꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter summary: the sweetest baker wakes up on the chef, chaos ensues, and feelings start rising faster than the dough. word count: 8233 (proof that i still have no chill)
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter trigger warnings: eleven year age gap, emotional vulnerability, grief, self-protection after loss, moments of sensual tension, physical intimacy, mild language, casual alcohol use, brief mentions of anxiety, self-deprecating thoughts, and a minor accidental injury. as always, let me know if i forgot something - xx, via.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ links: series masterlist, spotify playlist, info & faceclaims.
The soft chime of an alarm slices through my dream like a knife through fondant. One second I’m in some pastel, floating fairy bakery piping pink frosting onto clouds, and the next, I’m being dragged to consciousness by the ache in my neck and the growing realization that my pillow is... breathing.
It shifts subtly under my cheek, warm and firm and definitely not stuffed with feathers.
Still half-asleep, I nestle in, lulled by the steady rise and fall of it. Whoever this breathing body part belongs to smells like cedarwood and whiskey. Cozy, but clad in denim that feels rough against my face.
The alarm chimes again, sharper this time, like it's personally offended by our shared comfort. A large, calloused hand drifts down my back in a line that feels annoyingly perfect. It pauses at my waist, then resumes its quiet path like it's got all the time in the world.
“Carrington,” Joel’s voice breaks the silence. It’s deep and rough-edged, like it snagged on gravel on its way out. My name curls in his drawl like it was never meant to be said any other way.
I groan and swat the air with the energy of a soggy paper towel. “Five more minutes,” I mumble, my face still smushed against what I now fully recognize is his thigh.
“Care,” he says, softer this time. His hand traces upward, drawing slow, deliberate circles between my shoulder blades. Each motion is unhurried, like he's painting a memory onto my skin. It’s the kind of touch that feels like it should cost something.
I don’t move. I should, but I don’t. The heat from his palm is maddening, and my body, traitorous thing that it is, sinks into it.
Still, I manage a growl. “I’m gonna murder you,” I grumble, the threat smothered by sleep and sounding more like a purr than anything dangerous.
Joel chuckles and his leg shakes beneath me with it. “That’s fair,” he says, clearly not worried. “Just tell me if ya gotta work today.”
I roll my eyes, or try to. They’re barely open, and everything in my body feels like lead. “It’s technically my day off, but I have to be ready by five-thirty. Betty always forgets her keys,” I tell him.
He stretches just enough to glance toward the kitchen. “Don't go freakin' out.”
“Why would I freak ou—”
He interrupts my question, saying, “It’s five-twenty.”
I bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted. My eyes fly to the glowing numbers on the stove. Five. Twenty. A.M. The clock blinks back at me like it enjoys my suffering.
“Crap,” I hiss. I scramble for my phone, which is as dead as my will to live.
Joel’s hand wraps around the top of my thigh and gives two gentle squeezes. He brings his pointer finger to his lips as he tilts his head toward the far end of the couch. I follow his gaze to see the girls are both out cold. It’s the kind of deep, tangled slumber that only happens after sugar crashes and safe company.
I attempt to rise to my feet but my legs wobble, sore from yesterday’s six-inch heels and the war my body always wages against mornings. Joel’s hands slide to my waist, steady and instinctive, fingers spreading just enough to catch more than gravity. His touch lingers. Not in a possessive way, just long enough to make the moment stretch and settle into my skin like heat from a sunbeam.
I grab his hand and pull him up from the couch. He groans under his breath but rises anyway, letting me guide him without question. I don’t let go until we’re down the hall and stepping into my bedroom, the only place that promises privacy right now.
I shut the door behind us with a soft click, releasing my hold on him in the process. I beeline for the nightstand and plug my phone in with the kind of urgency usually reserved for medical equipment. When I turn around, Joel’s already taking a slow lap around my room like he’s reading it.
His fingers brush the edge of my desk. His gaze scans the pale pink throw folded at the end of the bed, the chaotic stack of books on my dresser, the tiny heart-shaped jewelry dish next to an unread paperback with a man in a suit and a heroine mid-swoon.
His eyes pause there, just for a beat too long. The corner of his mouth doesn’t quite curl, but something shifts. I can almost hear the word princess forming in his head, even if he doesn’t say it.
I cross to the dresser and start pulling open drawers, the wood creaking louder than it should in the quiet. I fish out jeans and a music tee, pressing the bundle to my chest like a shield.
When I’m facing Joel again, he’s rolling his shoulder deliberately. The fabric of his shirt strains across his chest and bicep as he works through something clearly still lodged in the muscle.
My eyes betray me. They track the movement of his back and the quiet strength in the way he moves. My brain, uninvited, drops a fantasy reel into my lap—full color, high definition, absolutely unhelpful. I wonder if he would move as slowly and as carefully if he were inside me.
And then reality lands, sharp and sudden.
“I didn’t feel you move all night.” I blink, guilt prickling at the edges of my voice. “You... slept sitting up on my couch?”
He rakes a hand through his hair with his back still facing me. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, like it’s not worth much. “Ya looked too peaceful t’move.” Then after a beat, he tacks on, “All y’all, I mean.”
My chest tightens. The first part catches in my ribs before the second can cushion it. My gaze drops to the floor, then slowly trails back to where he’s still standing.
And that’s when the second blow lands. I slept on him in full Barbie glam for six straight hours.
“Oh god.” The whisper escapes before I can stop it. I nearly drop the thong tangled in my hand like it personally betrayed me.
Joel turns immediately, eyebrows knitting, already reading the panic in my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, scanning me for damage, voice already keyed up to put out a fire.
I don’t answer. I drop my clothes onto the bed and swipe both hands under my eyes. I can feel the glitter and I brace for the fallout. I’m probably wearing half a Sephora display right now.
“Carrington,” he says gently. The way he rasps the nickname pulls my eyes to his. “Ya doin’ alright?”
No, I’m not alright. I probably look awful.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though I sound about as convincing as a broken Keurig. There’s no way I’ll be ready in the next five minutes, so I give up the idea.
“Nah, ya ain’t,” Joel pauses like he’s sitting with his observation, then he continues, “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it up proper.”
I shuffle toward the chair next to the bed and sink into it like my human gave up playing with me. “I’m so drained and I slept in waterproof makeup…” I trail off before realizing he probably doesn’t know how long it’ll take me to fix this mess. “I’m okay, I promise. Nothing that caffeine and a power washer can’t fix.”
Joel plants both hands on his hips and studies me from across the room. Each strand of his hair is out of place, and somehow, he looks better than he did yesterday.
“How ‘bout this,” he starts, voice calm. “You go on, get yourself cleaned up. I’ll grab us some coffee and let Miss Betty in if she done forgot her keys. When I get back, I’ll run El home so you can catch your breath some.”
I blink up at him. “Wait, seriously?” I ask. I guess I’m not used to people doing nice things for me.
He shifts his weight like it’s no big thing. “Yeah, reckon it’s the least I can do after keepin’ ya from your bed last night.”
My smile gets away from me before I can rein it in. “Maybe you’re right,” I say, quieter than before.
“Damn right I am,” he says smugly. “Now, where’s that coffee place at?”
“If you’re facing the bakery, Willow’s is to the left.” I push back into logistics because it’s easier than sitting in this strange, soft feeling blooming between us. “Store key’s on the hook by the door. It’ll open the front.”
He nods and backs away, still facing me like he doesn’t quite want to turn his back just yet. “Be back in a lil’ bit, sugar,” he says, before disappearing through the door.
As soon as the door clicks behind him, I launch out of the chair like I’ve been sprung and race to the bathroom mirror. What greets me could only be described as an unholy mess: mascara smeared under both eyes, hair resembling some kind of bird’s nest, and the dress from last night still hanging off me in sad, wrinkled waves.
With a small cry, I tug the dress over my head and let it slump to the tile in defeat. The moment the water turns on, steam overtakes the room, curling up the mirror and softening the edges of my reflection as I pull pins from my hair. Each spiral falls heavier than the last, refusing to cooperate. The mess causes an inhumane sound to leave my throat.
But then, the water hits my skin like forgiveness. I scrub with purpose, not grace. As if I can wash away not just the glitter and tension but the swirl of thoughts I’ve been dodging since I woke up on top of Joel.
I try to focus on detangling the mess that is my hair, but every few seconds, my brain slides back to him. His calloused hands, his accent, the way he said my name like it belonged to him.
I force my thoughts to shift. He has a daughter, is older, and has probably decided I’m more chaos than I’m worth after I quite literally passed out in his arms last night.
I rinse off quickly, dragging myself through the rest of my routine. Lotion. Deodorant. A few spritzes of my favorite perfume, light and sweet with just enough spice to pretend I have it together. Once I’ve slipped into my clothes, the world starts to feel less overwhelming. Maybe not fully okay, but I’ve at least graduated from mascara goblin to “functioning adult in recovery.”
I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me with a quiet click. Decently charged phone in hand, I lower the volume and tap play on my morning playlist. A mellow groove trickles out of the speaker, barely loud enough to fill the silence.
I barely get through the first song before my phone chimes. Once, then again. Then six more in a rush, like an alarm I forgot to set.
Willow: Carrie
Willow: Carrie Carrie Carrie
Thalia: She’s probably sleeping in. It’s Saturday.
Willow: No she’s not. A man just strutted in here, ordered a black coffee, then asked me if I knew her usual.
Thalia: Oh, Joel.
Willow: Who’s Joel?
Thalia: Dina’s new friend’s dad. Pretty sure Madi knows him too.
Thalia: Wait, did you two fuck while my sister was there?
I clamp the phone in my hand like it’s a stress toy. Yesterday, I texted Thalia updates: Joel was picking up the girls, he was making dinner. Normal stuff. What I didn’t mention? That he never left.
Not that I had the energy to explain. I barely got through dinner after fainting.
Me: yes madi knows him and no, we didn’t sleep together bc i would never do that.
Willow: You should have. He’s hot.
Of course she’d say that. Willow thinks "red flag" is just another shade of love. Her taste in men is somewhere between reckless and legally questionable. She’s dating a guy who’s charming in the way cologne samples are—strong, synthetic, and probably toxic if inhaled too long. And if marries him like she plans, she won’t be Willow anymore. She’ll be Mrs. Somebody. Attached to his name, his plans, his universe. I wonder if she’ll even remember the café bookstore we dream about.
Me: it was just a playdate that went too long… relax
I set the phone down by the sink and reach for my toothbrush. A ribbon of mint paste, a press of the power button, and the soft hum of the electric brush vibrates through my jaw. I lean over the basin, scrubbing last night out of my mouth while music drifts softly in the background.
The tiny ritual helps. I sway a little in time with the beat, tapping my foot, half-dancing like no one’s watching because, thankfully, no one is. I catch my reflection mid-spin and point like I’m backup vocals for my own morning routine.
Then the phone chimes again, causing my phone to buzz strongly. It shifts across the counter before tumbling to the floor with a loud thwack that jerks me out of rhythm.
I spit, abandon the brush, and crouch down to grab it. Just as my fingers wrap around the phone, three solid knocks rattle the bathroom door.
I jerk upward too fast and crack the back of my head on the edge of the vanity.
“Fuck,” I hiss, eyes watering as I slap a hand to the sore spot. Pain blooms behind my scalp like a firework made of shame.
“You alright in there?” Joel’s voice filters through the door with just enough concern to cut through the sting.
I pause the music and practically throw my device on the windowsill before shuffling toward the door, still barefoot and sleepy. “Yeah,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Just bruised my ego.”
I crack the door open and there he is, standing in the hallway with two to-go cups in hand.
“Sorry,” I say, brushing a damp strand from my face. “I’m not used to having a man here. You scared the shit out of me.”
A smirk ghosts across his face. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya, sugar,” he says. “But I brought ya your usual. Least that’s what Miss Willow said.”
I glance at the coffees in his hand, then back up at him. “Thanks,” I say, soft around the edges, before picking up the toothbrush and slipping it back between my lips.
“Anytime,” he replies, voice lazy but lined with something deeper. He tips his head slightly, his hair shifting with the motion. “You, uh… got an extra toothbrush lyin’ ‘round? Don’t reckon I wanna knock us both out with this mornin’ breath.”
I snicker. “Yeah, gimme a sec,” I mumble, the brush dangling from the corner of my mouth like a crooked cigarette.
I turn toward the cabinet, cheeks heating as I remember what’s crammed inside: the half-used perfume bottle shaped like a cupcake, emergency meds, and enough tampons to last a small village. I fumble past them and grab a spare toothbrush, one of the unopened ones I keep for Dina.
The cabinet door clicks shut and I suddenly see Joel behind me in the reflection. He’s close enough that my breath hitches and the tiny bathroom suddenly feels even smaller.
I glance at him in the mirror, then offer the toothbrush over my shoulder. “Here,” I murmur over the bristles in my mouth.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, causing my heart to stutter. He doesn’t step back which seems to suck all the air out of the room for me.
He unscrews the cap on the toothpaste and adds a line to the bristles, then lifts the brush to his mouth. I catch myself staring, entirely fixated on the simple rhythm of him brushing his teeth. His jaw flexes and his arm tenses. Time seems to slow in the mirror.
I bend over the sink to spit, and in doing so, back into him. I catch myself purposely pressing right into the front of him and he doesn’t flinch. Instead, his free hand slides up my side unhurried.
A flushed, breathless, and pulsing heat floods my cheeks. I rinse my toothbrush, trying to act normal even as my entire body hums like a struck tuning fork. Then I reach for the mouthwash, grateful for the distraction. Joel nudges me slightly to spit into the sink, the movement brief but impossibly intimate. I step aside, swirling the icy burn through my mouth while he rinses.
He straightens, wipes his mouth, then glances toward my room. “I went on and let Miss Betty in, by the way,” he says, voice casual like he didn’t just set my body on fire. “She was fixin’ to call the cops on me till I reminded her I met her yesterday.”
With a final spit, I reach for a towel. “Thanks. And... sorry. She’s a bit nervy.” I dab at my lips, trying not to smile.
“It’s all good. Kinda nice knowin’ you got folks watchin’ out for ya,” Joel says as he reaches around me for his coffee on the windowsill. His hand brushes just behind my back before he leans back against the doorway with that worn-in kind of ease.
I glance over, curiosity nudging at my chest. “So... what’d you think of Willow?” I ask. Ideally, all my friends would get along. But that’s not always the case.
I watch him take a sip as I gently pull the microfiber towel from my head. “Well, she’s… alright, I s’pose. Bit of a spitfire, that one,” he answers, pausing like he’s tasting the words.
I arch a brow as I comb my hair upward into a ponytail. Alright? I don’t even think I have the brain power to decipher if that’s Joel’s version of a compliment.
Instead of digging deeper, I jump to conclusions. “Be honest,” I start, smoothing back flyaways with a brush. “She was mean to you, wasn’t she?”
His chuckle is soft but real. “Nah, not mean. Just blunter than what ‘m used to before sunrise. El’d like her,” he prophesies and I agree with him.
I laugh under my breath, trying to tuck the smile behind the curve of my cheek. It’s no use with a hairstyle that keeps me from hiding. “So,” I say, twisting the hair tie once more for something to do with my hands, “what are you up to for the rest of the day?”
Joel leans in with a grin that forms equal parts teasing and trouble. “Eager t’see me again already?”
My mouth parts, stunned, but no words come out. Before I can recover, he throws his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh. It bounces off the tile walls, warm and unguarded.
Then Joel’s hand finds my waist, tugging me closer with the kind of quiet confidence that leaves no room for argument. “Just messin’ with ya,” he drawls, voice warm against the morning air. “Gotta head to work later. Saturday shifts’re always the busiest.”
The brush of his fingers against my side has my pulse skipping like a record. I nod, biting back a grin, and hope he doesn’t notice the way my breath falters. “What ‘bout you?” he asks, his hand still resting there like it belongs.
I shrug, aiming for casualness. “Not much. Probably read for a while. Then I’ve gotta finalize the menu for the harvest fest at the school.” My body sways slightly as he takes another sip of coffee, his grip steadying me without thought.
The words barely leave my mouth before his gaze sharpens. “You’re goin’, huh?” he asks, the question coming out rougher than he probably intended.
His urgency throws me off, but then I remember his daughter does go to Waldorf with Dina. I echo, watching the tight set of his jaw. “Yeah. I had a booth last year—it went really well, so I’m doing it again. Are you?”
He nods once. “Yeah, it’s on Ellie’s calendar.”
“Perfect. You should hang out in the booth with me. We can make fun of all the rich parents together. God knows what they’re still saying about me anyway.” I laugh lightly, then stumble into honesty. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they still thought I was Dina’s—” My ramble halts the second I feel Joel’s fingers tighten, firm on my waist. “Nanny,” I finish weakly.
His face darkens, jaw ticking in a way that makes my stomach flip. I freeze, panic buzzing at the edges. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to if I did. No wonder the school moms don’t like me.” The words tumble out too fast, and I can’t stop them. My neurodivergence always shows at the worst time. And I currently feel like I’m tripping over an invisible wire that only he sees.
I take his silence as my answer and retreat a step, trying to put space between us.
“Carrington, hold up now,” Joel says, his voice low and unhurried. I reach for the latte he brought me from the windowsill, eyes fixed on the floor as if that might ground me.
When I finally look up, his arm is stretched across the doorway like a barricade, broad and immovable. My gaze flicks to the barrier, then back to his face. “Excuse me,” I murmur, ducking beneath his arm, brushing against him as I pass.
I barely make it a step before Joel’s hand lands on my waist, tugging me back into him with effortless certainty. “Oh, hell no ya don’t.” His voice brushes low against my ear, the sound curling down my spine.
Pinned against him, I lift my cup for a sip, more for show than thirst. The coffee’s heat does nothing to disguise the way my pulse is hammering. My attempt at looking unbothered doesn’t stand a chance.
“Ya didn’t say nothin’ wrong, Care,” he says at last, exhaling through his nose like the weight of the world just shifted to his shoulders. His thumb flexes against my skin as I swallow my sip. “I just don’t take kindly to folks treatin’ ya anything less than ya deserve.”
Some of the tension drains out of me at his words, my posture straightening as I look up at him. “Oh.” A sigh slips free before I can catch it. “It’s fine, really. Happens all the time. The parents know I’m not in their tax bracket and make their judgments.” My insecurities spill out easier than I expect.
Joel’s jaw tightens, that familiar steel in his expression returning. “Don’t make it right none. Don’t sit worth a damn with me.”
I shift my weight, lifting my cup to cover the smile tugging at my mouth. “Then maybe you should come with me,” I say lightly. “We’ll stage our revenge. For the price of one cupcake, you, too, can be judged by the broke baker and the struggling chef.”
He huffs out a laugh as I take another sip. His hand stays right where it is, thumb drawing an idle line against the curve of my hip as if he forgot it’s still there. “Sounds like a fine deal to me.”
We’re close enough that one shift forward would end the conversation in a way neither of us is ready to name. My throat works as I swallow, but Joel’s the one who breaks the silence.
“Now that we got that squared away,” he drawls, thumb brushing once at my hip before he lets go, “I’m fixin’ to take El on home. Girl’s got herself an internship down at the planetarium, and I ain’t dumb enough to show up lookin’ like we just rolled outta a damn costume shop.”
The warmth of him lingers after he steps back. I pretend not to miss it, setting my coffee on the nightstand like it’s been my plan all along. “Good call,” I say, tugging my hair behind my ear as casually as I can manage. “Adler?”
“Yup.” Joel’s cup lingers at his mouth, steam curling upward as his eyes stay fixed on me over the rim. “They’re givin’ her college credit for all that science stuff. She’s eatin’ it right up.” He takes a slow sip, like he’s measuring my reaction.
I tilt my head, interest brightening. “I love that for her. I’ll have to ask her about it sometime.”
The corner of his mouth tugs, like he’s fighting a grin he doesn’t want me to see. “She’d like that. But fair warnin’, once that girl starts jawin’ ‘bout space, ya ain’t gonna get her to shut up.”
A laugh bursts out of me. The sound fills the room, bright against his gravelly tone. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t ask a fourteen-year-old a question if I weren’t prepared for a possible dissertation.”
That earns me a real smile, brief but soft, before he pushes the door open.
I yawn as I trail behind him. “You two should take a couple pastries before you go,” I offer, voice low.
He glances over his shoulder, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t turn that down.”
Our footsteps fall in rhythm—mine bare, his in careful boot-clad strides. The morning light spills lazily across the floorboards, casting a golden tint over everything. Dina and Ellie are still dead to the world.
Joel gathers the things he brought last night, condensing everything to one bag before heading towards the couch. He sets the bag down and his coffee down before crouching beside Ellie. He places a hand on her shoulder. “El,” he says gently, giving her a little shake. “Time to get on up, baby girl.”
She groans, stretching long and slow, her arms flopping like overcooked noodles. One eye opens, then the other, both foggy with sleep. “What?”
Her head lifts slightly, bleary eyes searching the dim room. There's a flicker of confusion, then full-on panic when she sits up straighter and squints at her surroundings. “Where are we?” she croaks, voice tight and panicked.
Joel rubs her back in slow, calming circles. “You’re all right. We just crashed over at Carrington’s, that’s all.”
She squints, still unsure, until her eyes land on me hovering just behind him.
“Morning, sweet pea,” I say gently.
Recognition floods her expression, and with it, relief. Her whole body deflates. “Mrrrnin’,” she mumbles, her voice soaked in sleep.
Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He helps her to her feet, steadying her as she sways slightly. Ellie leans over to whisper something to Dina, who lets out a half-conscious groan and promptly rolls over, dragging the blanket with her.
Joel retrieves his things, and we start for the stairs without needing to say anything. I wordlessly take his coffee and the bag from him as he crouches to help Ellie into her jacket. Her hands fumble with the sleeves, fingers sluggish with sleep. Joel doesn’t rush her. I stay back, watching them with something quietly blooming in my chest. It’s soft and unfamiliar, curling low beneath my ribs.
Once she’s wrapped and zipped, he stands and gently retrieves his cup and bag from my hand. The scent of warm dough and sugar meets us on the landing. We head down the stairs together with Joel leading, Ellie tucked between us, and me just a few steps behind.
Once we're on the bakery floor, I head toward the racks of pastries and gesture. “A couple of these okay?”
Joel glances down at Ellie, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Whatever ya wanna give us.”
I grab the tongs and tuck a few croissants in a pink to-go bag. Ellie cradles the paper sack like sacred loot as I hand them over.
“You asked what the worst order was last night and I never answered. I’ve decided it’s pie but it might just be because I don't like it,” I say, sliding a glance her way. “You’ll have to try everything on the menu and make the decision yourself. Starting with croissants.”
She peeks into the bag, lips twitching upward. “Bet.”
Joel squeezes her shoulder, his attention drifting briefly toward her face with that anchored, unshakable affection he carries for her. “Say thank you, El.”
Ellie glances up from the pastries, still gripping them like they might vanish. “Thanks, Carrie,” she mumbles.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, sheepishly.
Joel shifts his weight, already steering her toward the front. “Alright, you ready to hit the road?” His nudge is subtle but firm.
Ellie exhales like she’s being sentenced. “Not really, but yeah,” she mutters, dragging her steps.
He lets out a quiet chuckle, tugging her along with one arm. “C’mon. You can Snapchat her or whatever the hell y’all’re usin’ these days.”
She groans like it physically pains her. “Nobody uses Snapchat anymore.”
Joel pushes open the kitchen door, holding it wide for both of us. Ellie slips through, and I trail after her, brushing past him just close enough to feel the heat of him beside me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, remembering the quiet, firm way he corrected me the night before. I lead us to the main entrance and pause, waiting. Sure enough, Joel steps forward without hesitation and opens it for us. He doesn’t say anything—just gives me that smug little smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
We step out into the soft, blue-tinted morning light. The air smells like dew and baked goods. Joel turns to Ellie, handing her his coffee and the bag. “Take this here and wait in the truck a minute, would ya?”
Ellie waves him off with a sleepy “Whatever,” then trudges toward the passenger side of his truck. She climbs in and slams the door with just enough force to let us know she’s awake now—but barely.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Joel turns toward me. His expression softens. It’s the kind of shift that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world for a second.
“Just wanted to say thank ya, Care. For everythin’ last night,” he says. “Hell, Ellie actually went and made herself a friend, finally.” Then he pauses, gaze catching mine. “And I gotta say, I really enjoyed bein’ here. Bein’ with you.”
The second those words leave his mouth, his pupils widen. It’s visible and undeniable. His eyes go dark like a flame getting doused, swallowing the warm flecks of espresso until there’s nothing but black.
Being around him feels like the sun opened up and shined a spotlight down on me. Like my mom saw I needed a friend as patient, caring, and protective as him and sent him to me from heaven.
I look down, heat rising up my neck, a full-body flush that leaves my hands feeling shaky. “I enjoyed being with you too,” I say quietly, almost like it’s a secret I’m still telling myself.
Before I can stop myself, my teeth catch my bottom lip. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the motion. The quiet between us stretches, but it’s not awkward. It buzzes.
Then he takes a small step forward, close enough that I can feel the warmth rolling off him. His fingers lift to my chin, and his thumb traces the edge of my lip, coaxing it free from where I’ve caught it between my teeth. The touch is so slight, but I feel it everywhere.
“I sure wish you’d quit doin’ that,” he says, his voice dipping into a low growl. “You ain’t got a clue what that does to me.”
The buzz under my skin tightens, pulling everything inward, like a string has been tugged that I didn’t even know was there. My breath stutters and my brain instantly jumps to worst case scenario. It probably annoys him. It probably turns him off.
He doesn’t give me time to dwell on it, pulling me into what I assume is the last hug I’m ever going to get from him. “I’ll be seein’ ya Wednesday night, sugar,” he proves me wrong, voice warm against my ear.
I manage a breathy laugh, too stunned to say much else. “Okay,” I whisper.
He pulls away slow, like it costs him something. That maybe, he’d stay here all morning if I asked him to. His hand grazes down my arm before it finally lets go.
And just like that, the moment is over and he steps back. “Bye now, Carrington,” calls, his boots already crunching toward the truck.
“Bye, Joel,” I say, though it comes out quieter than I mean it to.
Ellie waves from the passenger seat, her eyes half-closed, chin tucked into a hoodie she must’ve plucked from the backseat. Joel climbs in and closes the door with a soft thud that feels louder than it is.
When they pull away from the curb and down the street, I stand there in the chill of early morning wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my day now that he’s gone and taken the air with him.
The steady beeping of a hospital monitor fills the room from the TV as I shuffle a stack of printed pastry photos across the counter for what has to be the hundredth time. When Dina left to go home, I figured there was no better time to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy. It even started raining two episodes in, which felt like a cosmic sign that I’d made the right decision. Now, four episodes later, I can’t remember a single plot point.
I press my palms into the kitchen counter, exhaling until my shoulders drop. Each one feels like it’s personally mocking me. I never have trouble finalizing the monthly menu, but this time it feels impossible.
The pressure makes it feel unbearable to make a decision. If the parents like the pastries, they’ll likely hire me for their fancy fundraisers throughout the year again. If not… well, bakeries like mine don’t survive long on charm alone.
I swirl the last inch of wine in my glass, searching for inspiration that doesn’t come. The taste of sweet red hits my tongue just as a surgeon on-screen starts seizing mid-operation.
My eyes widen. “Oh my god,” I mutter, half laughing, half horrified. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Immediately, guilt nips at me. A seizure is not funny by any means, but it’s so Grey’s to lob a medical emergency at you right when you think it’s safe to take another sip of wine.
I set the glass down and rub my temples. “Okay, focus. Menu. You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.
Suddenly, the front door clicks before sliding open. I nearly drop the glass in my hand. My heart slams against my ribs, and I snatch the nearest thing that could double as a weapon—a whisk. It gleams under the kitchen light, which is funny because it’s useless. Unless I plan to whisk someone into submission.
That’s when a flash of glossy blonde hair appears through the doorway.
“So I heard you’ve been cheating on me,” Madi says, smirking as she leans casually against the doorframe like she’s walking into a reality show confessional.
“Madi!” I press a hand to my chest, heartbeat still sprinting. “Jesus Christ, you scared me half to death. I could’ve killed you,” I scold as I set my drink down.
She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “With what? That whisk?”
I glance down at my hand and scowl, realizing I’m still holding it. “Don’t test me.”
Her grin spreads slow and smug. She slides the door fully shut, the metal latch catching with a soft clack. The scent of autumn rain follows her inside—cold air, wet leaves, and faint traces of her jasmine perfume.
She shrugs off her coat and kicks off her heels in the corner, standing there in half a Halloween costume like she’s undecided whether she’s coming or going.
“Remind me why I gave you a key again?” I mutter, setting the whisk down on the counter.
“Because you love me, Care Bear,” she sings back, sweet as syrup, strutting over to the counter. “And because if I didn’t check on you, you’d spend your Saturday night having a full breakdown over fucking pastries.”
I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. “Are you coming from the party or going to the party?” I ask, catching sight of the glitter dusted across her collarbone.
She tilts her head, grinning. “You’d know if your phone wasn’t dead. I’ve been calling you all day.”
I blink. “My phone’s dead?” I ask, glancing around until I spot it sitting face-down on the other end of the counter. I turn it over expecting the wallpaper to show but the screen’s black. “Oh.”
“‘Oh,’ she says,” Madi mocks, her voice light but her eyes sharp. “What if there was an emergency? A fire or something?”
I crinkle my nose as I plug the phone into the wall outlet by the stove. The cord coils across the floor like a snake. “I know, but while it’s charging, maybe tell me why you’re in my house—in costume?”
“I’m stopping by before I go to the next place since I need you to tell me what happened with Joel,” Madi says, her tone breezy but eyes sharp, already scanning the room like she’s reading crumbs for clues.
I exhale through my nose and step closer to the counter. My shoulders slump as I slide a photo of the mini apple crumble pie into the maybe pile for the third time. “Wasn’t the group chat enough?” I ask, half under my breath.
I had told them everything, a full novel-length text while I waited for Dina to wake up. Facts only. No commentary. No room for overthinking.
Madi taps her nails against the edge of the counter, unimpressed. “No. You were methodically analytical,” she says, deadpan. Then her voice softens, almost imperceptibly. “Are you stuffing your emotions down again?”
I shake my head, picking up a photo of the brown butter pear tart and sliding it cleanly into the no pile. “I’m not stuffing anything down. I’m just looking at the situation logically. With all the information I have.”
“Right…” She leans forward, reaching past me to drag the pumpkin bread with chocolate chips into the yes pile, her bracelets clinking softly. “So now, I need you to put on your big girl panties and tell me how you feel emotionally.”
I narrow my eyes. She left out one tiny, massive detail when she played matchmaker. “Watch it,” I warn, plucking the pumpkin bread photo back and shoving it into no territory. “I’m still mad you let me find out he had a daughter this way.”
Her face flushes, that telltale pink that’s meant she’s irritated by my words since we were nine. “You literally said you weren’t into him on your birthday,” she fires back. “Why would I bring him up again after that?”
I sigh and press both hands to the marble surface beneath them. The chill steadies me more than her words do. “I never said I wasn’t into him,” I say slowly. “I said I wasn’t ready to be set up yet.”
She squints, studying me the way she does when she smells weakness. Then, with a sly smile: “And after hanging out with him… how do you feel?”
I freeze mid-reach for the photos, my pulse quickening like she’s called my bluff. “I don’t know.”
Madi arches a brow with a silent go on look. But I allow the silence to stretch, filled only by the hum of the fridge and faint talking from the tv.
I take a breath that feels heavier than air. “Hanging out with him was nice,” I admit, breaking our staring contest. “It felt good to be… cared for, even if it was just a couple hours. He made me feel—” I glance down, fingers smoothing the edge of a photo. “Safe. Or protected, I guess. I don’t know. I liked it.”
The confession slips out faster than I intended, like a truth that’s been waiting in my throat all night.
Madi’s lips purse into a thoughtful line. She doesn’t tease. Instead, she picks up a photo of the pumpkin chai bundt cake with vanilla bean glaze, taps it once against the counter, and slides it neatly into the yes pile.
“You know,” she says softly, “it’s okay to like those things.” Her voice lingers a beat. “It’s okay to like him.”
I groan, dragging my fingers through my hair and trying to smooth the flyaways back into my ponytail. “I know.” I let the photo stay where she put it this time, though my fingers twitch like they want to move it. “I just—” my voice dips low, mostly to myself—“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Madi exhales through her nose, shaking her head as she rearranges photos like she’s sorting evidence. “What’s wrong with you is you’re only vulnerable once in a blue moon.” She swaps out the butter pecan blondies for toasted marshmallow brownies, her tone maddeningly casual. “Like, the second your mom died, you turned into a smiling robot to protect yourself.”
The words land harder than I expect. My head jerks up. “Ouch,” I say flatly.
Her eyes widen. Hands fly up to cover her mouth, voice muffled behind her palms. “Ooo, I’m sorry. That was too blunt.”
I roll my eyes and blow out a ragged breath through my lips. “No, you’re right,” I admit, even though it burns a little to say it.
The TV hums in the background, Grey’s Anatomy’s ending theme spilling into the quiet. For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the faint tick of rain hitting the skylight and the low creak of the floorboards beneath our feet.
“I heard that’s a coping mechanism,” Madi says finally, her tone gentler.
“From who?” I ask, tilting my head, though I already know where this is going.
“My therapist,” she replies simply, like she’s talking about a hair appointment.
The word therapist hits like a quiet bell in my head. I think about the sticky note still taped to my fridge reminding me to call mine. The ink’s smudged now, like it’s been waiting too long. “Really?” I ask, leaning against the white marble. “What else did she say?”
Madi’s lip quirks to the side as she flicks her gaze between two dessert photos, indecisive. “She said I shouldn’t ask you why you do that…” — she gestures vaguely at me — “but what you’re afraid of instead.”
The air shifts. I bite the inside of my cheek and roll my shoulders back, the motion doing little to shake the tightness in my chest. I stare down at the glossy picture of a pumpkin tart, tracing the edge of it with my thumb. “That I’ll fall for him and it won’t be reciprocated. That he’ll think I’m reading into things, tell me I’m being ridiculous, and disappear.” The words come out soft, fragile, like they might break in half before they reach her. “That he’ll just want to be friends.”
Madi snorts and then bursts into laughter so sharp it startles me. My stomach drops instantly. “Oh my God.” I half laugh, half wince. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She waves a hand, trying to breathe between fits of laughter. “No, no,” she manages, still giggling. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Then why are you laughing?” I ask, folding my arms, though my lips twitch despite myself.
She chuckles, tucking a gold strand of hair behind her ear as she leans against the counter. “Because, Care Bear, before I even tried to set you two up, he was on me and Nic about it at every single event. Even after I introduced you two, he didn’t stop. You’re not reading anything wrong. The man likes you.”
My eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
I reach for the photo of pumpkin spice macarons, sliding it into the safe pile like that’ll keep my brain from short-circuiting. It doesn’t. My stomach knots anyway. “What if he changed his mind since my birthday?”
Madi whines like she’s heard this song too many times. “He probably didn’t,” she says, wagging a finger at me, “but you’ll have to ask him yourself.”
I swat her hand away with a scoff. “God, no. I’d rather live in my bubble.”
She narrows her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching into that half-grin she uses when she’s about to make a point I won’t like. “Listen here, Glinda. You’re not allowed to self-sabotage. You feel things, even if it doesn’t always feel good.”
I meet her gaze, trying the whole puppy-eye routine, but it’s no use. Her stare could melt steel and within seconds, I cave. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll try. Happy?”
Her frown breaks into a satisfied smile. “Enough to leave and go to another party? Yes.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and heads for the coat rack, the faint scent of her perfume trailing behind her.
“Thank God,” I mutter, half under my breath.
She bends to pull her heeled boots on, tossing me a smirk over her shoulder. “Don’t be like that. You know you love to watch me leave.” Her voice drips with that effortless charisma that’s gotten her out of every traffic ticket and into every VIP event since she turned eighteen.
I don’t even dignify it with a response. My eyes drift to the TV instead—two new characters have appeared on screen, subtitles flashing faintly against the flicker of the hospital monitor.
“So, when are you seeing him next?” she asks, voice pulling me back before I can focus.
“Wednesday,” I say, setting down the photo I’d been fiddling with. “He’s coming to my booth at the school’s harvest festival to make fun of all the rich parents with me. Should be fun since we’re both semi-broke.”
She freezes halfway through slipping her arm into her coat sleeve. Her face twists up like she just bit into a lemon drop.
“What?” I ask, suspicious.
She straightens, turning fully to face me. “Care Bear,” she says slowly, “Joel Miller is loaded. Has been for a while. Not old money like me or Nic, but still rich.” She tugs her hair free from under her collar with a flick of her fingers.
For a second, all the warmth drains from my body. My stomach dips. He didn’t correct me when I made the joke but his body language was off. How could I have been so clueless? I know the Madi would never set us up if he weren’t the full package, millions included. The man owns a penthouse restaurant, for God’s sake.
Madi’s smirk softens, worry flickering behind her eyes. “Why do you look like you’re about to puke? Do I need to stay?”
I shake my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach. “No, I’m fine. You should go to your party.”
She plants her hands on her hips, one brow arching. “Kicking me out is crazy.”
“Maybe,” I say, looping my arm through hers and steering her toward the door. “But I’m doing it anyway.” The movement’s playful enough to mask the swirl in my chest. I need the quiet before I start unraveling.
