mack 🂱 @returnofdamack - Tumblr Blog

Apr 12

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

.⋆♱ summary: After a long week of work, all Joel wants is to relax in the arms of his sweet little wife. At least until you give him a haul of your new makeup purchases, and one small product stirs up trouble because of its name. .⋆♱ a/n: This idea was born while I was going through my Sephora cart… So, yeah, that’s my excuse! By the way, I can’t believe I’ve already reached 238 followers... I’m gonna cry. This one is for my baby @pattwtf <𝟑 .ᐟ .⋆♱ warnings: Smut at the very end, Obsessive! Joel (kinda…?), Soft Dom/Sub Elements, Makeup Kink, Mirror Sex, Repeated Orgasm Denial, Spanking, Pussy Slapping, Hand on Throat, Unprotected Sex, Creampie… And a lot of love! First time writing a complete sex scene btw (I'm scared) .⋆♱ wc: 15.230 k

Friday had a way of loosening men up in all the worst ways.

By noon, the air smelled like cut lumber, diesel, sweat, and sawdust, the kind of smell that clung to skin long after the day was over. Hammers rang out in uneven bursts, a nail gun snapped somewhere near the back, and country music crackled low from a radio somebody had balanced on an upside down bucket by the porch steps.

Joel stood near the stack of framing lumber with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure hanging from his belt, scanning over the plans in his hand with the kind of focus that made most men think twice before interrupting him.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” one of the younger guys called from the far side of the site, loud enough for half the crew to hear. “If I’m takin’ her somewhere expensive, least she can do is not make me sit in the damn car for forty-five minutes waitin’ on her.”

A couple of snorts of laughter answered him.

Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his eyes on the plans, jaw set, trying to decide whether the floor joists were gonna be a bigger problem than the mouths on his crew.

“She ain’t even late in a normal way,” another guy said, dragging a gloved hand across his forehead. “Nah, it’s always some little emergency. ‘Babe, I gotta redo my eyeliner.’ ‘Babe, I don’t like my hair.’” He pitched his voice higher in a cruel imitation. “I’m starvin’ by the time we leave the house.”

That got more laughter.

Tommy, who was up on the temporary decking checking measurements, sighed loud enough for Joel to hear. “Here we go.”

Joel still didn’t say anything.

He should have. He knew that. He knew the shape of this kind of conversation and exactly where it usually went. But sometimes, if you cut in too early, it only encourages idiots to perform for each other. Men like that got louder when they thought they had an audience.

“Mine puts on lipstick to go buy milk,” another one said. “Milk. From the damn grocery store. I told her, sweetheart, the dairy aisle is gonna fall in love with you.”

The laugh that followed was uglier than the last one.

Joel’s eyes lifted.

He knew these boys. That was the thing. Boys, most of them. Old enough to swing a hammer, young enough to still mistake being dismissive for being funny. He’d worked with all kinds over the years: good workers, lazy workers, drunks, hotheads, quiet ones, fools. The loudest were usually the least sure of themselves. Had to fill the air with something before anybody noticed there wasn’t much beneath it.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to listen to it.

“Hell,” the first one went on, encouraged now, “I don’t even get it. They complain they ain’t got enough time, then they spend two damn hours in the bathroom paintin’ themselves like they’re headed to some red carpet thing.”

Joel folded the plans once.

Another voice chimed in. “And then you gotta tell ’em they look pretty like you ain’t been lookin’ at the same face for three years.”

Tommy winced and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

That was enough.

Joel started walking before he even fully decided to. He stopped a few feet from the group gathered around the sawhorses—three of the younger subcontractors and one laborer with more confidence than sense—and looked at each of them in turn.

Nobody spoke.

Joel nodded once. “Y’all done?”

The guy in the baseball cap gave a half shrug, half grin that died fast under Joel’s stare. “We’re just talkin’, man.”

Joel’s face didn’t change. “Ain’t what I asked.”

Silence.

He slipped the folded plans under one arm. “I said, are y’all done.”

“Yeah,” one of them muttered.

Joel took another step closer. “Then maybe y’all can get back to work and quit runnin’ your mouths long enough to remember I’m payin’ you to build a house, not stand around bitchin’ about women who apparently still choose to go home with you.”

Tommy turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.

One of the younger guys, John maybe, ducked his head. “We were kiddin’.”

Joel fixed him with a look. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel hated being called sir. Normally he’d say so. Right now he let it stand.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt and looked between them. “Tell me somethin’. You got a woman at home who takes time gettin’ ready to go out with you, and your first thought is to complain?”

Nobody answered.

“That woman picked out a dress, did her hair, stood in front of a mirror decidin’ she wanted to look nice, and you somehow made that an inconvenience to you.” His voice stayed level, but the disappointment in it landed harder than if he’d shouted. “That what we’re doin’ now?”

The laborer with the red bandana shifted on his feet. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Joel’s eyes cut to him. “That’s usually when a man oughta think a little harder about what’s comin’ outta his mouth.”

Tommy climbed down from the decking, landing beside them with a thud. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t need to. He knew Joel well enough to hear the line in his voice that meant this wasn’t just irritation anymore.

Joel went on, “You wanna know what I hear?” He tapped two fingers against the rolled plans. “I hear a bunch of fools complainin’ that somebody gives enough of a damn to wanna look good standin’ next to ’em.”

That got their attention.

One of them tried to laugh it off. “It ain’t that deep, Joel.”

Joel turned his head slowly. “No?”

“No, I just mean—”

“I know what you mean.” He took a breath through his nose. “You mean you’re too young and too selfish to understand that not everything a woman does is for your convenience.”

The site has gone quiet now.

Even the men who hadn’t been part of the conversation were listening, pretending not to.

Joel looked down at the open toolbox on the sawhorse, then back at them. “Some of you got girlfriends. Some of you got wives. And near as I can tell, not one of you sounds near grateful enough for the women keepin’ your lives stitched together when you go home actin’ like this.”

Nobody met his eyes.

“Maybe she takes too long in the bathroom,” Joel said. “Maybe she changes clothes three times before dinner because she wants to feel pretty. That ain’t foolishness. That ain’t vanity. That’s her wantin’ to feel good in her own skin, and if your reaction to that is to stand around mockin’ her with other men, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Caleb swallowed. “We weren’t mockin’ them.”

Joel gave him a look so dry it bordered on pity. “Son, if you’re gonna lie, at least do it convincingly.”

Tommy barked a laugh and turned it into a cough.

A few of the older workers smirked into their sleeves.

Joel kept going, because now that he’d started, he knew exactly what was bothering him. It wasn’t just the words. It was the casualness of them. The way men could take something tender and make it small just because they didn’t know how to hold it properly.

“My wife,” he said, and that alone changed the air, made everybody listen closer, “can take as long as she damn well pleases gettin’ ready for anything she wants. Grocery store. Dinner. A walk down the block. I don’t care if she’s puttin’ on lipstick to sit in the livin’ room and watch television. If it matters to her, it matters. End of story.”

That landed.

Because when Joel spoke about you didn’t sound like a man making a point for the sake of winning. He sounded like a man stating a universal truth.

The laborer scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, but women don’t do all that for us anyway.”

Joel’s brow lifted. “Well, congratulations. That’s the first smart thing anybody’s said in five minutes.”

A few snickers broke the tension.

Joel didn’t smile. “No, they don’t do it all for you. That’s exactly the point. Maybe she does some of it for herself. Maybe it’s fun. Maybe it makes her feel confident. Maybe it’s the one damn thing in a day that’s just hers. And maybe instead of complainin’, you oughta learn enough respect to keep your mouth shut and tell her she looks beautiful.”

The man in the cap looked down at his boots. “Alright.”

Joel’s expression hardened. “That ‘alright’ better means somethin’.”

“It does.”

“Good.” He glanced between all of them. “Now pick up your tools and get back to work. We’re behind, and I’ve had about enough of hearin’ how burdensome it is that women continue to exist as full human beings.”

That actually got a real laugh, even from a couple of the guilty ones, though they had the decency to look embarrassed about it.

Joel let the silence sit a beat longer, then pointed at the framing on the east wall. “John, if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough to finish bracin’ that corner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joel’s stare sharpened.

Caleb sighed. “Yes, Joel.”

“Better.”

The group broke apart at last, muttering to each other in lower voices now, heads down, hands moving quicker than before. Tommy stepped up beside Joel and watched them scatter back into usefulness.

For a second neither brother said anything.

Then Tommy glanced at him. “You feel better?”

Joel bent to grab the level off the sawhorse. “Not especially.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “You know they’re all scared of you now.”

“They oughta be scared of bein’ stupid in public.”

Tommy laughed under his breath. “That speech about your wife?” He nudged Joel with an elbow. “Bit dramatic.”

Joel shot him a look. “Wasn’t dramatic.”

“No?” Tommy grinned.

