesse? Tonight’s his shift, not mine.” More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, “I’m on my way.”
He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.
“Are you kidnapping me?!”
His frustrated sigh fills the cab.
“You’re way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,” he grumbles, accelerating. “They need me at work and I can’t drop you off first. It’s urgent. You’ll wait for me.”
“I can call another Uber.”
“You ain’t calling an Uber drunk like that.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because,” Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, “it’s literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.”
Civilians? Swore an oath?
Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.
“Come with me.”
You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesn’t check if you’re keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like he’s the second coming.
The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. They’re all huge.
“Chief,” one of them says. Chief?
“We need you. We got a call on—”
“Where the hell is Jesse?!” Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. “He think he’s back in school? What if I’d been drinking tonight? You’d go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.”
You’re only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:
“Come on.”
You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep… there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.
Miller shuts that down real fast:
“Eyes off, punks. I’ll be down in two.”
You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! That’s right, punks! Eyes off!
With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.
Upstairs, you find the firefighters’ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.
Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every cliché fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, you’d one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, “Here to put out my fire, officer?”
Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.
“Wait here for me. There’s coffee, water…” he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. “Bathroom, running water, all that. Won’t be long.”
Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.
Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.
You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.
Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?
The TV’s on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.
Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.
You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.
“Were you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.”
That’s the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like men’s cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable you’d been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.
He keeps adjusting the jacket until everything’s covered. There’s no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if he’d called you a name or scolded you outright.
“You’re back,” you mumble.
He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacket’s gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.
“Yeah. Didn’t die.”
“Thank God,” you murmur, eyes falling shut again. “What a waste that would’ve been.”
He clicks his tongue, exasperated.
You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.
Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.
“You the chief’s new girl?” one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.
“No. He doesn’t want me.”
That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, “I do!” and you ignore it, because you don’t kiss babies. Not when there’s a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.
You sit up on the couch, keeping Miller’s jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe they’re passing around.
“Can I have some?” you ask, motioning toward it.
They scramble like it’s a competition: who’ll pour, who’ll carry it over, who’ll get that sweet little “thank you” you sing out.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. “Up. Let’s go.”
You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.
“I don’t know who’s been in contact with Jesse, but tell him he’s off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.”
One of them steps forward. “Chief—”
“That’s not a request, Lieutenant, that’s a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.”
Silence.
Miller’s voice sharpens. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.
“Tell me your address again,” he says once you’re both seated, looking worn out.
“You’re the fire chief.”
“Battalion chief,” he corrects, starting the engine. “Address.”
You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:
“That was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.”
“What’s with your thing for older men?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, “It’s not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what they’re doing. It’s not a crime.”
“How old are you?”
“You gonna judge me?”
“Seriously?” Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. It’s well past three a.m. “You’ve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what you’re worried about being judged for?”
“Because then you won’t wanna kiss me.”
“I’m not gonna kiss you either way.”
“See? That’s discrimination.”
“You still drunk?”
You think about it. Your vision’s clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.
“I’m not,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s afraid to admit you’re even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, “Twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-seven years older than you.”
The light turns green. He drives.
“That just sounds like motivation to me,” you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. “Are you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?”
He shakes his head. No to all.
“My women need to be at least forty. That’s my cutoff.”
“Totally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,” you say, giving him a thumbs-up. “But there’s always an exception, right?”
“No. Not with you.”
“Am I ugly?”
“You know damn well you’re not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.”
A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.
“You noticed? Look at you, paying attention,” you tease, but he doesn’t respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. “Okay. You don’t want me. Got it. I’ll stop.”
Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you can’t shut up, you say:
“Thanks for taking care of our city, Chief.”
More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.
“You’re really somethin’ else, sweetheart.”
“Oh God,” you groan. “You’re gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.”
“What’s the difference with older men, anyway?”
“Fishing for an ego boost?”
“Forget I asked.”
“No, no, wait, sorry,” you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like you’re about to give a TED Talk. You’re not wasting this moment. “Okay, listen, I lost my virginity in college—”
Miller rubs a hand over his face. “Too much information.”
“—and it was awful!” you go on, like he didn’t interrupt. “I didn’t finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought that’s just what straight-girl life was.”
Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, there’s probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it won’t stop.
“So I went out with this guy.”
“A guy,” he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.
“I think he was forty-two at the time. Miller… was addictive.”
“I can already imagine why.”
“Mhm.”
“But that’s not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.”
You resist the urge to ask if he’s talking about himself.
“Haven’t had any bad experiences yet.”
The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue you’re on, which means you’re probably only ten minutes from home.
“Have you always been a battalion chief?”
“I transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.”
“So that’s why I didn’t know you. When you came, I was still in college,” you say mostly to yourself. “Got it. You like it here?”
“I’m from here. Tommy’s my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.”
“Tommy from the bar?!”
“Tommy from the bar,” he confirms.
Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.
“Wow. Tommy’s friends with my parents,” you process the information bit by bit. “You’re Joel.”
“Mhm.”
“Joel Miller.”
“Yes.”
“I remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,” you say, because it’s true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. “He must be happy you’re back… and as battalion chief, no less.”
It’s subtle, but the line between Joel’s brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesn’t react much.
“Family’s family,” he replies simply.
You reach your parents’ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the key’s tucked inside the lilac flower pot.
You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,
“Thank you so much for the ride. I’m sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.”
You open the door to get out. Joel says,
“Close that door.”
Your hand freezes on the latch. Joel’s pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.
The console light dims.
You give him a moment because he looks like he’s wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. “I just don’t think I’m what you really want.”
“I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear you’re exactly my type.”
“Sweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure you’ll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.”
If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.
“Just because you’re older?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Come on, Joel. That’s crap. Yeah, we’ve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.”
“Because you wanna be the wild friend?”
Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide you’ve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.
“Okay,” you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. “Now I actually think you’re gonna kidnap me.”
“Shit,” he mutters, and he’s way too close. “Sorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
“So what’s this whole speech for, then?” you turn your face toward him, and now you’re only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. “You don’t want me. I get it. I’m a big girl. I don’t need a speech.”
Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, there’s a new kind of resolve etched into his face.
“It’s gotta stay secret,” he says. No wiggle room.
Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.
“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise immediately.
“Not even your friends.”
“What’s the big fear?” you ask, half-teasing, though there’s a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. “You married?”
“Hell no. I’m just the brother of the guy who’s friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldn’t want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.”
“I’m twenty-five,” you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. “It’s not up to my dad who I get involved with.”
“Good for you,” he says, like he couldn’t care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. “Still damn young.”
“And yet, I’m gonna be your exception.”
He squints, confused, until it clicks.
“Oh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.”
You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like he’s waiting for something.
You say what he needs to hear:
“Won’t breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.”
“Good. That stays between me and God.”
He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, you’re gone, falling into that familiar place you’ve always adored with older men.
Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and he’s the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like it’s a damn movie scene.
Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think you’re faking.
God. That kiss.
“It’s a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,” you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. “Joel—”
His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your neckline’s just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.
“More,” you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.
He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this one’s filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.
“You can’t be this polite,” you murmur. “Aren’t you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?”
“Boundaries,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. There’s still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you don’t.
“No way you’ve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,” you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher… right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: “Can I?”
He swallows hard.
He’s the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.
“No one’s out here,” you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. “Can I make you come?” you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. “Please. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?”
Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans to—
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. “No. Not here. I’m not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.”
He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.
“Not here,” says again.
God. You could cry.
“Okay,” you say instead because you’re an adult and you respect a no. “Alright. Okay.”
“Go on. Get inside.”
But before you do, you raise a finger.
“Can I suggest something?”
You’re not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front one’s too damn noisy.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no one’s there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.
And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and you’re locking the door.
With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.
“Prove to me you’re not drunk,” he says low.
“You want me to do a four?”
He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.