We stop at the landing outside my loft. The smell of cinnamon and sugar from the bakery downstairs still lingers faintly in the air, blending with the cool bite of November. I pull her into a hug, squeezing tight enough to say what I won’t out loud. “Don’t drink too much, and text me when you get home,” I murmur, already knowing I’ll be tracking her on Life360 as soon as she’s gone.
She pulls back, the corners of her mouth tilting in a small, knowing smile. “I will.” She takes a few steps down, then pauses halfway, one hand gripping the railing. “And, Care—don’t Google him. Maybe there’s a reason he didn’t correct you. You should hear that from him, not some article.”
I nod, swallowing hard. I hate that googling him was my first instinct and I hate that she’s right. “Okay. Bye, Madi.”
“Bye, Care,” she says softly, and then she’s gone. Her heels click down the stairs, fading into the hum of the bakery below. A moment later, the front door bell rings, that familiar ding echoing up through the floorboards.
The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My chest eases a little, but my mind doesn’t. I slide the loft door shut, the track giving a quiet groan before the lock clicks into place. The wood is cool against my back when I lean into it, attempting to ground myself.
For a second, I just stand there—breathing, staring at the outline of my kitchen against the dim evening light. My heart’s still beating too fast.
And then, against my better judgment, I push off the door and make a straight line for my phone on the counter.
If I’m going to lose sleep over Joel Miller, I might as well find out exactly who he is.
honestly wasn’t sure if anyone would still care about this story, so if you made it this far, thank you so much. i’m planning to update more often from here on out, even if a chapter feels a little imperfect. i really want to see this fic through so I can move on to new stories (and maybe some requests for y’all).
summary: Sequel to Observed Behavior. 6.8k words. Reed Richards can’t silence his thoughts around you. What starts in the lab follows into orbit, where a rift, a sealed module, and zero gravity leave him unraveling in your hands.
rating: E. Secret relationship. Pining. Telepathy. Psychic link. Semi Public Sex. Zero Gravity Sex. Praise Kink. Possessive!Reed.
a/n: I felt like this was due. There's just something about making a composed man turn feral that's so addictive. 💙
You’re not late, but you hurry like you are.
The hallway to the lab is cold with recirculated air, bright with morning fluorescents; your badge pings at the reader and the door sighs open on a room that looks unchanged from yesterday—two walls of glass, one of chalk, banks of silent machines sleeping under their blue LEDs.
Reed is already there. He’s always already there.
White shirt, sleeves rolled, hair a little rough at the crown like he’s dragged a hand through it instead of sleeping. He doesn’t turn when the door shuts behind you. He doesn’t look at you when you cross to your station. He doesn’t say good morning.
But in his head it’s thunder.
She’s here.
You place your tablet on the bench and pretend to check overnight logs. The cursor blinks. Your throat does too.
Reed types. He draws a breath, slow and precise, as though respiration has instructions.
The thoughts are loud and hopelessly specific and have nothing to do with a gravity well or superconductors: your mouth under his hand, the lab tile slick and shining, the soft convulsion in your body when you came—like he’d discovered a new constant and it was you.
He’s trying to be quiet. You can feel him pushing the ideas down and covering them with math. They leak out anyway.
She tastes like—God—focus.
You swallow. “There was a sensor dropout at 03:12. I flagged it,” you say to the screen, as though it’s a person.
“Mm,” Reed answers, at a register just above silence. His voice is steady. His mind is not. I shouldn’t have—she should hate me—she’s—beautiful—no, irrelevant—no—irrelevant is the wrong word—
“I recalibrated the array,” you add, because your hands want to do something. “It held.”
“Good,” he says.
You can feel him hover at the edge of your mind like a hand near a switch. Not entering. Not quite retreating. Just there.
You let a small thought slip like a coin across a table: I’m not sorry.
Reed goes still. His keystrokes pause mid-sequence, then resume as though they never stopped. In his head: a quiet implosion—gratitude, desperate and embarrassingly soft, followed at once by guilt.
“I will not allow… lapses… to compromise the work,” he says. Carefully, as though he’s balancing metal tongs around a coal.
You turn, slow. “What a clinical word.”
His jaw tightens. He looks at the monitor, then the chalkboard, then—finally—at you. The look is brief and wrecked and entirely at odds with everything in his posture.
In his thoughts: I want to kiss her again, I cannot afford to, if she smiled at me I would—don’t. Don’t. Control—
The door hisses.
“Knock knock,” Johnny sings, which is a lie on two counts. “Still married to your chalk, big brain?”
Reed’s mind detonates with irritation and something feral when Johnny’s hand brushes your shoulder on his way past to the coffee. You don’t flinch, but Reed’s thoughts spike so violently you taste copper.
Don’t touch her.
Johnny doesn’t hear it. You do. You keep your face very neutral.
“Morning,” Johnny says around a mouthful of crumbs that appeared from nowhere. “You look tired.” He says it to you, and Reed is instantly twelve kinds of animal in the head, imagining what you look like tired and why.
You lock your mouth before your smile gets out.
“Late night with the MIT brain trust,” you say. It’s not untrue.
“Uh-huh, sure.” Johnny winks, leans a hip against the bench, too close to Reed’s console. “Reed, did you ever—what’s the word—sleep?”
Reed answers without looking. “Irregularly.”
Johnny grins. “That tracks.”
In Reed’s mind: get away from her. It’s absurd; Johnny’s not even near you. You set your tablet down with care you don’t feel.
Johnny’s gaze flicks between the two of you. He’s not a careful observer, but he’s a practiced brother. “Weird vibe in here,” he says cheerfully.
“No vibe,” you say, at the exact same time Reed says, “The vibe is normal.”
That earns a double take. Johnny points between you with his pastry. “Huh.”
You can feel Reed memorize the word huh and file it under catastrophes.
The elevator dings beyond the glass, and Sue’s quiet voice precedes her—greetings exchanged down the corridor, a calm tide moving toward the room. Reed straightens imperceptibly. Johnny downs the last of his coffee like a shot.
Sue enters, crisp as always, eyes bright and too perceptive by half. “Morning,” she says. “Reed, did you get my notes on the harmonics?”
“Yes,” Reed says at once. “Page seven is—useful.”
“Good.” She turns—and there it is, the two-second sweep of the room that is both affectionate and forensic; she notes the chalk, the console windows, the mugs, Johnny’s crumbs, your face, Reed’s throat, the way he’s standing a fraction too close to the bench like you could hide behind it. Her eyes pause on yours long enough to be kind without being obvious.
You hear Reed’s mind constrict to a pin. Sue knows. She doesn’t. She can’t. She always knows. If she—if she—
“We’re still on for the board briefing at eleven,” Sue says. “And Ben’s bringing the sample from Mayfield.” She looks at you. “You’ll want to scan it.”
“I’ll set up,” you say, relieved to be given an assignment that has atoms and not just breath.
Sue nods once. The tiniest ghost of a smile crosses her mouth—approval, maybe, or solidarity. Then she squeezes Johnny’s shoulder and leaves as quietly as she came.
Reed’s panic doesn’t leave her. It grows teeth.
What if she knows. What if she thinks I—what if I jeopardize—what if I lose—
He’s halfway to an apology you’ll hate when the lights blink in the far alcove and one of the deep-field consoles throws a yellow flag.
“Aw, c’mon,” Johnny says. “It’s too early for code gremlins.”
“I’ll get it,” you say, because your legs want motion and your brain wants anything other than the crosscurrent in his.
You start down the glass corridor toward the storage and observation suite. The door there is half-open, a sliver of a room tucked between two racks—a place people store cables and don’t look too closely at.
“Wait,” Reed says.
You do. Your hand is still on the frame when he arrives like a storm arriving. He stops a foot away, breath high in his chest, and looks up and down the corridor once as if he’s actually worried about cameras for the first time in his life.
“Reed.” You keep your voice low. “It’s just a warning. I can—”
He steps in with you and shuts the door.
It’s not that the room is dark; it’s that the light is a suggestion instead of a fact, filtered through frosted glass and the ribs of server housings. Reed’s face is all planes and shadows. The quiet isn’t quiet at all. Fans hum. Your pulse hammers in your ears.
In his head: I’m losing control.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, and the words shake.
“Why?” your mouth asks, while your hips move in the opposite direction of your question.
His hand finds your waist, unpracticed, for once not thinking six moves ahead. The other goes to the door and slides the bolt with a soft click that you feel in your spine.
You can hear Johnny’s voice, faint through glass; you can hear him talking to somebody at the elevator. Reed’s thoughts are louder: I can’t do this out there, I can’t think when she—when she looks—when I remember—
You touch his wrist, light, a hello from your skin to his. “Then don’t do it out there.”
He exhales like he’s been underwater for a day.
There’s nothing refined about it when he kisses you. Nothing of the careful first touch from yesterday, nothing of the clinical observational tone he likes to wear like armor. His mouth fumbles yours and then finds it. He shudders like you’ve shorted a circuit in his chest.
He thinks: mine, and flinches from his own possessiveness, ashamed of it even as he chases your breath.
You push into him until your hip hits a stack of sealed fiber trays. Plastic creaks. Reed groans helplessly into your mouth at the sound, at the friction, at the reckless physics of bodies in a room that has no right to hold this.
“Reed—” you whisper, not as a warning.
“—I know,” he breathes, but he doesn’t. He’s lost and he loves it and he hates it. His hands are at your waist and in your hair and on your face, clumsy like a genius forgetting tools exist.
Through the glass: Johnny’s laugh. A different voice—Ben’s rumble, you think. Reed hears it too; he goes absolutely still, every muscle in him burning with being caught.
You put your mouth to the hinge of his jaw and think, they can’t see. You let him feel the truth of it. He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him, raw and grateful.
“Please,” he says, and the word is a torn ribbon.
You guide his hand down. Not because he doesn’t know where to put it. Because he does—too well—and he’s trying not to.
“Please what?” you ask.
His thoughts are a blur of yes and no and data and need. He swallows. “Don’t—leave,” he says, and it’s so not what you expected your lungs to forget how to be lungs.
You press your forehead to his and say out loud what you’ve been saying in your head since you swiped into the lab. “I’m here.”
Reed trembles. It’s all he needs. It’s apparently all you need, too.
He lifts your skirt like a secret, hands gentler than his mouth. Your back finds the panel seam and gratitude finds your bones. The first brush of his fingers over cotton is reverent, almost formal; the second is hungry. You arch into his hand like you were built to answer that question.
He watches your face, then stops watching because he’s not built for looking when he could be experiencing. He slides the cloth aside—breath catches, yours and his both—and the thought that slips from him is so simple it hurts.
Perfect.
Your laugh is breath, not sound. “Be quiet,” you whisper, meaning keep thinking that.
He sinks to his knees. Gravity makes the decision for him again. The angle is bad, the space is tight, and none of it matters. Your hand goes to the back of his head because you want to. Because you learned yesterday he wants you to.
When his mouth closes on you, the world narrows to one bright point and opens at the same time. He learns you faster now—builds on the data, improvises against it, abandons the model the second your body tells him a better one. He groans when you try to stay quiet and fail. The vibrations make your knees threaten mutiny.
“Reed,” you hiss, and the name is a fuse.
This should be wrong. Not morally. Logistically. Anyone could come down the corridor and look through the wrong pane, anyone could try the wrong door. You don’t care. He does. Or he should. His thoughts are almost prayerful: let me have this let me have her let me—
One light slap at the glass somewhere outside—Ben, probably, smacking the frame like it insulted him—and Reed drags his mouth up your thigh and bites the soft flesh there in a soundless mine he doesn’t voice. You answer with your hand curled in his hair and your hips rolling shamelessly into his face. Precision deserts him. Devotion takes over.
You come with both hands clapped over your own mouth, because even now you’re protecting him—his position, his quiet, his need not to be seen. He rides you through it, exultant and shaking, like tasting your release is the only proof the universe is real.
When it passes and you sag against the seam, he stands too fast, a little dizzy with oxygen, with your taste, with your body on his tongue. His mouth is slick with you. His pupils eat his irises. You reach up and drag your thumb across his lower lip and he breaks. There’s no other word for it.
“This is—” he begins.
“—inevitable,” you finish.
He huffs a laugh that dies in your mouth when you kiss him again. You taste yourself. He takes it like absolution.
Through the glass: footsteps, closer. Voices. The scrape of a cart. A knock on the opposite door, muffled: “Reed? Are you here?” Ben.
Reed’s hands are on your hips the way hands are on religious texts. He looks at the door like it’s the end of days. You hold his face and think, no one can see. Focus on me.
He does. He does it with his whole body.
You tug his belt loose because your heart wants to live here and because your hands remember the weight of him from yesterday like they were made for it. He inhales sharply. His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s all restraint again until you stroke him once, and the restraint is gone like a scaffold kicked out from under the sky.
“Say it,” he says raggedly. “Say you want—” He can’t finish it. He’s not built to ask.
“I want you,” you say in his ear in your calmest lab voice, and his hips jolt against your hand.
You turn without prompting, hands braced on the narrow shelf, cheek against cool metal. It’s almost a desk. It’s almost the first time. He fits behind you like the proof step in an equation he solved in his head before he ever dared write it down.
“God, Reed,” you whisper, half laugh, half worship.
“I—,” he mutters, breezily mortified, and you would tease him if you weren’t simultaneously shivering because the head of his cock is sliding against you, hot and dangerous and right.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, because he is good, because he is trying so hard not to be bad, because he doesn’t know that with you good and bad are the same thing as true.
“Don’t,” you breathe.
He pushes in.
You are soundless for a second because sound requires breath and he knocks it out of you. He stares at the place where your bodies meet like he’s looking at an eclipse and then squeezes his eyes shut because if he keeps looking, he’s going to lose the last inch of himself he calls control.
“Jesus,” he says, and then corrects himself because accuracy is a religion. “No. Not Jesus. You.”
“Reed,” you whisper, and your own accuracy fails you.
He sets a hand between your shoulder blades and the other on your hip and holds there, trembling, cataloging, ruthless with himself and tender with you. He pulls back to the edge of sanity and thrusts in again and sanity is a small, laughable country neither of you live in.
Outside, someone wheels a cart. Johnny says something about lunch plans, about tacos. Reed’s rhythm stutters; he growls low against your spine and drives into you harder, the sound of your bodies joined almost obscene in a room built for quiet things.
“Focus,” you say to him, gasping, and he laughs into your skin, a helpless broken sound, because that’s what you are to him—focus. Variable and constant both.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you whisper, because you want him to know you want it, all of it, even the parts he’s ashamed of.
He doesn’t speak, but his mind does, raw and unguarded and punishingly sincere: I want you to come again. I want to hear it. I want your thighs shaking and my name in your mouth and your mind on mine. I want to keep you. I want—
You come because he asked for it like that. Because he thought it like prayer. Because he’s never once asked for anything and the first thing he asks for is your pleasure.
It tears through you quieter this time, deeper, so deep you feel the echo in your knees and the base of your skull. He feels you clench and whimpers so softly you’d miss it if your mind weren’t jammed into his like a key.
“Look at me,” you say, and when he pulls you back by the hip and you turn your head just enough to catch his eyes, he’s done. He comes with a bitten-off groan. He keeps moving like he can write the afterglow into your muscles.
After, the world rushes back in, irritating and fluorescent and full of other people’s errands.
Reed presses his forehead to your shoulder and breathes like he’s new at it. In his head: shame, then the shadow of it; then, stronger, the bright, bewildered relief of having wanted and not died of it.
You turn and pull him into a kiss that is not frantic and not an apology. He goes very still, as if tenderness is an environment he’s only seen through glass. Then he opens to it in increments, exactly as if he were learning how, which he is.
“I can’t…” he begins.
“You can,” you say.
“I don’t know how to—want—without trying to fix it.”
“Don’t fix it,” you say, smiling. “Not with me.”
A quiet beat. His thoughts settle like snow. He looks at you like a man who’s been handed a variable he can’t solve and loves it anyway.
She’s staying, he thinks, and doesn’t try to stop himself from letting you hear it.
You smooth his collar. He smooths your skirt. He fumbles the bolt and swears under his breath, which is such a simple human thing that you want to cry.
When you step back into the corridor, the lab is loud with ordinary life. Ben waves through the glass with a bag of something greasy. Johnny is mid-story and mid-mime. Sue stands by the chalk wall, reading Reed’s equations like she could hum them.
She looks up. Her eyes flick between your face and Reed’s. She sees everything and says only, “Eleven?”
Reed’s voice is almost normal. “Eleven.”
You move to your bench and queue the scans. Reed takes his place by the board. Johnny asks if anybody wants tacos. Ben says yes twice. Sue smiles at the room like it’s misbehaving and she loves it anyway.
You put your hand on the cool edge of your console. You send Reed a thought like a ribbon tied to his wrist.
I’m here.
He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have to. His mind answers you in that quiet, newly-familiar tone you’re starting to think might be what his voice sounds like when he’s alone.
Stay.
-
You’re not supposed to be on the manifest.
At least, that’s what Sue said—in the gentle, absolute way only she can manage—when Reed slid your name across the table like a proof he’d already solved.
“She’s an intern,” Sue reminded him. “A brilliant one. But the rift is unstable. We don’t take untested minds into a tear in space.”
“She’s indispensable,” Reed said, too calm. His voice stayed level; his thoughts did not. I can’t leave her. She’ll see what I won’t. She’s safer where I can—no. Don’t say safer.
You weren’t on the manifest for nothing. Last week, your telepathy had caught fluctuations in the rift model that every sensor missed. Reed had argued the data alone justified bringing you. Officially, that was the reason. Unofficially, you’d heard the truth in his head: safer where I can see her.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your mind brushed his: I can do this.
Sue’s gaze flicked to you. Measured. Mild. “Then you’ll stay in the pod,” she said finally. “No heroics. Reed, you keep her behind the line.”
Reed’s mouth twitched—the ruin of a smile he wouldn’t allow. Behind the line, he thought, and in the back of his head where he never looked, a softer echo: Mine.
-
The Fantasti-Pod purrs like a big cat on the climb. You sit in a jumpseat with a helmet in your lap and a heartbeat on fast-forward, the world narrowing to harness straps and the braided hiss of your own breath. Ben grumbles something about turbulence. Johnny peels an orange because of course he does. Sue is a still point in the corner of your eye, one hand braced, the other resting on the rail like the ship’s pulse moves through her bones.
Reed doesn’t look at you. He hasn’t looked at you much since the lab. Not when you kissed him first, not when you let him hear how badly you wanted him, not even after you locked yourselves away and crossed the line together. He’s tried so hard to tuck it back under equations. But his mind won’t shut up.
Her first launch. She ate. Good. Don’t fuss. She’s capable. She’s—God, she’s beautiful— A sharp correction: Irrelevant. Focus. A sharper one: Stop lying to yourself.
“I’m fine,” you say into the cabin air, so soft you could pretend you said nothing at all.
“I didn’t ask,” Reed says without looking.
You smile. The ship hums. You let his stray want curl around you like heat and pretend you’re cold.
-
The rift hangs like a crack in a black mirror. Stars should be there. They aren’t. Edges like torn silk. A low vibration you feel in your teeth.
“Perimeter field on my mark,” Sue says over comms. “Johnny, take the outer arc. Ben, with me. Reed, keep the window steady. You—” a look at you, kind and steel at once “—breathe.”
You breathe. You think of Reed’s mouth on yours in the storage room, the way he shook when he said don’t leave, and the way you promised, I’m here.
Reed floats to the central console on magnetic boots. You follow, HUD light strobing over your forearms, readings flicking past like birds. It’s a mess. Not just energy: directionless intent. A hunger that thinks the word through like a knife.
You open your mind to it. Carefully. You’ve learned care.
It is not careful back.
The voice (not a voice, a geometry that insists) presses into the space behind your eyes. Cold. Curious. So hungry.
It sees us, you think, and Reed’s mind snaps taut with attention that doesn’t reach his mouth. Brilliant, he thinks. Terrifying. Hold steady. Keep breathing for me.
“Talk to me,” he says, steady as a metronome. “What shape?”
“Spiral. But wrong. It folds into itself, and the fold looks back.” You swallow. “It wants to come through.”
The rift answers you with a lash of gravity.
The pod bucks. Tools skitter. Johnny curses; Ben swears; Sue’s voice slices clean through it: “Reed, brace the—”
A second lash hits the opposite. The hatch behind you slams down to arrest decompression and the shock throws you backward—no time to grab the rail—into Reed. He grabs you without thinking, the two of you crossing the threshold of the secondary observation module before the emergency seal slams hard and hisses.
The room goes quiet.
Not silent—nothing is, in space—but the din of the main cabin knifes away behind the bulkhead. The lights flicker. Gravity staggers, tries to stand, falters again. The air tastes thin.
Reed’s hand is still at your waist. You can feel the tremor in his fingers.
“Status?” Sue’s voice barks, distant through the channel. Reed doesn’t answer. He’s already at the auxiliary console, fingers flying, mouth moving faster than sound: “Stabilize spin. Reroute O₂. Input clamp on—”
Don’t lose her. The thought is a hit to your sternum. Don’t lose her. Not like this. Not ever.
“I’m okay,” you say. You are not sure you are. Your hands shake. You set them flat on the rail and force stillness into your bones. “What do you need?”
He’s a storm in a suit. Algorithm on the display, fix in his head, hands on the world. “I need you to—” He breaks, just for a blink, a breath, a heartbeat. You can feel him hit the memory—the lab’s tile, your mouth, his apology afterward like a razor in his throat—and see it collide with now. Fear crashes through the ruin of his restraint and brings the filth with it.
Her mouth on me. Her knees on tile. Her body when she—no. God, not now. Focus.
“Reed.” You touch his forearm.
His mind blanks like a wiped board. Then fills. Not with calculus. With you. With want stripped raw by fear. With the instinct that makes men hold fragile things too tight.
“You brought me,” you say. “Use me.”
He exhales like a drowning man breaking the surface. “Anchor us,” he says. “If anything tries to push through the edges, I want to know before the readout does.”
“Yes.”
You step into the bright humming edge of the rift with the part of your mind that can bear it, and immediately you regret the verb. You feel it push back. Probe. Taste. It wants to be where you are and take that apart. Your stomach lurches at the wrongness of it, the unfamiliar thoughts flitting like iron birds against your skull.
“Easy,” Reed says, eyes on the board, voice on you. His free hand finds your wrist under the console edge and squeezes once—sharp, grounding. In his head: With me. Please.
You send him a ribbon of thought like a hand tangled with his. With you.
Another lash hits the pod.
The floor drops away. Gravity decides it’s tired of the fight, shrugs its shoulders, and leaves. You lift an inch, two, more, your boots finding nothing. Reed’s grip tightens; the two of you float off the deck in a slow, tumbling drift. Your helmet bumps gently against your arm. Your breath fogs the inner curve of your visor where it rests against your hip.
“Reed, status,” Sue snaps. “Talk to me.”
“Secondary module sealed,” he says automatically, eyes never leaving you. “Working to restore—” The sentence frays. You feel the thought fall out of him like hunger: She’s floating. Then filth on its heels, honest and helpless. I want to fuck her weightless. I want— He clamps down hard enough to make himself flinch.
You turn your head in the drift. You look at him. He looks ruined. Hair loose. Collar askew. Pupils are too big. Mouth cut open by restraint.
“What are you thinking?” you whisper, and it’s cruel, and it’s kind.
He swallows. “Don’t ask me.”
“You don’t have to say it,” you murmur, fingertips finding the inside of his wrist where his pulse is a frantic animal. “I can hear you.”
The module shudders again, flips you both in a slow unwanted somersault, and you catch him by the front of his suit to stop the spin. The motion slams your bodies together chest to chest and your breath leaves in an oh. Reed’s hand slides to the back of your thigh instead of the console rail and his control—already a cracked glass—goes.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
“Don’t,” you answer, and that is the end of it.
His mouth hits yours like you belong there.
It isn’t careful. It isn’t clinical. He kisses like he’s been holding a live wire between his teeth for a week and just now remembered he can drop it. Your hand fists in his shirt to keep your body from unspooling into the air; he groans into the corner of your mouth and pulls you closer, like more contact could make the ship remember how to hold you both down.
Please, his mind whispers, unguarded and bright with awe. Please. Let me. Let me have her. Let me—
Yes, you think back, opening for him, heat blooming where his tongue meets yours. Always, Reed. Always.
The gravity tries to come back and fails, a stutter of force that bumps your hip into the console and knocks a grunt out of him. He laughs against your mouth—wrecked, breathless, incredulous—and the sound makes something in your chest go soft and animal. You hook your legs around his waist just as the floor disappears again and in the lurch he rocks against you, cock hard behind the uniform, helpless, honest.
“Physics is—” he pants.
“—not your priority,” you murmur, dizzy and greedy.
He chokes on a laugh, then on a moan when you drag your palm down his chest and under the hem to hot skin and the tense pull of muscle. He’s not watching you; he’s watching your mouth. He’s not thinking in sentences; he’s thinking you, you, you threaded through filth that makes your nerves light up like a switchboard.
Want to get my mouth on her cunt while she floats. A stutter of self-loathing for the word. Cunt. A sharper stab of want. I’d hold her open with both hands and eat her until she—
You shiver so hard you spin. Reed catches you at the hip and steadies you with a hand that trembles. The ship hums around your breath. You taste metal and him.
“Reed,” you say, “use your mouth.”
He goes very still. His pupils are black holes. “Yes,” he says, like a vow.
The gravity stutters in again for the briefest of heartbeats. He uses it. One arm bands under your thighs. The other braces your back. In a single practiced motion that shouldn’t be practiced, he turns you with him until your shoulders hit the mesh of a storage cradle and your ass finds the shallow lip of a cargo rack. Not a bed. Not a bench. Enough.
The gravity wavers. He doesn’t.
He kisses you once, hard, like punctuation, then slides down your body with reverence that is at war with urgency. His palms skim your hips, your thighs, the notch of your knee. He palms your calf and pushes, opening you. Your boot magnets click—twang—as they graze the deck and miss. His jaw shakes when he looks. His thoughts go quiet in the exact way a cathedral goes quiet.
“Perfect,” he whispers aloud, and then he’s on you.
You fold over like prayer.
He licks a long stripe through you like he’s waited so long he forgot the first step and remembered it at the same time. You call his name into your fist. He moans into your heat and the vibration steals the strength from your knees. You try to brace; there is nothing to brace on. Reed hears the panic-threaded need and drops a forearm over your pelvis, pinning you to the cradle with a tenderness that keeps you whole.
“Breathe,” he says, mouth slick against you. He breathes you like oxygen. He eats you like information. He maps you like territory, checks for drift, corrects. He learns you faster than anyone ever has and does not hide that it delights him.
Outside, a thud. A voice—Ben’s—muffled by bulkhead and distance: “Hey! You gettin’ readings in there, Stretch?”
Reed freezes.
You put a hand in his hair and tug, just enough. They can’t see. Focus on me.
He exhales against you, a laugh that is mostly a groan, and opens his mouth over your clit like he’s saying amen. You arch so hard the cradle mesh bites. The ship lurches; you lift; he follows you up off the deck without breaking his seal, hand sliding behind your knee to keep you open while the two of you float in a slow, obscene ballet—you a curve against the lights, him anchored to your body like contrition and hunger could cancel gravity.
Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking under the hull. Not a firework; an undertow that turns your bones to water. You try to be quiet and fail. He moans when you do, high and fractured, and the sound pushes you over into a mess you cannot be embarrassed about because he is devouring proof of it like a man starved.
You’re still shaking when he rises, licking his mouth, looking dazed and greedy and wrecked. You’re aware in a distant way that you are whispering his name like you could put it anywhere and he would follow it.
“We are not—done,” he says, the words broken, the vow intact.
“Good,” you say, because you don’t want to be.
He kisses you again. You taste yourself. He takes it like penance and permission both.
“Status?” Sue, in your ear, sharp with focus and carefully soft with worry. “Reed, talk to me.”
“Stabilizing,” he manages, and it isn’t a lie, he is, he will, in a minute, not now, not with your hand sliding down between your bodies to the hard line of him.
He grunts, breath punching out of him. If there were gravity, he’d have buckled. There isn’t. He floats against you, braced on one hand, the other catching your wrist like he wants to stop you and absolutely does not. You drag his zipper down and free him into your palm and almost laugh from the shock of how hot he is. He watches your face go soft with it and flinches like wonder hurts.
“Say you want me,” he says. He is not a man who knows how to ask. You love him for trying.
“I want you,” you say calmly, like the lab, like a fact. You let him feel the truth of it. Not just in your mind. In your hand. In your hips. In the space where only he is allowed to look.
He fumbles a condom out of a flat pocket on his thigh. You raise an eyebrow; he goes pink in the mouth and says, “Preparation,” like an apology. You would tease him if your hunger would let you separate words from sound.
He sheathes himself with hands that shake and, for a second, just stares at your face. The lights strobe. The rift hums. You wrap a leg around his waist and pull him to you, and that is all either of you can stand.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, because he is good even when he is wretched with need.
“Don’t,” you say again, and when he pushes in you forget how to be anything but a mouth saying his name.
He makes a noise against your throat that could break glass. He holds there, buried to the hilt, shivering. You feel the tremor go through him, feel his mind lurch toward shame and then away from it at the sight of your face.
“Look at me,” you whisper.
He does. Something in him—something old and lonely and rigid—unhooks.
He fucks you like the ship might come apart and he’s decided if it does he’d like to be inside you when it happens. He braces a hand on the cradle and uses the stuttering gravity to set a rhythm you can ride, hips rocking hard when the deck finds you, floating thrusts stealing breath when it doesn’t. He mutters half-words he’d never say in a meeting—“so tight,” “so good,” “fuck, you take me so—” —and thinks the words he won’t let out loud, filth and praise braided so tight they’re the same thread. Pretty, perfect, mine, mine, mine.
“Comms are—” Johnny’s voice bleeds through with static and popcorn laughter. “—you two makin’ out in there? Stretch? Are you alive?”
You bite back a laugh and a cry. Reed snarls softly like a territorial thing and snaps his hips, the head of his cock dragging over everything inside you that wants to be worshiped and ruined. The cradle creaks. The magnets in your boots scrape desperate little music on the deck.
“Busy,” Reed grits, and kills the outbound on your channel. He never takes his eyes off you. “With the module,” he adds, and thrusts hard enough that your head tips back and the prayer that falls out of your mouth is not to physics.
“Reed,” you hiss, your hands greedy on his shoulders, his throat, his chest, “Reed, I’m—”
“I know,” he says, wild, tender, sure. He drops a hand to your clit and rubs you fast and cruel, exactly how your nervous system begged him to yesterday, exactly how you’d crave forever. “Come for me.”
You do. Not like a scream. Like a collapse, like a star imploding silently and turning into something that makes light. Your body tightens around him and he swears, ragged, never elegant, and chases you into it, fucking you through, fucking you into.
“Look at me,” you say again, and you see it all hit his face—the want, the fear, the reverence, the fact that he is allowed to have this.
He falls apart with you.
He goes very quiet when he comes. You feel it in the way his body shudders against yours, the way he pushes deep and stays there, the way his mind goes white noise and then returns like tide, reverent and terrified in equal measure. He pants against your mouth. He doesn’t look away. He can’t.
Afterwards, the ship keeps humming. The rift keeps insisting. Your heart keeps beating against your ribs like hello hello don’t forget me.
Reed kisses you once, a soft press, like sealing wax.
“We have to—” he starts.
“—fix the window,” you finish, stroking his jaw with your thumb.
“—and the O₂ feed.” He swallows. The small muscle in his throat jumps under your finger. “And I need to—”
“—be Reed Richards again,” you say, smiling. “Later.”
“Later,” he says, and the way he says it makes later feel like a country you’d emigrate to without a map.
He tidies himself with hands that try not to shake. You do too. He toggles the comms and the outside world roars back in—Johnny cracking jokes, Ben swearing affectionately at a bulkhead, Sue steady and sharp above it all.
“Reed?” Sue. Not gentle, not harsh. Present. “Status.”
“Secondary modules are stable,” he says, and it’s true now. You watch him pull the window back into shape like a magician dismantling a trick. “Bringing the field up. We can hold the perimeter.”
“Copy,” Sue says. A beat. “And our intern?”
You press your mouth against your hand to keep from laughing directly into the line. Reed’s eyes flick to you just once, wrecked and fond, like he can’t help it.
“Indispensable,” he says. Not a hint of a smile in his voice. You hear it in his mind instead. Mine.
-
They pry the hatch thirty minutes later with the brisk competence of people who do this for a living. Johnny is grinning like he knows and would die for gossip. Ben looks you over with a mechanic’s concern, nods once when he decides your head is still attached. Sue’s gaze skims the room—panels, readings, the mesh cradle, your mouth—then lands and stays on you for a breath longer than politeness requires.
“Good work,” she says to Reed, to you. To both. She doesn’t make it a question.
Reed nods. “Her readings saved us a cycle.”
Sue’s brows lift a fraction. She did not need the proof. She likes having it.
“Let’s get out of the teeth of this thing,” she says, and the ship pivots in space like a fish slipping sideways out of a net.
You move to your station. Your hands find the console like they were born there. Reed takes the board. Johnny hums an obnoxious tune and peels a second orange. Ben mutters about tacos. Sue’s voice threads through, tying all of it into something that feels like safety.
You send Reed a thought as simple as a hand to hold. I’m here.
He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have to. His mind answers in that new quiet voice you’re starting to think is what love sounds like when he forgets to bury it under math.
Stay.
You smile down at the readout and stay.
And when the rift closes like a cut that’s decided not to scar, and the pod noses home through the soft blue above the sea, and the heat shield sings and the world remembers how to be heavy, Reed looks at you as if gravity were your idea.
Later, back on the ground, Sue will give you a file and a look and say, “If you’re going to be in the field, you’ll need proper clearance.” Johnny will waggle his eyebrows until Ben smacks the back of his head. The board will ask polite questions that smell like fear. You will answer them. Reed will stand beside you and think terrible, filthy things about your mouth while you keep your face completely composed, and when it’s over he will catch your hand in an elevator no one else uses and kiss your palm like confession.
But for now—while the hull pops softly as the ship remembers how to be cool, while the straps loosen, while your mind unthreads from the alien geometry that wanted to devour you—Reed looks at you, and thinks a thought he doesn’t try to cage.
Indispensable. Astonishing. Mine.
You tip your head against the bulkhead, shut your eyes, and let the hum of the ship settle you into your body.
“Breathe,” he murmurs without the comms.
You do.
“Again,” he says, gentler.
You do, and open your mind just enough to tell him what he already knows.
summary: reader’s dad is a contractor like joel, and considers him a rival after a bidding war goes wrong. so what happens when he sends his daughter to the chamber of commerce banquet by herself, and joel saves her from an awkward situation? it leads to long nights and hidden away getaways of reader hiding joel from her dad… until it doesn’t.
warnings/tags: reader’s dad is heavily implied to be verbally abusive, religious trauma, oral sex, p-in-v, fingering, l-word bombs, fluff, smut, unprotected sex, age gap, reader is in her room 20s, joel is in his 40s, no outbreak, sarah is present
word count: 12.22k
a/n: there were so many people involved in cheering me on for the fic, but i especially want to thank via, ash, anna, and shane for letting me rant and send random screenshots of dialogue and give me feedback. surprisingly, this took me less time than it did to write the javier peña fanfic! regardless, i hope you guys enjoy this- this may not be for everybody, but i did it specifically for the people who can’t relate to dbf!joel miller fics but still have those crippling daddy issues. above all? i wrote this for me.
Bonus content: Playlist
divider credit: @saradika-graphics
“You think you can go to that commerce banquet in my place tomorrow night? I don’t feel like going and I already bought a ticket.”
You looked up at your father from where you were typing hand written invoices into the merchant system- your fingers slowed to a halt. He stood over you expectantly, not even blinking as he leaned against the workbench beside your desk.
“I had planned on spending the Saturday in,” you said slowly, clearly teetering on hesitance and deliberating carefully.
He grunted, a huff of air dispelling from his nostrils. “Look here, girl- you spend so much of your time resting after work, plain wonder you ain’t disintegrated into your bed. Just do me this favor. You should count it an honor to represent Faith Family Contracting.”
Pushing back from your desk in your rolling computer chair and facing him to lessen the shadow his imposing figure drew over you, you stifled a sigh- you knew what kind of lecture that would spring you into if he heard even the slightest hint of exasperation.
“Fine, I’ll go.”
“That the kinda attitude you got towards your own daddy? Your flesh and blood?” He demanded, his eyes burning into yours. The contact made mace feel like a refreshing spray of water.
Your eyes pulled from his, averting to some invisible fleck on your desk. “Yes, sir.”
His features softened, mollified as he crossed his arms with a nod. “Good. I knew you were a good girl.”
With that, he stalked off to his own office, the door slamming far too easily for your liking, but you exhaled with relief regardless.
You had to get out of here.
You didn’t feel like waiting until Saturday morning to shop for an appropriate dress, so immediately after work, you peeled out of the parking lot and over to the mall.
Really, he had done you a favor, you bargained with yourself. This was the first real event you were going to by yourself, no hint of your father around; at least not physically. Mentally, he was crammed in the corners of your brain like some sort of distorted Jiminy Cricket, telling you what he would do if it was him. You hated it, but that was your reality. You lived and worked with the man all twenty-something years of your life, what else could be expected?
You hummed to yourself as you flipped through the racks. You could hear him in your ear- “don’t get anything flashy, now- remember, you’re a representative of not only our business, but also Christ.”