Joel set the level against the brace and adjusted it with one hand. “You got somethin’ useful to do, or you plannin’ on botherin’ me the rest of the afternoon?”

Tommy leaned against a stud, folding his arms. “I am doin’ somethin’ useful. I’m watchin’ you pretend that wasn’t personal.”

Joel didn’t bother looking at him. “Go measure somethin’.”

Tommy ignored that completely. “You thought about her, didn’t you?”

Joel checked the bubble on the level, shifted the brace half an inch. “I’m workin’.”

Tommy rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself now. “So when those idiots were yappin’ about women takin’ forever in the bathroom, you were thinkin’ about her sittin’ at the mirror?”

Joel let out a quiet breath and straightened. He should’ve known better than to engage. Tommy had the kind of nosiness only a younger brother could get away with, half affection and half appetite for trouble.

Joel grabbed the drill. “Tommy.”

His brother laughed. “Alright, alright.”

But he didn’t move away yet, and after a moment he said, softer this time, “You know, you were right.”

Joel glanced up and Tommy shrugged one shoulder.

Joel shook his head, but there was no real heat in it now. “You’re annoyin’.”

“Runs in the family.”

Joel drove the screw in with more force than necessary. “Go to hell.”

Tommy laughed and pushed off the wall at last. “Can’t. I work for my brother.”

Joel watched him go, then looked back out across the site.

Work picked up again in the wake of the interruption. The radio came back into focus. Men shouted measurements, wood scraped against wood, someone swore after dropping a box of nails. The day moved on the way it always did, one task into the next, one hour bleeding into another until the sun shifted.

But Tommy was right.

Of course he’d thought about you.

He had the moment those boys started talking.

He could picture you too easily.

Standing in the bathroom in one of his old shirts, hair pinned back, leaning close to the mirror with that concentrated little crease between your brows. Sitting at your vanity—your vanity, the one he’d built with his own hands after seeing your face fall when the one you wanted sold out before he could order it—surrounded by brushes and powders and little bottles that all looked nearly identical to him and yet somehow never were. Looking over your shoulder to ask him which earring. Holding up two lipsticks and asking if one looked too dark. Smiling when he got the answer wrong but tried anyway.

He never mocked any of it. Never would.

Half the time he didn’t understand what half those products were for, but that had never seemed like a reason to dismiss them. They mattered because they were yours. Because they brought something bright into your face. Because he had learned, over the course of loving you, that attention was a kind of devotion all its own.

That was the part those boys didn’t get.

Loving somebody meant noticing. It meant learning the shape of their rituals, even the ones that didn’t belong to you. It meant understanding that intimacy wasn’t just the big things like the hospital visits, funerals, marriage vows, bad nights or worse mornings.

Sometimes it was remembering the exact height she liked a table because she tended to hunch if it sat too low. Sometimes it was sanding the edge of a drawer three extra times so it wouldn’t catch on her dress. Sometimes it was building something beautiful out of wood and patience because she had looked disappointed for all of two seconds and that had been enough to undo him.

Joel drove another screw into place and exhaled slowly.

He hadn’t meant to build the vanity quite as elaborate as he did.

At first, he’d only intended to make something simple. Clean lines, sturdy legs, decent storage. Then he’d remembered the way your face had lit up describing the one you’d wanted, the little details you liked, the mirror shape, the drawers, the finish. By the end of it, he’d spent nearly three weeks in the garage after work, pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself every time you wandered in and tried to peek beneath the tarp he kept throwing over it.

When he finally brought it inside, you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon in the bedroom with his bare hands.

That expression had stayed with him. It still did.

“Joel!”

He turned at the shout.

One of the crew was waving him over near the back of the house. Something about the window framing looked off. He tucked the level under his arm and headed that way, slipping back into the rhythm of the job because there was always another problem to solve, another correction to make, another young man to stop from ruining good lumber with bad math.

The afternoon wore down by inches, the light changed and the heat eased. By the time they started packing up, Joel’s shirt was stuck to his back, his shoulders ached, and there was sawdust worked so deep into the lines of his hands it would take a brush to get it out.

He signed off on the delivery order for Monday, checked the lock on the storage trailer, and made sure the site was squared away before anybody left. Tommy came up beside him with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a half finished bottle of water in the other.

Tommy studied him for a moment. “You tell her about this?”

Joel frowned. “About what.”

“The little feminist awakening you had in front of the crew.”

Joel shot him a flat look. “That what you’re callin’ it?”

Tommy grinned. “I’m callin’ it funny as hell. And yeah. You should tell her. She’ll eat that up.”

Joel shook his head and started toward his truck. Tommy followed for a few steps before peeling off toward his own, still smiling to himself like he’d been handed some private joke he planned on keeping.

Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the quiet settle around him for a second. He dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes just long enough to feel the day in his bones. Then he started the engine and pulled out onto the road.

The drive home wasn’t long, but it was long enough for his thoughts to drift where they usually did at the end of the week.

To you.

Maybe you’d be on the couch with a blanket over your legs and an episode of the Gilmore Girls half watched because you’d been waiting for the sound of his truck.

God, he could picture it so clearly it almost made his chest ache.

He thought, not for the first time that day, that the men back on that site had no idea how lucky they were if there was somebody waiting for them at all. They have no idea what a privilege it was to be known that intimately by another person. To have your favorite plate set out before you asked. To be greeted by the sound of their voice from the next room.

Joel flexed one hand on the steering wheel.

He thought of you in front of a mirror again.

Of your careful hands. Your patience. The little pleasure you took in things most men would dismiss because they had never learned how to look properly. He thought of how easy it was, in a world this ugly, to sneer at softness just because you didn’t know what to do with it.

He also thought, with a private heaviness he never quite voiced, of how much of your life lived in those little rituals. The tender ordinary things. The things he catalogued without meaning to. The products lined up on the vanity. The order you used them in. The brushes you reached for first. The colors you favored when you were happy, or when you were quiet, or when you wanted him to notice.

Joel always noticed.

And somewhere deep beneath that noticing lived the old anxiety he carried like a second spine, the one that made him prepare for loss even in the middle of joy. It came uninvited, as it always did, whispering its ugly what ifs into the back of his mind. What if one day you were too tired. What if one day your hands hurt. What if one day life turned cruel in some new and inventive way and you couldn’t do these things for yourself anymore.

He hated those thoughts. Hated the shape of them. Hated that fear had taught his mind to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.

But still he learned.

The names of things. The purpose of things. The order of them. Not because he expected praise for it, and not because he ever intended to say any of this aloud. Only because if the world ever tried to take some small comfort from you, Joel wanted his hands ready, wanted to know enough to step in gently and give it back.

His throat tightened a little, and he swallowed it down.

By the time he turned onto your street, the sun was lower, the sky softening into streaks of amber and pale blue. Home came into view steady and familiar, porch light not yet on, the windows warm with the first signs of evening.

Joel eased the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.

For a second he stayed where he was, one hand still on the wheel, looking at the house like he did every now and then when the day had been long enough to make him feel the full weight of what waited inside it.

His true home.

Then he got out, shut the truck door, and headed for the front porch with sawdust on his boots, tiredness in his shoulders, and the faintest trace of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth for no reason other than the simple fact that he was almost home.

You.

He pushed the front door open with one hand, already loosening up a little at the simple fact of stepping inside, and was met at once by warmth, soft lamplight, and the unmistakable smell of something good waiting in the kitchen. Then, Joel set his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Honey?” he called, voice carrying low through the quiet.

“In here!”

Something in your tone made him pause.

A kind of carefully held excitement you were trying, and failing, to disguise as casual. Joel’s mouth pulled almost into a smile before he even saw you. He followed your voice into the kitchen and found you standing near the stove.

There you are, he thought, with that immediate, quiet hit of relief he never quite got used to.

You turned when he appeared in the doorway, and your face lit in a way that still undid him a little, no matter how many times he came home to it. “Hi.”

Joel leaned one shoulder against the frame for a second, just looking at you. “Hi, baby.”

He heard the roughness in his own voice and saw the way your eyes softened at it.

You crossed to him without hesitation, and he opened an arm automatically, catching you against him with all the ease of a long habit. Your hands slid around his middle carefully, as though you knew exactly where the day tended to settle in him, and his palm spread over your back. He bent to kiss the top of your head first, breathing you in, then your temple, then finally your mouth, the kind of kiss that means that he was finally at home now, and home meant you.

“You smell good,” you murmured against his mouth.

Joel huffed a tired laugh. “Smell like sawdust.”

“But it's sexy,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him.

That did make him smile. His thumb brushed once at your waist. “That so?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He let his gaze move over your face, lingering a beat too long because something about you felt gently charged tonight.“You been waitin’ on me?”

You widened your eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Maybe.”

Joel studied you. “That look usually means you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

You gasped softly. “I’m offended.”