“You’re so old,” you mutter, reaching ten in the count. “I already told you I’m not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? That’s all I’ve got.”
“Enough to not regret this in the morning?”
“Regret you? Only if I were out of my mind.”
The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.
One raised brow. A wordless well?
Joel looks up at the ceiling, like he’s saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.
“You think you can stay quiet?” he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, “Refuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.”
Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but he’s faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.
You realize what he’s about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.
“You don’t have to,” you say quickly. You’ve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still… it’s been hours. “It’s okay, I don’t need—”
“I do. I want to,” he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. “Unless you don’t want me to.”
He waits for a sign to stop. You don’t give it.
A smile curls his lips.
“Yeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.”
The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joel’s large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.
Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God… he really wanted this.
Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like he’s not in any rush, not until he’s good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.
A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.
Your leg gives a little and you can’t hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.
You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup you’d used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joel’s body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.
“Good?” you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He can’t answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: “You fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.”
Joel’s no exception.
You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.
Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.
“I probably smell like smoke,” he murmurs.
“Just a little. More like sweat. And it’s delicious.”
Another smile. He’s on a roll.
“You’re insane,” he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. “Feel good?”
You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.
“Again,” you whisper.
He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.
He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadn’t planned to come, but you also can’t stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, until—
It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that don’t overwhelm but won’t let the afterglow slip away either.
You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.
“You need to fuck me. Now.”
“Urgent?”
“Mhm. So I can come again.”
“You’re so damn direct,” he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, “Arms up.”
You obey. He takes off your top, and it’s you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when he’s bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.
Thank you, God. Uncut.
You look up at him.
“Come here.”
Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.
“Might come too fast,” he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.
“I don’t mind.”
“Sure you don’t. You’re an expert in old men.”
The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. He’s gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once he’s fully inside, his body covers yours.
You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and it’s enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joel’s startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.
“Quiet,” he says, then thrusts again.
You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts — thankfully quiet, the bed doesn’t creak — as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You don’t even have the strength to keep touching yourself.
Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.
“Fuck,” Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. “Fuck, fuck… I was supposed to pull out and—”
“It’s fine. Really,” because it is. You’ve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, it’s a compliment, as long as you’re properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. “It’s okay.”
You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.
“I had a vasectomy,” he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.
“Great. I’ve got an IUD. Though we probably should’ve talked about this before, huh?” your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. “Think you can get hard again?”
“Give me a minute.”
“Okay. Pull out.”
Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more… why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.
“Sit there,” you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.
Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.
You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.
“How sensitive are you right now?” you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. “Okay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.”
“Suck a soft dick?”
“Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”
“Alright. But I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. “Okay. I respect that.”
Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when they’re a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know it’s not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesn’t match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.
You say, “I was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.”
“Yeah? You learn anything?”
You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.
“Now I know how to hold a pool stick.”
Joel’s lips tug into a half-smile.
“You’re left-handed,” he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. “Well done. You should’ve come, by the way. I might’ve let you win.”
“You’d never let me win.”
“I’m softer than I look. And,” he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, “if you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear I’ll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.”
“I don’t get why it bugs you so much. Come on.”
You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.
“Bet the single women in this town chase you down,” you murmur, arms around his neck. “And… the married ones too?”
“No comment.”
“Austin’s most wanted bachelor.”
“The divorcé,” he corrects.
Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“Good. Tomb’s been sealed.”
He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way you’re asking, even if you’re not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, it’s strange to you. There’s something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.
And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.
“Lift up a little,” he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. “Let me eat you out again.”
Ah. Yes. But actually…
“Can I try something else?” you ask.
That’s how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.
You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. You’re so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.
“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.
“Been neglecting this pussy, huh?”
You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.
He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard you’re biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.
When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. He’s not fully hard, but it doesn’t matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.
You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.
“Fucking perfect,” he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. “You’re driving me outta my mind.”
Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.
Your whole body shakes.
“Joel—”
“Come on, baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”
You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but there’s nowhere to go, and Joel doesn’t relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and it’s almost too much.
Almost.
Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.
“Can I keep going?” he asks. “Want me to pull out?”
“No. Just… stay off my clit.”
The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an “okay.”
You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.
When it’s over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart won’t stop pounding.
Goddamn.
Thanks for your service, Chief.
You can’t stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.
It’s not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and it’s driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.
“Pie?” you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.
Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.
When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.
Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.
The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.
Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dad’s at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks don’t exactly draw crowds.
Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire department’s on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you haven’t seen Joel yet.
“Any pie here sweeter than you?”
You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. He’s wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin that’s way too… youthful.
Still, you smile back.
“Definitely. I’m pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFD’s misconduct hotline.”
“Kidding.”
“And because of that joke,” you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, “you’re buying three slices to support the cause.”
He doesn’t even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.
Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
And there’s the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joel’s in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.
The Sweetest Bite.
That barely-there smile curves his lips.
You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.
Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.
Joel doesn’t even see you approaching. He’s surrounded by three women asking what it’s like “to be responsible for a city like Austin.”
“Such a hard-working man,” you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. “Fresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.”
Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.
“You got an endless supply of short shorts like that?” he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. “Cream pie.”
“My favorite,” you reply. And, about the shorts: “It’s summer in Texas.”
“Right,” he says to both.
You glance around. No one’s near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.
“You should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommy’s going and I can ask him to invite you.”
“I’m not going’ to your house.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not buddying up to your parents. You’re out of your mind?”
“I don’t want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no one’s looking.”
“No,” he says flatly, like the conversation’s over.
A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.
And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.
summary during a quiet patrol, you and joel find a working polaroid camera at a gas station. later, you discover he’s been secretly taking pictures of you.
tags established relationship, slow-burn, tender moments, filled with cuteness overload, fluff, and sweet romance as joel secretly cherishes the memories you create together.
masterlist
it happens on a slow day. one of the rare ones.
the two of you stumble on the gas station, half-collapsed but still standing while on patrol together. it’s one of those quiet, golden afternoons, where everything feels just a little softer.
no infected, no people. just you, joel, and the crunch of gravel beneath your boots.
inside, the place is mostly ransacked, long picked clean by the past patrol.
you and joel knew but for some reason decided to check inside.
“i’ll check the back,” he says, brushing his hand across your lower back as he passes.
that little touch. simple and instinctive still gives you butterflies.
you sift through shelves, overturned display racks, old register drawers. you’re about to move on when something behind the counter catches your eye.
a polaroid camera.
“no way…” you murmur, pulling it out carefully.
joel hears you and rounds the corner, shotgun lowered but alert.
“you find somethin’?” you hold it up.
he pokes his head around the doorway, rifle slung over his shoulder.
“a camera?”
“polaroid,” you say, tapping it with your knuckle.
“retro as hell. wonder if it still—” you press the button. the machine clicks loudly, a little wheeze and miraculously a photo begins to slide out.
“no way,” you whisper, grinning like an idiot. “it works!”
joel eyes it with suspicion. “that thing still got film?”
“got two whole packs, looks like. better make ‘em count.”
joel chuckles low in his throat, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, watching you with that soft, fond look he probably doesn’t realize he wears just for you.
“okay,” you say, turning toward him, “your turn.”
his smile fades a little. “nah. i’m good.”
you walk toward him slowly, raising the camera. “just one. for me.”
he sighs, not quite meeting your eyes. “i look like hell.”
you lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek. “you look like you. that’s what i want.” joel lets out a soft huff, but the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little.
“alright, fine. go on, then.” you raise the camera and snap the shot just as he squints at the light, caught between a smile and a protest. he’s caught mid-squint, sun in his eyes, standing near the light coming through the shattered window. there’s the hint of a smile on his lips
the photo slides out with a buzz. you hold it delicately, waiting for it to develop.
“now i can remember this face when you’re grumpy tomorrow,” you say, giving the photo a dramatic little wave.