You huffed derisively- you had stopped believing in Jesus a while ago, really, at least in the way your father expected of you. You saw what religion does and what it can hide, and it was hard to really and earnestly have confidence in that.
So with that thought in mind, you actually let yourself look at the dresses he would have scoffed at, the dresses he would have insisted were for women of the night- What’s the worst that could happen?
This was the thing you hated about social events.
You had gotten your hair done, something not overly stately, but definitely more refined than usual- and you had barely recognized yourself.
You skirted around the living room, where you knew your father would be laid up in his recliner. You didn’t want to risk hearing what he had to say, either about your hair, your make up, or the dress you had chosen to wear.
You could practically tell anyone word for word what he would say anyways, so what was the use?
But despite the effort you had made into looking and acting like the grown up you were, you still felt out of place. You felt like a child who had gotten into her mother’s make up box, and was pretending to be more than you were.
You adjust the emerald green strapless cocktail dress, the sweetheart neckline suddenly making you feel self aware that you didn’t show this much skin on a regular basis, as well as another thing-
You hate taking up space.
The various volumes of conversations around you overlapped into mounds of background noise as you sipped the Shirley Temple you had ordered from the bar. Your eyes darted to the business people that surrounded you- you could name a good many of them, but you knew with near certainty that none of them knew you or your name, especially without your father around. Oddly enough, that was okay with you; there was something comforting about the anonymity.
Some were sitting at tables, others were just standing around, conversing and chatting while eating the small hors d'oeuvres and the drinks provided. You were scouting for a place to sit, but almost all of the tables were taken, and the awkwardness of potentially splitting up a conversation just weighed too heavily on you.
Your eyes finally honed in on a table with two empty chairs- It was beside the morticians you knew of in town, but at least the empty chair could act as a buffer until someone else sits down.
“Anybody sitting here?” You asked the spiky silver haired mortician- Billy, you think his name is.
He shook his head, his grinning colgate white teeth shimmering as he moved. “Nobody here at all- take a seat.”
That’s how you found yourself in a conversation with one of Austin’s morticians, more so listening and nodding your head with your lips curling into smiles at the appropriate times. You were right, his name was Billy, and he was telling you all about how his sixteen year old son was getting his first Silverado with lift kits and glass packs. Did you necessarily care? No, not at all, but it was better than being alone.
Somehow, the further into the conversation you got, you noticed Billy’s eyes slip further from your eyes, and down your neck, your collarbones, then down to your-
“I wondered when I’d spot you,” a gruff but kind voice said behind you as you sensed a sizable hand settle on the back of your chair. You craned your neck to see who was possibly coming to your rescue, when your lips gaped open.
Joel Miller, half of Miller Contracting, who usually wears dingy flannels and denim jeans that had clearly seen better days, but tonight were swapped in for a dark green button down shirt and khakis, was looking down at you.
Not only that, Joel was your father’s worst enemy to date, aside from maybe himself.
And he was pulling out the chair beside you, sitting down as if you were the best of chums and the buddies of all buddies. Internally, you could hear your father’s Jiminy Cricket telling you to abort the mission, but you forced a smile on your face as you turned towards him- and more importantly, away from Billy’s wandering eyes.
“How’s your daddy’s business?” Joel asked, his eyebrow raised, and his tone lazy.
“You know who I am?” Your eyebrows furrowed with confusion.
“Sure I do. Your daddy owns Faith Family Contracting- known each other for years. Don’t know you quite so well, but I’ve seen you in your daddy’s promo pictures. My brother and I own Miller Contracting, by the way. I’m Joel Miller.”
“I know who you are,” you say, your tone turning cold like a slow freeze, “you stole that bid from my dad’s company.”
If Joel’s eyebrows could have shot up any higher, it would have had to have been untangled from his hairline. His brown eyes steeled subtly, but not unkindly.
“We had bid fair and square,” he said, his tone even, “Nothing about what we did was underhanded.”
“Ain’t what Dad said.”
He studied your face carefully, and you could feel the weight of his eyes as they roved the planes of your features. You felt your face burn, but you kept yourself composed. Then to your surprise, he huffed a laugh, that dimple crescenting his cheek for just a bare second.
“I imagine not,” Joel said slowly, “but it’s been twenty years, and the details… I guess they can get a bit fuzzy in that amount of time.”
“He maintains that you’re the one who got him kicked out of the bid, making him ineligible to put one in.”
“That what he’s been sayin’? Interestin’.”
There was a hint of amusement in his voice that drove you mad, but you couldn’t help but be curious- after all, your dad wasn’t exactly above twisting a few tales to skew his way. It’s just what he’s always told you about Joel since you were old enough to comprehend anything.
Joel leaned towards you, his forearm supported by the table and his gaze still fixed on your face. “Did he tell you that he spread a rumor about me that was completely unfounded directly to my clients?”
Your eyebrows collided again- the tension in your forehead could keel over a water buffalo. “Which rumor would that be?”
Your father had talked trash and regurgitated quite a few nasty hearsays about Joel over the years in your earshot- Joel would definitely have to be more specific.
“He claims that I cheated on my wife at the time with my secretary.” His jaw tightened, the vein that traveled on the jawline popping for just a moment.
Yup, you’d heard that one from your Dad before.
“And you-?”
“Did not. I’ve never cheated on anybody, much less on my wife with my secretary- that’s a complete power imbalance, first of all. But my secretary, my ex-wife, and my brother Tommy can all attest that I never cheated. My marriage ended ‘cause I’m a consummate workaholic, not infidelity- at least on my side.”
Something about hearing him say “ex-wife” made a knot in your stomach you didn’t know you had unfurl with relief- you weren’t going to parse that any time soon. But there was something comforting about his certainty that he would never cheat on a partner. You could admire him for that much.
Joel leaned back in his chair, still observing you in your still silence. Despite you being the daughter of his rival, he was treating you… oddly well.
“Why did you come to my rescue just now?” You asked, the curiosity killing you.
He laughed lowly again. “I could see Billy’s lack of eye contact when I came in. Didn’t know it was… you until you turned around to look at me. Anyways, Billy has a terrible habit of… staring, if you will. Didn’t think that was comfortable for you.”
“It wasn’t. Um… thank you, I guess.”
“Your Daddy talk to you right?”
Your eyes widened at the unexpected question. “Excuse me?”
“Your Daddy. Does he treat you right? You’re all… skittish. You’re lovely, don’t get me wrong, but you act like someone’s gonna swat you like a bad dog.”
You bristled like a fluffed up hen, but you couldn’t deny the validity of his question. “You’re not gonna get back at my dad through me.”
“Sweetie, if I wanted to get back at your dad, I would have found a way long before you came trouncing along.” A smirk pulled at his lips, though part of it seemed to be almost… pity.
“So why haven’t you? If he actually destroyed your reputation like you say he did, you would have every right.”
“That’s the thing, really, he didn’t destroy my reputation, he only tried. But that just tells me all I need to know about him and his character. And something… something tells me he doesn’t treat those around him right, either.”
You pushed your chair back from the table. “I’m not having this conversation with you,” you stated, picking up your glass of shirley temple as you stood up.
He stood up with you, but the glance you sent him was withering and he sat back down- It wasn’t until then that you realized how puppy dog-ish his eyes were as he looked up at you. You hardened your heart against the beseeching expression.
Walking away from the table aimlessly, you replayed what had just happened in your head. Why were you so resolute to not hear him out? What was it about him that peeved you so bad? You knew damn well that everything Joel said was well within your father’s behavior. But what unnerved you the most was his last question- “Does he treat you right?” No one had ever asked that, everyone had only ever assumed you had a good relationship with your dad because you worked together. Yet Joel did. What the hell did Joel see? Your dad’s enemy of all people.
You shake it off physically, your bare shoulders shimmying subtly as a chill chased down your spine. Despite drinking the non-alcoholic drink, you feel a sudden boldness to go to the bar and request a red wine.
As you waited for the bartender to prepare your drink, you heard a gruff voice behind you. “You sure that's the best idea?”
You turned around towards the tall and broad figure behind you, your arms bracing against the bar minimally, looking up at Joel. “You again. What, you here to monitor how much I drink tonight?”
Joel shook his head, a smile on his lips. You noticed one stray curl that seemed to refuse to any sort of conformity, curling in the opposite way of the rest of his hair, and you damned yourself for noticing such a detail.
“I’m here because we need to talk.”
“What is your obsession with me, Miller?” You all but snapped at him. The bartender tapped your shoulder to hand you your wine, and you took it from him with a smile before turning to Joel again, maintaining defiant eye contact with him as you took a long sip.
“It’s not an obsession. I just think you’re decent, and your daddy… he’s dangerous in a way you can’t see, and specifically towards you. You deserve better.”
“And what? You think I need a new daddy or something, and you’d be better for me? Like I can just leave behind the one I was allotted by the universe like some sort of unnecessary baggage, no complications?” You huffed a sardonic laugh as you moved away from the bar, walking the edge of the room. As expected, Joel followed you, falling into step beside you. For a moment, his hand almost grazed yours, and another shiver ran down your back at the near-miss contact.
“I know it ain’t that easy,” he said softly, “And it ain’t about wanting to be your daddy. Hell, we may never see each other after this event- Austin’s big enough for that, after all. But just know, you and whatever your fate may be will weigh on my mind occasionally. I can see that already.”
“Why’s that?” You knew you shouldn’t have asked him that, as though you were tolerating and entertaining his presence more than you should have. Yet it almost fell out of your mouth by instinct.
“I dunno. Something special about you, I think. I don’t mean that in a pick up-y way, just…” For the first time since you’d met him tonight, Joel hesitated with his words, clearly trying to be careful, “You… You seem like you’re the saddest yet most interesting person in a room. Ain’t no accident my eyes were drawn to you immediately after I showed up ten minutes late to the banquet, honey.”
“So… what, you think it’s fate or something? Like I’m some sort of project for you? You getting into renovation projects now, Miller?” The note of resignation in your voice couldn’t be hidden, and you winced when it met your own ears.
“I don’t think it’s fate. Just not sure it’s solely a coincidence- who’s to say, though?” Joel looked down at you, your pace slowing down considerably as he detected a slight wobble in your heels. Without a further thought, he offered his arm, and you took it to stabilize yourself, your wine glass in your other hand.
“You’re not a renovation project, though,” he continued quietly, “Because that would imply some sort of destruction and rebuilding. You don’t need no more destruction than what I’m guessing you’ve endured already.”
“What has you so convinced my dad’s done me wrong somehow?”
“You’re beyond vigilant. You’re careful. You act like he’s gonna show up any moment. You want his approval so bad, but you’re already resigned to the fact you’ll probably never get it. Like I said earlier- you’re more skittery than a cat in a rocking chair factory, and you act like you’re always waiting for that other shoe to drop, or for that rolled up newspaper to come down.”
“Since when is being cautious bad?” You glanced at him, your eyebrows furrowed.
“You know you’re not just cautious. You never know how or when to let your guard down.”
“How the hell do you know all this?”
He looked at you. “I was in your place one time, believe it or not. Tommy and I had a father that wasn’t exactly winning Dad of the Year awards.”
“Not going to lie, I forget you ever had a dad. Just kind of figured you popped out of a cabbage patch or something.”
Joel stifled a laugh. “‘Fraid not.”
You glanced at the dance floor that was being set up away from the tables, the DJ preparing his deck. “I’ve never danced before.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I was hinting that I want to dance.”
“With me?” He didn’t bother hiding the surprise in his voice.
“No, Joel, with the mayor,” you retorted sarcastically, “Yes, with you. If you have more shit to say to me, I may as well get something enjoyable out of it.”
“You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
“I’m an adult, Joel.”
He chuckled warmly beside you. “No, I know. But your dad… I know he does that whole “no cussing” thing.”
“Believe it or not, I do have my own belief system.”
“I believe you.”
The silence that fell between you should have been uncomfortable, stifling even, but somehow it felt warm in a way you hadn’t experienced before with anyone else. You glanced at him and really looked, studying his profile- a well kept beard, yet it very much fed into his rough and rugged type appearance- when Joel’s face swung towards you.
“Do I have something on my face?”
“Nothing. Just looking at you.”
“I see.” A smile tugged at his lips, but definitely was kept tampered down.
“Is there a reason you have a spot on your beard that won’t grow hair, or does that just… happen?”
“Just happens,” Joel’s voice was rough as he glanced towards the dance floor, which was successfully set up and attracted a singular couple as they danced to a slow song. “You wanna dance now?”
“Sure. Um… I always wanted to try, but never had anyone to dance with,” you admitted.
His eyebrows collided together at that. “Your daddy never danced with you? I dance with Sarah sometimes, when she asks.”
“I guess I just never asked.”
Joel hummed a little but he led you over to the dance floor as Kelly Clarkson’s Breakaway was playing on tinny speakers. As though it was second nature, his hand slipped around your waist, the other clasping your hand, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his large hand completely enveloped yours. Your back tensed under his hand, but if he noticed, he didn’t say anything.
“I voted for her on American Idol,” he said gruffly.
“Kelly Clarkson?” You asked, your surprise evident in your voice. He rolled his eyes but he laughed sheepishly.
“Yeah. My ex-wife was really into American Idol, and… yeah. She got me wrapped into it. In my defense, though, Kelly was undeniably good. Even I could tell that. Why they kept that goddamn show going after they found her, I don’t know.”
You genuinely laughed at that; who would think Joel Miller has intense feelings about Kelly Clarkson and American Idol?
“Alright now, laugh it up-it’s funny, ain’t it,” Joel said with a laugh that mingled with the fringe of yours, his eyes gleaming as he looked at you for a moment before it turned to studying your face.
“What you looking at?” You mimicked his question from earlier.
“You.” He wasn’t shying away from anything, it seemed.
“Just me?”
“You really undervalue yourself.”
“You know, for someone who’s blue collar, you sure do psychoanalyze people a lot. You do this to everyone, or am I just special?”
“ ‘Just me,’” Joel repeated to you, “you’re fascinating to look at, you know that? Ain’t nothing “just” about it.”
“What, are you trying to hit on me? “Come onto me,” as some of the oldies say,” you said, half incredulously, half jesting.
“Hitting on you would be crazy, wouldn’t it? You’re around twenty years younger than me. You’re the daughter of the man who hates my guts, even if he says he just dislikes my ‘sin.’ We both have baggage, I have a daughter. That would be insane, wouldn’t it?”
“And yet-?” You pressed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I have no game plans, I wasn’t aiming to make a play when I came in.”
“But now-?”
“You get under my skin, despite everything, despite it all. Maybe it’s because I should hate you. It's what’s expected.”
“Joel. My father would kill me.”
“I know,” he whispered gruffly, his face tilted towards you.
“He wouldn’t hesitate to kill you either.”
“I know,” Joel repeated, his hand flexing against your waist, pulling you in closer.
A tightness constricted your voice, tears threatening as they pricked your eyes. You broke away from him, untwining your hands from his shoulder and his hand. “I have to go. I need… I need fresh air.”
Your name was on his lips as you spun on your heel, moving in any direction but his. You shouldered your way through the sparse crowd of people off the floor spectating the dancing towards where you vaguely assumed the bathrooms would be.
Of course, you assumed wrong, which is how you found yourself sliding down with your back to a shelf full of toilet paper, paper towels, extra dishes, and canned heat for catering. Of course you would find yourself in the supply closet.
The tightness traveled from your throat down to your chest, leaving you breathless, grasping and reaching for any puff of breath you could, and your head began to feel light- those tears that wanted to fall earlier now were dribbling down your hot cheeks, but you didn’t have the energy to wipe them away.
You had barely registered Joel entering the closet behind you, everything around you seemed to be delayed by two seconds and hazy like you were peering through smoke, until he was crouched down beside you. You could smell his earthy and pine scented cologne and the warm heat that seemed to radiate from him constantly before you even saw him.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to take you to an ER or something?”
“No. It’s just… Probably an anxiety attack. It’s not too bad, I’ll be okay-“
“Can you stop minimizing yourself and your goddamn pain for one minute so we can troubleshoot whatever’s wrong with you?” His tone wasn’t angry or mean, but it was concerned and frustrated in a way you’d never heard before from anyone.
“Sorry.”
Joel took a deep breath. “Don’t be sorry. Just… stop putting yourself on the backburner. What’s your symptoms?”
“Um… lack of clarity. Tightness of breathing. Accelerated heart rate?”
“Crying.”
“That too.”
He sat back on his knees, those large hands settling on his thighs, fingers subtly twitching like he was holding himself back. “Your daddy has done you a doozy, you know that?”
“I know. I know, he has- god, Joel, I’m aware of that more than goddamn anyone else. You think I don’t know I’m fucked up? And that he’s the one who did it? You think the idea hasn’t crossed my mind a time or two?” The frustration that erupted involuntarily from you made you wipe at your tears angrily.
Joel watched you, that maddening studying he does like he’s watching a bird in its cage figure out the door is open. He wasn’t pulling away from you, he wasn’t even disgusted at the display of emotions. Maybe a little bit uncomfortable, but not so much that he couldn’t handle it.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” you croaked, “I don’t fucking understand. What are you aiming for?”
“You don’t deserve the shit you’re in. Maybe it’s my way of getting back at your dad. I see gold in you, and I’m panning for it, and he’ll be so mad that I found within ten minutes what has been under his nose for twenty something years.”
“You’re so confident I’m something great. You treat all the girls with daddy issues you come across like this? What if I’m not what you think?”
“Chances are that you’re more than you think.”
That familiar silence settled between you again.
“And no,” Joel said suddenly.
“‘No’ what?”
“No, I don’t treat every woman with daddy issues I’ve met like I have you tonight.”
The words hung in the air like a mist that hadn’t met the earth yet. You felt your heart rate slow down, and the tension ease from your chest.
“You know why your daddy was struck out from the bid?” Joel asked quietly.
“Other than what he’s told me? No.”
He took a deep breath. “He was bribing other contractors to withdraw their bids, or not bid at all. He never approached me about it, but a friend of mine got approached, and he told me about it. I advised him to tell the auctioneer, and the auctioneer decided to strike your daddy and his company as being ineligible to bid.”
“Dad did that?”
“I’m afraid so. And if you don’t believe me, my brother can attest to it, and you can even ask the auctioneer.”
“And that’s what made Dad hate you all these years?”
“Yup,” he said simply.
His eyes met yours, searching for any trace of disbelief- a small puff of breath left his lips when he detected none.
“And that’s what caused him to almost destroy your marriage.”
Joel laughed a little, a hint of bitterness surfacing. “Like I said earlier- that wasn’t what did it, I promise.”
“I see.” You exhaled deeply, a small soft sound that he could barely hear catching the tail end of the sigh.
“You believe me now? I don’t just go around trying to defame businessmen, sweetheart.”
A shiver ran down your spine at the usage of the pet name, but you nodded at him. Your hand moved to rest on his thigh, tentatively and calculating, and, though for a split second he eyed it, he said nothing.
Like someone trying to lure a feral cat, he was almost scared to move, lest it disturb the creature.
“Joel-“
“Don’t,” Joel said gently, “We’re not doing anything in this supply closet.”
“Why not? That’s not what I was going to suggest, but why not?”
“Because you’ve just had a panic attack, that’s why. I’m not going to do anything with you while you’re still recovering from that.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, I have them all the time.”
He looked at you like you were insane, with his eyebrows furrowed, and that frown of his deepening more than you thought physically possible. “That’s gotta change.”
“You’re not about to be my sugar daddy.”
“No, of course not- Jesus!”
You shrugged, a smile tugging on your lips, though it still felt leaden somehow. “It’s the only other solution for my problems, dude.”
“I have connections, resources- we can get you out. You could work for me, lord knows you have the experience. Or you could do something you always wanted to do. And no- I’m not your sugar daddy.”
Your hand was still on his thigh, and you finally used it to hoist yourself up off the ground, then using the shelf to balance yourself.
Joel stood up with you, his gaze appraising you as he did. He huffed a laugh when one of his knees creaked.
“You feel okay?” He asked, his hand hovering over your shoulder, though never landing.
“A little light headed.”
“You eat much today? Or tonight, even?”
“I had a sandwich at lunch. Um… then I had that Shirley Temple, and wine…”
“C’mon, we’re getting you something to eat.”
“There’s only hor d'oeuvres-“
“No, we’re going to a fast food restaurant. We’re getting you some food in you, even if it’s greasy and bad for you- it’ll be better than nothing, especially after drinking even a little alcohol.”
“Did you not hear that part earlier where I said my dad would kill you?”
He hummed. “I’m ignoring it. Now c’mon.”
“You’ve barely had time to rub elbows with anyone. You’ve been too obsessed with me.” A smile cracked wider now.
“I hate to tell you, but I barely rub elbows with anyone at these functions anyways. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a social butterfly.” Joel cracked the door open, glancing around. “You exit first, I’ll be out in a minute.”
You found yourself in the cab of Joel’s truck, eating Taco Bell. You were surprised at how clean he kept it, but not in an excessive “truck guy” way. Just… neat.
The truck itself was newish, though not the newest, and a dark blue color. When he opened the door, a running board popped out from beneath the truck for you to step onto. Regardless, Joel held your hand while you climbed into the truck, steadying you. The little bit of contact made another shiver chase down your spine, and you weren’t surprised at all at how touch starved you are.
“Sarah just vacuumed it for me,” he said, a tad bit tenderly, “I’ve told her I can get it, but she likes vacuuming, she said.”
Your eyes fell on the “I love you, Dad- Love, Sarah” note that rested in the corner of his speedometer, and it made something in you clench a little- This man wasn’t just some sort of hot piece of meat, he was a dad too, with a daughter who was barely twelve years younger than you, and an ex wife. He had a whole life.
“She sounds like a good kid.”
“She is. I was worried how the divorce would affect her but… she adjusted so well.”
“I imagine it would have been more toxic for her, in a way, for you guys to stay together if it was irreconcilable.” You were cautious, clearly unsure how to talk about this topic with him. Joel seemed to sense it, turning towards you and the soft shell taco you were still eating.
“That good? Filling you up okay?”
“Definitely. Nothing beats a good taco, you know? You sure you don’t want a bite?”
He hesitated. “Sure, gimme a bite,” he relented.
Leaning forward, you offered your taco to him, expecting him to take it from your hand. Instead, Joel leans forward to nibble on it, and you were acutely aware his lips were just mere inches from your finger tips.
If that wasn’t enough, while he was nibbling, he looked up at you with those eyes- those big brown eyes, once again. Your breath hitched for a moment, and you felt so stupid for it. He was eating a goddamn taco, for pete’s sake.
He pulled back, still chewing on his bite, but his eyes were on you, an eyebrow cocked up and a dimple in his cheek doing an appearing and disappearing act as he ate. You had to pinch yourself to keep from giggling- that is a forty something year old man. Joel does not need to be objectified-
“What you starin’ at?”
“You’ve got lettuce on your mouth.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Not really. He did have a small piece of lettuce on the corner of his lip.
Joel wiped the lettuce off with his thumb, but his gaze remained on you, though now the corner of his eyes were crinkling at the corners, the wrinkles popping out like a dear friend. “You sure that was all you were looking at?”
“I wouldn’t swear my life on it, if that’s what you’re asking,” you said softly.
You looked down at yourself- you were oddly conscious of the fact you were wearing this fancy dress, eating a taco, and sitting beside Joel in his truck, alone. You subtly adjusted your neckline. No one was there to witness anything but the moon that overlooked you all, and he was looking at you like you hung it yourself.
So really, it was only natural that you leaned forward infinitesimally, and of course Joel noticed.
“What are you doing,” he murmured.
Your cheeks stung with heat but you said nothing, choosing to fall into silence instead.
“You didn’t do nothing wrong,” Joel says gently, “I don’t want you to think you did. I just… I just want to know where your head is right now.”
“I wanna kiss you. Am I… Am I reading things wrong?” You damned yourself for the small quiver that entered your voice.
Joel gently reached for your chin, cupping your face as he tilted your face towards his.
“First of all, I didn’t ask if it was right or wrong, I asked what you’re doing. I know it’s a habit, but you don’t have to weigh everything out, not with me,” His eyes eased into gentleness, “and second of all… you weren’t reading a damn thing wrong, I promise you.”
Joel pushed the cup holder that separated them up into the seat, tossing aside the taco bell bag and setting them on the floor board before dragging you closer to himself on that leather bench seat, your thigh hitting his. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you into himself, his lips finding your forehead first, then moving to the tip of your nose. While it would seem to be tender, patient even, to casual onlookers, Joel felt as though someone lit a fire beneath his ass, his movement jerky as he moved his kisses to your neck.
“Why don’t you kiss me already?” You say impatiently. You felt the vibration of his chuckle against the skin of your collarbone.
“Because I know you might freak out if we just jump right in, no warm up. We don’t want that, do we?”
“Of course not.”
“Trust in me, okay? I think I can make you feel real good.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
His lips continued kissing a trail down the side of your neck, over your collarbone, and to the center of the slight cleavage that peeked out from the sweetheart neckline.
“Can I leave a hickey?” He asked, slightly muffled by your skin, “Do you have anything to cover it with so your daddy doesn’t see?”
“I can put some foundation on it.”
Wordlessly, his mouth continued their ministrations, seeking but softly, and from your perspective, you could see the meat of his nose gently bending against the flesh of your breast. Your breathing hitched again when you felt him suck a little more intensely right above the neckline of your dress.
With a small pop, Joel released your skin from his mouth, a small proud grin on his face as he studied the hickey he left behind.
“Did you know,” he said with dramatic pauses, “you smell exactly what I think Heaven smells like?“
That’s what began the escapades where you snuck around with your dad’s enemy.
Finding times and places that your father wouldn’t or couldn’t find you and Joel together slowly became your new favorite challenge.
That night in the Taco Bell parking lot had sealed your fate; Joel was right when he said he would make you feel good, and what woman didn’t love a man who makes good on his promises?
He had yet to propose a homerun, and stayed comfortably at second base. You had asked him why, and all he did was say exactly what he said before- he didn’t want to freak you out by going too fast.
You weren’t sure if you were frustrated by it, or if you admired his patience and mindfulness of what you needed- maybe a little bit of both.
So you often found yourself on the couch in his office when you’d tell your dad you were eating at a cafe, Joel’s hand never wandering below your belt, or in the bed of his truck in a field, your shirt off but your bra still on, messily making out with him, his knee notched between your legs.
You had met Tommy, Joel’s younger brother and business partner, by now, most often passing him while tripping in and out of Joel’s office, and he only gave you amused looks and friendly smiles. He was handsome, perhaps even more handsome than Joel to the strict eye, but for a reason you couldn’t put your finger on, Joel just simply… was it for you.
“How long are we gonna be a secret?” You murmured to Joel one day while his forehead rested against yours, cuddling on his office couch. How it supported you and Joel, who was no petite sized man, with those broad shoulders, you had no idea.
Joel’s eyes softened with fondness as they roved over your face, kissing your cheek. “Until you’re ready to face your dad. Or we get caught.”
“Both of those sound scary to think about.”
“We’ll handle it together, sweetheart.”
You rewarded his answer with a gentle kiss on the lips, which quickly turned into him settling on top of you, growling softly against your lips.
Reckoning day, much like an inexperienced lover, comes quickly.
You were sitting in Joel’s office again, by yourself on the couch, while he worked at his desk, his reading glasses pushed down the bridge of his nose as he compared invoices to what was on the merchant program and find any discrepancies. You didn’t want to admit it (actually, you already had on multiple occasions) but those reading glasses had no business being that attractive on Joel.
“C’mere,” he murmured.
“Hm?”
“C’mere.”
You got off the couch and moved towards him, and he turned his computer chair out from his desk, his hands patting his thighs.
“You want me to sit.”
“Is this a surprise to you?”
“No, but…”
An amused huff of breath escaped Joel’s mouth. “Turn that pretty little head of yours off for a minute, will you? Sit. I want your weight on me. I need a break from these damn numbers.”
You stifled a chuckle as you relented, moving to sit on his lap. You had barely eased your ass down on his thighs when he pulled you in with those large hands that keep you mesmerized, sweeping you to the side so that your legs hung over the side of the arm rests.
“You know, every time I see something red, I think of you. Ever since we talked about favorite colors and you got all excited about the different hues, now all I can think about is you when I see red. Sometimes I even put red paint chips in my pocket when I’m at the paint store- feels like I’m carrying a little bit of you around.” His lips brushed your cheek reverently.
Your smile was almost small, almost polite, but the thud of your heart was sure to be heard. “You remember my favorite color?”
“Of course I do. Red, but you also specifically like the cherry red shade, and the shade of red wine. Knowing you means more and more things remind me of you, you know that?”
“Yeah,” you said softly.
About thirty minutes before, Tommy had left for the day, only a tad bit early, which had left you and Joel alone in the building. Impishly, he had thrown over his shoulder, “Don’t have too much fun, you two.”
But maybe if Tommy was there, he could have stopped any rude interruptions.
For instance, your father hurtling through the business building and bursting through Joel’s office door.
When your father stepped through that door, instead of moving away from Joel like you would have expected to have done by instinct, you pressed into him, like he was safety itself. Joel’s hand on your waist flexed, as though comforting himself you were right where you needed to be.
“I didn’t think I’d believe it ‘till I saw it with my own eyes,” your father said, growly as he stalked closer to you and Joel, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“Can I help you?” Joel asked evenly.
“That’s my daughter you got there in your lap. I don’t know if she bothered to tell you.”
“I know who she is.”
“Me too, now. A fornicator, a liar, a cheater. No sense of loyalty or morality.”
Joel glanced at you, gauging your emotion, before he swung his gaze back to your father, his jaw working and tensing. “Say that again.”
Your father opened his mouth, clearly to do exactly that, but he stopped when he saw Joel get up from the chair, setting you down first before approaching him, those hands clenching and unclenching.
“You would talk about your own daughter like that?” Joel asked in a dark tone, “you would reduce her to values and characteristics you yourself do not live up to but preach about till you’re blue in the face?”
“I ain’t a fornicator. I don’t lie to sleep around with people I ain’t got no business being around, who hate my family.“
“When did honesty become an installed policy for your company? Certainly wasn’t the case… some twenty years ago. Spreading rumors like a damn busybody.”
“I was only telling people what I heard.”
A puff of air expelled from Joel’s nostrils. “That’s your problem, man. You twist and fabricate shit as you go. You hold staunchly to rules for other people, but somehow the rules tend to bend and give a little for you. Funny how that works, ain’t it?”
Your dad finally looked at you. “Let’s go.”
A lump was stuck in your throat, all you could do was shake your head.
“I said let’s go- I don’t know what lies this man’s said to you to manipulate and beguile you to this state of sin, but it ain’t true. You know better than this. He’s just using you.”
Joel stepped even closer, his hands moving rapidly, and at first you thought he was about to land a punch, and clearly so did your father because he blanched a little at the movement, but Joel’s hands landed on your dad’s shoulders, redness of anger creeping up his neck as he started shaking him.
“I’m not using her. We haven’t slept together. And you… you’ve completely broken that woman, you know that? Do you know how many layers of walls she’s built because you’re immature and don’t know how to deal with having a daughter who’s smarter than you, more intelligent than you, and instead of celebrating her, you break her down so you won’t be so intimidated by her potential? You little man.”
“You’re using her because she’s so much younger than you, and she’s naive.”
Joel glanced at you for a moment before looking back at your dad, his face hardening again.
“She is younger than me. We’re both aware of that. But naive… that’s a term I wouldn’t use for her. Definitely for you, though.” He gave your dad another shake. “You really thought you were going to walk into my place of work and… what, threaten me? Haul the woman I’ve grown to care for in the back of your truck like another piece of two by four wood, and let you berate her? Unlike you, I’m a man of honor and conscience.”
Your dad sputtered. “Maybe my daughter isn’t the one who’s beguiled and manipulated. You’ve been sneaking around with my daughter, doing who knows what foolishness and evil with her, and you’re old enough to be her daddy. You call yourself a man of honor? Do you even go to church?”
“So going to church magically makes you a man of honor now? I’m not manipulated, man- there’s not a manipulative bone in her body.”
“And I’ll bet you checked around for it,” your dad scoffed.
If Joel was red before, his face was scarlet as anything now as he moved into the other man’s face. “How dare you speak about your daughter that way. How dare you? Is she nothing to you except a sack of bones and meat that contain a little bit of your genes?”
You stood up from the computer chair, your hands trembling, your knees shaky, before Joel could rip him a new one.
“Daddy,” Your dad and Joel’s head both swiveled towards you, “Daddy, Joel’s right,” you said quietly, “You… you don’t talk to me well. And… he’s made me realize that. He treats me so well. I’ve always known I’m worth more than you ever treated me, but I didn’t know how uncomfortable I’d be when I would be treated like someone who’s worth something. That’s when I realized how much damage you’ve done.”
“I put food on your table and a roof over your head, girl. Watch your mouth, and mind how you speak of me.”
“She’s not just worth something,” Joel said quietly, “she’s worth everything.”
Your eyes pricked with tears as they met Joel’s over your dad’s shoulder.
“I’m moving out, Dad,” you said resolutely, your jaw set and your shoulders squared. “I’m quitting.”
“You’re my only secretary.”
“That’s your problem now.” Your tone was soft, much softer than you had intended.
Joel released his hold on the man, not quite with a shove, though clearly he would have if he didn’t think it would upset you.
Your dad turned to you, his eyes, once blazing and fiery, now smoldering and dark like burnt coal.
“What has he done to you?” He asked, his one last hope of pulling you back in veiled concern.
“Nothing I didn’t ask for. So much can’t be said for you. I’ll be by the house later to pack my stuff.”
“Just like that? You’re gone?”
“I’ve been leaving for years, Dad. You didn’t notice. You know what you noticed? Every fault. Every slip up. Do you even know my favorite color?”
He physically hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed in nervousness. He looked at your shirt. “It’s pink, ain’t it?”
“No, Dad. You know who knows, though? Joel. Joel knows more about me in the month and a half we’ve been together” - Your dad sputtered again at the revealed timeline- “Than you know about me from the twenty something years that we’ve spent together as daughter and father. What does that say about you?”
“That I’ve been busy.”
“You know what? Yes, you have been. That’s why you shouldn’t be surprised our relationship deteriorated. Now, leave.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
“You are. You will. You know as well as anybody that Joel reserves the right to remove anybody from his business’s premises. And wouldn’t that catch wind in the grapevines if someone sees you being forcibly removed by either the police or Joel?”
“You’re threatening me. Your own father,” he growled.
“You have a choice in the matter.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, the air thickened with tension and indecision. Joel was stone faced as he studied your father skeptically, and your father was watching you for any leeway, any sign of relenting to him, and you… you looked at the ceiling to stop the tears that burned your eyes. When he found nothing to his liking, he turned on his heel, storming out of the office, and out of the building, slamming doors as he went.
By pure instinct, you looked towards Joel, and the moment his eyes met yours, the tears that were held at bay flooded, and you collapsed as he reached for you, folding you into his arms.
“You did so good, honey,” he whispered, “you did so well. I’m proud of you, I’m proud of you.”
Something about his praise did you in, and you buried your face into his chest, your hands fisting into his green flannel, sob after sob wracking your frame.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” Joel promised, his lips slightly muffled by your hair, “You won’t need for nothin’. I swear it, darlin’.”
He hoisted you up, your legs wrapping around his torso and one hand bracing your waist while the other supported your thigh, and carried you to his truck, sitting you in the passenger seat.
“I’m gonna lock up the office, you stay here. I’m gonna drive you to my house.”
Your eyebrows raised at that. You hadn’t met Sarah yet, and you and Joel had been deliberating on when you should meet her. Sarah knew about you, having sniffed it out the first morning Joel made pancakes while whistling, but… you weren’t sure how she was going to react to a new woman in her life, especially one that wasn’t terribly much older than herself.
“Guess you’ll finally get to meet Sarah,” Joel said with a small smile as if he had read your mind, “It’ll be okay. You can stay until we can find you a more permanent place to stay. Unless…?”
“I’m not moving in with you yet,” you said gently, “I want… I want my own place before I become someone else’s. Plus… we’ve only been together for… what, a month and a half now?”
He huffed a small laugh, his hand still on the edge of the truck door, holding it open. “Guess that’s right, isn’t it?”
“You still haven’t officially asked for me to be your girlfriend,” you teased.
“Don’t tell me we’re going to have that conversation now?”
“I’ll be merciful and save it for later. Too tired for that conversation anyways.”
Joel’s eyes softened as he took in your tired eyes and the puffy bags underneath. “Yeah I bet,” He kissed your forehead, “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
You had saved up money from the little bit you made working for your dad, and then you began working for Joel doing the same tasks at a slightly higher wage, so you and Joel went used RV shopping together, hoping to find something that you can live in temporarily until you can get your feet on the ground again, determined to live independently. When you did find something, Joel had it hauled to a piece of property that he owned that had a hookup for it, and you began living there.
However, that stint of living with Joel gave you time with Sarah, who was… surprisingly cool about the situation. She was sweet, and it had become a tradition to pile on the couch with Sarah and Joel to watch some cheesy movie. Sarah would often make little snack foods like Jalapeño poppers, different chips and dip, or smores, and they would be devoured by Joel, who was no picky eater.
Seeing Joel interact with Sarah, and vice versa, healed something in you. You should be a little resentful, but you can’t find it in yourself- it’s just who Joel is, and he treats the ones he loves, or cares for, the best that he knows how. He’s involved with Sarah, mindful of who her friends are, and makes sure she’s keeping up with school, yet he’s not a helicopter parent, he gives her room to make her own decisions and to find out consequences for herself. Even though Joel wasn’t a very touchy-feeling person, it was clear she trusted him enough that she could hug or cuddle with him any time.