“No, you ain’t.”

You tried not to grin and failed. Joel watched the smile break across your face and had the strange, familiar thought that if he died tomorrow, this would be the shape of heaven in his head. You in the kitchen, looking pleased with yourself. The light warm on your skin. The house quiet around you both. Something cooking. The weekend beginning at the edges of the room like a blessing neither of you had earned but both of you needed.

He brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “What’s for dinner?”

Your whole expression brightened. “Sit down and I’ll show you.”

That got a low chuckle out of him. “Bossy.”

“Just tonight.”

“That’d be a first.”

You swatted lightly at his arm, laughing, and he caught your wrist before you could move away, tugging you in just enough to kiss you once more, this time with a little more intent, enough to make your breath catch and your fingers curl against his shirt. Then he let you go before either of you leaned too far into it, because there was still dinner on the stove and because he knew that if he stood there kissing you too long after a week like this one, he might never make it to the table.

He washed up at the sink while you moved around the kitchen putting the last things together, and Joel watched you in the window reflection while the water ran over his hands. You kept glancing at him like you had something else to say. Something you were sitting on. He knew you well enough to spot the tells now; the little smile you bit back for no reason, the extra care you took with the plates, the way your body seemed almost too still whenever you were trying not to blurt something out too soon.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like that?” he asked, drying his hands on the dish towel.

You set a plate down. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about two seconds from spoilin’ your own surprise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joel pulled out his chair and sat, eyes never leaving you. “Baby.”

You laughed, soft and guilty, and finally brought the plates over. “Fine. Maybe I’m just happy it’s Friday.”

He accepted that with a slight tilt of his head, though they both knew that wasn’t all of it. “That much, I believe.”

Joel took the first bite of the tender meat you've cooked for him and closed his eyes for half a second before he meant to.

You noticed, of course.

“That good?” you asked, trying not to sound too pleased.

He opened his eyes and looked at you over the table. “You fishin’?”

“Yes.”

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair, chewing, making a deliberate show of considering it. “Might be the best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

You laughed, and the sound of it loosened something in him he hadn’t realized was still tight.

That was the thing about Friday nights with you. The workweek wore him down and you gathered him back together. Not all at once. Just piece by piece. A hot meal. Your voice across the table. Your foot brushing his under it. The look on your face when he reached for a second helping like he hadn’t spent the whole drive home pretending he wasn’t hungry.

He told you a little about work. Not too much. Just enough for you to follow the shape of his day. A delivery that came late. A measurement that had to be redone because somebody hadn’t listened the first time. Tommy nearly stepping backward off the decking because he’d turned around too fast while arguing with one of the electricians.

You laughed at that. “Was he hurt?”

“No.”

“Then I can laugh.”

“You already were.”

“I know.”

Joel watched you talk, watched your hands move when you got animated, watched the way you leaned in when you were interested in something he’d said as though there might still be new things to learn about him after all this time. It made something warm and almost painful spread low in his chest. He’d never been very good at making speeches about love. But if anybody had asked him where most of his peace lived, he would’ve had to point right here. To this table. To your voice. To your company at the end of the day.

At some point your foot slid against his calf beneath the table and stayed there.

Joel’s eyes flicked up.

You were smiling down at your plate, pretending not to notice what you’d done.

His mouth twitched. “You bein’ sweet, or are you up to somethin’?”

You looked up, all innocence again. “Can’t it be both?”

He held your gaze for a beat, then reached for his glass. “That answer concerns me.”

“It should.”

He laughed under his breath.

When the plates were nearly empty you rose to clear the table but when Joel started to stand with you out of instinct, you pointed at him.

“Sit.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it. You worked all day. Sit there.”

Joel settled back slowly, one brow raised. “You order me around awfully easy for somebody this small.”

You gathered up the dishes with a smile. “And yet you listen.”

“Sometimes.”

“Most times.”

He gave you a dry look. “Don’t push it.”

You disappeared into the kitchen with the plates, and he sat there listening to the music of you moving around… water running, cabinets opening, cutlery clinking softly against ceramic. Domestics sounds. He loved them with a ferocity he kept mostly to himself.

When you came back, you weren’t empty handed.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the plate you set in front of him, and he went still for half a second.

Not just any pie. Apple pie. His favorite. Still slightly warm, the crust golden, the scent of cinnamon and butter rising up before it had even properly touched the table.

You folded back into your seat trying and failing to look casual. “There’s ice cream too, if you want it.”

Joel looked from the plate to you. “You made pie?”

Your expression softened. “I did.”

“For me.”

The corners of your mouth lifted. “Well, I don’t know many people who get this emotional about apple pie, so yes. For you.”

Something in his face must have shifted, because your own expression gentled further.

Joel glanced back down at the dessert and let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked at you again. “Nothin’.” His voice came out lower than before. “Just… thank you, baby.”

You leaned your chin into your hand. “You’re welcome.”

He took a bite, closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s real good.”

Your smile went luminous. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” Another bite. “Dangerously good.”

You watched him with such open fondness it made him shake his head a little and look back at the plate, because being adored that plainly still makes him blush some days.

“There’s more,” you said after a moment, like you couldn’t possibly hold it in any longer.

Joel looked up, chewing slowly. “More pie?”

You laughed. “No. Although yes, there’s more pie. But that’s not what I meant.”

He set his fork down. “Alright. Go on.”

Your eyes brightened immediately. “I restocked everything.”

He frowned mildly, trying to follow. “Everything.”

“For the weekend.” You started counting off on your fingers. “Coffee. The good kind you like.”

Joel felt an involuntary little stab of gratitude so strong it was almost ridiculous. “You got coffee.”

“I got coffee,” you confirmed. “And beer.”

His brow lifted. “Beer too, huh?”

“And your barbecue chips. And the pretzels you pretend you don’t like that much but somehow always eat. And those peanuts Tommy keeps stealing every time he comes over.”

Joel stared at you for a second, then leaned back in his chair with a quiet exhale, one hand coming up to scrub over his beard. “You’ve been busy.”

Your face softened into something tender. “I wanted you to have a nice weekend.”

There it was again, that precise, deadly thing you did to him without even trying. You said simple sentences that landed somewhere deep because they carried more than the words themselves. I wanted you to have a nice weekend. As if his comfort was something worth planning for. As if the shape of his rest mattered enough for you to think ahead about coffee and snacks and the exact beer he reached for first.

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, quieter, “C’mere.”

You got up at once and crossed the space between you, and he drew you gently between his knees, one hand settling at your hip while the other curved around the back of your thigh. He tipped his head back to look at you properly. Your hair had fallen forward a little, your expression open and sweet and expectant, and the simple sight of you there, taking such obvious pleasure in taking care of him, nearly undid him.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said.

“I know.”

His thumb rubbed once over the fabric at your side. “Then why’d you?”

You looked at him like the answer was the easiest thing in the world. “Because I love you.”

Joel’s throat moved.

He knew better than most men how dangerous those words could be when spoken carelessly. How people used them as decoration. As habit. As currency. But you never did. When you said them, you meant them all the way through.

He rested his forehead briefly against your stomach and let the quiet sit. Then he leaned back enough to press a kiss there through your shirt, right above your navel, and felt the little shiver that ran through you.

“You keep this up,” he murmured, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ again that you’re after somethin’.”

You smiled down at him, fingers slipping into his hair. “Maybe I just missed you.”

That, too, he believed.

Joel turned his face and pressed another kiss to the heel of your palm before letting you go. “Alright,” he said, clearing his throat a little as you stepped back. “Now I’m definitely suspicious.”

You laughed, gathered the pie plate, and turned away before he could see too much of whatever was passing over your face. Joel watched you go, watched the sway of your body as you moved around the kitchen, watched the little lightness in you that had only grown since he came through the door.

He knew now with certainty that you had something planned, he just didn’t yet know what shape it would take.

Once everything was cleaned up and the kitchen restored to order, the evening softened around the two of you. Joel checked the locks out of habit, turned off the extra lights, and came back to find you already collecting his towel from the linen closet before he could ask for it. He took it from your hands with a low, amused noise.

“Baby, I can get my own towel.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why am I bein’ supervised?”

You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over the front of his work shirt, over the dust and wrinkles and the tiredness still hanging off him. “Because you’ve had a long week.”

Joel looked down at you. “And?”

“And because I like taking care of you.”

His expression shifted into something softer, more serious. “I know you do.”

You held his gaze for a moment too long, and once again that same curious charge moved through the room. Not enough to name yet. Just enough to feel.

Joel tipped your chin up with two fingers and kissed you slowly, until your body leaned into his and the hem of his shirt bunched a little in your fists. When he pulled back, he lingered close enough that your breath still crossed his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re plannin’ somethin’ while I’m gone.”

You widened your eyes. “Maybe I’m just going to… fold laundry.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “That lie was insultin’.”

“Go shower, Miller.”