“i’m not grumpy.” he crosses his arms but doesn’t say more.
you tuck the picture carefully into your pocket, joel watches you do it.
“you’re keepin’ that?” he asks, voice softer now.
“of course i am,” you say without hesitation. “you look…so damn handsome.”
joel shakes his head, but you can see it—the blush he tries to hide behind a chuckle.
that same week —
the fire crackles, sending flickers of amber light across joel’s front porch. the night in jackson is quiet as you sit beside joel, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow patterns against the worn wood.
without thinking, he reaches for the camera.
the button clicks, and you don’t even stir.
the photo slides out, and joel takes it gently, shielding it in his hands as it develops.
you, caught mid-thought, a soft, genuine smile playing at your lips. no walls, no guarded edges—just you.
you felt it before you saw it.
you watch him, stunned into silence by how careful he is with it.
the subtle shift in joel’s posture, the way he straightened just slightly, like he was preparing for something. you caught the way his fingers lingered near the polaroid camera, the telltale glance in your direction, quick, like he was checking, like he was making sure you weren’t looking.
but you were.
when the image begins to appear, joel stares at it. a smile spreads across his face. slow, sweet, impossible to hide.
you fought the smirk threatening to rise, keeping your expression soft, easy, like you hadn’t noticed a thing.
“whatcha doin’?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you like really looks. there’s something in his eyes, something unspoken.
“you were peacefully looking at the fire’ earlier,” he says softly, lifting the camera.
“you looked… i don’t know. happy. i don’t see you like that near enough.”
“joel,” you murmur, already blushing.
“goddamn,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in quiet awe. “how’d i get so lucky?” he looks at you then.
“you. just sittin’ there. smilin’ like that.”
you don’t know what to say. your heart’s pounding.
joel watches you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a grin.
you catch the way he glances at the camera, the way he shifts slightly like he’s debating something. so, naturally, you decide to make his choice easier.
with exaggerated enthusiasm, you lift your hands to your face, shaping them into hearts and pressing them against your cheeks, tilting your head.
“how’s this for a shot?” you tease, batting your lashes for effect.
joel exhales a laugh and lifts the camera without hesitation.
“you’re impossible,” he mutters, shaking his head.
click.
the photo slides out, and joel picks it up with practiced care.
you lean forward, watching it develop, your heart hammering just a little faster than it should.
slowly, your image comes into view—that sweet pose, the warmth in your expression, the way the firelight softens everything.
but the real giveaway is joel’s face when he sees it—how his lips press together like he’s trying to suppress something big.
you poke his arm. “what? didn’t turn out?”
he shakes his head, eyes still glued to the picture. “no,” he says, voice quieter now. “turned out too good.”
you blink at him, watching the way his fingers trace the edges of the photo like it’s something delicate.
and then without a word he tucks it away in his jacket, alongside the other.
“wait,” you laugh, reaching for it. “that one’s mine.”
joel leans back, smug now. “nope.”
you try again. he dodges.
“joel,” you groan, half-laughing, half-serious.
he smirks, finally meeting your eyes.
“gonna keep it with the others,” he says simply, patting his jacket.
you blink. “…others?”
joel doesn’t answer, just watches the fire again, completely unbothered by the way your mind is now racing with the thought of just how many pictures he’s been secretly collecting all this time.
you sit back, grinning like an idiot.
you’ll find them someday.
the fire has burned low now, embers glowing soft in the night. you sigh, shifting closer, and joel doesn’t hesitate. his arm settles around you, firm, steady. he’s always been solid, always been something to hold onto, even when he doesn’t realize it.
your cheek presses against his shoulder, breath evening out.
joel turns slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes soft in the firelight.
“you tired?”
you hum a little, not quite answering, just letting yourself sink into the warmth of him.
his fingers trace slow patterns against your arm, absentminded, gentle.
“you’re gonna steal all the polaroids, aren’t you?”
you smile without opening your eyes. “obviously.”
joel huffs a quiet laugh, tilting his head back.
“gotta admit, i like the thought of you keeping ‘em.”
your fingers tighten just slightly against his sleeve, something deep settling in your chest.
“you should be in more of them,” you say, voice low, drowsy.
“maybe.”
you know that you’ll get your chance to capture more of him.
one memory at a time.
just like he’s been doing with you.
the next week —
you and joel are back on patrol, weaving through the forest on the edge of jackson. the sunlight filters through the branches in scattered beams, casting long, golden streaks across the moss and ferns.
you’re walking ahead, checking the brush for signs of anything recent, when you hear him behind you.
“hey,” joel says, voice low.
you glance back. he’s a few paces behind, hands resting casually on the straps of his backpack. his rifle hangs across his back.
there's something about the way he’s looking at you. like he’s trying to decide something.
you slow your pace until you're side by side. “what’s up?”
he doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just studies the clearing you’ve stepped into—a little patch of light surrounded by trees, the trail winding quiet through it.
“you, uh…” he clears his throat. “still got that camera?” you pause, the mug halfway to your lips. you don’t smile. not yet.
just nod. “yeah. in my bag.” you tilt your head, curious. “why?”
joel shifts his weight, eyes scanning the tree line like he’s stalling, but there's no tension in his shoulders. “just figured…” his hand lifts halfway, then drops again. “if you still wanted a real picture. of me.”
you blink at him. “now?”
he gives a small nod, almost sheepish. “better light out here than back home. figured maybe… the trees’d look better behind me than a damn porch railing.”
you smile, slow and warm. “alright, joel. c’mere.”
he exhales like he’s already regretting it, but walks over without protest. you watch as he steps into the clearing, finding a spot where the sunlight filters through the canopy. he plants his boots in the moss and— pop.
there it is.
that knee.
he shifts his weight onto one leg, resting the other with just a slight bend, popping his knee out like he always does when he’s standing still. like it’s habit. like it’s comfort.
you grin. “you always stand like that.”
joel furrows his brow. “like what?”
you tilt your camera down, gesturing. “that knee. you pop it every time you’re trying to look like you’re not posing.”
he scoffs under his breath. “ain’t posin’.”
“mmm,” you hum, raising the camera again. “sure you’re not.”
he doesn’t argue. just lets his arms cross loosely over his chest, posture relaxed—but that knee stays popped, his weight settled the way it always is when he’s just being himself.
you look through the lens, and your chest tightens.
joel, out in the open, just him. honest. unhidden. carefree. standing there in the quiet green of the woods like he belongs to it. like he belongs here, with you.
click.
the camera clicks, and the photo slides out with that familiar little whir. you cradle it in your hands as it begins to develop, shielding it gently from the breeze.
joel steps closer, watching with quiet curiosity. you hold the picture up between you both as the image starts to form.
slow and ghostlike at first, then clearer.
joel beneath the trees, that knee popped, hands relaxed. his face half in sunlight. eyes soft. like he’s not fighting anything in that second.
you glance over. “you look good.”
he studies it for a beat. “didn’t even realize i stood like that.”
you smirk. “i know. that’s what makes it good.”
“so,” you begin, your voice teasing, “didn’t know you were such a softie, joel.”
joel’s eyes soften, a rare, quiet affection flickering there. “you got me figured out, sweetheart. ain’t nobody else sees it like you do."
“i just… don’t mind you takin' my picture, sweetheart."
you laugh lightly. "if you keep standing like that, sure."
"you’re really gonna give me crap about the knee, aren’t you?"
“hey, i’m not judging. just sayin’, it’s part of your charm,” you tease, nudging his shoulder again.