While you lived with Joel, you had your own guest room, and for the most part, shenanigans were exclusive to making out, showering together, literally sleeping together in his bed or your bed, and dry humping. You wondered why he was waiting so long to have sex- not freaking you out couldn’t be it anymore.
But now, you were in your own RV, room enough for you, but not much else. You lit some candles on the small kitchen counter, and melted into the small recliner you’d found at a thrift store, watching a Peanuts movie, trying so hard to relax, but nothing seemed to be working.
Finally, you gave up. You pulled out your phone and called Joel.
“Y’ello?”
“Joel?”
“Hi sweetheart. You okay?”
You huffed a small laugh which somehow turned into a choked sob. “Yeah, I’m fine, just lonely.”
“I imagine so,” he said softly, “You need anything?”
“You.”
“You want me to come over?”
You were quiet. You were torn- you should be able to be by yourself, you’re not a child. But Joel made you feel safe, and that’s what you needed right now.
“Yes,” you admitted.
“I’ll be over in a little. Sarah’s away at a slumber party.”
You heard the implication- he would probably end up sleeping over too.
“Okay. Knock when you get here, I keep the door locked.”
“Good girl. I’ll see you, sweetheart.”
Twenty minutes later, you hear his knock on the door, and you let him in, greeting him with a kiss.
“You’ve decorated it since I was last here,” he commented, his chin resting on your head while your arms were wrapped around his middle.
“Dollar Tree comes in clutch,” you said with a smile, “it’s been fun.”
Joel glanced at the Peanuts special still playing on the small TV, a smile tugging on his lips. “It’s very you.”
He tugged you to sit on his lap on the small love seat, pushing aside the throw pillows. ”Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong, I’m just… Like I said, I’m lonely, and the silence is driving me crazy. I miss you. I miss Sarah too.”
Joel brushed a kiss on your cheek, his beard bristling against your skin. “I miss you too. One day we’ll wake up together every day and never have to be apart.”
“You sure you want that?”
“Mmhm.”
His grip tightened on you, his hand rubbing your arm soothingly, scribbling against your skin with his finger. The silence with Joel was always comfortable, and never once did he ever make you feel like his silences were to be used as a weapon.
“Is tonight the night?” you whispered.
“I don’t wanna rush you, darlin’. You know that.”
You had to stifle a laugh. “I’ve been waiting awhile to go beyond just heavy petting and your hand under my underwear. I… I want to do this, Joel, with you. I’m ready, and… and I won’t freak out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His breathing became shallow, and you watched the quickness of how the skin of his chest beneath the V of the unbuttoned flannel shirt rose and fell. His eyes darkened, and you swore you saw his pupils dilate with arousal. At least you assumed it was arousal, based on the tent that was being pitched under your ass.
“Okay. But we’re not doing this halfway. We’re doing this on the bed, and we’re doing this slowly. I’m not gonna jump, pump, then dump.”
Your cheeks flushed at his blunt and crude avowal, but you nodded anyway. “Okay.”
In a single swift motion, Joel scooped you up to carry you to the small bedroom of the RV, and he set you on the queen sized bed that monopolized your living space. For a moment, you saw him take in your bedroom decorating- the solid white bedspread, the colorful blankets you had on the end of the bed, the decorative pillows haphazardly thrown onto your bed, and the little trinkets of stones, acorns, and pebbles that sat on the small bedside table along with your digital clock and your water bottle. He laid you down, his arms bracing on either side of you and caging you in.
“You know I find you hot,” Joel said, almost questioning.
“Yeah of course,” you said breathlessly, the proximity of his face to yours driving you crazy.
“Do you know I find you insanely cute too? Sometimes… sometimes I just want to stick you in my pocket.” He pressed a tender kiss to your hairline, his large warm hand settling on your hip, his thumb tracing your hip bone through the soft thin pants of your loungewear. “It’s strange. You’re such a capable woman, and I find that attractive about you, and I find you insanely hot. But something about you, sweetheart… You’re cute. I ain’t said that since damn high school.”
“Is it because I’m younger than you?”
“No. No, it’s just… despite everything you’ve been through, you want to be good. You had every right to turn into a villain, or to follow in your dad’s footsteps ‘cause it’s what you’re familiar with. But you didn’t. And… I guess I find that endearing. I find that… cute.”
“Cute. Okay.”
He chucked, and his warm breath tickled your under jaw. His hand began to move under your shirt to cup your breast, pressing kisses to your cheek, your nose, your lip, under your jaw, then trailing and dribbling the kisses down to the hollow of your throat. “I meant that in a positive way. Not in a demeaning or a condescending way.”
“I know, Joel.”
“Just making sure.” Joel began lifting the hem of your shirt with one hand, the fingertips of his other hand ghosting along the skin of your stomach, the callouses contrasting with your softness.
He dropped your shirt off the side of bed carelessly, his eyes observing your newly exposed skin, your nipples instantly taut to the slight chill of the RV’s AC. Curiously, one hand began to tweak at your nipple while his other hand moved to the waistband of your pants, teasing it.
He dipped down to take a nipple into his mouth while his hand worked on the other, sucking and licking as you fought to stifle a moan at the overstimulation. He released your nipple from his lips with a pop.
“Don’t hold back, sweetheart,” Joel said gruffly, “I want to hear you. No one’ll hear you except me. You ain’t got nothin’ to be ashamed of.”
You nodded, and he huffed a laugh.
“Good girl. There’s more to come, I promise.”
He continued his mission, except he pursued your nipple like it owed him money, nipping at you with his teeth gently. The mix of a moan and a yelp left your lips, and Joel chuckled again against your skin.
That other hand of his on your waist band quickly began to tug your pants down, and you helped him out by shimmying a little bit and lifting your hips for him, the motion moving the pants further. With a grunt and a little aggression, Joel flung them off, hurling them in some direction- neither of you cared where, he was too busy multitasking as he began to move your panties to the side.
“Jesus Christ, you’re so wet,” Joel groaned as one of his digits dipped between your weeping lips experimentally, “Is this all for me, sweetheart?”
“All for you, Joel,” you gasped as he added another finger.
He continued pinching your nipples with one hand as the other hand thrust and curled into you- you leaned into the friction with a whimper, barely realizing it had left your lips until it met your ears.
“I want to be gentle with you, baby, but my god, you make me crazy sometimes.”
Joel’s hands leave your breast and exit your pussy to pull your panties totally off. He drops them to the side with your shirt, andhe leans back on his knees, the mattress squeaking at the shifting weight of him, to look at you below him appraisingly. You whined at the loss of his fingers, and his eyes softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with crows feet.
“You’re so beautiful, you know that? I would take a picture of you like this if I could, stick it in my wallet to look at when I’m on job sites.” Joel moved down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hands lingering on your jaw before cupping your chin.
“You could, you know,” you say saucily, a smile curving your lips as you look up at him.
“I could, couldn’t I?” Joel grunted as he fished his phone out of his back pocket. He
aimed the camera down below where you were at his eye level, and the flash nearly blinded you as you laughed.
“You gonna take that to Walmart and get it printed out?” you teased as he stared at the picture on the display of his phone.
“God, sweetheart, you really want to be with me? Of all people?” Joel asked gently as he finally put his phone back in his back pocket. “Do you know how much better you could do than an old man?”
You saw the hint of insecurity peek through his voice, even for just a moment, and you beckoned him down towards you with your hand. “C’mere,” you said softly.
He moved between your legs, gingerly lowering himself until his head was on your chest, as you directed him. Your fingers weaved through his hair for a moment, stroking the curls tenderly.
“I don’t want better, Joel. You’re so good to me. You treat me like a goddamn princess, a queen even, and I cannot even imagine better. I don’t want to imagine better.” You paused, your fingers still carding through his hair, “Because I love you.”
Joel stilled. You felt his throat shift against your breast as he swallowed. “Darlin.’ Are you sure? You absolutely sure you mean that?”
“I mean that, Joel. You’ve… god, you’ve more than proven that you’re someone I can trust.”
“I don’t want you saying something you don’t completely mean, sweetheart. Not… not when it comes to that.”
“I completely mean it. I can’t imagine a life, a future without you. This isn’t just messing around for me.”
Joel looked up at you, his brown eyes glistening like pools of black tea, the warm lights from above the alcove your bed was in illuminating them just right. You tried deciphering his expression- those eyebrows that were raised, as though in hope, but his plush lips that were carved in a straight line, taut and stern. It puzzled you.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” you pleaded, “you don’t have to tell me you love me too. I know you too well to expect you to lie for my sake.”
He raised himself off of you, and climbed off the bed.
You panicked for a moment, wondering if you’d done the wrong thing. Maybe you should have waited. God, there’s no way-
Joel began to unbutton his flannel shirt slowly before dropping it to the floor unceremoniously. Soon, he began working at his belt, undoing the buckle and pulling it through the loops as it made that soft sound of leather sliding against denim. Then came the button of his jeans. The zipper as it hitched open. He stepped out of his jeans, kicking them to the side before running his thumb on the inside of the waistband of his boxers, toying with them as he maintained his eyes on his hands.
As for your eyes? They were glued on him. You’d seen him naked before, of course, but each time filled you with butterflies like it was the very first time.
Joel wasn’t ripped, per say, but he wasn’t out of shape either. You could see strength in those arms, corded in the way that was formed by hard work and repetition of carrying material, not jacked and gym muscle. But there was softness there, you’d felt it before when you’d lay in his arms before, and you were talking to him about something that was bothering you.
He had a little bit of a belly on him that simply came with age, but deterred no admiration from you. To you, Joel Miller was one of the most beautiful men you could imagine. He was comfortable, he was powerful, he was competent- he was all these things, and somehow you were the one lucky enough to spend time with him.
Joel finally dragged his boxers down, stepping out of them before climbing on the bed again, crawling to you.
He was glorious.
You’d seen his cock before, obviously- it wasn’t absurdly long, but it was thick, and somehow shapely. But this time, it was seeping with precum on the head, angry and red.
You’d done this to him. A shiver of anticipation ran down your spine- having that much of an affect on someone was far more empowering than you’d really imagined.
“Here’s how we’re going to do this, darlin’,” Joel said gently, his hand absently fondling his cock, “I’m gonna loosen you up again. We’re gonna get at least one orgasm out of you before I give you my cock. Okay?”
“Okay,” you whispered.
He moved to lay between your legs, spreading them further apart. Though he’d seen your pussy earlier, a devious smile was on his face as he admired it, one hand on your thigh keeping you open.
“You can’t see her, but she’s red, and drippin’, and glistenin’, and… I don’t know if I believe in a god, but I’ll say that whoever created the pussy as a general concept was a genius. But whoever was creating your pussy? They were creating a masterpiece.”
Your face heated at his dirty praise. “Joel-“
He chuckled at you as he hooked your legs over his shoulder, the facial hair on his jaw bristling against the inside of your thighs. “My girl loves praise, and as long as I’m around? She’s gonna get it.”
His breath against your core made you shudder, but his mouth against you caused you to jolt, and your hands flew to his hair, your fingers grasping and tugging the strands.
Joel’s tongue worked in and out of you expertly, as though he was cleaning out the last bite of his favorite dessert. He sucked your clit in his mouth, and the amount and sheer volume of expletives that left your lips was enough to make you wonder if your father could hear them from his house if he tried. He swirled that sensitive bud, and you thought your eyes might roll to the back of your head.
“J-Joel- Oh my god-“
“C’mon, sweetheart, I got ya,” Joel reassured against your pussy, “Let go f’me”
He continued licking and kissing, and you wondered how much longer you could resist- you wanted to save this feeling as long as you could, you didn’t want to rush it, but… good lord, Joel wasn’t making it easy for you.
His large hands clutched the outsides of your thighs, guiding them so your hips would stay in place, and you freed a sigh as he began to pick up the pace. You could be strong, you had this, you’ve got this.
He nibbled at your clit, his teeth barely brushing it.
Nope. That did it, you tilted your head back, and you gripped the bed spread as you felt yourself cum, the hybrid of a whimper and gasp leaving you. You expected him to move away but… he merely began to lap up your release greedily.
This fucking man.
You caught your breath as you watched him emerge from between your legs, his beard shimmering with your juice and a grin in place on his face.
“You look like the cat who got the milk,” you said hazily.
Joel chuckled as he moved up, grabbing your hips so you faced each other. “I think I did, sweetheart. Maybe even better than milk, if we’re honest.”
He began to kiss you, his tongue touching yours immediately, and you could taste the slight salty taste of your pussy. But his hand moved between you, and found your core.
Two fingers slipped in, moving in and out methodically and rhythmically, the juice squelching from the movement of his hand. Between his touches and his insistent and desperate kisses, you felt overwhelmed and overstimulated by your senses in the best ways.
Your hips sought the friction of his hand, grinding against it, and you gasped as you felt him insert a third finger, thrusting doggedly and faster, certainly sloppier.
“Joel, what are you-“
“Does it feel good, baby?” Joel asked against your lips.
“Yes… god, yes, it does, yes, right there, right there-“
“You’re stretching so well for me. You’re doing so good, I’m so proud of you- I’m so proud of you.”
Tears wet your eyes as you felt that tell-tale tremor down your spine. “Joel, please-“
“Please what?”
“I want your cock now, Joel, please, please.”
“You think you’re ready for that, sweetheart?”
“I am-“ Joel curled his fingers inside of you, brushing your clit deliciously, “I’m so ready, Joel, please.”
“You on the pill? IUD?”
“I’m on the pill, and you can check my nightstand for proof.”
“You gotta condom?”
“You told me you’re clean, right? I am too. I think… I think we should be fine.”
“I am clean, yeah.”
“I’m so ready for your cock, Joel, please.”
Before you could process anything, anything at all- you felt him replace his hand with the head of his cock, and you gasped as it sat at your entrance, ready to thrust in.
“Baby, I’ve got something to say.”
“Say it, Joel.”
“I love you.”
He thrust in, the double impact of his words and the way he filled you up made you gasp- whether out of surprise or for air, you weren’t sure.
Slowly, inch by inch, Joel moved inside, until he bottomed out.
“I. Love. You.”
He moved inside of you, and your hand meandered down to where you were joined at, but he swatted your hand away, instead replacing it with his, using his thumb to make slow and small circular motions against your clit.
“I love you so much, you don’t know- sweetheart, I couldn’t tell you when exactly I started loving you because it could have been anywhere between the supply closet at that damned chamber of commerce banquet, or the Taco Bell parking lot.”
“That first night, huh?”
“I was gone for. I wasn’t kidding when I said if I never saw you again, I’d always wonder about you. You’re remarkable, you leave an impression, and… and I was so angry at your dad that he didn’t let you see it. That he beat you down till the only thing you recognized in the mirror is what he told you you had.”
“My dad’s worst enemy, huh?” A smile filled your face.
Joel kissed your forehead tenderly with a chuckle that seemed to reverberate deep from his chest as he pulled you closer to him. “Yeah, I guess I am your Dad’s worst enemy,” He paused thoughtfully, “not nearly as much as he is his own, though.”
He focused on your pleasure again, thrusting until all you felt was him pistoning between your legs, as though it was the only anchor keeping you from floating from the bed straight to the sky.
Your yelps gave way to satisfied sighs and soft whimpers, clenching and gripping the sheets until you both found your releases- you were surprised at how long he had managed to keep himself, but when he released, spilling his seed inside of you… he wasn’t noisy, he wasn’t grunting, but his face was that of peace, his eyes fluttered closed, and his thick eyelashes fanned out on his cheek.
You clung to each other as you both descended from your highs. His arm was wrapped under your arm pit, the other clutching your shoulders, and you had both arms around his neck, your face buried against him.
“You did so good, darlin,” Joel murmured.
“You say that again, and you’re about to have round two on your hands, cowboy.”
“What a threat,” he laughed as he pulled himself out of you. You whined at the loss, the emptiness in you now, but your heart felt so full.
He loved you. Joel Miller, your dad’s enemy, loved you. It was laughable, really, a joke in itself.
But there it was.
You watched him as he untwined himself from you and got up, that immaculate bare ass facing you as though that was your gift from God himself, and went to the kitchen and began filling up water glasses for you guys, and then moving back towards you and the bedroom. Every foot step reverberated through the RV, but it comforted you somehow, knowing you could feel him and his echoes from where you were.
“Drink this,” Joel handed you the glass carefully, “I’ll go get us some rags.”
You watched him leave again, but you had to stifle that giggle to yourself again.
It really was your father’s worst enemy, wasn’t it?
thank you so much for reading, i hope you guys enjoyed this, and be sure to leave a like and a reblog! maybe a comment if you’re feeling generous ;)
you're reed richards’ long-suffering lab assistant. brilliant in your own right, you handle everything from data entry to inter-dimensional rift control. you’ve been nursing a hopeless crush on him for months. the man can design a quantum field stabilizer in his sleep, but he’s absolutely blind to the way you touch his shoulder a beat too long or always bring him his favorite coffee without asking. how could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?
masterlist | 4.7k words | MDNI SMUT | reed neglecting basic things bc scientist duh, reader(me) is DOWN BAD, reed is oblivious to everything that isn’t science, finger & oral f!receiving, reed stretching things, him being a nerd while eating ur pussy😍 unprotected piv sex DONT DO THAT ! aftercare:)
The lab was quiet, except for the soft scribble of pen on paper and the low, constant hum of equipment Reed swore was essential, even if it sounded like white noise to everyone else. You sat perched at your workstation, chin resting in your palm, eyes drifting from your screen to the man pacing ten feet away—muttering under his breath, brow furrowed, fingers twitching.
You’d seen that look a hundred times.
It meant he was close to a breakthrough.
It also meant you could scream I want you in morse code and he wouldn’t register it.
You sighed, clicking your pen against your notebook. He didn’t glance up. Not even when you shifted in your seat and stretched in a way that was definitely for his benefit.
Ten months.
That’s how long you’d worked beside him—helping with calculations, organizing lab notes, fending off media inquiries, even stopping one of his machines from literally catching fire last Tuesday. You’d poured yourself into this job. You knew his schedule better than he did. You brought him his coffee the exact way he liked it. You wear that plum lipstick because he’d once said it was a “pleasing wavelength” for visual stimulation.
He hadn’t looked twice.
You weren’t just harboring a crush at this point. No, this had evolved into something much more volatile—an emotional chemical reaction waiting for a catalyst.
And Reed? Reed was… oblivious.
Gorgeous, brilliant, maddeningly unbothered Reed Richards. With his rolled-up sleeves and distracted glances, the way he chewed on pens when deep in thought, the offhand compliments he gave without realizing they were compliments—“Your spatial reasoning is exceptional,” he’d said once, looking at your notes. You’d practically melted.
Now he stood a few feet away, talking to himself like always. You watched the way his hands gestured mid-air, sketching invisible shapes.
“Frustrated with the equations?” you asked, keeping your tone light.
“No, no. Just… considering variable Y’s response under quantum fluctuation,” he murmured, barely registering your voice. “Though I suppose an extra set of eyes wouldn’t hurt.”
He handed you the clipboard and your fingers brushed. He didn’t even flinch. Your heart did.
You took it wordlessly, biting the inside of your cheek. How could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?
Maybe that was unfair. Reed wasn’t cruel, or cold. He was kind in his own absent-minded way. But he had tunnel vision—for science, for discovery. He didn’t notice the things that didn’t present themselves in a neat, testable format.
Like how you lingered in his orbit.
Or how your eyes followed him when he wasn't looking.
Or how sometimes, after long days, you fantasized about climbing into his lap right in that damn desk chair and making him pay attention.
Your pen scratched against the clipboard now, pretending to read the data while you watched him from the corner of your eye. He was back to pacing, lips moving silently. His sleeves were pushed up again, exposing strong forearms, veins prominent, hands twitching like he needed to do something with them.
God, you were losing it.
You placed the clipboard down. “You ever think maybe the problem isn’t quantum fluctuation, Reed? Maybe it’s just human error.”
He blinked and turned. “Are you suggesting I made a mistake?”
“I’m saying maybe if you took your head out of the wormhole generator long enough to eat or sleep or…” You paused. Look at me.
“…notice things, you’d think clearer.”
He looked like he might ask what “things” you meant. But instead, he turned back to his calculations, nodding. “Duly noted.”
You stared at his back, silent for a moment. And that’s when the thought struck you: He’s never going to see it unless you make him.
He would go the rest of his life chasing black holes and entropy and would never realize the way you burned for him—not unless you showed him.
Your pulse skipped.
Your patience is snapping.
You were going to be an anomaly he couldn’t ignore.
It was a new day, but nothing had changed.
Reed was still buried in data, half-dressed in a rumpled button-down he probably hadn’t noticed had two buttons mismatched. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered ten minutes before walking into the lab and immediately got lost in thought again. You stood at your usual station, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to glance over at him every thirty seconds.
You weren’t pretending very well.
This was your fourth twelve-hour day this week, and you’d long since passed the phase where your crush felt cute. It was heavier now—dense, loaded with tension you had nowhere to put. Not when he kept looking right through you, offering praise only when it was tied to data points or completed tasks.
Today, he barely looked up when you walked in, just said, “Morning,” like you were air and math and all the other constants in his life.
You sat your coffee down a little too hard.
“Sleep okay?” you asked, typing with one hand as you glanced toward him. His back was to you as he scribbled across the whiteboard.
“Didn’t,” he replied casually. “The formula’s been looping in my head since 2 a.m.”
Of course it had.
You nodded to yourself, refocusing on your notes—but your brain wasn't on line graphs. It was on how his voice sounded deeper in the mornings. Rough. Scraped thin. It was on how he'd rolled his sleeves again, unconsciously, like he was giving you just enough to fantasize about but never enough to touch. It was on how he’d leaned over your shoulder the day before, close enough to make you forget your own name, then pulled away without even noticing how stiffly you sat for five minutes after.
You were starting to feel stupid.
Or worse—transparent.
You tugged at the edge of your shirt, adjusting it subtly, then pushed your chair back.
“Reed,” you said after a moment, tone careful.
He glanced up.
You hesitated. You could say it. “Do you ever think about me when we’re not in this lab?” Or even just “Do you notice when I’m trying to get your attention?” But all that left your mouth was:
“…Do you want lunch?”
He blinked. “No, thanks.”
You smiled tightly and nodded. “Okay.”
A long beat passed before he added, “You should eat, though. Your concentration dips if you skip meals.”
That nearly made you laugh. He didn’t notice your new lipstick or the way you leaned closer when talking, but he noticed a dip in your concentration?
“Noted,” you muttered, turning away. Your heart was starting to feel like an overworked computer—on the verge of burnout.
Still, you stayed.
He asked you to help calibrate a device and you did, even though his hands grazed yours and he didn’t seem to feel it. You reorganized his notes for the hundredth time and he said, “I’d lose my head without you.” Your stomach flipped, and you cursed yourself for letting it.
Eventually, the day wore on. The lights buzzed overhead. He worked in silence. And you sat across from him, eyes on your computer screen but brain nowhere near it.
You weren’t going to say anything today. You weren’t ready. But you were closer.
You were watching him more intentionally now. Watching how he moved. Noticing when he forgot to eat, when his jaw clenched at a miscalculation, when he sighed like the weight of the universe had settled into his spine.
And more importantly… you were starting to plan.
Because if Reed Richards wasn’t going to notice you on his own, maybe it was time you made it impossible for him not to.
You started small.
A hand on his shoulder when you passed behind him—just a light touch, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. A compliment you slid in while reviewing his data aloud. Your tone didn’t change, but your eyes watched his face this time, looking for any flicker of reaction.
Still, nothing overt.
But you were a scientist too, in your own way. You knew not all reactions happened in the open.
So you adjusted variables.
Today, you wore something just a touch more fitted under your lab coat. Nothing flashy. Just subtle. Intentional. Your lips were glossed in a soft cherry sheen and you had your hair tucked behind one ear, leaving your neck bare when you leaned over your notes.
You didn’t say much when you came in. Just a soft, “Morning, Reed,” as you brushed past him to your desk. He looked up. Briefly. His eyes caught on your profile, then flicked back to his screen. But there was… a beat. Just long enough to file away.
You smirked, barely.
He worked for hours, absorbed as usual. But today, you noticed something.
His eyes flicked to you more than once.
Quick glances. Measured. Like he was calculating a change in the room’s atmosphere. Like he felt something different but hadn’t yet assigned it meaning.
When he handed you a tablet to review notes, your fingers touched—warm, steady. This time, he paused.
Just for a second.
Not long enough to be certain of anything. But long enough to make your heart thud against your ribs.
You gave him a slow smile. “Thanks.”
He blinked and muttered, “Of course,” then turned away like he needed to recalibrate.
You kept working. Quiet. Focused.
But later—when you reached for a beaker on the shelf above his head—he stood behind you, offering, “Let me.”
You turned, close enough that your chest brushed his arm as you stepped aside.
He stilled.
You looked up at him, wide-eyed, like it wasn’t completely on purpose. “Thanks.”
His gaze flicked down. A flicker of something behind those eyes. He handed you the beaker wordlessly, but his jaw was set. Not tight. Just… aware.
There it is.
It wasn’t much. A subtle shift in the lab’s atmosphere. But it was enough to keep your spine humming, your thoughts racing.
You’d pushed the threshold.
And Reed felt it.
It happened again.
Reed forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. You were across the room, head bent over your tablet, pencil in your mouth, lab coat slipping slightly off your shoulder. His sentence just… stopped. Hung in the air unfinished.
And for once, he noticed you noticing.
You looked up slowly, eyebrows raised like well?
“I—” he cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “Never mind.”
You bit back a smile.
Another day in the lab. Another carefully applied variable. You weren’t loud about it. Just present. Vivid. A little perfume on your wrist. Lip gloss again. A comment here and there, perfectly timed to stick in his head.
“Careful,” you murmured when he bumped into the desk beside you. Your voice was soft. A little amused. “You almost ran me over.”
He looked down at you, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Liar.
You knew he had near-total environmental awareness. Reed Richards didn’t miss anything. But lately, he missed a lot—because he was looking at you and then pretending he hadn’t.
You kept it casual. Calculated.
You’d brush past him with a hand on his back, stand just a little too close while looking at the same screen, ask questions in that tone you saved for only him.
He was unraveling slowly. Quietly.
You caught him watching once—when you walked away to grab a coffee. His gaze dropped to your hips and stayed for three full seconds before jerking back to the screen like he'd been slapped.
You pretended not to see. But your grin behind your coffee cup was downright smug.
Later that day, he dropped a tool and you crouched down to grab it first. When you stood and handed it back to him, your fingers touched. He held on a little too long.
You tilted your head, teasing. “Forget what you needed it for?”
He blinked down at your joined hands and pulled back sharply. “No. Sorry. I—”
He coughed. “I’m distracted.”
You didn’t say anything.
You didn’t need to.
By now, you knew the exact cadence of his footsteps when he was deep in thought. The slow, uneven rhythm that meant he was pacing without realizing it, caught in his own mental spiral.
You could hear them behind you now—soft thuds on the concrete floor of the lab. Reed Richards, brilliant, infuriating man, walking through formulas with half his shirt untucked and his fingers twitching at his sides. His muttering was barely audible over the hum of the machines, but you caught bits of it:
“Non-linear increase… No, that’s not right. Unless…”
You didn’t look up. Not yet.
Instead, you sat at your workstation, half-focused on the screen in front of you, legs crossed slowly under the table—exposed just enough to draw the eye if someone were finally looking.
And he was.
Reed had been distracted for days now. You saw it in the way his gaze lingered when you bent forward to check wiring. The way his voice wavered slightly when you spoke too close to his ear. The way he’d started pausing in his work like something had thrown off the trajectory of his thought process—and that something was you.
It was working.
He still hadn’t named the tension, but it was eating at him.
So today, you’d decided: no more hints. No more tests.
You were going to prove it to him in a way he couldn’t ignore.
You stood slowly, walked to the central console where he was now bent over a string of data projections, brows furrowed. He didn’t notice you at first—not until you placed a hand lightly on the edge of the table next to his.
His voice faltered. “The waveform collapse pattern could still—”
You leaned in just enough that your shoulder brushed his. “Still what?”
He straightened slightly, blinking at the screen like it had betrayed him.
Your voice was quieter this time. “You’ve been off lately, Reed.”
He turned his head, barely. “Off?”
You tilted your head. “Distracted.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
You hummed. “I know. But I’m starting to think the problem isn’t in your equations.”
That got his attention. His eyes flicked to yours, guarded. “What do you mean?”
You let the silence hang for a moment. Then:
“I think the thing disrupting your work… is me.”
Reed went still. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He was computing. Processing. Trying to refute it. But his body betrayed him—his hand clenched on the table, his gaze briefly darting to your mouth before jerking away.
“I’m not—” he started. “You’re not a disruption.”
You smiled softly. “Then why do you keep looking at me like you’re afraid of what happens if you do it too long?”
He looked stunned. Then—guilty.
You took a breath, slow and steady. This was it.
“I’ve tried everything,” you said. “The lipstick. The touching. Standing so close you could feel my breath.” You leaned in, lower now, voice like silk. “And still, nothing.”
Reed was frozen in place.
“I think,” you continued, “that you’re just waiting for someone to spell it out.”
You stepped back, slowly, and hopped up onto the edge of the table in front of him—knees parted, one leg brushing his thigh. You leaned back on your hands, tilting your head like a challenge.
“Well, Reed?” you asked softly. “Do you need a demonstration?”
His pupils were blown wide. His breath caught. And his hands—god, his hands—hovered like he didn’t know where to touch first.
“You…” he said hoarsely. “You’re serious.”
You nodded, lips curled into a smile. “You want to calculate the pattern? Fine. Let’s start with some field data.”
You reached forward and took his hand—placed it firmly on your thigh.
He made a strangled sound. His fingers flexed. “This is… highly inadvisable.”
“Why?” you whispered, leaning forward so your lips nearly brushed his. “Because you’ve thought about it?”
His jaw clenched. “Yes.”
Your breath hitched.
“Every day this week,” he rasped, voice low now, broken open. “I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to focus. But I’m… I’m failing. Every time you walk by me. Every time you touch me. I—” He shook his head. “I can’t think when you’re near.”
You dragged his hand a little higher, slow, teasing. “Good. Don’t think.”
And that’s when Reed snapped.
He surged forward, kissing you hard, like he’d been starving for air and only just found it. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, tugging your lab coat open like it was a barrier to understanding.
You moaned against his mouth, arms around his shoulders, legs parting instinctively as he stepped between them. He kissed like a man undone—like every theory he’d ever held was shattering under your touch.
“You have no idea,” he breathed against your neck. “How long I’ve been holding back.”
“Show me,” you whispered. “All of it.”
He groaned, low and guttural, and then his hands turned curious. Focused. Scientific. One settled at your throat, not squeezing, just holding—fingers spread like he was feeling your pulse, measuring your response. The other slid under your skirt, over the curve of your thigh, then—
“Oh,” you gasped, spine arching.
“I need to know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “what makes you tremble like that.”
Another touch. Another gasp. “That’s a reaction. Fascinating…”
“Reed—”
“I’m cataloging,” he said, voice filthy and analytical. “You’re the most compelling data set I’ve ever encountered.”
And then his fingers stretched.
Not just in confidence. Literally.
You whimpered as two elongated fingers traced up your inner thigh while another hand—normal-sized—cupped your breast through your shirt, thumb teasing slowly. The other hand remained at your throat, grounding you, steadying you.
He was everywhere.
“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered, pressing forward until you felt the thick, hard line of his cock against your core through layers of fabric. “You’ve disrupted every model. You’ve introduced chaos.”
You pulled him closer, panting. “Then let it consume you.”
“Consider this your field test,” he whispered against your lips.
And then he kissed you like he was sealing a pact—hands spanning your body, holding you like something he’d discovered and didn’t intend to release. His mouth was hot and searching, lips sliding down your jaw, teeth grazing your neck. You gasped, clutching his shirt, and that one sound made him groan hard, hips bucking against you without thinking.
“You make that noise again,” he muttered, “and I swear I’ll never let you leave this table.”
You did.
Just to see.
A breathy, needy gasp as he licked a slow stripe up your throat—and his hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the table until your hips tilted forward and your clothed core was flush against the bulge straining in his pants.
He cursed under his breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Then study me,” you whispered, breath hitching. “Make sense of it.”
He did.
God, he did.
He dropped to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs open as he looked up at you like you were divine—something to worship, something to break open and understand. His fingers pushed your skirt higher, until it was bunched around your hips. When he reached your panties, he paused.
“Wet already,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Stimuli, minimal. Response, immediate.”
You shivered.
Then—he pressed a kiss right to the center of the damp fabric. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.
Your hips jolted, and he smiled.
He peeled your underwear down your legs, lips brushing your inner thigh as he murmured, “I’ve never wanted anything this badly.”
Then he finally—finally—tasted you.
His tongue was hot and slow, dragging a firm, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. You cried out, and he groaned like he could feel it in his bones.
And then the muttering started.
Low. Incoherent. So Reed.
“God—taste is sharper than expected… pressure response is increasing…” His tongue flicked faster, and your head fell back. “Sensitivity peak here—yes, that’s it, I knew it—”
“Reed,” you gasped, fingers burying in his hair. “You’re talking—”
“I’m studying,” he said against your clit, tongue relentlessly. “Don’t interrupt the process.”
You moaned.
He grinned. “Good girl.”
That made your whole body jolt.
Reed caught it instantly. “Huh. New variable: verbal praise. Noted.”
His tongue circled tighter, and then—another hand slid up your torso, not the one braced on your thigh. It was soft, gentle, and a little too synchronized.
You looked down.
Another finger. Stretching from the hand holding your hip. Long and curved and perfect.
“Multi-point stimulation,” he murmured between licks. “Let’s test your threshold.”
You whimpered as his tongue lapped at your clit while that second hand slipped beneath your shirt, under your bra, pinching your nipple softly. Another elongated finger curled between your legs, circling your entrance, teasing—but never pushing in.
“I need to see you come apart,” he said. “I need to feel it.”
And then he did it all at once.
Tongue flicking. Finger pressing deep inside you, curling like he knew. Fuck, was that another?—spanning your lower back to hold you down as you arched off the table.
“Oh my god—Reed—”
“Give it to me,” he whispered. “Let me feel what I’ve done to you.”
You shattered.
Your orgasm hit like a burst of static—crackling down your spine, clenching around his fingers, your legs trembling on either side of his head.
You cried out his name, again and again, and he ate it up, moaning like it was his reward.
When you came back to yourself, he was standing again—his hands all back where they belonged, his mouth slick and shining. He looked wrecked.
And then—his belt hit the floor.
“You think I’m done?” he rasped. “You think I’d stop at one data point?”
He pulled you forward—off the table, into his arms—and turned you around until your back hit the cool surface. His cock, thick and flushed, pressed against your slick entrance.
“I’m going to learn you,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Every reaction. Every tremble. Every time you scream my name—I’ll know why.”
And then he pushed in.
All the way.
Slow and deep and perfect.
You sobbed into his shoulder as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, cock twitching inside you like even he was shocked how good it felt.
His breath hitched. “Oh… oh, fuck. You’re…”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
He started to move.
Slow strokes at first—grinding in, pulling out halfway, pushing deeper again. His hands explored every inch of you—mouth on your neck, chest, shoulder. He whispered your name like it was a formula. He muttered observations even as he fucked you harder.
“You clench when I say your name—tight around me, just like that—fuck—”
“Your back arches when I hit here—god, you’re perfect—”
“You feel like you want me to lose control—so I will.”
And he did.
He lost it.
His pace stuttered, then snapped—hips slamming into you with brutal precision, every thrust angle to hit that perfect spot. You clung to him, moaning shamelessly, barely coherent as he fucked you like he’d been waiting years.
You came again—harder this time—and he groaned so loud it echoed in the lab.
“Gonna come inside you,” he warned, wild-eyed. “You want it?”
“Yes, yes, Reed, please—”
He slammed deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he filled you, one last ragged cry falling from his lips as he buried his face in your neck.
You held him as he trembled through it, panting, hands tangled in your hair.
It took a full minute before either of you spoke.
Then, voice hoarse, he whispered:
“…I think I need to run a full repeat trial.”
After.
The lab was quiet, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You were still sprawled across the console table, legs shaking, chest heaving. Reed leaned over you, both hands braced on either side of your hips. His head was bowed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.
Neither of you moved.
Finally, he let out a shaky laugh.
“...I think I blacked out for a second.”
You let out a breathless huff. “Welcome back.”
He looked up. His hair was a mess—curling wildly at the edges, gray hairs damp with sweat. His eyes were wide and stunned and so soft, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
And then he leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you like he meant it.
Not a theory. Not a test. Just feeling.
When he pulled back, he looked at the mess between your thighs and the growing stickiness on his abs. When did his shirt come off? His brows pulled together, equal parts concern and fascination.
“I, uh—there’s a shower down the hall. Private. It's not… state-of-the-art, but…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d like to take care of you.”
You nodded, still dazed. “Okay.”
He helped you up with this heartbreaking gentleness, hands steady at your waist like you might vanish if he let go too fast. He gathered your clothes in silence, cradled your hand in his, and led you barefoot down the corridor to a sealed side room.
The lab shower was built for function—stark white tiles, a metal bench, one glass wall—but it felt almost sacred now. Reed adjusted the water temp with clinical precision before motioning for you to step in first.