The way you said it, bossy and faintly pleased with yourself, made him shake his head as he turned toward the hallway. “Yes, ma’am.”

He heard your little triumphant laugh behind him all the way to the bathroom.

The shower was hot enough to ache pleasantly over his sore body. Joel stood under it longer than usual, one hand braced on the tile, letting the day rinse off him in layers. The dust fell away first, then sweat, then whatever lingering irritation had stayed with him from the workplace. By the time he stepped out, the mirror had fogged over, and the house beyond the bathroom door had gone quiet in that particular evening way that meant you were no longer puttering around downstairs.

He dried off, wrapped the towel low around his waist, and dragged one hand through his damp hair before stepping into the bedroom.

And stopped.

You were waiting for him.

Not in bed, not curled up under the covers with a Jane Austen book or half asleep with the lamp on. You were seated at the bedroom vanity with your back mostly to the door, posture straight, legs crossed at the ankle, like you’d been there long enough to settle into the moment. The vanity itself caught the warm glow from the bedside lamp making you look almost ethereal. He looked at the whole scene at once and felt something inside him go very still.

You’d changed into a nightgown while he was in the shower, your hair arranged just so, your expression reflected in the mirror as you looked at him through it with a smile too small to be innocent.

Joel stayed by the bathroom door for a second, towel slung low, water still cooling on his shoulders. “There it is.”

You turned slightly in the chair. “There what is?”

“The surprise.”

You tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He huffed a laugh, already moving toward the bed. “Sure you don’t.”

Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, elbows resting loosely on his knees for a second as he took you in. Then his gaze dropped to the box in your lap—black and white stripes, tissue paper peeking out the top—and his mouth twitched.

“Sephora,” he said.

Your face brightened at once. “I went today.”

“I can see that.”

“You said I should get myself something nice.”

“I did.”

“And I listened.”

That made him smile properly now. “I’m learnin’ that can be dangerous.”

You angled the box toward yourself protectively. “No take backs now, Miller.”

“Ain’t askin’ for any.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand braced on the bedspread, and watched as your fingers slipped beneath the tissue paper with excitement. He recognized that look on you too. The one that made you seem younger and softer all at once.

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to see?”

Joel’s eyes moved from your face to the box and back again. “Baby, you know I got no earthly clue what half that stuff is.”

“I know,” you said sweetly. “That’s why I’m going to explain it to you.”

He laughed under his breath and settled in, already knowing he was done for. “Alright, then.”

And because it was you asking, because it mattered to you, because he loved the sound of your voice when you got excited about something, Joel gave you his full attention.You shifted in the chair until you were facing him a little more fully, one leg tucking beneath you, the Sephora box still balanced carefully in your lap like something precious. Joel stayed where he was at the edge of the bed, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, towel slung low around his waist, watching you with attention.

You dipped a hand into the box and pulled out the first item. “Okay. We’re starting easy.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “That suggests we ain’t stayin’ easy.”

“We are not.”

He nodded once, resigned already. “Go on, then.”

You held up a sleek bottle. “This is primer.”

Joel frowned faintly. “Primer.”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs. “Like paint.”

You stared at him for a beat, then sighed. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well, it’s called primer.”

“It is not a paint primer.”

Joel tipped his head. “How do I know that?”

“Because this one costs thirty eight dollars and if I ever put it on a wall, you’d have me committed.”

That earned a low laugh out of him.

He reached for the bottle, and you handed it over. Joel turned it in his hand, studying the label with the seriousness of a man trying very hard not to look like he was reading another language. “So what’s it do?”

“It goes on before makeup.”

“Hence the name.”

You squinted at him. “You can either be respectful during my presentation, or I can pack everything up and go to bed.”

“Presentation?” he repeated, eyes warm now. “Baby, are you givin’ me a seminar?”

“Yes.” You folded your arms. “And if you’re lucky there’ll be a practical demonstration.”

Joel’s gaze flickered over your face for half a second, before he handed the bottle back. “Now that sounds promisin’.”

You ignored the way your stomach fluttered and went on. “Primer makes everything sit better on the skin. It helps smooth things out, helps makeup last longer, and sometimes it gives you a certain finish.”

He blinked. “A finish.”

“Yes. Glowy. Matte. Blurring. Hydrating.”

Joel was quiet for a second. “That all different from just… face?”

You laughed. “Yes, Joel, that is different from just face.”

He gave a solemn nod. “Alright. Good to know.”

You placed the primer on the vanity and reached into the box again. “Next: concealer.”

Joel watched the little tube appear in your hand. “Lemme guess. Covers somethin’.”

You pointed at him. “See? This is good. You’re learning.”

He leaned back a little, smug enough to annoy you. “I ain’t dumb, darlin’.”

“I didn’t say you were dumb.”

“Your tone did.”

“My tone is educational.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Joel’s smile deepened, but he let you continue.

“Concealer can be for dark circles, redness, blemishes, whatever.”

His brow furrowed almost immediately. “You don’t have any of those things on your pretty face, baby.”

You stared at him, then softened a little despite yourself. “That’s sweet, but that’s not the point.”

He looked genuinely unconvinced. “Seems like the point exactly.”

“No.” You set the concealer down with a small huff. “The point is not fixing some horrible flaw. It’s just… enhancement. Evening things out. Playing around. Feeling put together.”

Joel nodded slowly, eyes still on your face. “Alright.”

You narrowed yours. “You still look like you disagree.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I can disagree privately.”

“You are not disagreeing privately. Your whole face is disagreeing.”

A laugh escaped him then. “You know my face too well.”

“I do.”

That landed softly between you.

Joel’s gaze stayed on you and you had the strange feeling that he was not just watching you talk… he was memorizing you. The way your fingers handled each item. The way your voice changed when you were explaining something you liked. The way you lit up when he listened properly.

He did listen properly. That was the thing.

You cleared your throat and reached for the next item before the moment got too soft to bear. “Okay. This one is blush.”

Joel nodded. “I know blush.”

“Oh?”

He gestured vaguely toward his own cheekbones. “Pink.”

You blinked at him. “That is both offensively simple and, unfortunately, correct.”

He looked pleased with himself.

You held up a compact and opened it, letting him see the soft rosy color inside. “Blush goes on the cheeks. Sometimes a little on the nose too. Depends on the look.”

“The look,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You got multiple looks?”

You gave him a flat stare. “Joel.”

“What? I’m askin’ questions.”

“Of course I have multiple looks.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

You turned slightly toward the mirror and tapped your cheek. “Blush can make you look healthy, fresh, sweet, sunkissed, romantic—”

Joel interrupted. “Sweet.”

You glanced back. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. “You already look sweet.”

Your expression betrayed you then, a little smile creeping in despite your best efforts. “You can’t just say things like that in the middle of my explanation.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to be serious.”

Joel looked at you for a beat, taking in your face, your excitement, the slight pink that had risen in your cheeks before you’d even put any actual blush on. “That may be the problem right there, baby.”

You laughed softly and reached into the box again. “Fine. No more compliments until the end.”

“That doesn't sound natural.”

“It’s a rule now.”

“Seems harsh.”

“You’ll survive.”

He considered that. “Debatable.”

You had to look away for a second because the sight of him sitting there barely dressed, all broad shoulders and damp hair and sleepy amusement, making himself the world’s most attentive audience for a makeup breakdown, was almost too lovely to process in one go.

You pulled out a small palette next.

Joel squinted. “That one looks expensive.”

Your face changed instantly. “It was a little expensive.”

“A little.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He extended a hand. “Lemme see.”

You passed it over carefully, and Joel turned the compact in his fingers. The palette was heavier than he expected, the case clicking softly when he opened it. Inside were shades of brown, gold, rose, and deep muted plum, each one arranged so prettily it almost did make sense that you’d looked delighted pulling it out of the bag earlier.

He studied it in silence for a moment.

Then, very seriously: “These are all nearly the same color.”

Your mouth fell open. “Joel!”

“What?”

“They are not.”

He looked at the palette again, then back at you. “Baby, I’m lookin’ at seven versions of brown.”

You snatched it from him with exaggerated offense. “This is taupe. This is a soft rose. This is bronze. This is a champagne shimmer. This one is mauve.”

Joel blinked slowly. “That last one was definitely still brown.”

“It was not.”

“Looked brown from here.”

“You are impossible.”

He grinned then. “Maybe. But I’m listenin’.”

You held the palette protectively against your chest. “Eyeshadow,” you informed him, in the tone of someone recovering from a great insult, “is what you put on your eyelids.”

“I gathered.”

“It can change the whole mood of a look.”

He raised a brow. “Can it?”

“Yes. Soft. Smoky. Dramatic. Fresh. Sultry.”

Joel’s expression altered at that last word, barely. “Sultry, huh?”

You pretended not to notice. “Yes.”