“yeah?” joel ask, looking over at him.
your heart does that thing again. just a little at his words. you keep your gaze ahead, not wanting him to catch the way your cheeks warm.
the rain starts in the early afternoon. you and joel cut patrol short before it rolls in fully, returning soaked but laughing, hoods dripping, boots heavy.
now, the storm taps gently at the windows.
joel’s upstairs tinkering with a stubborn window latch, while you curl up on his couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, the room filled with the low hiss of the fire.
you shift to get more comfortable, and something slips off the armrest with a soft thump, joel’s flannel jacket.
you lean down to pick it up. as you straighten it, your fingers brush something stiff in the chest pocket.
curious, you slip your hand inside.
polaroids.
you blink.
carefully, you pull them out, all tucked together. the edges are worn, a little soft, clearly touched over and over again.
it’s you.
sitting by the fire, cheeks pink from cold. you’re laughing, eyes crinkled.
the next: you curled up in the joel’s couch, fast asleep, head tipped against the window. sunlight streaks through the glass. there’s a shadow in the bottom corner. joel’s hand, maybe. close but not touching.
another: you in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, tongue between your teeth in concentration. light pouring in from the window. one of your socks is mismatched.
then the one, hands on your cheeks in a heart shape, eyes squinting with laughter.
you remember that one. you remember how warm he looked at you afterward, even when he tried to hide it.
you flip to the last one. you, in profile, sitting on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders. the light hits your face in this soft, golden way that feels more like a memory than a photograph.
you aren’t smiling. you’re just… peaceful.
you don’t even hear joel’s footsteps until he appears. he stops mid-step when he sees what you’re holding.
“guess you found ‘em.”
you look back down at the photos, heart full and aching in equal measure. “you’ve been carrying these around?”
he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “didn’t mean to hide ’em, really. just… i dunno.”
you trace the edge of the photo with your thumb. “these are all of me.”
joel nods slowly. “yeah.”
“you don’t have any of yourself.”
he shrugs. “don’t need any of me. i remember me just fine.”
your chest squeezes. you walk over, placing the photos gently on the table, and wrap your arms around his neck. his hands settle on your back, one of them coming up to cup the back of your head.
“you’ve been holding onto me,” you whisper.
joel leans his head down against yours, murmuring into your hair. “always.”
you pull back enough to meet his eyes. “you know i’m stealing one, right?”
“figured you might.”
“this one’s mine.”
he watches you tuck it into your pocket with a fondness so open, so sweet, it leaves you breathless.
you smile at him. “don’t worry. i’m gonna take so many pictures of you, you won’t know where to keep them.”
I’m here for a request, but not a typical one. I want to request that you finish something you’ve been working on but maybe are nervous that people won’t want it. Something YOU have always wanted to write.
Okay that’s it love you bye 🖤
𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲
Summary: You tried to love Joel Miller the way he was. But eventually, the silence, the walls, the way he kept you at arm’s length… it broke something in you. So you let him go.
|| angst! fluff! smut! we got it all! MDNI 18+, Jackson!Joel, break up, joel is bad at feelings, makeup sex (eventually), pinv, love makin', lots of kissing cause I wanna kiss him, fingering, f!receiving oral, and yeah its a little corny idc, tiny mention of an age gap||
Inspired by Kacey Musgrave's song Space Cowboy
a/n: taylorrrrrrr my angel girl I could cry ilysm.
I’ve always had this thought that Joel Miller, at least at first, would be emotionally unavailable and like...not willing to really date. In p1, he’s constantly shutting Ellie down when she brings up Tess or Sam and Henry, Tommy when he offers him that photo of Sarah. Sure, by the end he’s more open, because Ellie made him feel something again. But I think being romantically involved would be hard for him at first. I've always wanted to explore that, and this been collecting dust in my wips since I wasn't sure how everyone would feel. so all this to say....here you go :')
For once, Joel Miller stayed the night.
Not by accident, not because he was drunk off his ass and you made him crash on your couch. No, you’d seen that version of him more times than you could count. But last night, after fucking you hard enough to leave dents in your drywall from sheer force of the headboard, he’d collapsed beside you, pulled you against his chest, and… stayed.
Almost like he meant to.
So god forbid you woke up the next morning with your cheek against his bare chest, your thigh slung over his hip, still foggy brained in the haze of sleep, and asked if he wanted to go grab breakfast at the dining hall.
You might as well have asked What are we?
Or worse: Will you be my boyfriend forever and ever, Joel?
Now he was out in your living room, shoving his boots on by the front door as sun poured in dusty light across the floorboards. You leaned against the archway in his flannel, bare legs out, nothing but the socks on your feet and silence in the air.
You watched him with narrowed eyes. To say you didn’t know what this was would be like saying the sky wasn’t blue. And you weren’t a liar.
Because you saw it, saw the same pieces being shunted between you. He was building it up again. Brick by brick. That impenetrable wall was back high and tight.
“I don’t get it,” you said finally.
He didn’t answer, only grunted.
Of course.
“You come here a few nights a week, we hookup and then…what? I don’t exist once your pants are back on? The one night you actually stay with me and I ask you to eat breakfast, I’ve suddenly crossed a line?”
“That’s enough,” Joel muttered, jaw clenched tight.
The way he said made your stomach twist something ugly.
“Yeah,” you said, letting out a long breath as your voice flattened into something stale, “You’re right. That’s enough.”
You stepped in front of where he was sitting, his chin tilting up to meet your eyes for once. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t back down. He just looked at you like he didn’t understand why you were standing in the way of his exit.
“What do you want, Joel?”
He shook his head and leaned down to finish tying his boots. “Don’t want nothin’ from you.”
That stung more than it should have. “Trust me,” you said scoffing. “I got that message a long time ago.”
He stood, slow but abrupt, towering over you as if it was easier to loom than feel anything at all. “What is it you want from me, girl?”
“I want you to admit there’s something here!” you finally snapped, your blood beginning to boil, “I want you to act like all these nights mean something! Like I’m not just a warm body you crawl to when you’re lonely.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I want you to talk to me. I want something real. But you don’t even try.”
“I am tryin’,” he said, eyes squeezing shut once before looking at you under heavy brows.
“No, you’re not,” you said, and your voice cracked, not quite out of sadness, but rage. “You’re just—” your hand cut the air, motioning to all of him. “You’re existing, Joel. Going through the motions like you’re waiting for it all to be ripped away. You’re so damn scared of letting anything good happen that you’re choking the life out of it before it can even start.”
His jaw twitched, shoulders stiffening. That look in his eye—rage, grief, guilt—you weren’t sure which it was, but it burned cold and hard beneath the surface.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly, but there was venom behind the words. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Then tell me.” You stepped closer, letting your voice drop to something soft and gentle as you lifted your hands to his chest. You looked up into his eyes, now dark as storm clouds above a forest as you whispered, “Let me in.”
He didn’t answer, only stood there, breathing slow through his nose, his body rigid like he was waiting to be hit.
You shook your head, your hands falling back down to your sides in fists, “You always talk about space,” you murmured. “Needing time.”
You turned on your heel and stomped toward the door, yanking it open with a loud creak. Cold autumn air rushed in, hitting your bare skin and stinging your eyes.
“Well,” you said, voice low and bitter. “Your prayers have been answered.”
You swung your arm out toward the open doorway.
“You can have your space, cowboy.”
Joel paused for a long moment. Because maybe for once he realized you meant it. Like maybe he’d expected you to cave, to give him the same grace you always did. But you were tired.
Tired of not knowing what this was.
Tired of not knowing what you were to him.
Tired of the way he’d shut down and pull away when you could feel the good in him, the gold buried under all that iron.
You knew he was a good man.
He just wouldn’t show it to you.
Slowly, he started toward the door. Time dragged as he approached you, whether that was because every step looked like it cost him something or you were cataloging every movement he made to store in your memory.
He reached the threshold and stopped, the morning light catching the edge of his face, soft and golden. He looked back at you, but you didn’t lift your eyes.
Then softly, just a whisper, he said your name. As if he knew it was the last time.
Finally, you looked up at him, biting your lip to keep back the tears.
“I’ll see you around, Joel,” you said. “I know my place. And maybe it’s just not with you.”