Then he joined you.
And just… looked at you.
Not with lust, not yet. With wonder.
His hands were slow as he lathered soap across your shoulders, over your back, down your arms. He was quiet now, like something had settled deep in him. His thumbs traced gentle circles into your hips, his forehead brushing yours beneath the spray.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen today,” he said quietly. “Not like that.”
You met his eyes, searching. “You regret it?”
“No,” he said instantly. Then, softer: “I regret how long I ignored it.”
You swallowed.
He washed your thighs carefully, then cupped between them—not to tease, just to clean you, slow and reverent. You bit your lip and let him.
He kissed your forehead, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
Then you reached for him.
His cock was half-hard again—because of course it was—and when you wrapped your hand around him, his eyes fluttered. He leaned back against the wall, mouth parted, not stopping you.
“I want to try again,” he breathed. “When we’re not losing our minds.”
You smiled. “You want another trial?”
His head tipped back against the tile, a low groan leaving his chest. “God, yes. Multiple. Longitudinal.”
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter summary: the grumpy chef gets to know the sweetest baker and things get... interesting. word count: 8623 (someone has a lot of thoughts)
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter trigger warnings: characters affected by symptoms of mental illness, grief, implied trauma, mentions of parental and child loss, sexual thoughts, suggestive innuendos, food insecurity (not eating), burnout, and medical episode (loss of consciousness). as always, let me know if i forgot something - xx, via.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ links: series masterlist, spotify playlist, info & faceclaims.
My phone buzzes twice in my pocket as we turn onto Clark from Fullerton, the lake slipping out of sight behind us and traffic building ahead. Ellie and Dina are full volume in the backseat, going off about something that sounds like a heated debate over Halloween candy rankings.
I stopped listening after we passed the ferris wheel. Not because I don’t care, but because my brain’s been half-elsewhere all afternoon. Walmart didn’t help. I only went in for garlic and salad mix. But five minutes in, Ellie spotted the hot pink “Ken” shirt hanging on a clearance rack and made it her life’s mission to get it on my body.
“It’s for Carrie,” she said, grinning like she’d already won. “She’s Barbie so you’ll match.”
I told her no but then Dina chimed in. Then Ellie gave me that look that always has me bending to her will and suddenly, I was standing in self-checkout, holding black polyester and wondering how the hell I got here.
Now the shirt’s clinging to me like a second skin, sleeves stretched tight across my biceps. I look ridiculous but Ellie’s happy about it.
The third buzz in my pocket pulls me back. I shift at the red light and fish out my phone.
Three texts from a number I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN: hiiii, this is carrington
UNKNOWN (maybe: carrington): i got your number from nic. hope that’s ok
UNKNOWN (maybe: carrington): ETA?
My pulse kicks up, tight in my chest. Carrington. Even reading her name scrambles something in my head. I shouldn’t be this into someone I’ve barely spent time with. But I knew about her long before she ever walked into The Austin.
Two years ago, I was half a drink into an overlong gala shift when Madeline Crown cornered me in the kitchen. She was half-slurring praise about her “perfect, beautiful, too-good-for-anyone” best friend who’d bailed on the event. Twenty minutes later, she pulled up a blurry photo of Carrington on her phone and said, “You’d like her. She’s so sweet and she bakes. Although she loves pink so much, it’s honestly sickening.”
I did like her. Even before I saw her face, something about her name hooked me. The second I saw that fuzzy little picture, it knocked something loose in me. It wasn’t just an attraction. It was like my ribs expanded too fast for my chest to keep up. Madeline caught the look on my face and immediately asked if I was single. I was but I was barely functioning. Freshly in over my head raising Ellie and trying to nail my first Michelin star. But I said yes.
I needed to know her.
I push the thought away and tap out a reply with my thumb.
Me: That’s fine. 10 mins out.
As I hit send, a pointed and impatient tap lands on my shoulder.
I glance at the rearview, already knowing who it is. Ellie stares back, her brow furrowed, demon horns wobbling slightly with every bump in the road. Her expression says you’re in trouble, and I don’t even know what for yet.
I drop the phone into the cup holder. “What now?”
“Did you hear what I asked?” she snaps, crossing her arms like she’s my parole officer.
I shake my head. “Nah. Missed it. Wanna try again with less attitude?”
She exhales dramatically, turning toward the window like I’ve just ruined her day. “Not really,” she mutters. Then, with a quick pivot, she turns her head back forward. “How do you know Carrie?”
Ah. There it is.
The light turns green. I ease us through the intersection and keep my tone neutral. “She had a birthday lunch at The Austin with her friends.”
“Madi and Nic?” Dina cuts in from the back seat.
I glance at her in the mirror. The kid’s dressed like Snow White and still somehow looks like she could start a fight and win it. "Yeah," I confirm.
“They’ve been friends since they were in boarding school. I hope we’re like that,” Dina says to Ellie, like they haven’t just met this morning.
Ellie grins, her horns reflecting red dots on the dashboard as she shifts. “I hope so too.”
There’s a brief lull, filled by the low hum of music and the occasional bag crinkle as one of them digs into their Halloween candy haul. I start to think I’m off the hook.
I’m not.
“Joel,” Ellie says, breaking the silence.
Tension grows in my shoulders from exercising my patience. “Kiddo?”
“Have you ever been on a date?” she questions pointedly.
I huff out a laugh, eyes still on the road. “‘Course I have, El. I was married. You know that.”
There are things she doesn’t know, though. Things I’ll probably never tell her.
She doesn’t know my parents cut me off years ago, after I covered for Tommy when his gambling almost ruined them. Doesn’t know I held Sarah in my arms when leukemia finally took her. That my wife walked out not long after, too weighed down by grief to stay.
She doesn’t know her mom was one of my favorite employees. Or that her mother overdosed even after I paid for her rehab twice. That I took Ellie in, not because I wanted to be a dad again, but because I couldn’t stomach the thought of failing one more kid.
Ellie keeps going. “Yeah, but I’ve never seen you hang out with a woman. Since…” she trails off like she’s thinking. “ever,” she finishes.
I inhale sharply because she’s right. Since I’ve adopted her, she’s been my priority. “That’s ‘cause I’m tryin’ to make sure you don’t turn out fucked up when you’re older,” I give a half hearted attempt at avoiding this topic.
Dina doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s got a point. Some people become serial killers.” If this kid stays on my team, she can hang around as long as she wants.
Ellie snorts and kicks the back of my seat. It’s just enough to get my attention but not enough to make me pull over and leave her on the curb.
“But Uncle Tommy—” she starts, and I immediately groan.
“Don’t.”
“He goes out with women all the time,” she insists. “And he’s not that messed up.”
He’s the most fucked up in the head this family has to show for and has been in half the city. I don’t let my personal feelings for my brother show. Instead, I respond, “He’s also not picky. You want me out there chasing everything that moves like Tommy?”
Ellie makes a face. “Gross. No. I’m just saying… you don’t have to stay home and babysit me forever. I don’t want you to get old and blame me for having no life.”
I glance at her in the mirror. Her face is softer now, less smirk, more quiet worry. She’s wrong. One day, she’ll be the one packing for college resenting me and not the other way around.
“I won’t resent you, El,” I say, and for once, it’s not just talk. “Ain’t how this works.”
She raises a brow like she’s not sold. “Well, as long as you remember the plan, Carrie would say yes if you asked her out.”
Dina doesn’t even look up from fiddling with her sleeves. “She totally would. Carrie likes corny stuff.”
I pull up to another stop sign, this one closer to Halsted. I don’t say a word, so naturally, they keep going.
“She’s like a thirty-year-old dad trapped in a hot woman’s body,” Ellie muses, pleased with herself.
Dina gasps. “Yes! They’d balance each other out. You’re all moody and gruff, and she’s like… a cupcake.”
“A super cupcake,” Ellie agrees, like they’re building a dating profile. “Probably says ‘thank you’ to the ATM.”
That earns a small huff from me, but they’re not wrong. Carrington’s got that sweet, soft kind of kindness most folks fake. Hers just lives in her bones. And suddenly I’m spiraling just thinking about her curls, the freckles across her cheeks, the way her voice goes soft when she talks about Ellie and Dina. She’s sunlight.
“Hey, Joel?” Ellie interrupts my daydreaming.
“Yes, El?” I return my attention to my kid.
She lets the silence stretch. “If you wanna ask Carrie out, I promise I won’t turn out all emotionally stunted or whatever,” she drops on me casually as hell.
I cough. Fully choke on my own damn breath. “Language,” I manage once I recover.
She rolls her eyes. “You started it. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind if she was around forever or somethin’.”
That hits like a stomach punch. Not because I haven’t thought about it, but because I have. Too god damn much.
“Don’t ya think that’s a little fast?” I ask, keeping it light. “You just met her today.”
“I’ve got good instincts,” she says with a shrug, like it’s settled.
I glance in the mirror again and catch Dina watching quietly, like she’s trying to figure me out. I don’t want to keep this conversation going in front of her. I’ll ask Ellie later when I can get a read on what she really thinks when she’s not showing off.
“We’ll talk about it later, alright?”
Ellie slumps in her seat like I’ve ruined her life. “Fine. Just remember to stay in the car and wait for Dina to wave.”
Some part of me hopes it works. That Carrington sees me and loses her damn mind. But the sensible part of me knows better. "Got it," I mutter back.
By the time we hit Carrington’s street, traffic’s crawling with trick-or-treaters and half-distracted parents. West Loop glows with jack-o-lanterns, plastic swords, and toddlers in light-up costumes. I spot her right away—sitting outside her bakery, framed by the blush-pink storefront like it’s a movie still.
She’s handing out sugar and sunshine. I watch her slip an extra cookie to a little girl in a ladybug costume, and the kid’s whole face lights up. Carrington beams back with a smile that doesn’t look practiced. The kind that wedges itself into your chest and doesn’t let go.
I park right in front, hand tightening on the wheel. I’ve heard Madeline’s long-winded rants about her best friend. But the real thing is so much more. Enough to make my chest tight.
Ellie jumps out first, backpack swinging over one shoulder, still mid-story like the drive never ended. Dina follows close behind, laughing as she slams the door. I hear their voices float over to the sidewalk, cheerful, greeting Carrington like they’re all best friends. Carrington stands, hugging both girls at once, while I stay in the truck.
Then she looks over their shoulders, toward me. Her brows knit, her mouth parts like she’s trying to make sense of something. I don’t blame her. If I were her, I’d probably wonder if Ellie’s dad was secretly unhinged.
Dina leans in and whispers something, probably laying the groundwork for their plan. Carrington laughs, and it carries through the glass, clear and bright. That sound cuts straight through me in the best way.
Dina shoots me a two-finger wave. I don’t even remember cutting the engine, but as soon as I see the signal, I’m swinging the door open and stepping out.
The wind’s sharp against my skin as I round the truck, boots steady on uneven concrete. Carrington watches every step. I swear her breath hitches, or maybe I’m just hoping it does. She’s staring, and for a second I think I might’ve overplayed the bit.
Then she gives me clarity with her bubbly laugh.
"See, you didn’t have a Ken, so we brought you one. Surprise!" Dina throws her arms out toward me like I’m a damn birthday present.
Carrington’s still frozen, mouth slightly open, amber eyes locked on mine like she’s forgotten how to blink. “Joel,” she says finally, voice cracking just enough to wreck me.
"Hey there, sugar." I let the pet name land between us, loaded. She’s sweet enough to earn it.
I take a step toward her, ready to pull her into a hug, but hesitate mid-stride. But it doesn’t matter because Carrington’s already closing the distance. Before I can even think, her arms slide around my neck and pull me in tight.
It knocks the breath outta me. And judging by the stunned looks on the girls’ faces, I’m not the only one caught off guard.
I freeze for a beat, then wrap my arms around her waist. She’s warm and soft in a way that’s lived in my head more than I’d like to admit. I hold her too tightly, but I don’t care. She smells like cinnamon, caramel, and something I can’t name. Something I want more of.
She’s the one to pull back first, but her hands linger against my chest, fingertips brushing the fabric of my shirt like she’s not quite ready to let go. I try to stay still, keep it friendly, but every damn nerve in my body is on fire.
“Hi,” she murmurs, voice soft and lit up like morning sun. And just like that, the whole world narrows to her and the way she looks at me like I’m something worth keeping.
Her gaze flicks down, landing on the stupid pink “Ken” stretched across my chest. She breathes out a laugh. “Nice outfit. You look… perfect.”
My grin pulls slow and crooked, unstoppable. “That’s all you,” I say, rougher than I mean to.
I want to stay like this, memorizing the pink flush rising high on her cheeks. I want to tilt her chin and press my mouth to hers before I talk myself out of it. But I don’t. Instead, I step back, keeping my voice stable. “Now… lemme grab the supplies for dinner.”
As I turn, my hands skim down her sides. It’s barely a touch, but I make damn sure it counts. Her sharp little breath tells me she noticed.
I head to the truck unhurriedly on purpose. I want her eyes on me. Want her remembering. I drop the tailgate down like it weighs nothing, grabbing the bags easily. I don’t miss the way she’s watching me, her lips parted slightly, throat working as she swallows.
“Is it a lot?” she asks, stepping close, toeing the edge of the curb.
I shrug, slamming the hatch shut. “Yeah, but I got it. You ain’t liftin’ a finger.”
She scrunches her face giving the bags hanging from my shoulder a twisted look. That sweet kind of stubborn that makes my pulse tick faster. “Okay, but at least let me get the do—”
I catch her wrist before she gets too far. She turns, eyes wide as I step closer. “This’ll be the first and last time you open a door for me,” I say, low. “I was raised right. No woman, ’specially not you, opens a door for me. That clear?”
She blinks like she’s never heard anything so direct in her life. Her lips part, maybe to protest or to tease, but nothing comes out. A moment passes, then she whispers, "Yes, Joel," in response.
I let her go with a nod. She turns, a little flustered, and I catch the slight wobble in her step. She’s tired and I can tell, even if she tries to hide it. I follow, the bags digging into my arms, but I barely notice. She opens the golden door handle smooth as anything, stepping aside like she didn’t just knock the wind clean out of me.
The girls barrel past her, grinning like they just won the lottery. “Dina didn’t stop talking about your place all day,” Ellie says, eyes wide, like she’s meeting a celebrity. “I’m excited to finally see it.”
Dina groans. “Hey! It’s because I practically live here.”
My brow raises a little at that. The kid practically lives here? Thought she just worked for Carrington.
Carrington laughs, shaking her head. “Only because I’m the only person your sister trusts to keep an eye on you during her overnight shifts.”
Her voice is light, but something in my chest eases at that, like a knot loosening. Carrington doesn’t just run a bakery, she holds people up. Makes them feel safe. I wonder who does that for her.
The girls vanish down the hallway, their laughter echoing in their wake. I move slower, my age seemingly catching up to me, but I don’t care. Carrington steps inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click.
The bakery’s quiet now. Earlier, it buzzed with life. But now, it feels almost intimate, like it’s holding its breath. The chairs are flipped up, the lights dimmed to a soft, amber glow. Through the glass behind the counter, I spot racks of dough already proofing for the morning. Of course she’s already prepared. She seems like the kind of woman who always is.
I follow her through the kitchen, my boots thudding against the clean tile. She moves ahead, light and sure, casting a glance over her shoulder to check that I’m still here. Like she wants me to be.
I try not to read into it too much. I made that mistake before with Sarah’s mom. In the end, I was wanting someone who didn't want me back. Now I’m believing I deserve good shit when I don’t.
There’s a narrow staircase tucked in the back, and she leads the way. The old wood creaks beneath our weight as we climb. I keep my steps steady. And not just because of the bags I’m carrying, but because of her. Because being near her makes me want to take my time.
She hums under her breath, soft and barely there. She probably thinks I can’t hear her, but I do. Her hair catches the light and, for a moment, I forget what air is. Every small, unintentional thing about her feels designed to undo me.
At the top, the door to her loft is already open from the girls rushing ahead. I step over a mess of jackets and bags near the door, taking it all in.
Exposed brick walls. Fairy lights wrapped around the beams. A worn-in couch draped in mismatched blankets. Books stacked high on every surface. It’s cozy and it fits her in a way that punches something soft in my chest. Carrington catches me looking, but she doesn’t say anything. Just smiles like she’s proud of what she’s built.
Dina wastes no time shoving Ellie toward the big window seat. "This is the best spot in the house. You can see everyone coming and going. Prime people-watching," she tells Ellie, pointing down to the street in front of Starlight.
Ellie snorts. "Alright, what is the worst thing a customer can order?"
"Plain croissant," Dina answers without a moment of thought, like it’s a mortal sin.
Carrington crosses her arms, mock offended. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with a plain croissant.”
I walk toward the kitchen, dropping the bags onto the counter. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a classic,” I add.
Shrugging out of my leather jacket, I glance around for a place to set it down. Carrington steps up without a word and holds out her hand.
I hand it over, our fingers brushing. Her chest rises and falls quickly in that way she probably thinks I don’t notice. But I do. Everything about her sticks to my brain like glue.
"Thanks," I murmur as she carries my jacket over to the coat rack, moving with that easy grace again. I watch her go, breathing in the lingering scent of her mixed with my cologne.
Meanwhile, Dina flops onto a giant beanbag by the TV. "And this is where you disappear if you want to be lazy for three hours," she says. "But if Carrie’s on a rom-com binge, you might never leave."
Ellie laughs and sinks into the beanbag beside her. "Good to know. What’s her stance on horror movies?" she asks as I begin unloading the ingredients onto the counter.
Carrington opens her mouth to answer, but Dina beats her to it. "Oh, she can’t handle them."
Carrington crosses her arms, pouting a little. "That is utterly untrue."
Dina smirks wide. "You made me leave the lights on after Smile. Totally killed the mood when we watched the second movie."
Carrington’s about to protest, but her expression shifts. I see a plan forming behind her eyes before she even speaks.
She claps her hands once to get the girls attention and for the first time tonight, they stop talking. "Why don’t you two go downstairs and finish passing out the cookies? I’d really appreciate it."
Dina squints, suspicious. "Wait. I thought you didn’t need help tonight?"
Carrington smiles sweetly. “That was before Joel offered to cook. And you know,” she adds, tossing a look toward the speaker on the wall, “the chef controls the music.”
Dina looks at Ellie, who instantly shakes her head like she’s already been traumatized. “You do not wanna be here when Joel starts playin’ his fifties playlist. Let’s go,” Ellie says, hopping up.
I try not to be offended by my teenage daughter’s words while Dina groans like she’s just been sentenced to life without parole. "Fine. But you owe us, Carrie."
Carrington waves them off with a sing-song, "Duly noted," like she didn’t just expertly clear the room.
Their footsteps fade down the stairs, leaving behind a quiet that feels heavier than it should. I stay where I am, leaning into the counter with my arms crossed, just watching her.
Carrington turns back to me and catches the look on my face instantly. "That was real slick," I say, letting the amusement drip from every word.
She blinks up at me, all wide-eyed and fake innocence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
She’s a bad liar. A cute one, but still bad.
I let out a quiet chuckle, push off the counter, and roll up my sleeves. “Sure you don’t.”
I move to the sink and roll up my sleeves. Water rushes against the basin as I scrub my hands, stealing glances her way. Part of me still wonders if I’m reading her wrong. If I’m just some stray she feels sorry for. But when I turn, she’s still looking at me like I’m the only thing worth seeing.
I dry my hands leisurely, toss the towel aside, and nod toward the space between us. "So," I say, "I got full access to your kitchen?"
Carrington crosses her arms, her hip nudging the counter as she leans. "Depends. Are you planning on burning it down?"
I step toward her, cautiously. Close enough to reach for her if I wanted. Close enough to kiss her if I wasn’t such a damn coward.
“Ain’t plannin’ on it... unless you like your food extra crispy,” I murmur, my voice dropping low, just enough that it curls between us.
She bites her lip, trying not to smile. But she fails, beautifully. “Alright, fine. You’re in charge,” she concedes with a shrug.
“Good.” I start digging through the grocery bags for the cookware I thought I packed, coming up short.
I sigh through my nose, then glance back at her. “Where’s your pots and pans, sugar?”
“In this cabinet right here.” She motions lazily toward a cabinet near her knee.
I crouch down to open it, but my balance shifts and instinct kicks in. I reach to steady myself and my hand lands on her thigh. Her skin is buttery soft and smooth under my hand. The contact punches a jolt straight through me.
I freeze, registering just how close I am to her, how easy it would be to inch her legs apart and taste that sweet nectar of hers. Instead, I let go carefully trying to give us both a moment to breathe. But right now, all I can think about is how hard I am for her.
"Sorry, Care," I murmur. The nickname slips out without thought, rough and too honest. I don’t usually talk gently like this. But with her, it comes easier than with anyone I’ve ever met besides Ellie.
She shakes her head quickly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, like she’s trying to gather herself. She doesn’t speak, just watches me like she doesn’t trust her voice to come out right.
I reach back into the cabinet, grab a pot and pan with more force than necessary. The clang fills the silence like a pressure valve releasing. When I stand, my knees pop, but I pretend I didn’t hear it.
I set the pot on the burner, twist the knob, and watch the flame curl to life. It licks the bottom of the steel with a warm flicker. I toss in a knob of butter and stare as it sizzles, swirling and melting like it knows what kind of tension’s building under my skin.
Carrington moves to the speaker across the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “I always listen to music while I work. Want to pick something?” she asks, pausing by the shelf. Her voice wavers, just barely, but I catch it.
I stir the pan absently, watching the butter froth. “Think I’ll spare ya. Ellie wasn’t lyin’. You don’t wanna hear my music.”
She presses the power button anyway, giggling. The speaker comes to life with a soft thump that echoes into the quiet room.
“And besides…” I say, voice just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of butter, “this ain’t work.”
Not for me. Cooking for her, in her kitchen, doesn’t feel like effort. It feels like something I wanna do again and again, if it means she’ll eat right. If it means I get to see that smile when she takes the first bite. Hell, I’d build a whole damn menu around her if she let me.
She taps through her phone and presses play. A sweet, high-energy beat fills the space, all pink glitter and nonsense. It doesn’t match the weight on my chest, but somehow it works.
I blow out a breath, not bothering to hide the judgment in my tone. “Lord have mercy.”
“Problem?” she teases, one brow lifted like she already knows the answer.
“Didn’t take you for the bubblegum pop type,” I mutter, tossing diced onions into the pan. The sizzle is sharp, the scent grounding.
She gasps, full of mock offense. “Excuse me! Bubblegum pop is a legitimate genre, thank you very much.”
I bite down a laugh, stirring the onions slowly as they turn gold. A few songs later, I catch myself nodding along without even realizing it.
When I look up from the half-finished meal, Carrington's staring, arms crossed, a teasing smile pulling at her mouth. "You like it," she accuses.
I shrug, nonchalant. "It’s catchy. Not sayin’ I’m proud," I counter, knowing damn well I don’t give a shit. As long as she keeps looking at me like that, she can play whatever she wants.
She flashes another one of those damn grins, the kind that makes my hands itch to reach for her. "You should be," she says.
I shake my head and turn back to the stove, working through the next steps without thinking. I reach for the ground beef, toss it into the skillet. The sizzle is sharp, satisfying. I season by instinct—salt, pepper, a little crushed red pepper for kick—letting the smell fill the kitchen.
Meanwhile, the pasta water starts to boil. I toss a handful of spaghetti into the pot without measuring, trusting my gut the way I always have in a kitchen. Carrington watches me move around her space, silent, like she can’t quite figure me out. I pretend not to notice. Pretend I don’t feel the heat of her gaze trailing every step I take.
Finally, I glance up, catching her mid-stare.
"You just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty," I tease after sliding the garlic bread into the oven, "or you thinkin’ about helpin'?"
Her cheeks bloom pink right away. She straightens up, clears her throat like she’s buying time.
"I don’t really like cooking much," she says, eyes flicking down to the floor for a second. "Baking is more careful and measured. If you don’t follow the steps exactly, everything falls apart. For some reason, I like that over the chaos that is cooking."
She bites her lip, then exhales. “Actually… I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve had a home-cooked meal in months.”
She says it like she’s embarrassed, like she expects me to judge her. I want to tell her not to apologize. That she could say anything and I’d still want to be around her. But I keep that to myself.
I glance at the spotless stove and start putting the pieces together. No smudges on the burners. Not a speck of oil anywhere.
“So if you don’t cook, what do you eat?” I ask, picking up the kitchen towel to wipe my hands.
She shrugs, lips parting slightly. “For breakfast I just have pastries from downstairs. Then I get takeout for lunch or dinner.”
The thought makes something twist in my chest. She shouldn’t be dining at shitty restaurants. Only the finest foods should touch her tongue.
“You do that all the time?” I ask, trying not to let the judgment slip into my tone.
She nods, brushing her fingers along the edge of the counter like she needs something to hold onto. “Yeah. But I’m trying to change that. I’ve got this idea to open a bookstore café with Willow. She owns the coffee shop next door. She’s great with drinks, so I figured I should focus on food. But I don’t even know where to start.”
She pauses, then glances up at me through her lashes. “I was actually hoping… maybe you’d have time to teach me? I promise it wouldn’t happen often. I just feel like I’m failing at adulthood not knowing how to cook.”
God help me.
She rambles like asking me to spend more time with her won’t gut me clean. Like she has no idea I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time thinking about her. No clue that letting me this close is like handing me a match and expecting me not to strike it.
“You ain’t failin’ at nothin’,” I say, setting the towel down. “Hell, we’re all missin’ somethin’. And yeah… I’ll teach you.”
Her eyes light up, all warmth and wonder, like the neon bakery sign downstairs. “Really? Thank you, Joel. You don’t know how much that means.”
I nod once, sure as ever. “’Course. When were you wantin’ to start?”
“Well…” she sways a little in place, fiddling with the hem dress. “I’ve been watching you tonight and, honestly? You make it look less scary. So, would next Sunday work?”
“Yeah. I’m free,” I say, knowing damn well I’ll catch shit from Tommy for missing another dinner shift to be her personal chef. “But we should do it at my place.”
“Sweet,” she says, grinning. “What neighborhood are you in?”
I pause. I’ve learned what happens when I say Lincoln Park out loud. Fancy zip codes complicate things. So I shrug. “Not sure. Somewhere up north.”
She raises a brow, not buying it for a second. “You don’t know where you live?”
I smirk, tossing a dish towel onto the counter. “Moved here a couple years back. Didn’t know much ‘bout Chicago. My brother said it’d be the next LA. Figured why not.”
She tilts her head, amused. “Where were you before that?”
“Arlington, born. Grew up near Austin.”
Her eyes go wide. “So that’s why your restaurant’s called The Austin. I feel like I’m finally connecting the dots.”
I glance at the oven, checking the garlic bread. “Well, now it’s your turn. I only know what Madeline’s ranted about. You always lived in Chicago?”
She nods, slower this time. “Yeah. My parents were both from here. My mom was a teacher and…” She trails off, lips pressing together. “She passed away a couple years ago. I don’t really know my dad. Haven’t seen him in, like… fifteen years.”
I lower the burner, setting my plan to stir the sauce aside. It can wait for her.
Crossing the room, I slip an arm around her waist and draw her close. “I’m real sorry, sugar. That’s a hard one.”
She lets her head rest against my chest. My arms wrap around her like they’ve done it a hundred times. She talks into the fabric of my shirt, voice muffled but clear enough. “She was great. Everybody loved her. I still miss her every day, but if she hadn’t passed… I’d still be a nurse.”
I rest my chin on her head. “How come?”
“She was an English teacher,” she says. “She kept these journals, and after she died, I found one where she said she was worried I wasn’t happy. That I was just… doing what I thought I should.”
I feel her words settle in my chest. “Was she right?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I just wanted to be helpful. Didn’t mean I liked it.”
I nod. “I get that.”
She exhales shakily. “It was a wake-up call. I didn’t realize how bad I was doing until I read what she saw. I wasn’t hiding my struggles like I thought I was.”
I pull back a little, brushing a curl from her cheek. “You happy now?” I ask and regardless of her answer, I plan on making her feel like she’s on top of the world for the rest of her life.
She looks up at me, eyes shining. “In a way, yeah. I’m not all the way there, but I’m better. I just… wish I could tell her. Show her, I guess.”
My hand returns to stroke her back, grounding us both. “I’m bettin’ she knows. Wherever she is.” My voice sticks a bit in my throat, ‘cause I can see it in my head—Carrington’s mom up there next to Sarah. If she’s anything like her daughter, they’d get along just fine.
She nods, blinking fast. “Yeah. I hope so.”
Her hands slide from my back to my arms, giving me a soft squeeze. “Can we change the subject to something less sad?”
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat and stepping back toward the stove. “You wanna start learnin’ how to cook now? I’m almost done, but there’s still some beginner work left.”
She nods, inching over like the floor might give out beneath her. I slide the salad bowl her way. “Alright, sugar. Let’s start small.”
She blinks down at it. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I chuckle, dumping the lettuce in. “That first. Lil’ olive oil, lil’ vinegar. Don’t go soakin’ it. Sprinkle the feta and toss the tomatoes on top,” I give her instructions before picking up the spoon on the counter to stir the pasta sauce.
She nods seriously, then immediately over-pours the vinegar like she’s trying to flood the bowl.
Abandoning the spoon to float down into the sauce, I step forward. “Okay. Fuck. Hold on,” I mutter, gently prying the bottle from her hands. “You tryin’ to drown the whole damn garden?”
She winces, laugh already bubbling up. “Sorry! I told you I’m terrible at this.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling slow. “She said she wanted to learn,” I mutter to myself.
“And I do,” she says quickly, tone too chipper to be trusted.
I shake my head and carry the bowl to the sink, tipping out the mess with one hand. When I turn back, she’s watching me with a look that says she’s either about to say something ridiculous. She proves me right.
“Maybe we could put my costume to good use,” she says sweetly.
I almost choke on my own spit. “What?”
She spins a little, motioning to the ridiculous pink ruffles that she makes look like designer clothing. “You know. Use me. Move me around like a doll.”
I stare at her, biting the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh. It’s either that or saying the exact thing that comes to mind, which involves a lot less cooking and a whole lot of bending her over this damn counter. The dirty thought quickly flees from my brain because she’s too damn innocent to know what she just said and too cute for her own good.
“Alright then, Chef Barbie,” I say, stepping closer. “Guess I’ll help… so you don’t ruin it.”
I set the bowl down again and close the gap between us, one hand on either side of her, caging her in without touching her. She spins to face the counter, but her shoulders go stiff for half a second when she realizes I’m not moving away.
Still, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off. She stays right there, spine brushing my chest, waiting.
I reach around and slide my hands over hers, guiding her fingers to the olive oil. “Grip it like this,” I murmur near her ear. “Not too tight. Just firm enough so it don’t slip.”
She nods once, following my lead, her body syncing to mine like we’ve done this before. My hand stays over hers, steadying the bottle as we move together. “Good,” I say lowly, “just like that. Small circles.”
Her ass brushes right against my crotch and I forget what breathing is. I don’t move, not right away. If I say anything, my voice’s gonna give me away. If I move too fast, I’ll make it weird. But she doesn’t pull back.
I guide her hand gently away, setting the oil down with more control than I feel. “Now grab the feta,” I say, voice tighter than I want. “Just a pinch. Not the whole damn bag.”
I keep my hand over hers a second too long, guiding her through scattering the feta. She’s quiet, focused, but there’s a smile tucked in the corner of her mouth that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“See?” she says softly. “I’m learning.”
I lean in, nudge her shoulder with mine. “Barely.”
She laughs, and I shift her hands toward the small bowl of tomatoes. “Go on. Dump ’em in.”
She does, carefully. “There,” I say. “Now it almost looks like somethin’ worth eatin’.”
She spins around with a grin, bouncing like she just won the lottery. “Yay! I did it!”
I nod, keeping it cool. “Yeah, you did,” I confirm, pride blooming inside my chest.
Turning back to the stove, I scan the counter for something to occupy my hands before I do something stupid, like pull her back into me. “Where’s your oven mitts?”
I hear her heels tap across the floor before she answers, “Over here.”
She opens the drawer, and I glance over just in time to see the whole thing is filled with pink oven mitts. Pink with hearts. Pink with glitter. Pink with some kind of cartoon pastry on them.
“How many do you need?” she asks, head tilted.
“Just two’ll do,” I say, watching her like a man staring down a problem he doesn’t mind having.
While she’s turned, I shift, trying to discreetly adjust my jeans. It’s no use. My dick’s been betraying me all night, and she hasn’t even touched me. Just her laugh, her voice, the way she sways when she walks— it all drives me up the wall.
She turns, handing them over. “Here you go.”
I clear my throat and take the mitts. “Almost done.”
She moves and grabs the plates and forks from a cabinet. “I only have two bar stools, so I hope you’re okay with us eating on the couch?”
“That’s fine,” I say, making sure my voice doesn’t give away how much I actually like the idea of being close to her like that.
While I finish up by pulling the garlic bread out of the oven and stirring the sauce one last time, she drifts toward the living room. Music’s still playing in the background and she moves like she’s in her own world. She lays a roll of paper towels on the coffee table, swaying a little to the beat. It’s the simplest thing, but I can’t take my eyes off of her.
I plate the food and wipe my hands on a towel. “Let me grab the girls so you can try everything while it’s hot.”
She flashes a smile over her shoulder. “Sounds good. Tell them to watch the steps.”
“Will do.”
I slide open the loft door and head down. The bakery’s dark now, still warm from earlier. Through the front windows, I spot the girls curled up on patio chairs, deep in some conversation.
I push the door open and hold it. “Hey, kiddos. Dinner’s ready. Go on up and wash your hands.”
“Okay!” Ellie hops up, tugging Dina with her. I follow them inside, lock up, and jog up the stairs.
When I step back into the loft, it’s warm and golden with soft shadows. Carrington’s already set two glasses down in front of the girls, who’ve claimed one end of the couch, talking about costumes and candy like it’s the most important thing in the world. Her heels are kicked off and she’s much shorter now.
“Thank you, Carrie,” Dina says, flashing a grin.
I slide the door shut behind me and she turns at the sound. Her face lights up and for a second, all I can think about is what it’d feel like to wake up to her every damn morning. “I should’ve asked earlier,” she says, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Want something to drink?”
“Beer’s fine, if ya got it.”
“I do,” she says, flashing that dimple again. She crosses to the fridge, bending slightly as she opens it. Her skirt lifts just enough to test my self-control.
I look away. Try not to think about how easily I could pull her back against me, fist that hair in my hand, make her moan my name ‘til she breaks. But the thoughts don’t go anywhere. They stick.
I wait for the sound of bottles shifting, the clink of glass. It doesn’t come. Five seconds pass. Then ten.
She’s probably just scanning the shelves but from here, I can tell ain’t shit in there but condiments and drinks. “Care?” I call, casual at first.
Still nothing. Her hand’s braced on the fridge door, body slouched like she forgot what she was doing. The slope of her shoulders is all wrong.
“Carrington,” I say, voice firmer now.
No response.
By the time I reach her, she’s swaying. Her skin’s clammy, heat rolling off her in waves. My hand brushes the back of her neck, moves to the small of her back.
“Sugar,” I whisper. “It’s alright if there ain’t no beer.”
She tilts forward, then her knees buckle.
“Shit,” I grunt, catching her before she touches the tile. I slide one arm under her knees, the other bracing her back. She’s limp and too damn light. My chest clenches.
“Fuck. Fuck,” I mutter, cradling her tight, heading straight for the couch.
I sit down at the far end, keeping her in my lap, her head tucked beneath my chin. Her breathing’s shallow, but steady. I start rubbing slow circles into her back, willing myself to calm down. Then it hits me.
Coffee and a donut for breakfast. Maybe nothing else since. No food, no rest. Just fumes.
I hear a phone dropping to the floor. “Joel?” Ellie’s voice is tight.
Dina gasps a second later. “Holy shit. What just happened?”
“She fainted,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “She’s alright. Just gimme a sec.”
I glance over at the girls who are bouncing anxiously, like they need something to do to feel helpful. “Hey. Can y’all grab some water? And a plate with the extra garlic bread on the island. She needs somethin’ in her system.”
They scramble off, no questions asked. Cabinet doors slam open in the kitchen.
Carrington stirs against me. Her lashes flutter, brow creasing like she’s climbing her way back to the surface.
“Hey there,” I murmur, brushing a curl from her cheek. “You’re alright, sugar. Take it slow.”
She shifts, trying to sit up, but she’s weak. I slide my hand behind her back, helping her stay upright. “What... happened?” she mumbles.
“You passed out,” I say quietly. “Pretty sure it’s ‘cause you ain’t eaten anythin’ real all day.”
She opens her mouth, maybe to deny it, but nothing comes out.
Ellie returns with the water, Dina behind her with a plate full of garlic bread. I nod at them. “Thanks. Go ahead and eat. We’ll join y’all in a sec.”
They hover for a second, then move toward the kitchen island. Carrington tries to get up again, but she’s too unsteady. I keep my arm around her and tear a piece of bread, holding it up. “Eat.”
She hesitates, but lets me feed her.
“That’s it,” I say. “Good girl.”
She chews deliberately. I lift the glass and hold it to her lips. She sips, and when she pulls back, the corner of her mouth twitches.
“You’re bossy,” she slurs sleepily.
“Yeah, well,” I tear another bite, “someone’s gotta be.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say, nudging it toward her. “I’m doin’ it anyway.”