“And you’re sayin’ that like it’s a normal thing to tell me while sittin’ there lookin’ like that.”

“Like what?”

He looked you over once, slowly enough to make your pulse jump, then brought his eyes back to your face. “Like you know exactly what you’re doin’.”

The silence that followed lasted a beat too long.

Then you cleared your throat again. “Anyway. Moving on.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.

You pulled out a fluffy brush, and his brow furrowed. “That one for paint too?”

You gasped. “Joel!”

“I’m kiddin’.”

“No, you’re not. You think all of this is construction supplies in disguise.”

He looked at the brush. “You gotta admit there’s some overlap.”

“There is absolutely no overlap.”

“That primer still sounds suspicious.”

You shook your head, smiling helplessly now. “This is an eyeshadow brush.”

He gave the brush a dubious look. “Seems too soft to do much.”

“It’s not supposed to do much. It’s supposed to blend.”

“Blend what?”

“The eyeshadow.”

Joel leaned back and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Alright, hold on. So first you put color on your eyelid.”

“Yes.”

“Then you use another tool to sort of… smear it around.”

“It is not smearing. It is blending.”

He nodded gravely. “My mistake.”

You pointed the brush at him. “Mock me again and I’ll use this against you.”

Joel looked at the brush, then at you. “Sweetheart, I am not afraid of a tiny fluffy weapon.”

You fought a smile and lost badly. “You should be.”

“What, you gonna do my makeup in my sleep?”

That image hit you so suddenly and vividly that you nearly laughed. “Honestly? You’d look gorgeous.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. Maybe a nice neutral eye to enhance your hazel eyes or something soft and romantic with berry tones.”

Joel gave you a long look. “You flirtin’ with me or threatenin’ me?”

“Bit of both.”

“Mm.”

His voice dropped on that little hum in a way you very deliberately chose not to think about too hard.

Instead, you kept digging through the box and grabbed a lipstick. “Okay. This one you know.”

Joel’s gaze landed on the tube and warmed immediately with recognition. “Now that one I know.”

You looked pleased. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He pointed lazily. “That’s similar to the color you wear when we go out somewhere nice.”

You paused.

Then slowly: “What?”

Joel shrugged, like this was obvious. “The darker one.”

You blinked at him. “You know this shade?”

“Could pick it out in a lineup.”

You stared.

His expression shifted, a little wary now. “What?”

“Joel.”

“What.”

You turned fully toward him on the stool, lipstick in hand. “Are you telling me you can identify my lipstick shades?”

He frowned as if the question itself were strange. “Some of ’em.”

“Some of them?”

“Well, not by all the names,” he said. “Those names are ridiculous.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean, ridiculous?”

He held out a hand, and when you passed him the tube he read the label aloud with a face like he was being personally offended by it. “‘Rosewood Whisper.’” He looked up. “That’s not a lipstick shade. That’s some fancy car freshener scent.”

You laughed so hard you had to grab the edge of the vanity.

Joel kept going, encouraged now. “Y’all never just call somethin’ red. No. It’s ‘midnight garnet seduction’ or ‘velvet sin’ or ‘spiced fig dream.’ Sounds like a fancy cocktail menu.”

You were laughing openly now, shoulders shaking.

He pointed the lipstick at you. “And I’m right.”

“You are a menace.”

“I’m observant.”

“That is not the word I would’ve used.”

Joel smiled and handed it back. “It’s the one I’m usin’.”

You twisted the lipstick up and held it near your mouth. “So which one is this, then?”

He squinted. “That’s not the darker dinner one.”

“No.”

“And it’s not the peachy one you wear with that cream sweater.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

Joel blinked once. “What.”

“You know the peachy one?”

He shifted slightly on the bed, suddenly looking like a man who had stumbled into revealing more than intended. “Baby, I got eyes.”

“No, no. That’s not just eyes. That’s data collection.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “You say that like it’s criminal.”

“It is deeply suspicious.”

Joel looked down, then back up at you. “You want me not to notice?”

It got you in the chest a little.

Your voice softened without permission. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then I'll keep noticing.”

You looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the mirror before he could see too much on your face. “Well,” you said, trying for lightness and getting only halfway there, “for the record, this one is newer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it’s not for every day.”

Joel watched your reflection. “Special occasion?”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “Maybe.”

His eyes held yours there for one quiet second before you broke the look and set the lipstick down.

You reached for another item. “Okay, next: highlighter.”

Joel exhaled. “That one also sounds like office supplies.”

“It does not.”

“It absolutely does.”

“It makes the high points of the face catch the light.”

He nodded slowly. “Now that, I understand.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Sure.” He pointed gently toward you. “Bit on the cheekbone. Maybe here.” He gestured near the inner corners of his own eyes with shocking accuracy. “Makes things brighter.”

You stared at him, deadpan.

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

“How do you know that?”

He shifted one shoulder. “Seen you do it.”

“When?”

His expression was almost offended now. “What d’you mean, when?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “No, I just—I don’t know. I didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”

Joel went quiet.

Then he said as a matter of fact, “I pay attention to you all the time.”

The words settled over the room.

There was no vanity in the way he said it. He sounded like a man stating something as ordinary and unremarkable as the weather, when to you it felt like being handed his heart in the simplest possible form.

You swallowed. “I know.”

His gaze lingered on your reflection. “Do you?”

The question was gentle enough to hurt.

You looked down at the highlighter in your hand, then set it beside the rest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, something tender moving beneath the calm of his face, and then the moment loosened because he cleared his throat and tipped his chin toward the clutter spreading over the vanity.

“So how much of that did you buy?”

You laughed, grateful for the release. “Rude.”

“I’m serious.”

“You told me to treat myself.”

“I did not expect to finance a full cosmetic expansion.”

“Expansion,” you repeated, grinning.

“Looks expensive enough to be one.”

You picked up two little containers. “These were mini sizes.”

Joel narrowed his eyes. “That means they’re small.”

“Yes.”

“Not cheap.”

You sighed. “No.”

He nodded like a man whose suspicions had been confirmed. “Thought so.”

You held up another gloss tube. “This one was on sale.”

He gave you a long look.

“It was!”

“That phrase’s dangerous in your mouth.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“Darlin, every time you say somethin’ was on sale, somehow three bags appear.”

You put a hand to your chest. “I can’t believe you’d stereotype me like this in my own bedroom.”

Joel laughed and the sound of it curled around you like a warm blanket.

He rubbed his hand over his beard and nodded toward the products. “Alright. So what else we got.”

You brightened immediately and began lining them up in order like you were preparing to teach a masterclass. “Skincare.”

Joel made a face.

You caught it instantly. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.”

“Your face said enough.”

He leaned back on one arm. “How many steps?”

You looked away. “That depends.”

Joel groaned quietly. “Baby.”

“It depends on the night.”

“That means too many.”

“It does not mean too many.”

“How many.”

You started counting under your breath. “Cleanser. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream if I feel like it. Sometimes an exfoliant, but not every night, obviously. And then if my skin is dry, maybe—”

Joel held up a hand. “I blacked out halfway through that.”

You laughed. “No, you didn’t.”

“Felt like I did.”

“Skincare is important.”

He gave you a skeptical look. “You’re twenty seven, not ninety.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

He watched you for a second, then asked with suspicious sincerity, “Is that why there are so many tiny bottles in the bathroom that all look exactly the same?”

You gasped. “They do not look exactly the same.”

“They absolutely do.”

“That one has niacinamide.”

He stared.

You lifted another. “This one has hyaluronic acid.”

He kept staring.

You held up a third. “And this one is peptides.”

Joel blinked once, then slowly dragged a hand down his face. “You just cast a spell at me.”

You burst out laughing.

“I’m serious,” he said, though he was smiling too now. “That sounded illegal… like drugs and that stuff.”

“It’s not illegal, it’s skincare.”

“Same difference.”

You shook your head, still smiling, and then your fingers dipped back into the box one more time.

Joel watched your expression change before the product even cleared the tissue paper.

His brows lifted. “What’s that look for?”

You bit back a grin. “Nothing.”

“Sweetheart.”

You looked over your shoulder at him with eyes far too innocent. “This one’s just… funny.”

Joel straightened a little. “Funny how?”

You held the tube in your hand but didn’t show him yet.

He narrowed his gaze. “Why’re you hidin’ it?”

“Because you’re going to be immature.”

Joel actually looked offended. “I am never immature.”

You stared at him.

He waited.

Then one corner of your mouth lifted. “That was embarrassing for both of us.”

A laugh escaped him. “Alright, fine. Little bit.”

“Little bit,” you echoed, unconvinced.

You turned the tube in your fingers, smiling to yourself now, and Joel could already tell from the expression on your face that whatever came next was going to amuse you entirely too much.

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed without even meaning to, curiosity plain on his face now. “C’mon, then. Lemme see.”

You looked at him, still grinning. “Promise you’ll behave?”