You couldn’t quite make yourself regret being with Joel.
Not even for a second.
You told yourself a hundred times in the days that followed that what happened between you and him had been real. Maybe not enough, maybe not lasting, but real. And sometimes that was all you got.
Roads were made to go down. Some just didn’t have a way back.
And if you’d been smarter, you would’ve remembered what the movies always tried to teach: the good guys don’t run away.
But the broken ones sure as hell do.
And Joel Miller had always been a runner. Even if he showed signs of want, of connection only through the nights with your name on his lips like prayer and he took your body like it was his salvation.
But when a horse wants to run, there’s no sense closing the gate.
In the weeks after you’d broken things off, you saw him everywhere. Yes, in the little things like the butcher’s stall that had a sign he’d made and the wooden figurines in your neighbor’s windowsill, but more than that, you actually saw him.
From across the market gathering whatever it was he needed one week, or the back of his head on horseback heading out with a patrol group, or his flannel at the edge of the community garden, nodding to someone like he was fine. Like nothing ever happened. He never looked your way, not once. But you looked at him.
And the days you didn’t see him were somehow worse.
You'd catch yourself worrying. Wondering if something went wrong on patrol, or…if he was holed up with another woman in a house that wasn’t yours, if he’d finally decided to try with someone easier.
Someone who didn’t ask him to talk.
Someone who didn’t wear his t-shirts and expect breakfast the next morning.
Two months passed like that— slow and strange, like you were trudging through water. You kept to yourself, did your work, smiled at friends when they asked if you were okay. You told them you were tired, that you were busy. That you were fine.
But there was something about Joel that clung to you like smoke.
It didn’t matter how many days you went without seeing him. He was still everywhere. Whether it was in the smell of pine when it rained, the creak of your porch steps when you’d hoped it was him, or the ache of your thighs the first time you tried to be with someone else and couldn’t go through with it.
Because try you had. Over and over, you’d tried.
And on one stormy night, three sharp knocks slammed against your front door like warning shots.
You were curled up on the couch beside someone who was… fine. He was nice, respectful, said “please” and “thank you” and laughed at your lame jokes with his hand resting on your knee. You were trying, honest, to feel something. To find that spark again, to forget about the one you’d known all too well.
But you couldn’t force yourself to, could you? So when the knocks slammed into the wood of your front door, you were almost grateful, because the man on your couch had just been leaning in for what you were pretty sure was a kiss.
Eric? Aaron? Whatever his name was blinked, glancing toward the door. “You expecting someone?”
You shook your head slowly. “No.”
Another knock. More like a demand now.
“Let me just see who it is,” you said quietly as you crossed the room, your bare feet silent on the hardwood, and opened the door.
Joel nearly fell through it.
Rain clung to him, dripping from the hem of his jacket, pooling beneath his boots. Mud streaked up the sides of his jeans. His hair was soaked to his scalp, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. There was something feral about them.
He didn’t even say a word as he stepped forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you.
It was messy and sudden and rough, tasting hot with whiskey, his stubble scraping your skin as he tilted your chin up, as if he had the right. As if you were still his. You froze for a heartbeat, maybe two. Because you had missed him. Missed him in ways you hadn’t even let yourself feel yet. But this…this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And the second that sick, hot twist of anger rose up in your gut, you shoved him.
“Joel—what the fuck—get off,” you snapped, trying to twist out of his cold, wet grip.
But he kept coming. Hands sliding to your hips, dragging you into him again, his mouth crashing against yours, slurring against your lips, “Missed you. I miss’d ya so fuckin’ bad, baby, I—”
You pushed harder this time, shoving at his chest until he stumbled back a step. He swayed, visibly disoriented, breath catching as he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes blinked slowly like the room was spinning. When he looked back at you, he looked confused. Like he didn’t understand why you were pushing him away.
Behind you, you heard the floor creak.
“Uh, what the hell is going on?”
Joel’s head jerked up at the voice.
The man stood from the couch, slow and cautious. His brows pulled tight, clearly trying to make sense of what he just walked into. Joel stared for a long moment. Then his whole body stiffened.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked, his voice lower now, that mean, Southern bite curling around the words.
You stepped into his eyeline immediately. “Joel—don’t.”
But he moved around you like you weren’t even there, sodden boots heavy on the floor as he stalked forward.
“Get the fuck out,” he said to the man.
The guy blinked, baffled. “Excuse me?”
“I said get the fuck outta her house.”
“She invited me—”
Joel began to move, an angry glower pinching his brows as he moved to get in his face, but you stepped between him, hands on his chest.
“Jesus, Joel,” you said, shoving him back again, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Joel’s breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling fast. He turned toward you, eyes wild and heartbroken and far too open, “Can I talk to you?” his eyes glowered briefly at the man behind you, “Alone?”
“Man, you need to leave,” your guest said, annoyed.
You held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Just… please go.”
He looked at you for a long second, then scoffed, shooting one last glare toward Joel as he stepped out the door.
The second it closed behind him, the silence in the room was deafening.
Joel stood there in the middle of your living room like something unholy. Soaked to the bone and chest heaving. His eyes were red and full of everything he refused to say for the last two months.
The silence stretched, long and heavy.
“Baby, I–” he began, but you shook your head.
“I don’t want to hear it, Joel.” you squeezed your eyes shut, bringing your hands up to rub your temples, “Whatever it is you want to say, I need to hear it when you’re sober.”
You should’ve screamed, should’ve been angry. Hell, you should’ve thrown him back out into the rain and locked the door behind him.
But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, carefully, slowly, wondering if he was just going to bolt again.
“Let’s just…get this off,” you murmured. Your fingers found the collar of his jacket, trembling a little from the adrenaline coursing through you as you tugged it down his shoulders. The fabric clung to his arms, soaked and heavy, but he didn’t fight you. And you didn’t realize til after you’d gotten it off of him that his eyes never left your face. Not once.
You hung his jacket up by your door, the fabric freezing and soggy. Then your hands moved to his flannel. The buttons were half-undone already. You didn’t ask, you just kept going.
And still, he didn’t stop you.
You pushed the fabric apart, palms brushing down the front of his chest, and God—he was so cold. But he was still him, even if the cold had gotten to him, had sunken into his skin.
You sank to your knees.
Not for him, and not like that. You just crouched down in front of him and tugged at the laces of his boots. The knot was sloppy and rushed like he had rushed in a fury to put them on. You undid it anyway, peeling each boot off one at a time, your fingers clumsy from the cold and the tension.
Neither of you spoke.
Not until you stood again, eyes meeting his. Something passed between you in that moment, raw and wordless. Maybe a kind of truce. Not forgiveness, just a single thread of mercy, offered in silence just for tonight.
Joel swayed again, catching himself with a heavy hand against the wall. His voice came out low and ragged, like it hurt to speak.
“I… I fucked up, okay?”
You could’ve screamed at him. Could’ve thrown every angry word you’d swallowed these past few months in his face. But instead, you just reached for the hem of his shirt.
“Lift your arms.”
He blinked, confused, but obeyed, sluggish and slow.
You pulled the soaked fabric up and over his head, dropping it to the floor with a wet slap.
“I’m tryin’ t’talk to ya,” he slurred, more firmly this time. “Yer not… listenin’.”
You poked him hard in the chest, “Because I don’t,” you poked again, “want,” a third poke, “to hear it, Joel.”
You poked him one last, hard time, his face turning into a grimace as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, but you kept going.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take a shower, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t bust your head open on the tub. Then you’re drinking some damn water and sleeping it off on the couch.”
He opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a sharp look.
“If you still wanna talk after that? When you’re sober and not dripping all over my floor? Then maybe I’ll listen.”
He stared at you for a long moment, rainwater still clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling. Then he nodded. Just once, his face falling, his eyes wide.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
You draped the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was half-asleep already, sunk deep into the couch cushions, still damp around the edges but warm now, finally. Clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants he left behind many nights ago, water by his side, the softest throw you owned wrapped snug to his chest.