She gives me a weak glare, but it’s all bark. The garlic bread disappears piece by piece, her color coming back, slow but sure.
“You feelin’ up to real food now?” I ask, stroking her cheek.
She nods, voice steadier. “I think I can manage a few more bites.”
“Perfect.” My thumb lingers along her jaw before I ease her back and stand.
The plates are still warm. I grab ours, bring them over, and set mine on the coffee table. She’s trying to sit up, sluggish.
“Lean back, sugar,” I say, sliding an arm behind her. “I got you.”
She settles into me again. I lift a forkful of spaghetti to her lips. She takes it with no fuss, chewing and swallowing. My eyes follow every movement like she’s the only thing that matters in the world.
“There ya go,” I say gently. “Nice and slow.”
Bite by bite, she eats. Across the couch, Dina and Ellie shoot us matching looks—part horror, part amusement.
“Oh my God,” Dina stage-whispers. “You two are gross and cute.”
Ellie covers her mouth. “I’m gonna puke.”
Carrington groans into my shoulder. “Alright, alright. Someone pick a movie so I can stop being heckled while I’m hand-fed like an heiress.”
“Nightmare Before Christmas,” Dina declares. “It’s tradition.”
Carrington shrugs. “Can’t argue with tradition.”
As Dina sets it up, I help Carrington finish her plate. She’s eaten more than I expected, and she looks steadier now. I hand her the rest of her water and brush a kiss against the top of her head—light, nothing demanding.
I polish off my own plate one-handed, her still tucked against me. When I finish, I glance over at the girls. “Pass me your plates,” I tell them.
Dina offers hers up with zero hesitation but Ellie makes a face. “Why? You always make me clean up after you cook.”
“Considerin’ tonight’s circumstances, I’ll handle it,” I say, stacking their dishes on mine. “Y’all just relax.”
Carrington shifts like she might argue. “Joel, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I cut in, quiet but firm. “Let me take care of it.” Let me take care of you.
I head into the kitchen, rinsing plates in the sink, the water running steady as I scrub. The girls’ voices are hushed now, low like they think I can’t hear. I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but Carrington’s voice drifts through the kitchen air anyway.
“I’m sorry if I scared you two,” she says gently. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I should’ve taken better care of myself.”
There’s a pause but I can’t hear the kid’s response over the sound of clattering dishes. “It was just… a long day,” Carrington adds. “But I promise, next time I’ll eat. You can’t survive off nothing, right?”
Dina mumbles something I can’t quite catch, probably giving her shit in a way only someone who loves you can. Ellie hums in agreement, quieter. I hear Carrington laugh softly under her breath, but it’s not one of those carefree giggles she gave out earlier. It’s thin, a little tired.
“You both need to make sure you eat too,” she warns them. “No skipping meals to keep up with work or school or… whatever. Deal?”
“Deal,” Ellie murmurs.
I shut the faucet off and dry my hands, heart heavy. She’s still worried about them. Still thinking of everyone else before herself.
I head back just as they’re pulling blankets down from the back of the couch. The lights are dim, movie already playing, shadows flickering over the room. Carrington looks up at me as I settle beside her. Then she leans in without a word, curling into my side and resting her head in my lap.
I freeze.
She fits there too easy, her arm tucked beneath her, cheek warm against me. I don’t dare move. My hand hovers for a second, then lowers to her hair, fingertips brushing gently through soft curls.
She’s just using your legs as a pillow. This means nothing.
Ellie shifts, tucking her feet under my leg. “I’m usin’ you for heat,” she mutters, settling in. I don’t protest the regular occurrence.
She leans into Dina, scrolling through her phone and giggling at something. But soon even they get pulled in by the movie’s lull.
An hour passes with the three of them singing low and off-key, trading verses with familiarity. Eventually, the room softens. The music plays on, but the laughter fades.
Carrington’s breathing evens out first. I glance down and find her completely out—cheek still pressed to my thigh, lashes resting soft against her skin. She twitches once, then goes still again.
Not long after, the girls quiet too. Ellie slumps into Dina’s side, and Dina tugs the throw blanket higher without a word.
I shift carefully, easing my phone from my pocket without waking anyone. The screen’s too bright in the dark, so I turn the brightness down, then thumb in the alarm for 5:00 AM. I’ll get six hours of sleep, give or take.
I slip the phone next to Carrington’s back. My head tips against the cushion. The ceiling blurs above me with flashes of blue from the TV glow. Across the room, Halloween lights flicker faint red and orange. The scent of garlic bread still hangs in the air, wrapped in sugar and something floral from whatever candle she burned recently.
Carrington stirs. Her fingers brush against my side in her sleep, curling slightly. My hand stays steady on her back, feeling each slow breath as it rises and falls.
The couch is too damn small. My legs are restricted in jeans and my neck’s gonna hate me come morning.
But none of it matters.
Because this? This is what I forgot I’ve been missing. Not just a quiet night in someone else’s home. Not just her curled up against me like she belongs here. Not just two girls whispering like they’ve been friends forever.
It’s the stillness. The weight of being needed without demand. The peace of fitting into a space that never asked me to change.
A home and a family. Something I lost, something I never thought I’d get back.
I close my eyes and let myself feel this euphoria just a little longer. I let it wrap around me like a blanket. I let her stay right where she is.
Let this feel real, even if it’s just for tonight.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter summary: the sweetest baker celebrates halloween and lets the intrusive thoughts win. word count: 5046
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter trigger warnings: symptoms of mental illness, visible injury on a minor, implied parental neglect, adoption mention, suggestive language, discussion of teenage isolation, references to swearing and inappropriate language by a minor, mild sexual tension, flirty banter, emotional vulnerability, and professional pressure. as always, let me know if i missed something.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ links: series masterlist, spotify playlist, info & faceclaims.
The last sugar bat wing settles onto the cupcake, and I tuck a stray curl behind my ear with a huff. Two hours of baking and decorating has left my fingers sticky with icing, while the warm scent of cinnamon and apples lingers in the air. The counters are a battlefield of mixing bowls, piping bags, and stray sprinkles, but the result is worth it—sixty tiny masterpieces lined up in neat rows, ready to steal hearts.
The bakery hums with life, the morning rush in full swing. My bubblegum-pink Barbie dress brushes the counter as I wash my hands, my glittering heels impractical but completely on-brand. Through the kitchen window, Dina flits past in her Snow White costume, her crimson cape trailing behind her. At fifteen, she has become my secret weapon, always ready to jump in when things get overwhelming.
Out front, the crew moves like clockwork, dodging each other as they hand out pumpkin muffins and caramel-drizzled croissants. Betty, green-skinned as Elphaba, arranges scones. Augustine, dressed as Jessie, passes out pastries with cowgirl confidence, while James, sharp in a Fantastic Four suit, reaches for another tray. Somehow, despite the costumes, the crowd, and the sugar-fueled atmosphere, everything runs smoothly.
After drying my hands I slip off my headphones, letting the familiar sounds of the bakery settle around me. Laughter rings from the front, a kid squeals over spiderweb cookies, and the air buzzes with Halloween’s loud, messy, perfect energy.
“Dina!” I call, waving a hand to catch her attention. She pops out an earbud and looks up. “I’m going to get a coffee. Would you like anything?” I offer.
She shakes her head, her faux bob rippling. “No thanks. I’m good.”
Grinning, I gather my things, pulling my jacket from the hook by the fridge and my bag from the counter. “I’ll take you to school when I get back,” I say, slipping my arms into the sleeves. Dina doesn’t argue, and I can tell she’s relieved. She always prefers my car over taking The L.
“Cool,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Need help after four?”
“No, you should be out having fun. There must be a party or something you teenagers are into,” I wave her off as I sling my bag over my shoulder.
She scrunches her nose, making it clear she has no interest in parties. “That’s more Jesse’s thing,” she says, referring to her friend and classmate who works at the coffee shop. They always end up hanging out after their shifts since it’s next door.
Her words give me pause. Her sister, my neighbor and friend, is probably pulling a long ER shift tonight at the hospital I used to work at. Which means Dina’s plans likely involve homework and an empty house. I hesitate before offering, “Want to come over? I’ll be handing out leftover cookies until six, then watching a movie.”
Her face lights up, and she nods. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”
“Perfect. I’ll be back in a bit,” I tell her loud enough so the other employees can hear where I’m going. I wave as I step onto the sidewalk, already typing a message to Talia about our plans. But at this rate, I think she expects Dina to be at my place whenever she's working.
The crisp air bites at my skin, and the familiar tap of my thumbs against my phone fills the quiet between passing conversations. I only take two steps before colliding with someone, my phone nearly slipping from my hand.
Instinctively, I reach out, my hands landing on thin, tense shoulders. Looking down, I meet the sharp glare of a freckled girl. Her auburn hair is damp and tangled around a devil horn headband. A bruise sits near her temple, a scrape on her brow, but she stands firm, eyes wary and unflinching. She scowls and shrugs off my hands like she has been through worse.
"Ow, watch it!" she snaps, her small frame carrying the kind of confidence that comes with being young and full of attitude. She’s a pint-sized version of me from years ago, all sharp edges and misplaced bravado.
I force a patient smile. The younger me would have snapped back, but today is my favorite holiday, and I refuse to let anything dim my mood. "My sincerest apologies, tiny human. I wasn’t paying attention," I say lightly, already stepping aside.
Before I can move forward, she plants herself in my path, arms crossed. "Hey, I’m not tiny," she says with absolute conviction.
I blink at her for a moment before offering a small, placating smile. "Don’t take it personally. I call everyone under eighteen a tiny human," I explain, hoping to diffuse the tension.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she shifts her stance. "Well, now that avoiding a lawsuit should be your main concern, maybe you'll actually hear me out."
My eyebrows lift. "A lawsuit? For what exactly?"
She rolls her eyes, long and exaggerated, like she’s practiced it in a mirror. "You know, I got hurt at your job, and you discriminated against me? You’re supposed to pay me or something."
I’ve dealt with enough teenagers to recognize a half-baked scheme when I hear one. Suppressing a sigh, I choose my words carefully. "Very clever," I say with a nod. "But we’re on the sidewalk. Public property." I gesture to the cracked concrete beneath us.
Her face flushes as she glances down, then back up. "Damn. Maybe I should have done this differently," she mutters.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and picture the vanilla latte with almond milk I intend on ordering just a few steps away. "Okay. How about we multitask? You can attempt to blackmail me while I get my coffee,” I say with exaggerated patience.
She fidgets, her sneakers scuffing the pavement. Up close, she looks about the same age as Dina, maybe younger. Her lip is caught between her teeth like a stress ball, and she stares at me like I’m holding the last piece of cake on earth. "Well, that is the thing..." She hesitates, eyes flicking to my chest, then just stops.
My head swims with confusion before realizing she’s probably waiting for my name, which is conveniently hidden on the name tag under my jacket. "Carrie," I say warmly, taking pity on her. "My full name is Carrington, but everyone calls me Carrie."
She blinks, nodding too quickly. "Carrie," she repeats, like she’s testing it out. For a second, she looks like she might burst into tears or take off running, but she squares her shoulders and rushes through the rest. "Okay, so, I have class in like thirty minutes, and my da—" She cuts herself off, face twisting like she bit into a lemon. She mutters something I can’t hear, exhales sharply, and pushes forward. "Anyway, he won’t admit it but I know he forgot to pick up the cookie order for my home room’s Halloween party last night. It might be under my name. Or his. Can you check?"
Her words spill out so fast I almost miss them. She seems young, stressed out, and clearly having one of those mornings.
"Oh," I say with a cheerful laugh, already walking toward Starlight and holding the door open for her. "Let’s sort this out. We can’t have you being late for class."
Her wide eyes meet mine, panic shifting to cautious hope. "Really? That’s... thank you, Carrie."
"It’s no big deal," I chirp, ushering her inside as if I’m inviting her in for cookies and milk. "The worst outcome here is if I don’t get a coffee. Maybe this is a sign to cut my caffeine intake down. Now, what’s your name?"
She glances over her shoulder before stepping past me into the bakery. "Ellie," she says with a bright smile.
I extend my hand, and she shakes it firmly, confidence growing. "A pleasure to meet you, Ellie," I say.
Starlight's still bustling, conversations blending with the music playing through the speakers. Customers are still crowding the counter while Betty and James weave around each other, handing out orders. “Do you own this place?" Ellie asks and I barely hear her.
I grin. "Guilty as charged," I confirm.
Her expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she nods. "Cool."
The noise makes conversation impossible, so I guide Ellie through the swinging doors into the kitchen, where the relative quiet is a relief. Dina sits in the corner, scrolling on her phone, her backpack at her feet. She glances up as we enter.
"That was fast," Dina comments, starting to stand.
I wave her off. "A situation came up so I haven’t gotten coffee yet. Pay us no mind, I can handle this," I say, already tapping through the iPad. "Alright, let’s be logical. What’s your last name?" I ask, returning my attention to Ellie.
"Williams," Ellie says clearly.
I type her full name in. Nothing. "You're not in here so is your last name the same as the person who ordered?” I ask next.
Ellie shakes her head. "No, his is Miller," she replies. My eyes lift from the iPad and on Ellie’s.
Ellie stares at me with her brows furrowed, probably at my reaction to her answer. The name tugs at something in my memory. Miller… why does that sound familiar? And why is Ellie looking at me like I'm insane? I clear my throat before asking, "First name?"
“Joel," she answers without hesitation.
Shit. That is why it sounds familiar. Maybe it is not the same Joel?
"Joel Miller, the chef?" I ask, fingers hovering over the screen.
Ellie’s brows furrow, and she nods. "Yeah. Do you know him?"
I try to keep my face neutral, but my brain is already spiraling. Joel Miller is hot. Not in a polished, effortless way, but in a rugged, I-could-ruin-your-life way. He looks like he has been through hell and walked out of it with a cigarette between his lips, a little older, a little meaner, and somehow even more attractive because of it.
And his mouth. That mouth has probably said some dirty things. It’s the kind of mouth that could whisper something sweet one second and tear you apart the next. His arms that are veined and strong from hours in the kitchen could either hold you steady or break you in half. And his hands… Jesus. Those hands could do unspeakable things.
I swallow hard and force myself to focus. Do not think about him like that. Do not think about him like that.
I quickly click on the order, desperate for a distraction. "Yes, though I had no idea he had a child," I make an assumption about their relationship. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s actually kind of endearing.
Ellie shifts, glancing at Dina, who is now watching curiously. She lowers her head towards the ground like she’s embarrassed. "Joel adopted me a little while ago," she mutters.
So that’s why she cut herself off earlier. "You don’t have to explain. I get it," I say, already grabbing a box. Ellie lifts her gaze from the floor, looking at me like she’s confused. "Looks like you need twenty cookies and they’re still on the cooling racks. Want to pick them yourself?" I offer.
Ellie’s face lights up. "Holy shit, yeah. But I have to be quick. I have art first thing this morning."
"Then let’s not waste time," I say, waving her toward the racks. "Dina, do you want to bring some cookies to school too?"
Dina perks up at my words. "Yes, please." As Ellie fills her box, I focus on Dina’s, making sure to add a mix—chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, peanut butter, and a couple of ghost-shaped sugar cookies just for fun.
Dina suddenly gets up, eyes widening. "Wait, that’s where I’ve seen you! You go to Waldorf, right?" she asks, her red snow white cape flowing from the air coming out the vent above her.
Ellie freezes, her cheeks turning pink. Then she nods very slowly like she’s been caught. "Yeah. I’m a freshman,” she replies.
Dina grins, gesturing to herself. "So do I! I thought you looked familiar."
Ellie blinks, clearly caught off guard. Jesse says everyone wants to be around Dina, so she must be popular. Meanwhile, Ellie looks like she’s not used to being noticed, let alone by someone like Dina.
"You... know who I am?" she asks, barely above a whisper.
Dina shrugs. "Yeah, of course. You’re in my art class. You’re pretty good, by the way,” she compliments.
Ellie stares, mouth slightly open. I bite back a smile, enjoying the exchange. After adding tape to the top of Dina’s box, I take Ellie’s from her, continuing to fill the empty space with the best cookies.
"Since we’re all getting along so well, Ellie, do you want to ride with us? We’re heading to the same place, so no need to rush,” I offer, the parchment paper in the box crackles with each movement I make.
Ellie blinks and shakes her head quickly. "Oh, no, I’m good. I don’t want to bother you."
Dina snorts and steps closer. "Don’t even try to run. Carrie likes to collect strays, so you’re coming with us." She hooks her arm through Ellie’s. "Seriously, it’s no big deal. We have room and Carrie’s car always smells like sugar cookies, so it’s a win."
Ellie hesitates, glancing between us before finally nodding. "Well... okay."
"Excellent decision," I say with a laugh. "Let me tape this up, and we’ll be on our way."
The girls murmur in agreement and begin giving each other compliments on their costumes as I add the final seal to the edges of Ellie’s container. Passing the boxes back to the teenagers, they give a quiet thank you before Dina shrugs her outerwear on.
Walking back toward the front, I remind myself to push past my social anxiety and call Joel about this. It’s only hard because I still haven’t finished my text to Talia about Dina. Everything feels like it’s piling up on this already busy day.
Both girls hug their boxes as they slide into the back of my Volkswagen Beetle, Ellie’s dipping her head to avoid her headband knocked off. Dina throws her a friendly wink, and I can’t help but think this unexpected connection is the kind of sweetness that makes days like this special.
The clock reads 11:07 AM as my body shakes with quiet sobs, the tissue in my hand soaked beyond use. I’m overwhelmed by the amount of rude customers that have come in after I dropped the girls at school. My office feels smaller than ever, the walls pressing in while the muffled buzz of the bakery rumbles through them. I tilt my head back, willing the tears to stop, but they keep coming, hot and relentless.
The door suddenly slams open, hitting the wall with a loud thud. I jump in my chair and spin around to see Betty standing in the doorway, her face twisted in concern. "Carrie—" she starts, then falters when she sees me, her wide eyes flicking to my tear-streaked face.
"Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry," she blurts, hands up like she’s been caught trespassing. She shifts awkwardly, glancing aside as if trying to give me privacy while still standing in the room.
I force out a watery chuckle and wave dismissively. "You’re fine. What’s the matter?" My voice cracks, betraying my attempt to sound composed.
Betty hesitates, shifting her weight. "There’s a customer out front saying he never got his order, but the system says it’s been picked up. Can you help us figure it out?"
I nod quickly, and the realization that I still own this bakery sets in. "Yes, of course. I’ll be right there."
Betty gives a crooked smile and hurries back to the front. As the door clicks shut behind her, silence settles again. I take a deep breath, stand up, and wipe my face with the back of my hand. My legs ache from sitting hunched at my desk, but the sharp pain in my chest is worse. Grabbing a pack of baby wipes from the cabinet, I shuffle to the floor-length mirror in the corner.
My reflection is a mess. Red-rimmed eyes, mascara smudged into gray shadows. My dress is pristine, but it feels like a cruel joke, mocking my tear-streaked face. Peeling a wipe from the pack, I press the cool dampness to my cheeks, a small comfort. My heels dig into my feet with each shift of weight, and I wince. At least my hair is still perfect, every brown curl pinned exactly where it should be. Small wins, I guess.
Leaning closer, I dab at the last smudges under my eyes and practice a smile. It’s forced, but it’ll do.
"Alright, Carrie," I whisper, tossing the wipe into the trash. "Time to pull yourself together."
The soft click of my heels echoes through the quiet kitchen as I head to the front, the bakery’s hum growing louder with each step. Pushing through the doors that separate the kitchen and the dining area, I spot Betty near the counter, gesturing toward a tall figure with his back turned. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly styled, his flannel sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Before I can fully register the sight, Betty spots me.
"There’s the owner. Her name is Carrington," she says, her voice cutting through the low chatter.
My stomach clenches as I force a polite smile, ready to handle whatever minor crisis has brought this customer in. But when he turns around, the smile freezes.
Joel Miller.
Time slows as my gaze locks onto his chestnut eyes. The sharp features, the confident stance—it's all unmistakable. Joel Miller, the man I gave a bad review a couple of months ago. My “birthday present” and the last person I ever expected to see standing in my bakery today.
"Carrington," he says, his voice carrying that same low, steady tone as the first day we met.
I blink, struggling to keep my composure. "Chef Miller?" My voice comes out softer than I intend.
"Joel, sugar. Just Joel."
My mouth falls open slightly before I repeat his name under my breath to make sure I remember not to call him Chef Miller. "Joel. Joel. Joel."
His gaze flicks over my bright pink Barbie dress and glittering heels before settling back on my face. His lips twitch like he is suppressing a smile. "Didn’t know you owned this place," he says, his voice even.
For a second, I am too stunned to respond. My brain scrambles for an explanation, as if I owe him one. "Well... surprise." I force a laugh. "This is my bakery. I own the building, so I live upstairs too." I glance around at my pink surroundings with pride.
Joel tilts his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Lec and Madeline mentioned you baked, but I figured they meant, you know, as a hobby."
"Oh." My pulse quickens, and I glance at Betty, who is suddenly very busy behind the counter. It doesn’t help. The bakery feels smaller, the air charged. "Well, what brings you here?"
His brows furrow, as though he is just now remembering. "Ordered some cookies for my daughter’s school, but I forgot to pick 'em up. Was gonna run 'em by now, but the system says they’re gone. Reckon I got too much goin’ on in my brain these days." His voice softens on the last word, and for the first time, he seems less intimidating and more like a tired man with too much on his plate.
"Oh, yeah. Ellie came by earlier, and we handled everything. Since she goes to Waldorf with one of my employees, I dropped them both off with cookies in hand." I offer a quick smile. "I meant to call, but today has been hectic. Sorry for taking her without your permission."
He exhales, relief clear in his expression. "Don’t apologize. Didn’t have to do all that, but ya did so… thank you, Carrington." His voice dips, and something about the way he says my full name makes my stomach flutter. With everyone else, it makes me want to die. But he could say it a million times and I’d never get sick of it. "Really. You are a godsend," he adds.
The air between us shifts, heavier now. I bite the inside of my lip, unsure of what to say. "It was no trouble," I manage, my voice quieter than before.
He watches me for a long moment, his chest rising slowly. "I was just gonna order a new batch if that’s what it took. It’s been one hell of a week," he exhales in one go.
His shoulders are so tense they are nearly touching his ears and my heart is still racing. "Join the club," I say softly, surprising myself.
His eyes meet mine and heat rises to my cheeks. I clear my throat, slightly put off by his anxious demeanor that’s so different from the last time I saw him. "Joel, are you alright?" I check.
"’m fine," he says quickly, though his tight voice says otherwise.
I step forward and put my hand on his back, pushing him closer to an open table. "Sit down and let me grab you something—apple cider, a cookie, something to ease your mind,” I urge as politely as I can.
He hesitates, then nods. "Alright," he murmurs, sliding into a seat with a ghost of a smile on his lips.
As I turn toward the counter, I feel his gaze following me, a quiet weight pressing against my back. Moving around Betty, I pull open the display case with more force than necessary and grab a cookie shaped like a bat, sugar-dusted with tiny chocolate chip eyes. Perfect. Pouring a small mug of apple cider, I carry everything to Joel’s table, the warm liquid sloshing slightly as I walk.
Out of breath from my shoes and the nerves I can’t quite shake, I set the plate and cider down. "Here. On the house. Consider it an apology for the confusion."
Joel shakes his head, pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. "This is all the cash I got, but I’ll throw in two redo meals at the restaurant for the price of one." His mouth quirks in a wry smile as he slides the bill toward me.
I scoff and shove it back. "Absolutely not. It was hardly an issue,” I assure him.
Joel narrows his eyes and pushes it right back. "No, it is. You saved her from feelin’ embarrassed. Oughta be tippin’ ya tenfold."
Frustrated, I shove it with more force, planting my hands on the table. "Put it in the tip jar before you go, Joel. You already tipped on the order so I don’t need it. My staff can divide it at the end of the shift."
He pauses, clearly caught off guard, then exhales and tucks the bill into his back pocket. "Fine," he mutters, though the twitch of his lips betrays his amusement.
He picks up the cookie, examining it like it might bite him. "So, how was she?" he asks.
I tilt my head, confused by his question. "What do you mean?"
“Ellie. How’d she seem? Just wanna make sure she’s doin’ alright—happy, y’know?" He asks, voice laced with concern. Then he takes a large bite of the cookie, chewing slowly.
I cross my arms, watching as his eyes flutter shut. Then, low and unguarded, he lets out a throaty groan. "Mmm, now that’s a damn good cookie," he compliments.
The sound shoots through me, leaving heat in its wake. My thighs clench. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. It’s the kind of sound meant for a bedroom—dark, rich, and sinful. My face burns, and suddenly, the space between us feels too small.
I clench my fists, willing the thought away. You’re barely acquaintances, Carrie. Pull it together. I force my voice into something steady. "Thank you. And to answer your question, she seemed well. Spoke about you most of the drive. She reminds me of myself at that age."
"That so? Well, hell, that’s… good. That’s real good."
I seize the moment for levity. "Although, I never thought I’d meet someone who swears more than I do."
Joel shakes his head, setting the half-eaten cookie down and taking a sip of cider. His face shifts into amused exasperation. "Told her no more goddamn swearing in public," he grumbles.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Joel?"
His eyes flick up, waiting.
"If you want her to stop swearing in public, you might want to, you know… lead by example,” I suggest.
His chewing halts. He swallows hard, eyes widening slightly as realization dawns. "Guess I walked right into that one, huh?" His voice is warm, teasing.
The way he says it, so easy and unguarded, makes something light and dangerous bloom in my chest. I allow myself to giggle for the first time in a while. Talking to him feels like cracking a window for a breeze, only to realize I’ve invited the entire season inside.
I catch myself watching him. The crinkle around his eyes when he smiles, the calm way he carries himself, the sound of his voice, familiar like a song I forgot I loved. A thought sneaks in before I can stop it: I want more of this. More of him.
Months ago, when Nic and Madi tried to set us up, I couldn’t imagine letting anyone in. I was too raw, too guarded. But now I wonder if I might be ready. Could I open myself up to someone like Joel? Even now, with him sitting across from me, steady and patient, part of me hesitates. If he knew how difficult I could be, would he still want me?
If my friend’s matchmaking attempt had worked back then, maybe we would already be something. They mentioned Joel was interested. Maybe he still is.
My thoughts swirl, trying to find a way to run into him again. Maybe he’ll say yes if I ask him to come over tonight. Only one way to find out.
I tap my fingers against the table, warmth blooming in my chest. The room feels too quiet, heavy with something unspoken. "Did you and Ellie have plans tonight?" I ask, my voice coming out too chipper to be convincing.
Joel finishes his cookie, shaking his head. "Nah. Ellie’s first Halloween in high school, and turns out there’s a damn age limit on trick-or-treatin'. So, no plans." He leans back, running a hand through his hair, his voice carrying the barest hint of uncertainty.
A smile tugs at my lips as an idea sparks. "Well, I’m closing early. My neighbor’s little sister, Dina, is coming over for a movie. You should bring Ellie by so she has someone to keep her company." The words tumble out faster than I intend, leaving no room for second-guessing.
Joel’s shoulders ease as he processes the suggestion. "Reckon she’d like that," he says after a moment. "Took off work for the day, so I can grab ‘em from school and bring somethin’ to cook for dinner."
"That would be great. My upstairs kitchen hasn’t seen much action lately, and my microwave is on its last legs. So I was just going to order pizza," I say being honest about my disdain for cooking.
Joel smirks. "That's about to change. You still want pizza for dinner?" he confirms.
I laugh, the sound is light and easy. "I’m okay with whatever you want to make, chef. I’m sure anything will be good."
"That ain’t what you were sayin’ a few months back," Joel quips.
I giggle, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
Joel takes the last sip of his cider, but a few drops escape past his bottom lip, catching in his short beard. My eyes linger there a second too long, and I have to resist the sudden, irrational urge to reach out and wipe them away. Get it together, Carrie.
"Okay, well, now I’m really looking forward to tonight," I manage, sliding out of the booth. I glance at the growing line of customers. "I need to get back."
Joel stands, his large frame almost dwarfing the booth. "Take it easy. And… thanks again, sugar," he says sincerely.
As I walk away, something gnaws at me. He’s so clearly worried about Ellie, and I can’t stand to leave him without telling him how great he’s doing. On impulse, I turn around and pick up the pace to catch him near the door. “Joel,” I call after him.
He halts then turns, eyes softening as they meet mine. "Yeah?" he asks.
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. "You’re a wonderful father. Ellie is intelligent, beautiful, and healthy. I can’t say for certain if she is happy. But, what teenage girl is? All I know is that her love for you is unmistakable,” I ramble, grateful that I spoke low enough that only he hears me.
Joel’s half-smile deepens into something softer, tinged with gratitude or maybe relief. "That’s real sweet of ya, Carrington," he says, his voice low and warm, making my heart stutter.
I shrug, trying to ignore the heat creeping into my cheeks. "It's just the truth. You’re a good person, Joel. Anyone can see it."
He chuckles quietly, almost self-deprecating, glancing down as if unsure what to do with the compliment. A customer clearing their throat pulls him back, and he steps aside.
"Thank ya," he murmurs, barely audible at first. Then, louder, "Hell, I needed that."
"I know," I say, smiling. "I'll see you tonight."
I wave, spinning on my toes and floating toward the counter. Behind me, Joel’s voice calls out, lighter now, almost playful. "See ya later, sugar."
The door jingles as someone leaves and when I turn around, he’s gone. His cologne lingering like a whisper. I close my eyes briefly, committing the moment to memory before forcing myself to focus on the growing line of customers.
Tonight cannot come soon enough.
tysm for reading!! here's the next chapter if you can't get enough sugar.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter summary: the sweetest baker celebrates her birthday with her best friends who have a little something up their sleeves. word count: 4673
꒰ ୨୧ ─ chapter trigger warnings: characters affected by symptoms of mental illness, mention of parental death, casual alcohol consumption, class disparity, angst, fluff, & sexual innuendos. as always, let me know if i missed something.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ links: series masterlist, spotify playlist, info & faceclaims.
"Welcome to The Austin. I assume you have a reservation?" The host’s voice is polished, crisp, and practiced—the perfect balance of professionalism and mild disinterest. Of course, we have a reservation.
This isn't the kind of place you just walk into. The Austin is one of Chicago’s most exclusive restaurants, the type people name-drop to prove they've made it. It's rumored to be gunning for a Michelin star, and judging by the sleek decor and the low hum of conversation behind frosted glass dividers, they’re probably close.
Reservations are nearly impossible to get unless you're someone like my best friend, Madeline Crown. With golden hair cascading in effortless waves and a beauty that makes people pause mid-sentence, Madi is high society. She moves through the world with the kind of confidence that makes you believe doors open simply because she asks.
"Yes," Madi says, leaning in slightly, her smile warm and calculated. "It’s my best friend’s birthday, and we have a reservation under Madeline Crown."
Before I can process what she's just done, she pulls me forward, the reluctant twenty-sixth birthday girl.
I stumble slightly, nearly tripping on the hem of my dress. "Ah, yes, that would be me," I mumble, raising a weak wave. The cheap plastic tiara shifts on my head, and I fidget with it, resisting the urge to rip it off. Madi insisted I wear it, along with the sash that now feels less like a fun accessory and more like a flashing neon sign.
The host, a young man with perfectly styled hair and the detached air of someone who deals with people like Madi daily, offers a polite, practiced smile. "Many happy returns," he mutters, already tapping on the sleek tablet in front of him. "Just the three of you, Ms. Crown?" He barely glances at me before flicking his gaze behind us for confirmation.
That phrase, just three, sends a sharp pang through my chest.
It's been five hundred seventy-six days since my mom died in a car accident. For that long, I've been trying to survive without her. My dad is some unknown face and name to me but my mom was everything. My anchor. And now, as an only child, I'm left adrift, clinging to whatever family I can create for myself.
Madi and Nic are that family. My lifeline. I couldn’t bring myself to ask for much this year. That’s why today is just lunch. Quiet. Simple.
We’ve been a trio since boarding school at Saint Joan of Arc Academy. An expensive exile for kids whose parents wanted them out of the way. I got in on a scholarship at eleven, suddenly surrounded by weekend chauffeurs and lavish shopping trips. Madi was already queen bee at twelve. Nic was being groomed for politics at fifteen. We weren’t meant to be friends, but somehow we clicked. The nasty combination of boredom and trauma will do that to you, I guess.
"Yes, just the three of us," Madi confirms breezily.
"And somewhere discreet," Nic adds, his voice smooth but firm.
Nic, the final member of our trio, shifts beside me. Dressed in a dark tailored suit, with every strand of hair perfectly combed, he looks like he belongs in GQ. However, the way his sharp eyes flick toward the entrance betrays his calm demeanor. He hates attention as much as I do, but avoiding it is impossible.
He is Nicolas Lec, the youngest state senator in Illinois history. A walking headline and a magnet for cameras. It doesn’t help that he and Madi have been the subject of countless tabloid articles, their friendship often mistaken for something more.
"Right this way," the host says, snapping me out of my thoughts as he grabs a few menus and gestures for us to follow.
My feet carry me forward automatically, trailing behind Madi, who stops to exchange pleasantries with someone she probably doesn’t remember but will pretend to. I barely register her words as I brush past, following the host. Behind me, Nicolas moves in measured steps.
The restaurant sits atop a sleek downtown building, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing a breathtaking view of the Chicago skyline. Below us, the streets are alive, day drinkers spilling onto sidewalks, clad in red, white, and blue, celebrating the other reason for today’s occasion. But from up here, they look like scattered confetti.
Sunlight floods the room, bouncing off crystal glasses and polished silverware. The faint scent of steak and butter lingers in the air. My shoulders tense slightly as we weave through the tables, the effortless elegance of the fabulously wealthy pressing in around me.
I’m not exactly broke. My bakery’s just started turning a profit, but moments like this remind me of the stark divide between me and people like Madi and Nic. My mom left me twenty-grand while Madi and Nic come from families that have millions. If not for my mom’s accidental death life insurance policy, I’d still be a nurse. After she died, I decided to only do things that didn't drain me. Turning my hobby into a business seemed like the right move but now, sitting here, surrounded by wealth and privilege, the separation feels like a slap in the face.
We reach a square table tucked in a corner, secluded enough to make Nic comfortable while still in view of the restaurant. He steps forward, pulling out the chair closest to the window for me.
"Thanks," I say, sliding into the seat as the city skyline stretches behind me like a postcard.
The host sets the menus down with the same efficiency he’s maintained since we arrived. "Your server will be with you shortly," he says smoothly before stepping away.
"Appreciate it," Nic replies, taking the seat next to me, his back to the majority of the room. He exhales deeply, shoulders loosening as he finally relaxes.
Madi breezes in a moment later, dropping into the chair across from us with a dramatic sigh. "What’d I miss?" she huffs, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Nic and I exchange a glance, rolling our eyes in perfect unison. "Literally nothing," I say, a teasing smile tugging at my lips as I open my menu. "We just sat down."
A few minutes pass as we scan the options. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Madi’s perfectly manicured fingers tapping against the table, her sparkling purple polish gleaming under the natural lighting. It’s so dazzling it practically demands attention.
"This place is to die for. What’s everyone getting?" she asks, her voice a mix of genuine excitement and her usual dramatic flair. Her wide smile makes it clear she’s in her element.
I furrow my brows, flipping between the sides and appetizers, hoping for something to stand out. No such luck. "Why’d you bring me to a place with no fries on my birthday?" I shoot back, glaring over the menu’s edge.
Nic snorts, sliding his menu across the table. "They’ve got baked potatoes," he says, pointing at the page like he’s solved a crisis. His tone’s calm but laced with a hint of smugness, like I should be grateful for this revelation.
I push the menu back toward him, unimpressed. "I hate to break it to you, darling, but that’s not remotely the same as french fries," I counter, raising an eyebrow.
Madi throws her hands up in mock surrender, her sparkly nails catching the light again. "It’s still a potato. I just assumed you’d be content with any potato," she replies defensively, though amusement lingers in her voice.
Leaning back, I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing away my frustration. "Yeah, but I don’t even like steak, and here we are, at a steakhouse on my birthday. You know what? Forget it. I’m getting Wendy’s after—"
I stop mid-sentence as a server approaches, pulling myself up short. Even in my irritation, I don’t want to be loud or rude, especially when they’ve been so accommodating to Nic’s presence.
The server, a brunette dressed sharply in the restaurant’s all-black uniform, stops just shy of the table. Her smile is bright and professional. "Welcome to The Austin. My name’s Victoria, and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you all started with something to drink?" Her tone’s cheerful and practiced.
I straighten up, ready to reply, but Madi speaks first. "Three margaritas, and keep ‘em coming," she says confidently, not even glancing at the drink menu.
Victoria nods, her smile unwavering. "I’ll be right back with those for you." She turns on her heel and disappears toward the bar.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Nic turns toward Madi, his brows drawing together in disapproval. "I can’t drink on the job, Mads," he scolds, his voice low and annoyed.
Madi shrugs, her signature smirk creeping across her face. "Well, what a relief no one needs to know but the three of us, golden boy," she teases, twirling a finger in lazy circles on the table.
Nic scoffs, crossing his arms. "Oh, fuck off. I'm not golden," he mutters, defensive but laced with exasperated humor.
I shake my head, patting his arm. "No, you're not. You’ve just become Mr. Americana to the rest of the world. But don’t worry, we know who you really are," I say, hoping to lighten the mood before anyone starts noticing the tension.