Joel met your eyes. “No.”

That made you laugh again and you lifted the last item slowly, ready to show him the thing you already knew was going to make him lose it.You held it up between two fingers with a grin you were making absolutely no effort to hide now, the little metallic pink tube catching the warm bedroom light as you turned it toward him.

Joel squinted at the label.

Then he went very still.

His eyes moved across the words once. Twice.

And then, exactly as predicted, he barked out a laugh so sudden and unguarded it startled even him.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

That only made it worse.

Joel bent forward, one hand over his mouth now, shoulders shaking as the laugh hit him again, deeper this time, rough and helpless and impossible to stop. He looked up at you with tears of amusement practically threatening in the corners of his eyes and repeated, disbelieving, “Better Than Sex?”

You stared at him, trying very hard to look stern and getting nowhere. “Joel.”

“Baby.” He shook his head and laughed again. “No. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be respectful, I do, but that is the dumbest damn name I ever heard in my life.”

“It is not dumb.”

“It is ridiculous.”

“It’s marketing!”

“Marketing by a thirteen year old boy, maybe.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your own smile and failed miserably. “You said you were going to behave.”

“I very specifically did not promise that.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be mean.”

Joel sat up a little straighter, still grinning, and held out a hand. “Lemme see it.”

You hesitated just long enough to make a point, then passed it over. He took the tube carefully, turning it in his fingers like maybe the name would somehow become less absurd if he looked at it from another angle but it did not.

He read it aloud again, slower, like he was trying to understand how a real company with a real boardroom and real adult employees had come to this decision. “‘Better Than Sex.’” He looked up at you. “There was nobody in that office brave enough to stop this?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Apparently not.”

Joel stared down at the tube. “Who approved that?”

“People smarter than us, probably.”

“No, ma’am.” He handed it back with quiet authority. “Ain’t no smart person names a mascara after sex.”

You took it from him, smiling now. “That’s because you don’t understand branding.”

He leaned back on the bed again, one hand braced behind him, expression dry. “Then explain it to me.”

You drew in a dramatic breath and straightened in the chair like you were about to defend a thesis. “Alright. The point is not that the mascara is literally better than sex.”

Joel immediately cut in. “Well, that’s disappointin’, because that is very much what they printed on the tube.”

You glared at him. “Would you let me finish?”

He made a little go ahead gesture with his fingers, though the smile was still pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“The point,” you repeated, “is that it promises drama.”

Joel’s expression remained skeptical. “Drama.”

“Yes. Big lashes. Volume. Length. Impact.” You held the tube up between you both like a piece of courtroom evidence. “It’s not subtle. It wants attention.”

He looked from the mascara to you. “So the mascara is flirtin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I hate that you made that sound logical.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “Ain’t wrong.”

You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the tube, pulling the wand out with a soft wet click. “Look.”

He leaned forward instinctively, curious despite himself now, watching as you angled the wand so he could see the brush.

Joel frowned. “That’s it?”

You looked at him. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

“It’s just a little spiky stick.”

“It is not a spiky stick.”

He pointed. “That’s absolutely a spiky stick.”

“It’s a mascara wand.”

Joel nodded once, solemn again. “That’s what I said.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself, and turned toward the mirror. “You are impossible to educate.”

“Yet you persist.”

“Because I’m committed.”

“To what, exactly.”

“Improving you.”

Joel’s low laugh followed you into the mirror. “Good luck with that.”

You angled closer to the glass and lifted the wand to your lashes. “Okay. So mascara darkens them, lengthens them, thickens them—ideally.”

“‘Ideally’ don’t sound confident.”

“Because some mascaras clump.”

Joel frowned. “Clump.”

“Yes.”

“That bad?”

“It can be.”

He was quiet for a second. “How many problems y’all got in that industry?”

You laughed under your breath. “More than you could possibly understand.”

He watched your reflection carefully as you started applying the mascara with slow, practiced movements, the brush catching at the roots and pulling upward. Joel had seen you do this before, of course. More than once. But there was something different about being invited into it this closely, being talked through the steps like he belonged there in the middle of the ritual instead of merely passing by the doorway while it happened.

He found himself following every little motion.The steadiness of your hand. The slight concentration in your face. The way your eyes widened a touch as the lashes separated and darkened.

“Waterproof,” you reminded him, glancing at him through the mirror.

Joel nodded. “That part I understand.”

“Do you.”

“Sure. Means it won’t run if it gets wet.”

“Exactly.”

He folded one arm across his chest. “Good for rain.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

“Cryin’.”

“Yes.”

“Humid weather.”

“Yes.”

Joel considered that, then squinted at the tube as if he could extract more information from sheer suspicion. “And that’s it?”

You took your time with the other eye, far too aware now of the way he was watching. “Not exactly.”

His voice changed a little. “No?”

You kept your gaze on the mirror because looking at him directly would’ve been too much too soon. “No.”

Joel waited.

He had that patience when he wanted to. He could make silence feel like a gentle and guiding hand at the small of your back. You felt him watching as clearly as if he’d touched you, and it made your skin go warm in places you were trying very hard not to think about yet.

You cleared your throat softly. “It also says it holds up against sweat.”

Joel made a small thoughtful sound. “Alright.”

“And…” You adjusted the wand, pretending great interest in the angle of your lashes. “Other… things.”

Joel didn’t move right away, didn’t speak either. The quiet between you lengthened until it had weight, and when he finally did say something, his voice came out rougher than before.

“What kind of things.”

You looked at him in the mirror then.

There was the answer.

You turned back to the mirror and gave your lashes one more slow coat. “Fluids.”

Joel let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so much like restraint. “Darlin'.”

“What?” you asked, all false innocence.

He looked at the back of your shoulder, then up to your eyes in the mirror again. “You know exactly what.”

You capped the mascara with careful fingers, buying yourself a second. “I’m explaining the product.”

“That's what this is.”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, but his eyes stayed on you. “Seems awfully selective.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s an important feature.”

“Is it now.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent enough to make the room feel smaller. “So let me get this straight. Some genius came up with a mascara named ‘Better Than Sex,’ and then another genius decided to advertise that it survives…” His eyes moved over your face, dipped to your mouth, then back up. “Fluids.”

You swallowed, trying not to show it. “That seems to be the implication.”

He sat with that for a second. Then, very dryly, “That may be the most committed sales pitch I’ve heard all year.”

You laughed, but it came out weaker than before.

Joel watched you set the tube down on the vanity, watched the way your fingers lingered on it for a fraction too long. “And you bought this because…”

“Because it had good reviews.”

“Mm.”

“And because it’s supposed to make lashes look dramatic.”

His gaze flicked up to the mirror again. “Mission accomplished.”

Your breath caught a little at how simply he said it.

You looked at yourself then, partly to avoid looking at him. The mascara had done what it always promised to do: your lashes looked darker, longer, fuller, framing your eyes in a way that made your whole face read differently. Less soft. Less sleepy. Sharper somehow. More deliberate. Your eyes looked bigger, yes, but definitely not innocent.

You turned on the stool, one hand settling in your lap. “Well?”

Joel didn’t answer immediately.

He just looked.

His gaze moved slowly over your face, taking in what had changed. The lashes now casting longer shadows against your skin. But he was not just looking at the makeup. He was looking at you inside it. At the way you wore it. At the confidence that had crept quietly into your posture because you knew you looked good and you wanted him to know you knew.

It made his heat tighten behind his ribs.

“You’re pretty,” he said at last.

You made a face immediately. “Joel.”

“What.”

“That is not a serious review.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say it was.”

“I’m asking about the mascara.”

“Mm.” His eyes stayed on yours. “And I’m answerin’ honestly.”

You tried not to smile and failed. “Be specific.”

Joel let out a quiet breath, like he was indulging you, but there was no impatience in him. Only attention. “Alright.”

He stood then.

Joel crossed the small distance between the bed and the vanity until he stood just behind your chair, close enough that the warmth of him slid over your bare shoulders before he even touched you. In the mirror you watched him lift one hand and rest it lightly on the top edge of the vanity, caging you in without quite meaning to. His other hand came to your jaw, fingers rough and warm as they tilted your face very slightly toward the light.

Now you could barely breathe.

Joel studied your reflection and yours alone, his eyes narrowed in concentration as if he were trying to get this right. “They do look longer.”

His thumb brushed once, barely there, near your chin. “Darker, too.”

You kept still.

His gaze lingered. “Makes your eyes look…” He trailed off.

You looked up at him in the mirror. “Look what?”

Joel’s eyes met yours there. For one suspended second he seemed to debate with himself. Then he gave in, just a little.

“Like trouble,” he said quietly.

Your heart stumbled.

He looked down at you then and whatever he saw on your face must have reached him, because something in his expression softened even as the heat stayed.

You tried for lightness. “That’s not very technical.”