Joel blinked up at you slowly, lids heavy and uneven. His hair was still a little wet, curling at his temples. That same whiskey glow lingered in his eyes, glassy and soft.
“Yer so pretty,” he mumbled, words slurred as he watched you tuck him in, “Really miss’d ya.”
“Okay, Joel,” you said halfheartedly, not believing a word of it.
He blinked again, slower this time. “Even when I was t’dumb to say it… I always wanted t’come back ‘ere. To you.”
You froze.
Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile anyway. Brushed a dark hair from his forehead with careful fingers.
“Okay, cowboy,” you said gently. “Drink your water and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
He hummed, the sound low and content. “M’kay.”
And as you turned to leave, his hand found the edge of the blanket again, clutching it close.
You were up before him the next morning, the sky still a pale and silvery grey through the kitchen window when you set the kettle on.
You’d saved the last of the good coffee grounds for this, maybe because some part of you hoped he’d come back. Maybe because opening the jar, running your fingers through the coarse grinds, breathing in the bitter scent… it helped when you missed him.
The rich smell filled the room as it brewed, creeping into the corners of the house like a memory. You heard the low groan from the couch before you saw him. The rustling of blankets and the sound of his hand rubbing against his beard.
You poured a mug and walked over slowly.
He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Bleary and still half-fogged. When he finally lifted his face, eyes squinting against the light, you held the mug out to him.
He blinked at it. Then at you.
“Thanks,” he said, voice rough with sleep and whatever was still left from the whiskey. He took it gingerly, careful to avoid your fingers.
You sat down in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you, keeping a decent distance with your hands wrapped around your tea to ground you.
Joel took a sip from his mug, closing his eyes and exhaled a sigh, long and slow.
“Needed that,” he murmured, setting the mug on the table.
You nodded, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His beard was scruffier than usual, curling at the edges. Eyes rimmed in red, lashes still clumped from sleep. His face was carved in exhaustion, but even now, something about him still softened when he looked at you.
“I’m, uh…” he started, then shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m real sorry about last night. Feel awful.”
You gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, I figured the hangover’d be brutal.”
He shot you a look. “Not like that, smartass.”
Your smile deepened in spite of yourself. The silence between you hummed a little, something warm and bitter like old whiskey. You broke the gaze first, sighed, and stared down into your tea.
“So,” you said.
“So…” he echoed, rubbing at the corner of his jaw. His fingers rasped against the unshaven stubble. “I, uh… I ain’t so good at this.”
You nodded. That much, at least, didn’t need explaining.
“But I meant what I said,” he added quietly. “I’ve… ya know. Missed you.”
You lifted your mug again, stalling with a sip. You didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t plan to. The old version of you might’ve melted on the spot with so few words. Not this time. You needed more. Real words. The truth of it.
Joel watched you, waiting. Then waited some more.
The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated he looked. His mouth twitched, like he was finally coming to terms with the fact he was gonna have to work for your forgiveness.
He leaned back finally, one arm slung along the back of the couch, his eyes still fixed on you.
“Not gonna give me anythin’, huh?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, setting your mug down with a quiet clink on the coffee table, “I thought you came here with somethin’ to say.”
“I was drunk.”
“Drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said simply. “So let’s hear ’em.”
Joel let out a low groan, dragging his hand over his face again. “Okay,” he muttered into his palm before reaching for the coffee again.
He took another sip, holding the mug like it might shield him from what came next.
“I dunno all the shit I’m supposed to say,” he muttered finally. “It’s not…easy for me.”
You stayed quiet, letting him talk, even if the words came slow and uneven.
“I’m used to... keepin’ things in. Just dealin’ with whatever shit came my way. I never…never really had this before, someone who wanted to know what was goin’ on in here.” He glanced your way, tappin’ his temple.
“So when I started comin’ around here… and it felt good… felt, I dunno, safe… I think I got scared I’d fuck it up. Or that maybe I already had.”
You blinked slowly, processing the mess of it. His voice, low and gravelly, kept catching like it was tripping over things he didn’t know how to say. Like there were words he wanted to find but had never really practiced out loud.
“Joel,” you sighed, fingers fidgeting around your knees, “I just want to know…what it is you want. Because it seems like we want different things.”
His eyes found yours across the couch, setting his coffee down as he shook his head, and sat forward, leaning closer to you, “No, no. That ain’t it. I want this, I just…” he trailed off, rubbing his face into his hands. You almost felt bad, how hard this was for him.
Then, his eyes looked up, and he sat back. “Can you come here?”
You weren’t sure if you were ready for this part. Because part of you knew how fast you’d give in if you touched him. Knew how easy it would be to fall back into his arms and forget everything you’d been hurting over. But your chest ached for it. And the way he was looking at you, so raw and cracked open, it made you move against your better judgement.
Slowly, you crawled over. He shifted to make room and when you tucked yourself beneath his chin, his arm came around you like he’d been waiting. Both hands found your arm, rubbing gently like he could feel the chill under your skin.
It was odd, almost. Most of the times he’d pulled you in like this were when you were both naked, the post coitus hormones running high, limbs tangled up and skin flushed.
“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice warm against your hair.
You swallowed. You missed it too, missed him, even when he made it impossible.
He shifted just enough to tilt your chin up, fingers brushing along your jaw. His eyes searched yours, darker now but softer. You saw something there you hadn’t seen in the light before. Not when he wasn’t trying to hide it.
Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he leaned in.
The kiss was soft and careful, the kind that said he was still learning how not to ruin things.
You kissed him back, breathing him in, your hand fisting in his shirt gently.
But then you caught yourself and pulled away, your hand untangling from the fabric to rub your eyes, “Joel–”
“What do you need me to say?” he asked quietly. There was no bite, no sharpness in his tone. “What is it you want to hear?”
“I can’t just…tell you. I want to know what you want, not just…feeding me what I want to hear.”
His fingers stayed at your jaw, steady. He looked at you like he was searching for the right words, like he wanted to get them right this time.
“I want this,” he said. “I want you.”
His voice cracked slightly. He held your gaze, his hand still gentle on your face.
“I’m sorry I was an asshole before. I didn’t get it.”
You watched him closely as his brow pulled in. This time it wasn’t stubbornness, but something closer to pain.
“Let me try again.”
He must’ve taken your silence as hesitation, because he kept going, voice picking up like he was trying to get ahead of the panic building in his chest.
“I know how it looks, I know I’ve been—Jesus, I’ve been a fuckin’ wreck about this, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you. With what I feel when I’m around you. It’s not just… It’s not just wantin’ you in my bed, it’s everything.”
You didn’t move, didn’t blink. You just sat there listening, because holy shit, you’d never heard this man talk so damn much. Never heard him unravel like this, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And it was pouring out of him now, fast and messy, as if trying to outrun the fear of messing it all up again.
“I wake up thinkin’ about you. I walk around Jackson wonderin’ what you’re doin’, what you’re thinkin’ about. I’d hear someone say your name and feel like an idiot ‘cause it’d make me smile. And then I’d remember I fucked it all up. That you were done with me. That you should be.”
His gaze dropped along with his hand from your face.
“But then I’d remember...what the hell do I think I’m doin’, bein’ with someone like you? You’ve got this whole life to live. You’ve still got time. Options. People your own age who can give you things I can’t.”
He looked at you again, and this time his eyes were pained and earnest.
“What happens in a few years when I hit sixty, and you still got your life ahead of you? What happens when I’m gone and you’re—”
You cut him off with a kiss.
You surged forward and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him into you, kissing him hard again, and again, like you could stop his words with your mouth. Like maybe if you kissed him enough, it would undo the ache in his voice.
“I was tryin’ to talk to you, you know,” he murmured against your lips, breath warm, a hint of a smile breaking through.