Nic’s hazel eyes crinkle as he breaks into a reluctant smile. "Thank you, Carrington," he says, warm and teasing as his body relaxes slightly.
And just like that, the moment sours. The full name he knows I hate. God, the government name. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. How the fuck did Madi ever date him? Even though it was in school, I can’t help but gag every time I think about them kissing.
I pull my hand back, arching an eyebrow. "How many times do I have to remind you to stop calling me that?" My tone’s sharper than I intended.
Nic leans back, grinning. "You might want to ask my assistant about that. I wouldn’t know," he jokes, looking way too pleased with himself.
I clench my fist under the table, resisting the urge to smack him. Not in public, and definitely not in a place that’d kick me out in seconds.
Victoria returns with our drinks, placing a margarita in front of each of us. I take a long sip, the tart lime cutting through my irritation. "What can I get you to eat today?" she asks, glancing between Madi and me, pen poised over her notepad.
Madi jumps in immediately, her enthusiasm infectious. I almost don’t notice the prices glaring at me from the menu. Almost. My stomach tightens as I scan the entrees again. None are under two hundred dollars, and I haven’t eaten since I had one of the fudge brownies my staff made for my birthday. I can’t drink on an empty stomach, but I also can’t justify spending this much.
Almost as if he can read my mind, Nic leans closer and murmurs, "Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it," so only I hear him.
I shake my head quickly, closing the gap between us. "No. Fuck no," I whisper fiercely. He could put it on his card, sure, but I’d still be compelled to Venmo him afterward.
He flashes a toothy grin, confidence unwavering. "It’s your birthday, and you’re not paying so order whatever you want," he says firmly before turning to Victoria to place his order.
I exhale quietly, frustrated but grateful, and glance back down at the menu. If nothing else, at least the margarita’s strong enough to make me forget the awkwardness of being the broke friend for a little while.
Nic’s deep voice hums like a distant bassline as I scan the menu again. The words blur slightly, each option teasing with indulgence. Finally, I settle on the scallops and rice, hoping it’ll live up to the restaurant’s reputation and shift my mood. Victoria glides over to take my order, her smile unwavering. I try to sound confident, even though a small knot of doubt twists in my stomach.
Two rounds of drinks later, Victoria reappears, balancing a tray of appetizers with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. She sets down plates of decadent dishes and smiles warmly. "These are compliments of the chef," she says, light but professional. "He wanted you to have a taste of some of his favorites for your birthday."
Madi perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with something far too mischievous. Nic exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he already knows where this is going.
"Oh, how lovely," Madi coos, entirely too pleased, picking up an oyster and tilting her head dramatically. "The chef must be quite thoughtful. Tell him we said ‘thank you.’"
Nic raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Good man," he says, leaning back.
I blink, glancing at the food. "That’s... incredibly generous of him. Please thank him for us," I manage, trying not to sound as stunned and confused as I feel.
The aromas pull my focus back to the table. The mussels are decent, the oysters smooth but unremarkable. Though, the escargot is something else entirely. Rich, garlicky butter soaks into crisp breadcrumbs, crunching against soft sourdough. The first bite is an explosion of flavor that makes me momentarily forget I’m eating a snail. The second is indulgent. By the third, I don’t care who’s watching.
Nic and Madi exchange amused glances as I scrape the plate clean, spoon chasing every last trace of sauce. "Should we order more?" Nic asks, his tone casual yet knowing.
I shake my head, laughing softly. "No, I’m finished." But I have to actively restrain myself from licking the plate.
Before our meals arrive, a waiter approaches with a fresh cocktail in hand. Instead of setting it down immediately, he presents a small cream-colored envelope along with it, the restaurant’s logo embossed in gold.
I frown, glancing between Madi and Nic. "What is this?"
Madi leans in, eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. "Oh, how intriguing."
Nic barely looks up from his phone now in his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "Maybe it’s my lawyer sending my cease and desist to you. You’ve been terrorizing me for years."
I scoff and unfold the thick cardstock. "Happy Birthday, beautiful. Hope your afternoon is as lovely as you are. -J" I blink, my grip tightening slightly around the note.
"Who the hell is J?" I murmur, pulse kicking up half a beat. My mind races, but I come up empty. I don’t know a ‘J’. I don’t even know anyone who works here. And yet… the words on the card are undeniably charming.
Before I can question it further, our entrees arrive, stealing my attention. The presentation is theatrical, the waiter reciting ingredients and techniques like a poet delivering a sonnet. It feels extravagant, almost performative, but no one else seems to mind.
My scallops and rice are placed in front of me with reverence, the plate looking like an edible masterpiece. Madi leans in for a photo, carefully angling her phone for the perfect shot, while Nic wastes no time digging into his steak. I follow his lead, setting aside the card with eagerness to taste what I ordered.
The first bite is a rude awakening. The scallops are tough, their delicate flesh now charred and bitter. The rice, promising an infusion of flavors, is bland and dry, like it gave up halfway through the cooking process. My mouth rebels, and I force myself to swallow before quickly reaching for my margarita.
Nic notices, brows furrowing as he tilts his head. "The fuck’s the matter with you?" he asks, voice low enough to avoid drawing attention but sharp enough to cut through the restaurant’s ambient noise.
I shake my head, plastering on a weak smile and draining the last of my drink. "Nothing," I murmur, avoiding his eyes. I should be grateful just to be here. A place like this is leagues beyond what I can afford.
Madi’s gaze darts between Nic and me before she jumps in, her tone a mix of annoyance and authority. "It’s not nothing. If you don’t like the food, they’ll remake it," she says, gesturing pointedly toward something—or someone—in the room. "Look, here comes the owner."
My eyes sweep across the dining area, searching for whoever Madi is referring to. The moment I spot him, the air shifts.
He moves like he owns the place. Not just because he does, but because he looks like someone built from grit and control. Broad shoulders, strong build, tan skin, rolled-up sleeves revealing scarred forearms. The chef’s jacket clings to him in all the right ways. His hair is thick, streaked with silver, messy in a way that makes it worse. Better. Dangerous.
Then he looks up.
His eyes are deep, unreadable, and I swear they hold every hard thing he has ever survived. There is no smile. No need. He radiates something heavy, calm, masculine, sharp. Like a war god in an apron.
And I forget how to breathe.
"Lec. Mrs. Crown," he greets, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble with a slow Texas drawl. "Good to see y’all again. Appreciate the support."
It is then I realize I have been staring, caught somewhere between admiration and outright ogling. That is a beautiful specimen of a man.
"The thanks is all mine to give, Chef Miller," Nic says, his usual authority softened by rare gratitude. "The catering you did for my election gala? Best in the city. People still talk about it."
So, this is the famous chef they've been raving about. The one whose cooking supposedly won over my best friends while I was nowhere to be found. That night, I was drowning in the chaos of finalizing my mom’s affairs, my grief so consuming that the idea of facing a gala or even a five-star meal felt impossible. Nic never pushed me to go and I was grateful he understood.
Chef Miller listens to Nic’s praise without a trace of false modesty. He gives a slow nod, like he is used to people complimenting his work but doesn't let it go to his head. "Glad to hear it, Senator," he says, voice steady but distant, as if his mind is only halfway in the conversation. He avoids eye contact for a moment, his fingers flexing slightly at his side. Then, as if shaking off a thought, his attention shifts to Madi.
"Everything tastin’ good, Ms. Crown?" he asks, raising a brow. It softens his otherwise rugged features, though it does nothing to diminish his intensity.
Madi lights up under his gaze, straightening as if about to be crowned queen. "Mine? Absolutely," she says, her voice saccharine and deliberate. Then she glances sideways at me, her lips curving into a slow, knowing grin. "But Carrie’s? Not so much."
I freeze as her words land like a spotlight aimed directly at me.
Chef Miller’s gaze follows her gesture, locking onto me with an intensity that sends a slow, simmering heat through my spine. His brown eyes, dark and sharp, flick over my face, quiet and assessing. His skin, golden and sun-warmed, hints that he spends more time outdoors than in a kitchen.
"Joel, meet the birthday girl I've told you about, Carrington Scott," Madi announces with dramatic flair, like my introduction is meant to change the course of history.
My breath catches as I process both her words and the man standing in front of me. Joel Miller is overwhelming, not just because of his commanding presence or how good he looks, but because of the way he looks at me. It's not just a glance. It's piercing, deliberate, like he's seeing me in a way that makes my heart pound a little too fast.
His gaze lingers, unapologetic, and I swear he's cataloging every detail. The way my fingers fidget in my lap, the flush creeping up my cheeks, the way my breath hitches. Giving a bad review is hard enough, but giving one in person? To a man like him? Borderline impossible.
"Hi," I manage to squeak out, raising a hand in a small, awkward wave.
Joel’s eyes narrow slightly as they flick down to my plate before lifting back up, his expression unreadable. His stare is heavy, enough to make my brain fog. Then, just when I think I have caught a reprieve, he pins me with it again.
I let my hand crumble and fall into my lap. "You don't like the scallops, sugar?" His deep, gravelly voice drips with Southern charm, and the casual endearment slides off his tongue so effortlessly it makes my heart stutter.
Oh, fuck off. The man might be devastatingly gorgeous, but some of his food is awful. Still, the way he says sugar leaves me clinging to every syllable like my life depends on it. I square my shoulders, forcing myself to push past whatever spell he just cast over me.
"Or the rice," I say, my tone steady despite the warmth creeping up my neck.
Joel’s eyebrows lift slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Nobody’s ever complained about my cookin’,” he says, a touch of disbelief edging into challenge. “What’s wrong with it?”
I clear my throat, sliding the plate closer. “It’s dry and burnt,” I say plainly, then gesture for him to come take a look.
His shoes thud softly as he steps forward, closing the space between us. He leans down, shoulders brushing the back of my chair, and suddenly I feel boxed in. The faint scent of smoke and cedar clings to him, and I breathe it in before I can stop myself.
I motion to the scallops, my voice quieter. “Look.”
Joel leans closer, his arm brushing past me to rest on the table, chest nearly grazing my shoulder. The heat of him is distracting.
His brows knit together as he studies the plate. Then, with a quiet grunt, he lifts it. “I’m sorry ‘bout that,” he says, voice lower now, almost gentle. “Can I get you somethin’ else, Ms. Scott?”
The way he says my last name shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
I shake my head, thinking through the menu. “No, it’s fine. I don’t really like anything else on here.”
Joel frowns, not buying it. “It’s your birthday, sugar. I’m not sendin’ you out hungry.”
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and touch his forearm. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, muscles tightening under the contact. “I’m not upset,” I say softly. “I wouldn’t lie.”
His eyes drop to my hand, then back to my face. The look he gives me is quiet, heavy, unreadable. But it sears straight through me.
I pull my hand back as Victoria appears to refill drinks, her chipper voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Joel straightens, handing her the plate without a word, but when she steps away, his eyes are back on me.
“Why don’t you come back to the kitchen with me?” he asks, voice smooth, almost coaxing. “My sous chef made that but I’ll whip up somethin’ just for you.”
The suggestion feels less like an offer and more like a dare. My cheeks flush. “No, that’s alright,” I say quickly. “We’re leaving soon anyway.” The white lie burns in my throat.
He studies me for a beat, then gives a small nod, hands raised in surrender. “Alright,” he says, a hint of something teasing in his voice. “If you change your mind, just let Victoria know.”
Then he turns to the group, his voice steady and composed. “Y’all have a good time celebratin'. Hope to see you again soon.”
Nic and Madi both murmur goodbyes like they’ve just encountered some divine figure. And then he’s gone—broad shoulders disappearing through the kitchen door, leaving the space around me buzzing.
I exhale, but it does nothing to cool the heat in my skin.
When I glance at Madi, she’s staring at me like I just insulted her in public. She shoves her plate aside with the force of someone preparing to fight. “I’m going to murder you,” she announces, too calm for comfort.
My head jerks back so fast I'm one vertebra away from whiplash. "What? Why?"
She sighs and takes a long sip of her margarita, then slams the glass down like she means business.
“That was your birthday gift, you dumbass.” Her glare could level buildings. “You think we didn’t know they don’t serve fries? They don’t need fries. They have Joel Miller. Fine-ass, single, definitely-into-you, Chef Joel Miller.” Her voice rises. “He was practically drooling on your shoulder, and you just sat there like a statue!"
Joel Miller. The hot, single chef. Into me?
"What?" I repeat, because apparently my brain has decided to go on strike.
Madi groans like she's physically in pain. “I was trying to set you up with the sexy. Single. Chef. I told him about you at Nic's gala and he asked to meet you. That man was giving serious signals. He’s like the blue-collar Timothée Chalamet, but with muscles and home improvement skills.”
Nic leans back, arms crossed, watching me like a car crash. “Does she need flashcards, or is she just frozen?” he asks Madi sarcastically.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I mutter, “Buffering. Please hold.”
"Well, you don’t have time to buffer,” Madi snaps, slapping the table. “We’re ditching you while they flip for dinner, and you’re going back there. You’re going to let that man make you something. Just the two of you. And then—” she leans in, eyes gleaming, “you’re gonna let him whip you up... later. At home," she demands, referencing Joel’s words just moments ago.
My body combusts on the spot. “Madi!” I hiss, horrified. Half the restaurant turns. Lowering my voice, I add, “I’m not ready for that.”
Time seems to freeze and the moment hangs in the air way too long for my liking. Then, Madi's face softens, the scheming energy melts away. "Oh, Carrie," she says gently, her hand reaching out to cover mine.
The words spill out of me before I can stop them. "I just... I haven't been with anyone since my mom died. It's like—like there's this invisible wall, and every time I think about dating, I remember she’ll never meet him, and it's just... crushing. I don't even know where to start." My voice shakes, tears threatening.
Nic clears his throat. “Told you this was a bad idea,” he mutters.
Madi’s whole face folds with regret. “I’m sorry. I pushed too hard. Forgive me?” she pleads with puppy dog eyes.
I tuck a curl behind my ear, breath shaky. “It’s fine. Really. Can we just... change the subject?”
Madi, never one to dwell, immediately perks up. "Yes! Okay!" She claps her hands like an excited toddler. "You know what? Redo gift. Let's go shopping down Magnificent Mile. On me so you get to shop all the stores, none of the guilt."
A grin starts to creep onto my face. Hours of wandering through overpriced boutiques and mocking terrible designer trends? Now that I can get behind. "Deal."
Nic, already standing, smiles as he pushes his chair in. "I have to go but you two have fun. I'll see you this weekend. Oh, and happy birthday, Care. I'll cover the bill on my way out."
"You're the best!" I call after him, my gratitude outweighing my embarrassment for my full name.
Nic pauses at the partition separating us from the general population, shooting me a wink. "Anytime, sugar."
Madi immediately grabs her chest and fake-retches like she's just been poisoned. "Why is it," she says, voice dripping with melodrama, "that when Joel does it, my panties evaporate, but when Nic does it, I want to throw my shoe at him?"
"Ditto," I say, draining the last of my drink and grabbing my purse.
Happy freakin' birthday to me.
thank you for reading if you made it this far! here's the next chapter.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ summary: What happens when a grumpy, Gordon Ramsay-style chef with a Texas drawl meets the sweetest baker in Chicago? Sparks fly, but this slow-burn romance takes its time to rise.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ trigger warnings: no outbreak, characters affected by symptoms of mental illness, mention of deaths (one of them is Sarah, sorry to everyone in advance), casual substance use, eventual smut, angst, fluff, & sexual innuendos.
꒰ ୨୧ ─ links: joel masterlist, spotify playlist, info & faceclaims.
This is my first fanfic, and it's been a long time coming (word to Taylor Swift). Three years, a full rewrite, and a lot of growth later, I'm finally ready to share it. The characters are mostly from TLOU2 during the early Jackson era, but I've played with the ages to make the dynamics work. Yes, that still includes giving Joel a controversially young and hot love interest. There's no outbreak in this world, but Sarah still dies, and it still hurts. Please check the trigger warnings before each chapter because they're there for a reason. Whether you're new or returning from the original draft, thank you for reading.
chapter 1: in the quiet of the night
chapter tags: referenced child abuse, fantasy elements, 90s setting, implied polyamory, meeting the family
chapter warnings: child abuse, death, mild language
word count: 3347
A/N: very much a departure from borealis lol, but i love this little family so much and i hope you will too!
Another night of disrupted sleep. 2:00am shines red from the alarm clock and from across the hall Cass can hear the sounds of muffled cries, the creak of aged bedsprings. Another nightmare, or exhaustion from the insomnia. Her heart aches as she lies in silence— her previous attempts to go in and offer comfort had not been accepted well. He’s a teenager after all, a mess of hormones and confusion, and she is little more than a stranger to him.
When he’s not making himself small and haunting the house with his barely traceable presence, he dons a mask of blank indifference. When she brings up the nightmares in the morning he lies— blames the sounds she hears on the wind, or her own imagination. They had decided against therapy at first, wanting to see if Keiren could bounce back with their help. Or, that’s what they tell the doctors and social services.
In reality, they simply cannot afford that kind of expense; taking in her estranged brother’s newly orphaned thirteen year old hadn’t been in the budget as it is, and they’d only just closed on the cafe a couple months ago. Keiren’d seemed fine— distant, grieving, prone to random flares… But fine. Or so showed the act he put on for them, which fell away each night. The sun set and the caricature of a moody, disinterested teenager dissolved to reveal a child who couldn’t sleep more than a couple hours at a time, and cried out for comfort he didn’t believe he deserved.
Now, Cass makes plans to use the local library’s computer to look for some sort of support group in their new neighborhood for the kid. The circles under his dark eyes border on black these days, and he’s having trouble staying awake throughout the day, if his tutor is to be believed. If something doesn’t change soon, he’s going to end up in the hospital, the last thing he needed.
Another cry, this one much louder, quickly followed by a thud! Has her jumping out of bed and tiptoeing across the hall, pushing open her new housemate’s bedroom door. The bed is empty of both teenager and bedding, and when she looks down to find the aforementioned teen tangled within the blankets on the floor, she heaves a sigh. Orange light like that of a dying fire glows within the thin quilt, but there’s no heat. Moving slowly, because she hasn’t been sensed yet by the normally vigilant boy, Cass takes one edge of the blanket, pulling it away to reveal a flushed, teary face and a senseless fluff of dark curls.
His eyes are still clenched shut, but he stiffens when she brushes against him, flaring to feverish temps and pulling away to sit more fully against the side of the bed. Her heart constricts in response, because this— this is the most unexpected part of taking in her nephew.
They had foreseen the nightmares, the moodiness, the grief, the shaky grasp of control he held over his still developing abilities.
They hadn’t foreseen the flinching, the fear of raised voices, the rejection of physical contact. Her brother hadn’t been a kind man or a good man when she knew him, and apparently he hadn’t changed that for his child. The bruises the doctors found hadn’t been caused by the fire, and they hadn’t been the result of rough treatment by the rescue team, but remnants of the loveless man laying in the morgue.
Retracting her hands, Cass sits across from him and lets him wake fully. Red rimmed eyes blink open and meet her soft gaze fleetingly, before falling to examine the faded bedspread covering his lap.
The orange glow fades; slow, almost tentative.
“S-sorry…” he croaks, a word she’s heard more in the last 3 weeks than she has in her entire life, she’s sure. He apologizes for everything— a knee jerk reaction the moment he seems to think he’s upset her. “I just fell but I’m fine, you can go back to bed.” That had been his explanation for the bruises, too. With that, he tries to stand, attempting to unwind the bedspread with minimal success and nearly tumbling to the ground a second time.
“Oh, baby…” She can’t help but murmur, climbing to her feet so she can help him free his tangled limbs, laying the blanket back on the bed.
Standing face to face in the smallish room, with none of the distance they usually maintain during the day, she looks over the boy she’s taken in— all gangly limbs and awkward posture. Thirteen years old and he’s taller than her already, and yet again she is struck by the fact that she has missed her nephew’s entire childhood. A month ago she hadn’t even been aware of his existence.
“You know the doctor said nightmares were normal, and we have those pills for the insomnia. You don’t have to hide these things from me.” But he’s already shaking his head, panic blooming in his eyes. “No please, I don’t want the pills, I can’t control it when I'm taking them.”
And there was the elephant in the room. Not her nephew’s abilities, but his belief that his abilities had killed his parents. He refused to even acknowledge them point blank, and she’d only seen him really use his powers once; at the hospital when he’d been informed of his parents’ deaths. The flames had burned intensely but hadn’t struck out once; instead swirling together to form a cocoon around him. No one had been able to get through them and they’d had to resort to calling in a hydra working in the cafeteria to douse the flames so they could sedate him.
Now, Keiren avoids heat like the plague; windows flung open despite the still chilly spring temps, electric fan going full speed. All he had salvaged from his old house was armfuls of eclectic sweaters, and yet he lived in the plain tank tops and t-shirts the temporary foster family provided him. He doesn’t even seem to like being in the kitchen when the stove is on.
He cautiously climbs back into bed when she gestures for him to do so, going along without complaint when she drapes the blanket back over him— he could do it himself of course, and he’ll likely kick it off as soon as she leaves, but he’s just so heartbreaking with his shaking hands and nervous glances, and if he’s not going to sleep Cass at least wants him comfortable.
“Are you sure? We have a long day tomorrow, if you don’t get at least a little sleep…” She hesitates to give in— she’s a mother now, shouldn’t she put her foot down here? He truly does need the sleep— meeting the others is going to be rough enough for him without the added stress of a sleepless night. Her own parents would never have entertained giving her a choice to take medication or not, but her parents hadn’t been in a situation like this.
“I’ll sleep, I promise; you don’t have to worry about me. I won’t ruin tomorrow for you.” He says it so earnestly, and paired with such big wet eyes that any thought of standing her ground vanishes. He’s had enough of people poking and prodding at him to do as they bid and she wouldn’t become one of them.
She can’t let that last comment go though, and her hand makes an aborted motion to run through his hair before she reconsiders and settles it instead on her hip.
“You could never ruin anything, baby.” she exhales, nodding. “You promise you’ll sleep? No books, no music?” More than once she had noticed him curled up with a flashlight and a novel, headphones firmly in place and blasting whatever the kids were listening to these days deep into the night. Keiren shakes his head again, and the exhaustion in his eyes makes her believe that he will at least try.
“Okay then. Sleep tight.” she offers as he’s rolling over to face the wall; a dismissal. She studies his tense form a moment longer, rubbing absently at her chilled arms before leaving.
It’s the best a night like this has gone, Cass muses as she climbs back into bed. He’s the most talkative at night, when the need for sleep has lowered his walls some, but he’s still nearly nonverbal. The conversation tonight is the most he’s said in one sitting since being discharged from the hospital. She lies still, waiting for a sign that the teenager is being assuaged by nightmares once again.
The night stays still and silent.
Hoping it is a sign of better things to come, she turns out the light and succumbs to sleep.
They arrive at the house first; the movers’ trucks pull away just as they crunch over the gravel driveway.
Keiren silently refuses her offer to help take his few belongings out of the car and hefts the battered book bag over his shoulder before dragging the garbage bag that contains his clothes out of the passenger side door to land by his feet. Cass grabs her own bag of last minute essentials and heads for the front door left partially ajar, hissing when her elbow catches on the knob. She sets her bag on the white kitchen counter before taking in her surroundings.
The house is… bright. Late morning sunlight pours through windows accented with cheery yellow curtains, illuminating the tiny dust particles in the air— no doubt kicked up by the movers unloading. Outside the window a flock of sprites flitter around, chasing a squirrel. Towers of meticulously labeled boxes fill each room, with newly assembled furniture standing out like islands in the sea. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating.
Rubbing her hands on her jeans, Cass walks back to the front door, where Keiren stands. He looks painfully out of place; trash bag slumped by his feet, oversized t-shirt pulled off one shoulder from the weight of his bookbag, gaze focused on the yellowed smoke detector above the door. She makes a note to have them all checked and replace any faulty ones.
She’s about to show him to his room when another car crunches over the gravel; Peter.
Keiren’s reaction is expected, given the little she knows of him— he freezes, panicked, eyes finding hers before he looks away, and then he just… vanishes. His shoulders pull inward, he steps away and turns so his back is to the wall, and drops his gaze to the ground. His hands clutch tightly at the strap of his bag, and the temperature of the room raises a bit.
She’s torn between telling him to go upstairs in order to give him a reprieve and just getting the initial first meeting out of the way, when heavy footsteps take the choice from her and the door flies open.
A large hand grappling for the handle stops it from making contact with the wall, and an equally large man passes through.
“Shit, sorry! What kind of hinges did they put on this thing?” She can’t help but roll her eyes.
“You’re late.” Cass scolds, hands on hips.
“Ah, come on babe! Not that late, and I hardly think the kid cares that much about punctuality. What teenager does?” he mutters good naturedly as he toes off his boots and drops them by the door. She clears her throat, gaining his attention and nodding towards Keiren.
“Oh. OH! Fuck, sorry kid, I didn’t even see you there. Kieren, right?” He steps forward to shake his hand, apparently deciding not to heed any of the warnings she had given him beforehand. To his credit, he doesn’t just grab the kid’s hand like he usually would, instead leaves it extended for the teenager to either take or reject.
She’s prepared to intervene before any feelings can be hurt (he’s a sensitive sort of man, no matter the trucker hat and stature) but to her pleased surprise, a smaller hand slowly reaches out and takes his, shaking it once before making a hasty retreat to twist and worry the hem of his shirt.
Keiren doesn’t speak, not that she had expected him to, but he does nod, eyes flicking up to meet Peter’s for a split second before edging carefully away and to the doorway, making his escape. Peter turns towards her with a confused yet proud expression, pointing up the stairs.
“Did you see that? I think he likes me!” And this is why, despite his gruff personality and rough appearance, he was the one she wanted Keiren to meet first. “Kid was shaking like a leaf though, hope I didn’t startle ‘im too bad.”
“That’s the warmest greeting anyone’s gotten out of him yet,” She admits, reaching up to tug the brim of his ‘entirely ironic’ Madonna ballcap affectionately. “Come on, let’s go see if we can get the coffee machine unpacked. I’m not touching these boxes without caffeine.”
They do finally find the coffee machine, but the mugs are nowhere to be found. They sit on the back porch, sipping out of a ceramic measuring cup and a short vase, respectively. Keiren doesn’t make another appearance but she can hear him in his room, his music —something guitar heavy and angry— filtering through the screen of his open window. He’s avoiding them, Cass knows. One backpack and a few clothes simply did not take an hour to unpack.
But the clock is creeping towards noon, and they haven’t eaten. He’s slight enough as it is— teetering just on the edge of malnutrition, according to the doctor, and he can’t afford to be missing meals. Finishing her last swig of black coffee (and making a note to add creamer to the shopping list), Cass stands and nudges the screen door open enough to slip through, pausing to give Peter’s shoulder a squeeze, snorting when he can’t be bothered to pull his nose from his book.
Cooking meals Keiren would eat was another one of those unexpected challenges.
She’d cooked a huge meal to celebrate the adoption going through— roast chicken, green beans, baked potatoes, rolls. Admittedly, a meal more suited to her partners, but a good meal nonetheless. The teen had balked at the sight of the food laden table though, sitting stiffly the entire time and fiddling with a roll, nervously picking it to shreds. She’d heard him later that night in the kitchen, digging through the cupboard like a little mouse and scarfing down handfuls of cornflakes.
He held such an aversion towards casserole that he’d not even come down to eat, the one time she’d tried. He didn’t like chicken or beef. She’d ended up creating a mental list of the teenager’s ‘safe foods’: soup but not stew, plain turkey sandwiches with mustard, not mayo and never miracle whip, any and every kind of dry cereal… and little else. Even typical teen fare held no appeal. Pizza had gotten a few disinterested nibbles, and fast food had gotten a deluge of rejections and apologies before she’d even pulled into the drive-thru.
The pantry was still empty, but luckily she found the nonperishable food box, and dug out a couple cans of chili and a bag of corn chips for herself and Peter, and a can of vegetable soup for Keiren. She quickly gets the two meals heating up on the stove, fully immersed in the task of lunch.
So fully immersed that she doesn’t notice a second person in the kitchen until she turns to grab bowls and sees Keiren standing by the sink, filling a glass with water. He’s changed his clothes, succumbing to the chilly temperatures and donning a faded sweater with an uncharacteristic image of a smiling sun plastered across the front. She notes his bare feet curled a little against the cold hardwood, and adds socks to that ever growing list.
“Lunch is going to be ready in a couple minutes, sweetheart. I hope soup is okay? It’s veggie.” A short nod, and a flash of relief that confirms her instinct that chili would be a no-go with him. He turns, presumably to go back upstairs, but seems to hesitate before turning back around.
“Need help?” he asks so quickly that it takes a second for it to register. She nods belatedly, eyes wide and trying to stifle a smile, lest her excitement scare him off.
“Yeah. Yeah! Here, you can set the table. Bowls are above the sink, silverware is… to the right —no, the left— of the fridge. And can you also grab a soda from the fridge for Peter?” She almost asks him to grab a beer on instinct, but he’ll have to make do with pop until Keiren is settled.
He sets his water on the counter and goes about setting the table while she turns off the stove and gives the counter a cursory wipedown, tossing the empty cans as she does. It’s ridiculously mundane; they don’t even talk, and it's awkward maneuvering the new kitchen while also avoiding getting in each other’s way— and yet it’s the happiest she’d felt in months.
Between the funeral arrangements, the doctors’ visits, the nightmares, the social services appointments, the moving… It’d been impossible to find a second to breathe, and happiness has taken a backseat to surviving.
She hadn’t even set foot in the cafe since they’d closed; her partners had taken care of all of that down to hiring the staff and preparing for opening day. Hopefully by then Keiren would be settled enough to want to go with them. He hadn’t mentioned missing any friends, and he didn’t look particularly bothered to have spent so much of these months either alone or with adults, but a little social interaction would be good for him. Their neighbors had a daughter who looked around his age— her partners said to leave it alone, but she thought they would get along well. A housewarming party, just a casual backyard barbeque kind of thing, maybe…
A soft throat clear brings her out of her musing, and she takes in Keiren’s work. He’s sat her and Peter together at one end of the picnic style table and placed himself a fair distance away, just close enough to not look blatantly avoidant.
“You did great, Keiren,” She decides to test this new bravery of his. “Can you go and let Peter know that it’s time to eat? I just have to dish this all up,” she adds, turning a little to indicate the food.
He nods slowly but not hesitantly, from what she can tell, and slips away, silently as he came.
She doesn’t try to eavesdrop, because that would be silly. She just stands by the already open window, diligently drying a tiny wet spot on the counter. If she leans herself out the window a little to really take in the scenery and happens to also give herself a passable view of the porch, that’s no one’s business but her own.
Keiren doesn’t get the jump on Peter like he had Cass; the creaky screen door prevents it. Peter looks up from his book, turning in his rocker to see the teenager, who seems to stiffen a little bit, but again, doesn’t flee like she’s seen him do with other men.
Keiren talks with his hands, just like his father.
She can't make out their words from this distance, but even so, she can tell they’re not just talking about lunch. Peter holds up his book, apparently in answer to a question Keiren must have asked. The teen smiles. Cass nearly tumbles out the window in shock, barely righting herself and finishing filling their bowls just as the two walk in, joining her at the table. Lunch is a silent affair but for the clanking of spoons and the fizz of Peter’s soda can.
Keiren eats the entire bowl of vegetable soup.
Outside the sprites flutter and a distant dog barks.
ommmmg can u write something with nicolas being a new dad x reader wife 🙏🙏🙏 maybe them visiting his family during a short trip and him being sooooooo daddyyyy 😭😭 after seeing him in those GH pic with this baby …. 🥵😮💨 i just need a dad imagines with him since there isn’t any
❝Juno❞
─⋆♡ summary: You’re married to Nicholas Chavez and you bring your newborn baby to meet his grandparents.
─⋆♡ warnings: pregnancy, postpartum depression, fluff, allusions to sex but no smut, Daddy!Nicholas Chavez, Y/N used a few times, 1st person POV. as always i’m always learning so correct me if i missed something!!
─⋆♡ an: based on this ask & shoutout to that person because this was super sweet to write. there’s no public info on his parents and i felt weird looking for it so here’s some Chavez grandparents content. since this may be your introduction to me, i do write in first person, just inserting Y/N. 2nd and 3rd person are absolutely insufferable to me and make me wanna die. with that being said, i’m glad there’s no shortage of those fics on this website. my masterlist is the pinned post on my profile and i hope you all enjoy this imagine! ★ ˙ᵕ˙ liv
The journey to Nicholas’ grandparents’ house is filled with quiet anticipation. We haven’t visited in a while, not since Colette was born. I can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness at the thought of introducing Colette to her great-grandparents, Nick SR and Betty. Nicholas always speaks of them with such affection, often recounting tales from his childhood spent at their cozy home. They were instrumental in raising him, and their influence is deeply ingrained in who he’s become. Now, I’m eager to see how they’ll respond to our little family, especially to me as a new mother.
The sun is high in the sky as we pull into the gravel driveway, which crunches under the tires. The house is a charming, white colonial-style home with flower boxes beneath the windows, bursting with vibrant blooms. It looks like something out of a postcard—quaint and welcoming. Nicholas squeezes my hand as he turns off the car.
“You ready for this?” he asks, his brown eyes twinkling with excitement.
I smile, though my heart races. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I respond unwilling to let his hand go for the last time.
I eventually gain enough strength to go a second without touching him. We both step out of the car, and I unbuckle Colette from her car seat, carefully lifting her into my arms. She’s dressed in a soft, pastel onesie with tiny flowers embroidered on the front. Her big espresso colored eyes, so much like Nicholas’, blink up at me as she squirms a little in my hold. I kiss her soft forehead, breathing in that sweet baby scent that always seems to calm my nerves.
Before we even reach the front door, it flies open, and Betty appears on the porch. Her face lights up in a radiant smile as she hurries down the steps toward us. She’s a small woman, but she moves with surprising speed and agility, her silver hair tied back in a loose bun.
“There she is! Oh, it’s about time!” Betty exclaims, ignoring Nicholas entirely as she comes straight for me and Colette. Her arms are wide open, and she pulls me into a hug, careful not to crush the baby between us. “You, my darling, look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you. And this precious girl…” Her voice trails off as she gazes at Colette with shining eyes. “Oh, she’s just perfect.”
I laugh softly, returning her hug. “I’ve missed you, Mrs. Betty and thank you.”
Betty steps back, her hands still on my arms, her attention fully on Colette. “No, thank you! You brought another little angel into our family,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve made me the happiest great-grandmother.”
Nicholas, standing off to the side, grins as he watches the scene unfold. “Hey, Grandma,” he chimes in, clearly amused. “Good to see you too.”
Betty waves a hand in his direction without even glancing his way. “Yes, yes, Nicholas. We’ll get to you in a minute.” Her eyes shimmer as she reaches out to gently stroke Colette’s chubby cheek. “She’s absolutely precious,” she coos. “She looks just like Nicholas did when he was a baby.”
Just then, Nicholas’ grandfather steps out onto the porch, his tall frame casting a shadow as he approaches us. His blue eyes light up when he sees me holding Colette. “Well, if it isn’t our favorite girl,” he says with a warm grin, pulling me into a quick hug before peering down at Colette. “And look at this—another beauty in the family. You’ve done well,” he adds, giving Nicholas a nod of approval before clapping him on the shoulder.
“Well she is 50% of me so…” Nicholas’s twinge of jealousy for his favorite girls peeks out.
“Oh, hush, Nicholas,” Betty replies, waving a hand at him dismissively before turning to me again. “Come on, dear, let’s get you inside. You must be exhausted after the drive. And you must let me hold this precious girl as soon as you’re settled.”
Inside the house, the smell of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of herbs and flowers. The living room is cozy and welcoming, filled with family photos and knick-knacks that speak of years of love and memories. There are pictures of Nick as a little boy, his brother, and even one of us on our wedding day.
Betty leads us to the couch, offering to take Colette for a little while so I can rest. “She’s such a calm baby,” Betty remarks as she cradles Colette in her arms. “I remember Nicholas being a little firecracker at this age—always kicking and fussing. But you, my dear, are an angel, aren’t you?” she coos, her voice full of love as Colette blinks up at her.
Nick Sr. settles into an armchair nearby, watching with a contented smile. “Betty’s right,” he says, his voice warm. “Nick was a handful. Always running around and getting into trouble. I don’t know how we managed to keep up with him.”
Nicholas chuckles, settling beside me on the couch and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve heard those stories a few times.”
“I bet you have,” Betty says, her eyes twinkling. “But look at you now—such a wonderful father and husband. We’re so proud of you.”
My heart swells at their words, and I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me. It’s clear how much they love Nicholas and how deeply they cherish their family. Their affection extends to me as well, making me feel welcomed in a way that eases the nervousness I had felt earlier.
Betty carefully passes Colette back to me, and I can’t help but notice how her eyes linger on us—on the way I hold my daughter, the way Colette nuzzles into me. After a moment, she glances at Nick Sr., sharing a look that seems to speak volumes.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Betty says suddenly, rising from her seat with a bright smile. “We have something to show you.”
She disappears into another room, returning moments later with a large, leather-bound photo album. She hands it to Nicholas with a wide grin. “These are pictures of you when you were about Colette’s age. I thought it’d be fun to compare.”
Nicholas takes the album and begins flipping through the pages, his eyes lighting up as he sees the photos. “Oh wow,” he says, pointing to a picture of himself as a baby, bundled in a blanket. “Look at that, she really does look like me.”
I lean over to see the photo, and sure enough, the resemblance is striking. Colette has inherited her father’s dark hair and expressive eyes, and there’s something about the way she smiles that’s undeniably Nicholas Chavez.
Betty beams. “She’s got that same spark in her eyes that you had. And those cheeks! I could pinch them all day.”
I can’t help but smile as Nicholas flips through more photos—Nicholas as a toddler, covered in mud from head to toe; Nicholas on his first day of school, looking serious and determined; Nicholas holding a toy sword, pretending to be a knight. It’s clear that his grandparents were there for all of it, capturing every moment with care.
“Look at this one,” Nicholas says, laughing as he holds up a picture of himself as a toddler, sitting in a high chair with spaghetti sauce smeared all over his face.
Betty chuckles. “You loved spaghetti. Still do, if I remember correctly.”
As we continue to flip through the album, Betty excuses herself and motions for me to follow her into the kitchen. I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what she wants to talk about, but her kind smile reassures me.
Once we’re alone, she turns to me, her expression soft and full of understanding. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re doing a wonderful job, Y/N,” she says, her voice gentle. “Being a new mom is hard, and it can feel overwhelming sometimes. But from what I’ve seen, you’re handling it beautifully.”
I feel a lump form in my throat at her words, the unexpected kindness bringing a surge of emotion. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “It’s been… challenging at times. I have moments where I wonder if I’m doing it right.”
Betty reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “Those moments of doubt are normal. Every mother feels them. But you have such a natural way with Colette. She feels safe and loved with you—that’s the most important thing.”
I nod, blinking back tears. “It’s just… sometimes I feel like I should be able to do more. I get so tired, and Nick’s been amazing, but…” I trail off, stopping myself from revealing my biggest insecurities.
Betty’s eyes soften even more. “It’s okay to ask for help, dear. You don’t have to do it all on your own. If you ever need anything—advice, a break, someone to talk to—you can always come to me. I’m here for you, and so is Nicholas. We’re all family now,” she offers.
Her words wrap around me like a comforting embrace, and for the first time in a while, I feel a sense of relief. “Thank you,” I whisper, grateful beyond words.
Betty smiles and gives my hand another gentle squeeze. “You’re doing wonderfully. Just remember to take care of yourself too, okay?”
I nod, my heart swelling with appreciation for this woman who has welcomed me into her family with open arms. As we walk back into the living room, I feel lighter, the weight of my doubts lifting just a little.
Nicholas looks up as we enter, his eyes softening as they meet mine. “Everything okay?” he asks, his brow furrowing slightly in concern.
I smile, feeling a warmth spread through me. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Everything’s perfect.”
As the afternoon fades into evening, Betty leans forward with a warm smile, her hands clasped in her lap. “It’s been so wonderful having you all here today,” she says, her eyes soft as she looks between Nicholas, me, and Colette. “Why don’t you stay the night? It’s been far too long since we’ve had a full house, and we’d love the chance to spend more time with you.”
Nicholas turns to me, his voice gentle as he asks, “What do you think? We don’t have anywhere to rush off to, and it would give me a break from driving back tonight.”
I hesitate for a moment, weighing the offer. I think about Colette’s bedtime routine, the packed bags in the car, and my own exhaustion. But as I glance around at the warmth of the house, Nick’s grandparents’ eager faces, and the calmness that seems to settle over everything, I feel myself relax. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a change of scenery, and the idea of spending more time here—surrounded by family—sounds like exactly what I need.
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, smiling at Betty. “Thank you. We’d love to stay.”
Betty’s face lights up, and Nick Sr. nods with a wide grin. “Perfect,” he says. “We’ve got the guest room ready, and I can set up the bassinet in the guest room next to it. It’ll be like old times, having a little one in the house again.”
Betty stands, already making her way toward the kitchen. “I’ll put some tea on for later. You two make yourselves at home.”
Nicholas squeezes my hand, a smile spreading across his face. “See? It’s going to be a nice, quiet night—just us, Colette, and the best grandparents ever.”
The evening unfolds comfortably from there. Betty and Nick Sr. share stories about Nick’s childhood over cups of tea, their voices light with laughter and nostalgia. As the night deepens, we finally make our way to the guest room. It’s cozy and inviting, with a soft bedspread, and warm lighting.
Colette falls asleep easily after nursing, making for an easy bedtime routine. Nicholas and I kiss her on the forehead goodnight once we’ve got her situated in the bassinet. We separate briefly to prep for bed and when I’m finished, I crack open the door to the en-suite bathroom.
Nicholas looks up from a script, setting it to the side of the bedside table. My feet patter over to him and he pulls back the duvet for me to climb in. “I’m so tired,” I note as I slide between the sheets.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to his body. “I know, baby. Maybe my grandparents will watch her in the morning so we can sleep in,” he theorizes lowly, but I can still feel the bass of his voice rumbling from his chest into my back.
I sigh, letting my eyes flutter closed. It’s been an emotional day, and I’m ready for sleep. “It’s okay if they can’t. I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too, Y/N,” he breathes out with his lips kissing my ear one last time.
My body lets me drift into sleep, hearing nothing but Nicholas’ breathing and the faint sound of crickets outside. But that peace is eventually interrupted by the familiar sound of Colette’s soft cry filling the quiet room.
I blink awake, momentarily disoriented, unsure of where I am. The dimly lit room feels unfamiliar, and for a brief, groggy moment, I can’t remember how we ended up here. But then the memories come rushing back—the visit to Nick’s grandparents, Betty’s kind words, the warmth of the evening.
With a heavy sigh, I sit up in bed, my body aching with fatigue. I haven’t gotten nearly enough sleep, and Colette’s cries, though soft, feel like they’re pulling me out of the little bit of rest I’ve managed. The sheets feel cold, and for the first time tonight, I realize Nick’s arms aren’t wrapped around me as they usually are.
The bed dips beneath me, and I hear the soft thud of feet padding across the floor. “Shit,” Nicholas mutters under his breath as he comes into view. I lift my head, watching him groggily fumble with the baby monitor to turn down the volume.
His chocolate tinted eyes meet mine in the dimly lit room, his face softened with a sleepy smile. “I got it, baby. Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, his voice thick and gravelly.
I don’t resist as my head falls back onto the pillow. Nicholas tucks the duvet around my shoulders, his touch warm and reassuring, and leans down to kiss my forehead before slipping out of the room.
As my eyes flutter shut once again, I can’t help but feel immense gratitude for him—for understanding, for seeing me. Nicholas has always been an amazing partner, but since Colette was born, something has deepened. Maybe it's the way he’s embraced fatherhood, those tender daddy traits emerging in him day by day.
I don’t know how long I drift in and out of sleep before the bed dips once more. This time, I turn over to face Nicholas, only to find him kneeling on top of the duvet, cradling Colette in his arms. He gently rocks her, and his brown eyes, full of apology, meet mine. “I'm sorry, babe,” he says softly. “She’s hungry, and I checked the fridge and my Grandma must’ve given her the rest. We’re out of pumped milk,” he gives his valid reason for disturbing me.
With a tired sigh, I push myself up, scooting back against the headboard. “It’s okay,” I reply, motioning for Nicholas to hand Colette to me. “It’s not your fault I don’t pump fast enough for her.”
Nicholas shifts closer, still kneeling, his eyes warm with reassurance. “It’s not your fault either, baby girl,” he says tenderly. “You’re doing everything right. She’s just got my appetite, that’s all.”
Nick’s words bring a smile to my face as I take our little girl in my arms, feeling the love and support that radiates from him. Colette’s small body relaxes the moment she’s nestled in my arms, and I adjust my position to help her latch on. Instinctively, her tiny mouth finds its way, and I feel that familiar pull as she begins to nurse. The room is quiet now, save for the soft sounds of her feeding and the gentle rustle of the duvet as Nicholas shifts beside me, sitting back in his spot where he just laid.
The weight of exhaustion still presses heavily on my body, but there's something calming about this moment—something intimate and grounding. Colette’s little hand rests against my skin, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling as she nurses. Despite the tiredness, I feel a sense of peace wash over me.
Nicholas watches us, his expression soft and filled with admiration. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from my face, his touch tender. "You’re amazing, you know that?" he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath in the dark.
I smile faintly, my heart swelling at his words, but before I can respond, he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. "I don’t tell you enough how much I love you... both of you." His gaze flickers to Colette, his eyes warm and full of adoration. "Watching you with her... seeing how strong you are, how much you give every day. You’ve made me the luckiest man in the world, Y/N."
His words sink into me, wrapping around my heart like a warm blanket. The weight of my earlier guilt begins to lift, replaced by the quiet assurance that I’m not alone in this. We’re a team, navigating the highs and lows together.
"I love you too," I murmur, my voice thick with emotion as I glance down at Colette, her soft breaths steady against me. "And I’m so grateful for you. I couldn’t do this without you."
Nicholas leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead, lingering for a moment as if sealing the promise of his words. "You’re the best mom, you know that? And she’s lucky to have you," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin.
I close my eyes, soaking in the warmth of his presence and feeling the steady rhythm of Colette’s nursing. In this moment, the exhaustion, the doubts, and the guilt of my postpartum depression fade into the background, leaving only the love we share—the love that brought Colette into our lives.
Nicholas settles back into bed beside me, his hand resting gently on my leg, a silent reminder that we’re in this together. And as Colette’s soft suckling continues, I let myself fully relax.
Once Colette finishes nursing, her tiny body grows limp in my arms, signaling she’s drifted back to sleep. I carefully adjust her, cradling her small frame against my chest. Nicholas is still sitting beside me, his hand never leaving my leg, his eyes filled with the kind of tenderness that makes my heart swell.
“Do you want me to take her?” Nicholas asks softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
I nod, and with practiced gentleness, he scoops her up and places her between us on the bed. Colette barely stirs, her little hands curling up by her face as she nestles into the space between us. The sight of her lying there, so peaceful and content, brings a soft smile to my lips. My body involuntarily slides down and I stoke her cheek with the back of my finger.
Nick lays down with his head propped up in one arm, the other sliding around me. But as I gaze at Colette sleeping peacefully between us, a small wave of anxiety creeps in. What if we roll over onto her during the night? My breath hitches slightly, and I turn my head toward him.
Nicholas immediately senses my concern and shifts closer, his hand coming to rest gently on my cheek. "Hey, don't worry," he says softly, his voice reassuring. "I’ve got her. We’ve got her. I won’t let anything happen." His thumb brushes against my skin as he speaks, his gaze steady and full of calm. "I’ve read up on this, remember? She’s safe with us. We’re light sleepers, and we’re both hyper-aware she’s here. I’ll make sure we’re careful."
I nod, though the worry still lingers. Nicholas leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You won’t roll over on her. I won’t either. Trust me, baby. And if you’re still worried, I can take her back to the bassinet,” he assures me.
I glance down at Colette, her tiny chest rising and falling, completely at ease between us. There’s something comforting about her being so close, something I don’t want to give up. "No," I say softly, shaking my head. "I want her here with us. I just... I get nervous sometimes,” I admit to him, the concerns laced with my postpartum depression symptoms.
"I know," he murmurs. "But you’re not alone in this. We’re doing it together, okay? She’s safe. We’ll keep her safe,” he promises.
His warmth and the calm assurance in his voice help to ease the anxiety a little, and I let out a slow breath. I snuggle closer to him, nestling my head in the crook of his neck. "Thank you," I whisper.
Nicholas kisses the top of my head, his hand stroking Colette’s tiny arm before returning it to my waist. “I used to dream about this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You, me, and a baby… just lying here like this, all together.” His eyes shine in the dim light, filled with a quiet wonder. “I’d imagine what it would feel like, how perfect it would be. But this... this is even better than I imagined.”
His words sink deep into my chest, filling me with warmth. I glance down at Colette, her chest rising and falling steadily between us, and I feel a wave of contentment wash over me. “I’m glad too. It’s everything I didn’t know I needed,” I whisper back.
Nick’s thumb rubs gentle circles over the exposed skin on my side, and for a while, we lie there in comfortable silence, both of us watching Colette sleep. I feel the weight of his arm around me, the warmth of his body, and I can’t help but think about our future—about the life we’re building together.
After a while, I glance up at Nick, my voice soft but curious. “Do you ever think about… having another one? Another baby, I mean.”
His reaction is immediate. His brown eyes light up, the glint of excitement undeniable. He grins, that boyish, playful smile I fell in love with, and there’s no hesitation in his voice. “Oh, absolutely. I thought one of you was cute, but two though? Didn’t think I could handle it. But now that I’ve experienced it, I want three of you as soon as possible,” he rambles.
I laugh softly, both amused and surprised by his enthusiasm. “Three of us, huh?” I ask to clarify he’s not drunk on love.
“Yeah, babe,” he says, his hand moving to stroke Colette’s tiny hand before trailing over my arm. “We could start trying as soon as possible. I mean, why wait? We make great babies together,” he jokes and I stifle a laugh to not wake up our sleeping child.
His grin turns mischievous as he leans in closer, his voice dropping a little lower. “We could even try out some freaky positions this time… you know, spice things up.”
I roll my eyes playfully, shaking my head at him, though my heart flutters at his words. “That’s all you, God bless your dad’s genetics,” I tease, eyeing him with a smirk.
Nicholas chuckles, clearly enjoying my response, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes too—a real desire to keep building this life together. “I’m serious though,” he murmurs, his hand moving to rest on my waist. “I want more of this. More of us. I want a whole bunch of mini versions of you running around, driving me crazy in the best way.”
His words hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting, and I feel a flush of warmth spread through me. I lean closer, letting my fingers trace over his arm. “You’re really ready for another one, huh?”
Nick’s gaze locks with mine, intense but full of love. “Yeah, Y/N. I don’t just want another one. I want a whole football team of kids with you. As soon as you’re ready,” he says firmly.
I bite my lip, considering his words, feeling the quiet excitement bubbling up inside me. “I might just let you lock me down tonight,” I tease, my voice soft but playful.
His eyes darken slightly, that same spark of mischief flickering in them. “Oh, baby, don’t tempt me,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against my lips.
I pull back slightly, laughing against his mouth. “Let’s not rush it,” I whisper, even though my hormones are raging at the thought. “But... I do love the idea of growing our little family,” I add to soften the blow of sex denial.
Nicholas grins again, his arm pulling me closer as Colette sleeps peacefully between us. “Then let’s make it happen,” he says softly. “One more baby… and then another after that, we can talk again. I just know I want it all with you. Every first word and every first day of school, my love.”
I smile, resting my head on his shoulder, letting the warmth of his words and the future he envisions wash over me. “One step at a time,” I murmur, though the idea is already taking root in my mind, the thought of more little ones filling our home with love.
As we lay there, cuddling around Colette, the future feels wide open—and incredibly full of promise. The room is quiet, the soft hum of the night surrounding us, and as we lay there, I feel the steady rise and fall of Nick’s chest beneath my palms.
“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. I smile softly, my body already succumbing to sleep as I whisper back,
“Goodnight, Nicholas. I love you,” I murmur, never getting tired of reminding him.
“I love you too,” he replies, his voice full of warmth and certainty. “Both of my girls.”
With that, the last thing I feel is the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of Colette’s breathing between us, and the overwhelming sense of love that wraps around the three of us, pulling us into the soft cocoon of sleep.
The next time I stir awake, it’s to the feeling of the sun shining on my face. Nicholas’ familiar presence is next to me, his body relaxed as he leans back against the headboard. I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the slight rustle of pages as he quietly reads. For a moment, I let myself enjoy the comfort of having him close.
But something is wrong.
I don’t feel Colette.
The tiny body that was nestled between us is gone, and in an instant, a wave of cold panic floods my chest. My breath catches, and my heart starts to pound, my worst fear bubbling to the surface. Oh God, did I roll over her? Did we…?
My eyes snap open, and I sit up abruptly, frantically scanning the bed. My hands reach out, patting the mattress in blind desperation as my breath quickens. Where is she? My mind spirals into worst-case scenarios, and my pulse races faster with each second I can’t find her.
Nicholas looks up from his script, his brow furrowing as he notices my panic. “Y/N, baby, what’s wrong?” His voice is calm, but I can hear the concern lacing his words.
“Colette,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper as the fear clutches at me. “She’s not here, Nick. I—where is she?”
Nicholas immediately places his script aside and sits up, reaching for me. His hands find my shoulders, grounding me. “Babe, she’s fine,” he says gently, his voice steady, though I can see the alarm in his eyes as he realizes why I’m panicking. “Grandma has her. She came in earlier to take her so you could rest. She’s with her now, probably showing her off to her knitting group. Everything’s okay.”
I stare at Nicholas, the rush of adrenaline still coursing through me, but the words slowly sink in. Colette isn’t in danger. She’s not here because Betty took her.
I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest as the fear begins to ebb away. “I thought… I woke up and she wasn’t there. I thought we—” My voice falters, not even wanting to finish the thought.
Nicholas pulls me into his arms, holding me close. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve woken you to tell you, but you looked so peaceful, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” he apologizes profusely.
I nod against Nick’s chest, the tension finally loosening from my body as I cling to him. “I just… that’s what I’ve been afraid of, rolling over her in our sleep,” I admit.
“I know,” Nicholas murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But I would never let that happen. I swear that to you,” he adds.
I take a deep breath, letting the warmth of his embrace steady me. My pulse slows down, and the overwhelming panic that had gripped me starts to dissipate, leaving me feeling drained. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Y/N,” Nicholas says, his hand gently stroking my back. “You’re a mom. It’s normal to worry, but I’ve got you. I’ve got both of you.”
I pull back slightly, meeting his eyes that are full of understanding. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice still shaky but filled with gratitude.
Nicholas smiles softly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Get some more rest, okay? Grandma’s got Colette covered.”
I nod, feeling the last remnants of panic finally fade. I glance at his script beside him and give a tired smile. “You’re memorizing lines this early?” I pry.
He chuckles. “Just passing the time until you woke up. But you come first,” he vows.
I sink back into the pillows, the warmth of Nicholas beside me a comforting presence now that the fear has passed. As I close my eyes, the world feels right again. Colette is safe, Nicholas is here, and I let myself relax fully for the first time since waking up. The panic has faded into the background, leaving only the steady hum of reassurance from my husband beside me.
Smoking 🍃 with vinnie smut cause he’s so pookie bear (make it rough too please 💀💀)
❝FMB❞ - vinnie hacker x reader
─⋆♡ an: based on this ask. FMB means f⋆ck me back. hopefully it's rough enough. this is my first smut post so i didn't want to make it too too rough, just fyi. unedited so ignore any mistakes. i hope yall enjoy. ★ ˙ᵕ˙ liv
─⋆♡ summary: you and vinnie have a complex relationship. it all comes to a head when you become bold enough to confront him post-blunt.
─⋆♡ warnings: overstimulation, softdom!vinnie, smut, fluff towards the end, tiny bit of angst, 18+ black!writer, language, alcohol, drugs, D!NC, physical descriptors (brief), choking, spitting, slight exhibitionism if you squint, claiming, rough smut, squirting, anal play, unprotected sex (i do not condone irl, wrap before you tap).
⋆word count: 3.9k ⋆ masterlist ⋆
The loud bass of music floats in the background as I tap through Snapchat stories on my phone. The couch next to me dips and when I turn, I see Vinnie has joined me.
He doesn’t speak to me before pulling out a blunt and sparking it. As is, me and Vinnie’s relationship was complicated. We started off as friends, then smoke buddies. But the more we smoked together, the more we felt for each other. Or at least, I fell for him.
We had kissed and made out, but we’ve never had sex. After a few dates, I was becoming restless. The frustration of his mixed signals got the best of me. Now in the darkness of the crowded room, I’ve become bold enough to confront him.
I watch him as he inhales and exhales the smoke like a chimney. He seemingly notices my intense stare and stops. “Did you need something?” he asks with an attitude.
You can practically feel steam whistling out of your ears from how fuming your brain is right now. “Yeah actually. Give that to me,” I snap, pointing at his blunt.
He shrugs, ashing the blunt on the coffee table. “Okay,” he concedes, passing me the joint.
Letting the smoke dance in my lungs, I choke it out slowly. Now that the weed is hitting, I decide now is the time. “Vinnie, are you still interested in me?” I ask him abruptly.
He chuckles and takes the blunt from me. “Oh, baby. Of course I fucking am. Why would you even ask me that?” he shoots back with an eyebrow raised.
Frowning, I pick at my cuticles out of nervousness. “Because we go on dates, we kiss, but we’ve never had sex. I just don’t know what you want any more,” I confess, standing from the couch in a huff.
Of course, I want to take things further. But I’m not sure if he wants me anymore when he barely touches me.
He stops me from moving any further, tugging my hand. I grudgingly turn around, looking down at him. “Because, doll. We haven’t had the sex talk yet,” he discloses, rubbing his free hand up and down my thigh.
I roll my eyes and scoff, snatching the blunt out of his hands to take a hit. He places his hands on my hips, watching me intensely. “What do you mean by ‘sex talk’? I’m not 5,” I ask after blowing out a toke.
He stands until he’s staggering high towers over me. “I mean…” he pushes lightly, backing me into the wall so I’m trapped between his body and the drywall. “I want to know what you like, what you don’t like, and what you’ll beg for before I feel you cumming on my cock,” he whispers in my ear, licking a stripe up my neck afterward.
My head tips back in a moan, which makes him as hard as a rock. “Fuck, baby. Do you see what you do to me? I want nothing more than to make you feel good, in the best way that I can, for the rest of my life.” he presses his body into mine, slowly kissing up my neck.
One of the partiers comes up behind Vinnie and taps him on the shoulder. He ignores them, waving them off with the rest of the blunt. His hand moves to the inside of my thigh and he rubs me so close that I know he can feel the inside of my legs shake. “Should I take care of you right here?” he bites my neck, and I whimper, pulling his hair.
Vinnie pulls back from me, piercing a hole into my eyes. “Please?” I beg, gnawing on my lip.
He uses the other hand and wraps it around my throat, effectively restricting my breathing. He tilts my head to the side. “Do you think you deserve it?” he whispers against my lips with his eyebrow raised.
Struggling, I lightly nod my head in his firm grip. “Yes, Vinnie,” I squeak out, and he gives me one last squeeze on the throat before grabbing my wrist and yanking me through the crowd.
Bodies brush past me as Vinnie drags me up the steps to his room. “Wait, where are we going?” I ask, confused. He just asked if I needed to be taken care of right there and then... I did say yes.
“You think I’m gonna let everyone watch me fuck you?” he scoffs.
Once we got the sex talk out of the way, Vinnie makes quick work to get me undressed. I moan into the darkness of the room as Vinnie leaves love bites down my neck, only breaking the contact to lift my tank top over my head. He pauses his movements to take in the black lacy bralette I'm wearing. “Fuck, baby. You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, then smashes his lips back onto mine.
He slams me against his closed bedroom door before slowly dropping down onto his knees. Watching him sink to the ground has an involuntary giggle leaving my lips. “Vinnie, I didn’t think you were going to actually-” he cuts me off, spinning me around so my ass is facing him.
Suddenly, an echoing smack verberates off the walls and my ass cheeks are on fire. Yelping, I sink my teeth into my bottom lips, trying to muffle the noise I’m making.
He slowly inches his hands up my legs until my skirt is fully pushed up to my stomach. His fingers meet my panties, and he runs my fingers over them, seemingly savoring every last moment. “Did you wear these for me, sunshine?” He hooks one finger under one side, pulling it back and making the elastic snap around my hips.
I reach out to support myself on anything to keep my knees from buckling. “No,” I joke, and he bends my knees a bit.
He rubs calming circles into the back of my thighs with his thumbs. “Don’t need you collapsing on my baby,” he informs me.
Taking both sides in his hands, he rips the fabric in half and shreds it off my body like paper. “Shame. I would’ve let you keep them.”
Gasping, I look down and watch them fall to the ground. He palms my ass, spreading my cheeks further apart. “Bend over just a little bit more, baby,” he instruct, kissing my ass on both sides.
Slowly shifting in his grasp, I whine as I bend over. I’m desperate for him, all over me. Filling every hole over and over again until I’m screaming for help.
He hovers his mouth over my pussy. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he praises me, running his pointer finger up and down my folds to collect my wetness.
“Let me tell you something, sunshine,” he grumbles, rubbing his fingers in circles on my puffy, swollen nub. “There's absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Do you understand?” he looks up at me, awaiting my response.
Unable to focus, I just nod my head.
“You have to use your words, baby.” he instantly retracts his fingers from my clit bringing them into his mouth. With a pop, he pulls them out, moaning at the taste of my arousal.
I groan, throwing my head back in frustration. “Yes, I know. Just please take care of me, Vinnie,” I practically beg for the second time tonight.
He returns his fingers to my pussy, slowly rubbing around my entrance. “If you asked me to shoot myself, I would,” he growls, slowly sinking his fingers into me. Curling them downwards on every thrust, his fingers search for that spongy spot. He pulls out and thrusts into me again, and my breath quickens. “If you asked me to slit my wrists, I would.” Quickening his pace, my moans echo through the large bedroom. “You gotta stay quiet, baby. I wanna be the only one to hear those pretty moans.”
He uses his free hand, bringing it up to my clit, rubbing fast circles on my sensitive bud. His fingers are thrusting into me at such an intense rate that I feel the world collapsing beneath me. My pussy contracts around his fingers and he groans deeply, sending a shiver up my spine. “Fuck yourself on my fingers, sunshine,” he commands, hitting my sweet spot.
I mewl, obeying his commands, and begin rocking back into him. My orgasm starts approaching rapidly, his fingers drive into me at an unrelenting pace. When my walls flutter, he instantly slows his pace. “Not yet, baby. You can’t cum until you’re quiet.”
Crying again, I bring my hand up to muffle the sound successfully. He applies more pressure on the quick circles he’s drawing on my clit. I arch my back again until I’m moving with his fingers just as he requested. I moan loudly, the coil in my stomach about to snap.
He blows a quick shot of air onto my exposed clit, the chill making the coil snap. My vision turns white as I quietly moan out, "Fuck, Vinn.”
“That’s it, sunshine. Cum for me, let go,” he murmurs underneath me, and I can feel the lust dripping off his tongue as my orgasm rocks through me. The pace of his fingers doesn’t slow as he works me through my orgasm, and I hear my nails scratch against the drywall. My legs quake and my back arches slightly, my mouth opening in a silent moan.
He slows his thrusting and pulls out of me, rising to his feet. He turns me around to face him, his eyes taking in the fucked out expression on my face. “You wanna know how good you taste, baby?” Grabbing my chin, he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip.
I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath and lean back into the wall. “Yes,” I whisper, and as soon as the words leave my lips, his fingers sink into my mouth. Deciding to tease him, I swirl my tongue around his digits, imagining my tongue on his cock. His fingers push back further into my throat until I gag a little, then he pulls them out. Fucking hope he’s impressed that I can take them that far without coughing.
Without another thought, I smash my lips against his, savoring the taste of my orgasm on his tongue. “God, you taste so fucking good. I could eat you forever,” he growls, moving my body back onto the bed.
He crawls on top of me and his bulge is pressed into me once again. “Vinnie, please. I need you.” I whimper into his mouth as my shaky fingers move to slowly unbutton his shirt.
But he grabs my wrists, stopping me. “I got it, sunshine,” he laughs, then makes quick work to remove his shirt.
I shamelessly watch as he slowly strips out of his pants and his boxers. Even though I’ve seen him naked in front of me before, he’s never fully been hard. His dick is beautiful. His swollen head is already dripping with precum, making him look good enough to deep throat.
Vinnie slowly climbs back onto the bed and my eyes widen, realizing what’s about to happen. My breathing quickens in anticipation as he comes down to kiss me hard and deep.
I moan into him, but my hands move to his chest to push him back as I look down, suddenly scared. “It’s too big, I don’t think it’ll fit,” I insist, crawling away from him.
He grabs my ankles, pulling me back down. “We’re gonna make it fit, baby,” he retorts, his eyes dark.
The tip of his dick moves back and forth in between my folds, collecting wetness. I whimper, squeezing his shoulders.
“Hey, sunshine. Look at me.” He grabs my chin until I make eye contact with him. “We can stop if you want to stop. I won't go any further,” he reassures, resting his forehead on mine.
I immediately shake my head, inhaling a sharp breath. “No, I want this–I want you. Just be careful, please.” I pull him into me for a heated kiss and tug his hair, making him groan and deepen the kiss.
Finally, he pulls back and lines himself up near my entrance, spitting and letting the dribble collect on his base. “This is gonna hurt, so just relax for me, baby.” My legs are pushed open a little wider.
I nod, trying to calm myself, and he laces his fingers in mine before he moves. The tip of his shaft pushes in, and I gasp at the stretch. “Shit, Vinnie,” I cry out, squeezing his hands until my knuckles turn white. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, the burn from his girth sends fire into my core.
Immediately, he stops moving, looking into my eyes. “Do you want me to stop? I’ll stop,” he groans out.
I bite my lip, shaking my head no.
He kisses the corner of my eyes and whispers, “Okay, just relax for me, sunshine. I’ll try to make this quick.” He continues to sink slowly into me, bottoming out, and I wince again. To allow me to adjust to his length, he pauses his movements. “You’re squeezing me so tight. Fuck, I’m not gonna last long,” he breathes, bending down to kiss my neck. And then, he slowly starts rocking into me and the burn is replaced with a familiar warmth.
“Oh, god. Vinnie,” I moan, releasing his hands to claw at his back for support.
He’s hitting the perfect spot already, and he just got inside me. He continues to slowly push in and out of me, allowing me to savor the feeling of him inside me. I moan, biting on his shoulder.
“More.” My legs are already shaking. “Give me more,” I demand, kissing up to his ear.
Pulling back, he looks at me. “Are you sure?” His hand strokes my curls.
I pull him down into a kiss, allowing my tongue to explore his mouth once more. “Yes, please. Use me, fuck me,” I beg, squirming underneath him.
Vinnie fists the sheets below my head and adjusts his position. I brace myself. “The safe word is ‘moon’, Sunshine. Use it if you need it.” He kisses my neck once more and begins driving into me at a steady, even rate. The tip of his length kisses my g-spot with each stroke. “Fuccckkkk,” he growls into my ear, and I feel myself squeezing him when the words hit my eardrums.
“Vinnie,” I moan.
The only sound outside of our pants and moans is the sound of his skin slapping against mine as he fucks me. He wraps his tattooed hand around my throat, leaning in for a kiss. And as if I wasn't already in heaven, he brings his fingers down to rub quick circles on my clit.
“I’m gonna cum, doll. But I need to feel you squeezing me before I do,” he commands, and I cry as I arch into him.
He pounds into me steadily, rocking my body into the bed. Each stroke pushes me closer and closer over the edge until I feel myself contracting around him.
“Cum with me, sunshine,” he whispers against my lips, and it sends me over the edge.
Arching my back and screaming, I claw at his back and bite his shoulder as my orgasm hits me like a train. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any deeper, he lifts my hips slightly.
“Where do you want me to cum, love?” His dick kisses my cervix, and I know I’ll be bruised tomorrow. But I can’t bring myself to give a shit right now.
He twitches inside me, and I lick a stripe up his neck. “Cum in me, Vinnie,” I whimper, and he growls into my neck.
His seed spills inside me, his strokes becoming uneven. I moan at the feeling, and squeeze around him, milking out every drop of his cum as he paints my walls. It fills me up and I’ve never felt better after sex.
He stills inside me, kissing me breathlessly, and takes a few moments to catch his breath. Before he pulls out, I wrap my arms around him, causing him to bury further inside me. “Stay,” I plead, tears threatening to spill over in my eyes.
He softly strokes my hair, wrapping his arm around me and slowly flipping us over so I’m on top. “Okay, sunshine. I got you. Fuck, that was the fastest I’ve ever cum before in my life,”
Like I requested, he doesn’t pull out. Just pulls me closer into his body until I’m melting into the beautiful tattoos on his chest. His fingers begin tracing light patterns across my back.
I sniffle, looking up at him with a small smile on my face, and he looks at me. “You okay, sunshine?” he asks, and I shift on his length a little bit.
Sitting up to put my hands on his chest, I feel his dick twitching and growing inside me. “Yeah. Let's go again,” I giggle, bending down to kiss him. It surprises me how he’s already ready for round two, but I don’t complain.
He groans into my mouth, wrapping his decorated arms around my waist. Slowly, I lift myself until I feel his tip threatening to slip out. I slide back down onto him, filling myself completely and moaning at the change of position.
His hands tighten around my waist, helping me swirl my hips around. “I want you to know you’re mine, sunshine,” he groans, reaching up to play with my nipples as I moan at the feeling of him stretching me from this angle.
I pick up my pace, bouncing on his dick until he’s hitting my perfect spot over and over again. My legs shake, and I feel my third orgasm approaching rapidly. My hand moves to his neck, squeezing it hard. I feel so fucking powerful, making myself cum with his length.
Vinnie looks up at me with amazement in his eyes and slides his thumb in between us to apply pressure on my clit. I throw my head back and moan, still choking him. “God. You look so pretty when you moan.”
The pace of his thumb quickens, and I topple over the edge, crashing into my third orgasm with a loud cry. I release my hand on his neck, falling forward. Vinnie removes his hand from my clit to catch me and keep from coming down on his body. He allows me to rest on his chest as he starts to fuck up into me, elongating my orgasm.
“Vinnie,” I choke out, and my voice bounces off his walls.
He picks up his pace, driving into me from below. “That’s it, doll. Scream my name. Let the world know who fucking owns you.”
He pounds my body into his, and I grip his shoulders when I feel a tingling sensation on my clit. Wetness suddenly shoots out from between my legs, running down my thighs and covering his stomach. My whole body quakes, but he doesn’t slow down.
“Fuck, sunshine. Look at the mess you made, cumming all over me.”
My brain is on a different planet as he slows down, allowing me to glance down at the soaked sheets. He slowly pulls me off him and I wince, falling backward onto the bed. Then, Vinnie moves me so I’m laying on my side, out of the wet spot, before slowly pushing back into me, spooning me, and caressing my hair. “No one will ever fuck you ever again, for the rest of your life but me. Do you understand?”
Slamming into me at an unrelenting pace, he bites my neck. His hand wraps around my throat, applying a bit of pressure. Every thrust sends me closer to the edge, and the only thing I register is him kissing the back of my neck. I’m so fucked, I can’t speak. I can’t think.
“Yes,” I babble out, arching my back into him.
All I feel is pure bliss. The room is spinning, and I feel another orgasm rapidly approaching. He nibbles a love bite into my neck, hitting my G-spot over and over again. My thighs are lifted a little higher until I see white. “Cum for me again, Sunshine. You feel so good when you squeeze me,” he mumbles into my neck.
I shake my head, and gripping his forearm that chokes me. “I can’t,” I cry, looking at the view from his room— everything is spinning.
Vinnie increases his pace, slamming into me. “You can, and you will,” he snarls in my ear.
I feel the tears spilling over in my eyes as he applies more pressure on my throat. The overstimulation of his dick drilling into me repeatedly sends me toppling over another edge, and I wail his name, feeling my soul leave my body. Everything feels fuzzy as his thrusts become sloppy before he lets out an animalistic grunt. I feel his dick twitch, then, shooting hot ropes into me. The heat of it makes me feel like I’m going to pass out, and I moan at the sensation. He continues to slowly thrust into me, riding out both of our orgasms.
After we’re both spent, he buries himself deep inside me, stroking my hair and peppering kisses on my shoulder as I come down from my high. “You did so well for me, Sunshine. Fucking fantastic,” he praises.
He slowly caresses my hips as my body shakes against his. I wince as he slowly pulls out and scoots down to the bottom of the bed. Spreading my legs wide open, he watches our cum leak out of me. My swollen pussy contracts around nothing, pushing his seed out, and I hear him groan.
He brings his fingers up to my entrance and I wince. “Shhh, Sunshine, I’m just making sure we don’t waste a drop,” he coos, stuffing his fingers into me and massaging my g-spot.
An inevitable moan leaves my lips I arch my back to get closer to him. “You want to cum again?” He asks before leaning over to flick his tongue over her my. Crying out at the overstimulation, I shake my head.
“Too bad, baby.” he quickly thrusts into me with his fingers, moaning at the taste of our orgasms mixing. His tongue flicks over my swollen, puffy clit. I haven’t used our safe word, and I know he’s going to keep pushing me until I say it.
Vinnie removes his tongue from my clit and he uses his other hand to collect our orgasms on his finger. The pace of his fingers slows and he begins rubbing a circle around my tight hole. He slowly pushes his finger into my ass, fucking me with both hands.
I’m unable to control my movements as I thrash underneath him. His finders drive in and out, reaching the most delicious spot.
“Give me one last one, Sunshine. I promise I’ll let you stop after,” he orders, and I move my hands to his hair to tug on it.
He pushes his finger further into my ass, curling it a bit more, and I snap. Neglecting his noise warning, my screams and my moans erupt through the room. He moans as he works both of my holes through what I assume is my last orgasm.
As finally comes down, I whimper, “Moon,” and he stops and slowly pulls his fingers out, satisfied with my overstimulation.
He crawls up my body, grabbing my face so I'm forced to look at him. “You're everything to me–perfect and mine,” he mumbles into my mouth and I wipe away the tears in my eyes.
My brain buzzes with post-sex high. “Only for you,” I whisper into the night.