Joel’s mouth curved. “You want technical?”

“Yes.”

He leaned down just enough that his voice brushed near your ear. “Alright, then. They make it hard to look anywhere else.”

You exhaled shakily.

He stayed there a moment, close enough that your whole body had gone aware of him in pieces. The smell of soap from his shower. The quiet scrape of his thumb when it moved once more against your skin.

Then, because you needed the thread picked back up before it snapped entirely, you looked at the mascara on the table and said, with a little too much brightness, “And it’s waterproof.”

Joel laughed softly, the sound low in your ear. “You already sold me on that part, darlin’.”

You swallowed. “Did I?”

“Yeah.”

He straightened just enough to look at you again in the mirror, one hand still resting beside you on the vanity. “Only thing I’m still unclear on—”

You turned your head slightly. “What’s that?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, maddeningly calm. “Whether all that advertising’s true.”

The words landed between you dangerously.

You stared at him.

Then his hand slipped from your jaw, slow enough to feel deliberate, and he stepped back just one pace, enough to give you air without really undoing what he’d started.

His voice, when it came, was gentler. “Though I should probably mention”—his eyes moved over your face once more—“you didn’t need it.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “Need what?”

“Any of it.” He nodded toward the products scattered over the vanity. “The primer, the blush, the dramatic flirtin’ mascara with the terrible name.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re beautiful without all that.”

You looked down for a second, smiling helplessly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I know.” You glanced back up at him. “But that’s not the point.”

Joel nodded slowly. “No. I know it ain’t.”

There it was again. The understanding, the quiet way he met you where you actually were instead of simplifying you.

His gaze moved to the mascara one last time, then back to your eyes, still darkened and dangerous in the vanity light. “Still,” he murmured, voice gone rough at the edges again, “I gotta admit.”

You waited.

Joel’s eyes held yours.

“It does look real good on you.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

He looked back.

And then his gaze drifted over the products scattered across the vanity and he said, low and thoughtful, “Seems a shame, though.”

Your brows lifted. “What does?”

“All that effort.” His eyes came back to your face, to the lashes you’d darkened on purpose, to the mouth that had been trying not to smile for the last thirty seconds. “All that makeup.”

You turned a little more in the chair. “What about it?”

Joel’s mouth twitched faintly. “Gonna go to waste.”

You stared at him for half a beat, then let out a tiny laugh. “Waste?”

He gave one slow nod, like this was the most reasonable point in the world.

“How exactly is it going to waste?”

Joel shifted his weight, one hand catching the knot of the towel at his hip for the briefest second before falling away again. The motion was absentminded, but your eyes dropped there anyway, and when they lifted back to his face he had already noticed.

That did not help.

His voice dipped lower. “Well, darlin’… unless I’ve badly misunderstood the shape of this evening, I figured we’d be goin’ to bed before too long.”

The words themselves were almost innocent.

Almost.

You felt the silence that followed settle over the room, and for one suspended second you didn’t answer.

Joel noticed that too.

His eyes narrowed just slightly as he watched your face, watched the way your fingers tightened in your lap, watched the little shift in your breathing. He knew that look by now. Knew the exact moment a thought took hold in you and turned from playful to dangerous. It was always there first, in your eyes. That glint. That pause. That split second where he could practically see the idea forming before you ever said a word.

And judging by the way his chest rose on a slow inhale, he knew this one was going to be trouble. The kind of trouble he never once tried very hard to avoid.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he murmured.

You stood from the vanity slowly, turning fully to face him now. The height difference between you always felt more pronounced when he was like this, with his eyes fixed on you with that patient, dangerous attention that never rushed and never missed a thing.

You stepped closer.

Joel’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again.

“How do you mean, waste?” you asked softly.

His expression shifted, something amused and warmer than amused flickering through it. “Darlin'.”

“No, tell me.” You tilted your head just slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, nothing’s being wasted.”

Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh, except there was too much heat in it now to really be one. “That so?”

“That so.”

You could see him trying to read you, trying to decide whether this was still teasing or whether the ground had shifted under his feet without him noticing.

Then his eyes moved over your face again, slower this time, taking in the lashes, the mouth, the expression you were making no attempt to soften.

When he spoke, his voice had gone gravel deep. “Baby.”

That one word should not have felt like a hand sliding over bare skin. And yet you took the last half step in, close enough now to feel the heat coming off him, close enough that if you lifted your hand it would land on the center of his chest. The towel sat careless and unfair around his waist, his hair still damp, his whole body loose with the kind of comfort that only existed in private, in the quiet safety of home, in the hour when the rest of the world stopped mattering and there was only this room and this man and the way he was looking at you now.

You smiled teasingly.

“It’s not going to waste,” you said.

Joel held very still.

“No?”

You shook your head once, eyes never leaving his. “No.”

He swallowed.

That was it. Just a tiny movement in his throat, but you caught it, and the satisfaction of being able to do that to him with so little nearly made you bolder than you already were.

Joel’s hands remained at his sides, though you could tell by the tension in them that it cost him something now. “Alright,” he said carefully. “Then I’m listenin’.”

You let your gaze flick down his chest and back up, deliberately mirroring the way he’d looked at you before. “I’ve been thinking about this mascara all day.”

That got his attention in full.

“All day,” he repeated.

You nodded.

Joel’s mouth curved, but it was thin now, held back by effort. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

He laughed once under his breath, but the sound came out uneven. “You say that awful casually.”

You took another inch of space, enough that the edge of your nightgown nearly brushed the towel at his hip. Joel didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed to brace without meaning to, like his whole body had recognized the shift before his mind could catch up.

And still you made him wait.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice softening, “to see if it’s actually as good as it claims.”

Joel stared at you.

His eyes searched yours, and when he spoke, his voice was so low it barely seemed to cross the space between you. “Baby…”

You smiled wider.

“So no,” you said gently. “Nothing’s going to waste.”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising under the warm lamplight, and there it was again, that look. That exact look. The one you knew got under his skin every single time. Part disbelief, part desire, part the dawning realization that he was no longer in control of the direction this night was taking and that, worse, he did not want to be.

Your fingers lifted at last, just enough to rest lightly against his chest.

Joel’s eyes dropped to the touch.

Then back to your face.

And you gave him the line like a gift.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” you said softly, “to test with my husband whether this mascara really holds up to everything it promises.”

Joel went completely still.

His jaw tightened just slightly. His hand flexed once at his side. His eyes dragged over your face as though he were seeing you and the trouble in you with punishing new clarity.

Then he laughed, just once.

And when he looked at you again, whatever amusement had been there before had burned down into something darker.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Joel’s hand came up then, rough fingers finding your waist with slow intention, like he was giving himself one last chance to be careful and already knew it was too late.

“Baby,” he said, and this time it sounded like a warning aimed at both of you.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to ground himself, or maybe to make sure you were real and not something his tired brain had invented after a long week and a hot shower and too much time thinking about you.

You tilted your head, lashes dark and deliberate, exactly like you’d intended. “What?”

Joel let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except there was no real humor left in it now. Just pure heat turned into desperate need. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You smiled. “That’s not very reassuring, you know.”

“Ain’t meant to be.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there just a second too long, then dragged back up like it cost him something.

He shifted his weight slightly, like he was bracing for something he’d already decided not to stop.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “What part?”

“All of it.”

You held his gaze, fully aware now of how close you were, how little space there was left to hide behind anything safe. “I said,” you began softly, fingers still resting against his chest, “that I don’t think anything’s going to waste.”

Joel’s jaw tightened.

“And,” you continued, quieter now, stepping just a fraction closer, “that I’ve been waiting all day…”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, like he was mapping out the line of you again just to be sure.

“…to test it with my husband,” you finished.

The silence that followed was thick.

His control was still there, you could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his grip hadn’t tightened too much, in the way he was still choosing every movement instead of letting instinct take over completely.

But it was slipping.

And you could feel that too.

Your hand moved slightly against his chest again—just enough to tempting him—and that was all it took.

Joel closed his eyes for half a second, like he was giving himself one last moment of control.

Then he opened them again.

And whatever had been holding him back was gone.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and dangerous in that quiet way that meant he was done pretending this wasn’t happening. “You wanna test it?”

Your pulse jumped.

He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed warm against your cheek, close enough to make your thoughts scatter without even touching you yet.

“Let’s see how well it holds up,” he murmured.

That was the moment everything tipped.

His thumb dragged slowly along the curve of your hip. “All day, huh? Thinkin’ about me ruinin’ it?”

“Every hour.”

A low, dangerous sound rumbled out of his chest. He spun you around so fast your breath caught, pressing your front against the vanity edge until the cool wood bit into your hips. The mirror reflected everything: your flushed face, the new mascara, Joel towering behind you like a man who’d just been handed permission to lose control.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice right against your ear. One big hand slid up your sternum, fingers spreading wide over your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there like a heavy reminder. “You’re gonna watch every second while I fuck that pretty makeup right off you.”