You nodded, laughing through the tears you didn’t remember letting fall. Your face was wet, your throat tight.
He pulled back just a little, his hand back to cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” you smiled, “It’s just…I’m happy is all.”
And then he grinned back, and he was kissing you again and it was like something broke open in him. A dam cracked, all that restraint, all that aching hesitation he’d carried for months poured out in the way his hands slid into your hair, the way his mouth deepened against yours.
You barely had time to gasp before he was pressing into you, kissing you harder now, like he needed to make up for every second he’d spent staying away.
And he pushed you gently down onto the couch cushions, his palm cradling the back of your head as he guided you flat and braced himself above you. His body laid flush against yours, that familiar warmth of him enveloping you.
You felt the heat of him, the weight of him, every line of him sinking into you like he’d finally allowed himself to kiss you in the daylight.
You moaned softly against his lips, your thighs parting instinctively beneath him as he settled in the cradle of your hips. He dragged his mouth down your jaw, across your cheek, leaving heat in his wake, murmuring something low against your skin that you couldn’t quite catch—something desperate and grateful.
You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest, and he caught one of them, threading his fingers between yours. He pulled back just enough to kiss your fingertips, slow and reverent, then your knuckles, one by one, all while holding your gaze.
"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, kissing the inside of your wrist this time, right over the spot where your pulse jumped.
Your skin burned under his gaze. You cupped his face with your free hand, thumb brushing his bottom lip slowly as your thighs lifted higher around his waist. You ground up against him, dragging friction against the hard outline of him beneath his sweatpants.
His eyes fluttered shut, breath catching. He exhaled like it had been held in his lungs for weeks.
“If you keep doin’ that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna be able to take the time I wanna take with you.”
You smiled, warm and crooked. “Don’t want you to take your time,” you whispered, pulling him back down to your mouth.
His lips met yours again, deeper now, more urgent. One hand threaded through your hair, the other roaming your side as your tongue met his, soft and slick and hungry. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you deeper and deeper.
“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses to your throat, “you feel so fuckin’ good beneath me, baby.”
“Missed you so much, Joel,” you breathed, eyes shutting as his teeth scraped your neck, the sting of it blooming hot under his tongue.
He was already fumbling with your shirt, pushing it up until you were bare to him, braless, chest rising and falling. His mouth latched onto your nipple without hesitation, all heat and need and reverence. You moaned, back arching, one hand gripping his hair.
“Missed you,” he echoed, voice rough, “Missed this.”
You looked down at him, gasping. He was so pretty like this—lashes low, mouth full, lips slick. Always so careful, making sure you felt good, that you were ready. That you wanted him.
He looked up at you, eyes dark with something that could only be described as devotion. “Wanna show you how much I missed it,” he said, kissing you hard on the lips before trailing back down your body. His tongue flicked out, slow, teasing, licking every inch he could get his mouth on until he reached the waistband of your pants.
Clothes disappeared fast, a blur of limbs and fabric. He hiked your legs up over his shoulders, settling between them like he belonged there. Because he did, after all.
“And don’t even get me started on her,” he said, voice playful now, pressing a kiss just above where you needed him most. “Missed her too.”
“Joeeel…” you mewled, already dizzy with how close he was.
He kissed the left side of your center, then the right, slow and careful. “Thought about her every night,” he murmured, mouth hot and close, “dreamed about how she tastes.”
And then he kissed your clit, and you jolted.
He moaned softly, like this was what he’d been starving for. His tongue flattened, dragging slow, wet strokes from your weeping entrance up to your clit, then back down again. When he pressed the tip inside you just a little, your hips rolled instinctively, your moan coming out sharp and breathless.
He let you move and grind against his mouth, his tongue, let you tangle your fingers in his hair and chase that growing pressure in your belly.
The sleep was gone now. Whatever haze he’d been in had burned off completely.
Joel moaned softly against your skin, tongue dragging another long stroke through your folds, savoring the taste of you like he’d been craving it since the second he left your bed two months ago. He kept going until your thighs trembled against his shoulders, your fingers twisting in his hair, breath stuttering out of your lungs in broken little gasps.
Then his mouth slowed. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against your swollen center as he spoke, the tickle of his beard making you twitch.
“Goddamn,” he murmured, almost reverent. “She’s even sweeter than I remember.”
And then you felt his hand sliding up your leg, rough and broad, fingertips stroking the crease where your thigh met your heat. He watched you as he moved, mouth parted, eyes dark and focused, completely dialed in on the way your body writhed beneath him.
He pushed one finger in, nice and slow, and it felt like heaven and hell at once. That thick, slow pressure opening you, curling into that soft spot inside you with practiced ease. Like memory.
Your back arched off the couch. You whimpered, head rolling back. He’d always had the thickest fingers, one was all you needed to feel that tight stretch of him.
“Shit,” he groaned, watching your face as he moved it. “You feel that? How tight she still is for me?”
You could barely answer. You only moaned louder when he added a second finger, working you open, his knuckles brushing where your body fluttered around him. His fingers were so big and broad, callused, perfectly angled. They filled you so good it made your thighs shake.
He set a deep, unhurried rhythm that had the sounds of your wetness filling the room, obscene and beautiful as he brought his mouth back to your clit. He could feel the pulsing of your velvet walls around him as he continued pushing his fingers into you.
“There she is,” he said, pausing the flicking of his tongue, “Look at you, takin’ it so good, like always, baby,”
His lips pursed around your clit and sucked hard, making your breath stutter and stomach tense. Within seconds, you were arching and clamping down on his fingers, your nails digging into his scalp as he moaned against you.
Suddenly your whole body was locking up, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out, your release washing over you in a shudder that left you boneless and gasping. Joel kept moving through it, easing you down, letting you ride every last wave while he whispered against your skin.
“There you go. That’s my girl. Just like that.”
When your breath finally evened out, your eyes fluttered open and he was already moving up your body, slow and sure, kissing your skin as he went.
He pressed a kiss to your stomach, your ribs. Then up curve of your breast, all the way to your collarbone. Your throat.
And finally, your mouth.
Kissing you deep and full, he let you taste yourself on his lips. It was like honey and tang and the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was no place else he'd rather be than between your thighs, tasting your breath and holding your face like it was something fragile, something his. His mouth moved slowly over yours, tongues sliding together, hands still trembling faintly with how badly he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, voice frayed. “I missed you. Missed you so goddamn much.”
Your fingers trailed down his chest, down to his waistband, dragging the pair of sweatpants down over his hips, not caring how clumsy it was. You needed him. You needed him now. He helped, kicking them off without hardly breaking the kiss. Your hand wrapped around him, hard and flushed and aching against your thigh.
“Jesus—” he groaned, his hips jolting forward into your palm, his forehead pressing into yours as his breath came hot and shaky, “Been a minute, take it easy,”
Your own body was on fire, soaked, aching for him. His voice, his hands, the weight of him over you was too much and yet not enough.
“Joel,” you whispered, “please.”
“Tell me you want it,” he said, and it didn’t sound like teasing. It sounded like pleading. His voice broke like it physically hurt him to ask. “Tell me you still want me.”
You nearly sobbed with need, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”
He reached between you to line himself up, the thick head of him dragging through your folds. You were so wet it made both of you groan, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He rocked his hips forward, just the tip pressing against your entrance.
“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, his voice thick, breathless. “So warm.”
You writhed under him, thighs spreading wider, needing more. You could barely think.
“Joel– Jesus– please, just fuck me already.”
He smiled at that and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, burying himself deep. You cried out, hands clutching at the nape of his neck as your body stretched to take him. Thick, hot, perfect. He filled you like he never left. Like he’d been made to fit.
“Shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he bottomed out. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. Always have.”
He stayed there for a second, shaking with the effort to hold back, “I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, voice strained, “Christ, been a while, huh?”