Your eyes met his in the glass. His were dark, pupils blown, jaw tight with restraint he was already losing.

“Yes, Joel.”

He hummed approval, free hand shoving the towel away. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip and curving up against your clothed ass. He dragged it slowly between your cheeks, teasing, letting you feel exactly how much he meant every word.

“Gonna start slow,” he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Deep. So you feel every inch stretchin’ that tight little pussy while you keep those eyes on the mirror. Then I’m gonna fuck you stupid. And every single time you’re about to come…” His fingers flexed around your throat. “I stop. You’re not comin’ till that mascara’s runnin’ down your cheeks like you’ve been cryin’ for me. Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically. “Yes—please—”

He kicked your feet apart wider, one hand still collared around your throat, the other sliding down to pull your panties aside. No patience left for taking them off. The blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance, already slick from how long you’d been teasing each other.

“Eyes on the mirror, darlin’,” he growled. “Don’t you fuckin’ look away.”

Then he pushed in. One long, slow, relentless inch at a time until he was buried to the hilt and your mouth fell open on a broken moan. The stretch burned so good your lashes fluttered, but you kept your eyes open, locked on the reflection like he’d commanded.

“Fuck,” Joel breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “So goddamn tight. Always so perfect for me.” He rolled his hips once, grinding deep, letting you feel him throb inside you. “Look how pretty you look takin’ me. Those lashes still all nice and dark… for now.”

He started moving then. Slow, deep drags that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back into your dripping cunt. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb stroking the side like he was petting you while he ruined you.

“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself get fucked.” His voice was pure filth now. “See how your tits bounce every time I bottom out? See how your mouth opens like you can’t even breathe right? That’s my cock doin’ that to you.”

You moaned, the sound loud in the quiet bedroom. Your hands gripped the edge of the vanity so hard your knuckles went white. The mirror showed everything: the way your eyes were already glassy, the faint sheen of sweat starting on your collarbones, Joel’s broad body behind you, muscles flexing with every controlled thrust.

“Gonna take my time,” he rasped. “Gonna fuck you so deep you forget your own name before I even let you come.” He snapped his hips a little harder on the next thrust, making your breath hitch. “But not yet. Not till I say.”

He kept the pace torturously slow for what felt like forever. Long, rolling strokes that had you whimpering and pushing back against him, chasing more. Every time your moans pitched higher, every time your walls started fluttering around him, Joel would still completely, buried deep, and just hold you there.

“Not yet, baby, not a chance,” he murmured against your neck, biting down lightly. “Feel that? Feel how full you are? That’s where you belong, baby. Stuffed full of my cock while you watch yourself fall apart.”

“Joel—please—”

“Please what?” He flexed inside you, grinding slow circles. “Use your words. Tell me what you want while you’re lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I need to come,” you gasped, voice shaking. “Please let me come—”

His hand tightened just enough around your throat to make your pulse jump. “No, sweetheart,” He pulled out almost completely, then sank back in so deep your knees buckled. “Not till those lashes are ruined. I want black streaks down your pretty cheeks. I want you lookin’ like you’ve been cryin’ and chockin’ on my dick.”

He started fucking you harder then, still controlled, but deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your mascara was already starting to smudge at the corners from the tears of frustration gathering in your eyes.

“Look at that,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror. “Already runnin’. My pretty little wife’s mascara can’t even handle a little foreplay. What’s it gonna do when I really start wreckin’ you, huh?”

He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, the hand on your throat keeping you upright and forced to watch. Every thrust jolted you forward against the vanity. Your lashes were definitely smearing now, faint black tracks forming under your eyes.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he growled. “Pussy’s greedy tonight. You love to watch while I ruin you, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, Joel—”

He reached around with his free hand and found your clit, giving it a light, stinging little tap with two fingers. You cried out, hips jerking.

“Uh-uh,” he scolded, tapping again, harder this time. “No comin’. Not yet.” Another sharp little slap right over your swollen clit. “This pretty pussy’s gonna wait till I’ve got black tears runnin’ down your face.”

Joel kept fucking you hard and deep, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm that had the vanity creaking under your hands. He leaned in close again to whisper in your ear.

“Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world, baby?”

You laughed. A broken, desperate sound that turned into a moan halfway through because he chose that exact second to grind against your spongy spot. Joel’s hand cracked down on your ass in a sharp, stinging spank that made you jolt forward. He didn’t miss a beat, cock still buried to the hilt.

“I asked you a question,” he growled. Another hard thrust. Another spank, this one right on the same ass cheek, making your skin bloom hot. “Who’s the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Your voice came out wrecked and breathless.

“Me—fuck, Joel— it’s me.”

He was grinning in the mirror. He rewarded you with a deep, punishing stroke that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s right,” he rasped, spanking you again. “My beautiful girl. Say it again while I fuck you.”

“It’s me,” you sobbed, voice cracking as an orgasm threatened to rip through you. “I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Joel groaned low in his chest, hips snapping harder.

“Damn right you are,” he muttered almost tenderly while he kept pounding into you. “And don’t you ever fuckin’ forget it.”

He fucked you like that for what felt like hours with hard, deep thrusts interspersed with those cruel little clit slaps every time you got too close. Your mascara was a mess now, dark smudges under your eyes, streaks starting to run down your cheeks every time a tear slipped free.

“Goddamn,” Joel muttered, voice wrecked. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you cry for me.” He slammed in harder, grinding against your spongy spot again. “Almost there, baby. Almost got you lookin’ exactly how I want.”

Your legs were shaking. You were babbling —please, Joel, please, I can’t, I need— but he just kept going, relentless, edging you right to the brink and then stopping or slapping your clit until the orgasm retreated.

One final hard thrust and he stilled again, buried to the hilt, hand flexing around your throat.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice rough. “Look how ruined you are.”

In the mirror your reflection was wrecked: You were shaking, tears spilling faster, mascara dripping off your chin onto the vanity. Joel looked feral behind you with his hair damp with sweat.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s the face I wanted. Now you can come, baby. Come all over my cock while I watch those tears run.”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He fucked you with brutal, perfect strokes that hit exactly where you needed every single time. His hand left your throat only to slide down and rub tight, fast circles over your clit, no more teasing, no more denial.

“Come on, baby. Let go. Soak my dick while I ruin the rest of that mascara.”

The orgasm crashed into you like a freight train. You screamed his name, walls clamping down around him, body shaking so hard he had to hold you up. Black tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, mascara running in messy streaks all the way to your jaw.

“Fuck—yes—that’s my girl,” Joel groaned, voice breaking. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

He fucked you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Gonna fill you up, baby.”

One more thrust and he buried himself to the hilt, coming with a low, guttural moan, cock pulsing hot inside you. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop while you trembled and cried in his arms.

For a long moment the only sound was both of you panting, the mirror fogged slightly at the edges from heat and breath.

Joel stayed inside you, arms wrapped around your middle now, gentler. He pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your tear streaked cheek.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he murmured, voice soft and wrecked. “You look like a goddamn dream.”

He reached over to the vanity without pulling out, grabbed the pack of makeup remover wipes you always kept there, and tugged one free with his teeth. Then, still buried deep inside you, he turned you in his arms, lifted you clean off the floor, and carried you the few steps to the bed.

He sat down on the edge, keeping you straddling his lap, cock still snug and warm inside you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. He cradled the back of your head with one hand and brought the wipe to your face with the other.

“Hold still, darlin’,” he said gently, voice full of that quiet affection that always undid you. “Let me clean my pretty girl up.”

He wiped your cheeks with slow, careful movements, thumb brushing tenderly under your eyes as the black streaks disappeared. Every few seconds he’d lean in and kiss you with soft, lingering kisses on your lips, your forehead, the tip of your nose.

“That mascara didn’t stand a chance, did it?” he teased between kisses, a crooked smile on his face. “Promised it was better than sex… and here you are with black rivers down your face after one round with your husband.”

You laughed, watery and breathless, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.

“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, wiping the last smudge away. “All clean now. My beautiful girl.”

He tossed the wipe aside and wrapped both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside you, still half hard, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet.

“Love you,” he murmured against your hair, voice low and reverent. “Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts sometimes.”

You buried your face in his neck and smiled against his skin.

“Love you more.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh, hand stroking slow circles up and down your back.

“Nah, baby. Not possible.”

He stayed like that for a long time, still inside you, holding you close, kissing your temple every few seconds while the bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over both of you. The vanity mirror behind you reflected the two of you tangled together.

“Next time you buy somethin’ similar to ‘Better Than Sex,’” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “I’m makin’ you wear it so I can prove it wrong all over again.”

You laughed into his neck, and he tightened his arms around you, heart beating steady against yours.

“Deal?” he asked, smiling.

“Deal,” you whispered.

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

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