“You didn’t–?” you blinked up at him, catching your breath.
He shook his head, jaw clenched, a shiver running through him as he twitched inside you. “No. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”
He paused, looked down at you, eyes searching. “Did you?”
You cupped his face in your hands like he was delicate beneath your touch.
“No,” you said softly. “No one’s like you, Joel.”
Something shifted behind his eyes, something aching and raw and beautiful. His mouth fell to yours, kissing you deep, as your hips lifted to meet his.
And then he started to move.
He was slow at first, deep and dragging, every stroke deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt all over again. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his hair, your breath catching with every roll of his hips.
He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin.
And then you heard it—gasping, raw, like it ripped itself from his chest.
“I love you,” he groaned. “Fuck—I fucking love you.”
Everything felt like it slowed down.
Your bodies didn’t stop moving, not yet, but something inside your chest pulled tight. Like your heart was trying to brace for impact. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until it was right there, spilling out of his mouth in that low, broken voice, rough with disbelief and months of silence.
Something woke up under your skin, hot and bleary eyed, the kind of heat that lives dormant, that fills your throat and makes your pulse race. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how this man was looking at you.
He was still inside you, still moving with that same steady rhythm, but his eyes were locked on yours now. Wide and dark and raw. His mouth hung open slightly like he was waiting for you to say something, anything, to tell him whether he’d just changed everything or ruined it.
Your hands came up slowly, almost in disbelief, and you touched his face, one palm to his cheek, the other curling into the back of his neck like you needed to feel he was real. Your voice caught in your throat before you could even speak, but somehow it pushed out.
“You love me?” you whispered, and the sound of your own voice didn’t even sound like yours.
“Yes,” he breathed.
Something cracked open inside you, something deep and hidden and too tired to be cautious anymore. You kissed him, harder than you meant to, your mouth catching his in a collision that felt like everything snapping. He groaned against you and kissed you back like it was instinct, like he’d been waiting for your permission to give in completely.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips brushing his, your body still pulsing around him, still stretched wide and full, still needing more. “Say it again,” you whispered, not because you doubted him, but because you needed to hear it again. Needed to feel him give it to you without fear.
His hand slid to your jaw, holding you there, and his voice came softer now, steadier. “I love you.”
The words landed different this time. Less like an accident, more like a promise.
Your chest ached. You felt it rise up and out of you, that thing you’d been holding back for so long. “I love you too,” you said, and you didn’t have to think about it, didn’t need to second guess. It had always been there.
His head dipped and he kissed you again, deeper this time, not frantic like before but slow and thorough, like he wanted to feel every part of your mouth. His thrusts never stopped. They grew more purposeful now, more measured, like he wasn’t afraid anymore of where this was going, only desperate to take you with him.
He shifted slightly, reaching down to pull your leg higher around his waist, and the new angle made your whole body tense. He sank even deeper, drawing a low sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. You felt the build starting again, that tightening low in your stomach, that ache rising in time with every thrust, your body greedy for it, your hands clawing at him like you needed to hold on to something solid while everything else inside you fell apart.
You buried your face against his shoulder, your mouth open, your breath catching, your body clenching tight around him. He groaned your name into your skin, over and over, like it was the only word left in the world.
And then you came. Hard. Full-body, all-consuming, a wave that knocked the breath from your lungs and made your vision white around the edges. Your whole body trembled, and he held you through it, never breaking rhythm, never letting go.
He followed a second later, with a sound that sounded something close to a sob. He thrust deep and stayed there, grinding into you as he spilled inside, his whole body shuddering with the release.
You felt him lift his head to press his forehead to yours, felt the weight of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the thudding of his heart trying to slow against your chest.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment. There was nothing to say. Just the feel of him still inside you, the heat of him wrapped around you, the echo of those three words still settling into the space between your bodies.
Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore.
Word Count: 8K
Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex,
A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx
Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.
So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.
That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.
You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.
Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.
Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.
You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.
Sarah.
She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.
You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”
She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”
“Did he now?”
“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”
You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”
You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.
Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.
When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.
Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.
As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:
“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”
You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.
You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.
“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”
You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.
The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song.
The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.
You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.
When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.
Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.
“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.
“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.
Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.
You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”
He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.
“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”
You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.
Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.
“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”
“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”
He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”
You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.
“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”
He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”
There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.
You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”
“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”
“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”
Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”
“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”
There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.
“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”
Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”
You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”
He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.
“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.
“You’re not.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure.”
A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.
Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”
“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”
He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”
“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”
Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.
“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.
You smiled. “Me too.”
From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”
Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.
“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.
“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”
It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.
Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.
“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.
You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.
Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.
She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.
The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.
Joel noticed though.
His voice came low, amused. “She out?”
You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”
“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”
It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.
You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.
Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.
When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.
“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.
He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.
You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.
When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.
Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.
He thought about waking you. He really did.
But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”
A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.
The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.
You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.
You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.
The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.
He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.
"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.
"You gave me your bed?"
Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."
You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."
He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."
You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."
Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.
"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.
Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"
"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"
You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."
Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."
Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."
She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"
You tried not to laugh. "That very one."
Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."
Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."
Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.
"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.
He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."
You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."
Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.
"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.
Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"
"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."
She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."
Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"
Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."
Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"
Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"
Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"
Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."
"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."
"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.
Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.
"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"
Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.
Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"
Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."
"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.
Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."
You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."
Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."
Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.
You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."
Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."
Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."
She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.
As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."
Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.
He was grateful.
And he was in trouble.
The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.
Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"
You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."
"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."
You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"
Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."
You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."
Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."
You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"
"Do you like older guys?"
You blinked. "That’s... a jump."
She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."
You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."
"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."
"You’re twelve."
"Exactly! I need mentorship."
You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"
"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."
You gave her a look.
"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."
You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"
"Don’t mock the poetry."
You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.
"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"
You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."
She smirked. "That means yes."
You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.
"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."
"Wow. Brutal."
"I'm in pain. Let me live."
As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.
"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."
"I believe it."
"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."
You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."
She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."
You blinked. "SARAH."
She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."
Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.
And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.
God help Joel.
He didn’t stand a chance.
The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.
You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.
Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.
He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.
“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”
Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.
Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”
You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”
He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.
It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.
But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.
You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.
Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.
Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”
“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”
Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”
You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.
“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.
Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”
“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”
Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”
You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”
Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”
Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.
Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”
Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”
You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.
Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”
Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”
Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”
You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.
Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”
“Tommy,” Joel warned.
Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”
Joel dropped his head into his hands.
Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”
You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.
Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.
It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”
You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.
Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.
“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”
You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.
“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”
“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”
Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.
"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”
He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.
You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”
He shrugged. “Up to you.”
You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:
“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”
For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.
“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.
Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”
Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”
You followed, your cheeks flushed.
Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”
Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”
You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”
He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.
“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.
“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”
Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”
“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”
You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.
You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.
“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.
Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”
He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.
Then—
“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.
Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.
“I was helping,” he muttered.
“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.
“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.
You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.
“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”
Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”
“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”
He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”
And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.
Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”
Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”
You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.
The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.
You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.
She would’ve protested. Loudly.
You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.
Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.
It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.
A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.
Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.
“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”
You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”
He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”
You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”
“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.
Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”
You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”
Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”
You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.
Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.
You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.
The moment thickened.
“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”
Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.
He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.
The space between you was a livewire.
“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.
His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.
“Me too.”
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.
“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.
You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”
His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”
The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.
Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.
“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.
Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”
That was all it took.
He kissed you.
But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.
His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.
You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.
You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.
“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.
Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”
You nodded slowly.
A beat passed. Then another.
His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.
When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.
“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.
You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.
“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”
Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.
His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”
“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.
He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.
Joel nodded once.
Wordless, he took your hand.
The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.
His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.
In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.
He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.
“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.
“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”
Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.
Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.
When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.
You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”
He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.
And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”
You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.
The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.
And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.
You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”
He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.
You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.
Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”
You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.
He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.
And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.
There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.
He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.
When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.
You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”
He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”
You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.
And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.
A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx
