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|Joel Miller X f!reader | ~Everybody Loves Contractors~ |AU NO OUTBREAK|

Fluff? ✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Competence Kink? ✔️ flirty!contractor!joel! ✔️

“He runs his hand gently down the back of your head. A soft, palm-smoothing motion. Like brushing crushed velvet back into place. Like petting a skittish cat that finally lets you close.” a/n hi besties. sorry for the month-long radio silence. i burned out, went feral, and made a 5,000 km trip to see hozier twice in a country i do not live in (shoutout wyoming and montana?). anyway. i’m slowly rehydrating my brain cells and writing again. (im also seeing him again this weekend in denver) this chapter is weird and soft and kind of sad and also a little slutty? big thank you for sticking around. love u always <3 – liv.

as always, your reblogs & comments make me insane in the best way. thank you for keeping me writing. love u. - liv

| Warnings | explicit language, emotional spiral, implied depression, dead dad mention, offhand trauma mentions, plumbing disasters, PTSD-adjacent reactions, age gap tension, heavy teasing, emotional repression, implied domesticity, eventual smut, soft!joel, mold.

What was the point of getting a fucking degree anyway?

You’ve been scrolling indeed all morning. Coffee cold on the table, hair caught around your knuckles. Fingernails chewed down to little stubs.

Pretty sure you’ve applied for every remotely relevant position in Austin by now.

School counsellor?

They want a minimum of five years’ experience

Probation officer? Pass.

Rehab? Three years’ experience. A background check, and apparently Washington’s curriculum isn’t rigorous enough for the fine state of Texas.

At this rate you might as well just apply for some remote admin position.

You tap your fingers against the keys. Impatient, thinking too hard about it.

Actually…that might not be a bad plan. It could work, at least while the renovations are happening. You wouldn’t have to commute. Wouldn't have to leave your house full of strange men every day. Wouldn’t have to explain why you keep the blinds shut even when it’s sunny. Your phone buzzes. (8:32 AM) Joel Miller: plumber should be there soon, grabbing stuff from home depot You look at it for thirty seconds. Guess we’re back to being professional. No pet name, no dumb emoji. Not even a fuckin’ period. He’s so goddamn annoying. You type and delete a few different responses. As usual. Cool, thanks. No. Don’t forget to pick me up a personality while you’re in there. Nope. Tell home depot I said hi. Okay funny…but no. An exaggerated noise leaves your chest, half sigh, half scream and you just hit send on. (8:34 AM) You: kk You walk into the kitchen and throw your coffee in the microwave and stare out the window. This place has a lot of birds hanging around. Probably because the house sat vacant long enough for the critters to think it was safe to be here. Guess they aren’t worried about the ghosts. You’re making a mental note to pick up a hummingbird feeder when you hear a knock at the door. Six quick raps. Light, rhythmic and cheerful. Definitely not Joel. You practically run to the door while muttering “Thank fucking god” out loud. You turn the lock and swing the door open, fully prepared to see some middle aged balding man with a tool belt and some kind of drain snake standing there. Your face drops. Not because you’re sad to see Tommy Miller looking way too good for 9AM holding a box of—holy shit. He’s got treats. Fuck the plumber anyway. I love Tommy. “‘Mornin, trouble. Hungry?” Tommy’s standing there, grin stretched wide across his cheeks, leaning against the doorframe, which is very brave because it is visibly falling apart. Like… one splinter away from collapse. He’s holding a pink pastry box in one hand, and in the other he’s got a drink tray with iced coffees. You look at him, confused. You’re impressed, bewildered even. But mostly suspicious. Tommy doesn’t really give off early to work with coffee vibes. But you’re hungry, and carbs sound soooo good right now. You move out of the doorframe and motion for him to come inside. When he crosses the threshold into the house you turn to him with your eyebrows raised, motioning to the coffees. “Is this a bribe?” you ask. Tommy tosses the box of donuts down on the kitchen island and leans into it, shrugging his shoulders. “Depends. Is it workin’?” You walk over to the kitchen and open the box. There's an assortment. Old fashioned, jelly filled, something chocolate, covered in sprinkles. Your eyes go wide. “Holy shit is that maple bacon?” He smirks at you, obviously amused. “Figured you’d be into sweet n’ savoury.” he laughs. “Suits you.” Half of the donut is already shoved in your mouth, you raise your eyebrows again, murmuring “the fuck is that supposed to mean?” with your mouth full still. “Nothin’” he replies, handing you one of the coffees without even asking. You eye the tray, count three. Don’t ask who the third one’s for. The coffee is a perfect mix of too cold and too sweet.

You pull out one of the wobbly bar stools and take a seat. Tommy reaches for the jelly-filled and then hops himself up to sit on the edge of the kitchen island like he’s done it before a thousand times. Like he already lives here. “So,” he says, casually, save the powdered sugar in his mustache. “You survivin?” You nod around another bite, cheeks full like a chipmunk. “Barely. Trying to find a job here is really going great… if I pivot to herding goats from social work.” “Hard to beat goats,” he says. “They don’t talk back, or much at all. And they eat whatever you give ‘em.” You swallow. “So nothing at all like dating in your mid twenties.” Tommy lets out a whistle, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong.” You smirk back at him. “I’ve never been wrong once in my life.” “Sure. I believe you.” He wipes sugar off his mouth with the back of his hand. “Delusion is a powerful drug.” You eat in silence for a few minutes. He watches the light sifting through the warped and terribly dusty blinds. You watch the way he dunks his donut into his coffee like a five year old eating oreos for the first time. He glances your way. “Question.” “Answer. Maybe.” you reply quickly. “Have you always been funny like this, or is it just part of the trauma?” You snort. “Can’t a girl be hilarious without it having something to do with her emotionally absent mother and and or her literally absent dead dad?” “Jesus Christ." he huffs, nodding. “Yeah so I guess a bit of both.” you say, deadpan. He doesn’t say anything right away, you both just stare at each other for a moment… holding eye contact for probably a second too long.

God he’s pretty. Kinda dumb, but pretty. You’re mid sip of coffee and Tommy is opening his mouth to say something when another knock hits the door. Finally. Tommy’s eyes flick over to the door, then back to you. And when they do, they’re more neutral. Professional. You stand up, toss your napkin into the trash, hoping that your heartbeat will magically slow down in the three seconds it takes to cross to the foyer. “Funs over I guess.” Tommy grins back at you. “So you’re already admitting that I’m the fun one. Nice.” After exchanging pleasantries with the plumber, who you’ve learned is named Paul, you bring him down the hallway and into the bathroom. You nervously watch as he steps into the room and starts rooting under the cabinet to look at the water lines there. “Sorry about the mess, bathrooms turned into secondary storage. Had to make the space useful somehow." He looks at you and lets out a low, laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m a plumber, that means I deal with literal shit all day. This ain’t a mess in my world.”

These blue collar men need to stop with the whole ‘sweetheart’ thing.

At least Paul looks… Like a plumber and not some GQ cowboy cover model. I’m sure his wife loves his personality. You sigh out a chuckle as you watch him move toward the tub. “Joel said something about the shower line being fucked, said the rest of it seems okay.” Paul cocks his head at you, “Last time I checked…Joel was a contractor, not a plumber.” Damn. Okay Paul. Clock his ass!! You can hear Tommy from the kitchen cough out a laugh, obviously enjoying the plumber taking the piss out of his older brother. You leave Paul to his work and head back into the kitchen, and when you sit back down you hear the door creak open. No knock, just the heavy scrape of boots across warped floorboards and hinges squeaking. Tommy doesn’t flinch. You, however, feel your spine straighten like it’s been tugged by a sting. Joel steps into the kitchen doorway holding a home depot bag in one hand and a tool belt in the other, stopping mid-stride when he sees the scene in front of him. “Come right in!” you say, looking him up and down. His eyes dart. From you, to the donuts, to the three gigantic coffees. Back to you. Suddenly you are hyper-aware that your hair is up in a messy bun that’s already half falling apart. His brows tug together. Not angry, just…confused maybe? “What the hell,” he mutters. “Did I miss some kinda memo?” Tommy beams like he’s been waiting all his life for this moment. “Goodmorning, sunshine.” Joel looks between the two of you, jaw setting. Something else flashes across his face. It’s tight, tired, like he wants to be mad but knows he doesn’t have the right. It’s brief, but it’s there, and you feel it before it softens and he says, “Thought I said I’d be here after the plumber.” You shrug your shoulders, licking maple icing off your thumb. “You did. Plumber beat you. Tommy beat the plumber. Apparently, everyone's ahead of schedule but you.” you gesture to the tray, “coffee?” He blinks back at you like he’s not quite sure what to do. Tommy swings his legs off of the counter. “Brought donuts. From Round Rock. Not that fuckin’ Voodoo place downtown.”You snap your head toward him, “Hey, now,” you say, looking around the room, “In this house, we don’t shit talk Voodo Doughnuts. Seems you’re forgetting I’m from the west coast.” Tommy raises his hands in mock surrender, “My bad, kid. Place is still overrated, and I stand by that.” you can’t actually argue with that. He’s right.. Joel just gives a slow nod, eyes settling on the sweating coffee on the counter. Still untouched. You follow his gaze. “That’s yours. I didn’t roofie it or nothin’” His mouth twitches, barely. A small smirk, maybe not quite. “Wasn’t worried.” He steps further into the kitchen, picking up the cup without another word, and leans against the opposite counter. His eyes flick back to you, then to Tommy.

“What’d the plumber say?” You exhale. “Dunno, go ask him yourself,” you wave toward the hallway, “he’s still in there.” Joel raises his eyebrows and leans to look around the corner, then pushes himself off the counter and heads down the hall.

You press your palm flat against the counter and let out a heavy breath. For some reason things still feel…weird. But how could they not? There are three random men in your house. None of which you feel comfortable enough with to really let your guard down. Regardless if one of them has seen you naked already. Actually, that’s probably making it much worse. Even though you stood your ground, told him off a little bit. Even though you patched things back up. He isn’t supposed to be affecting you like this, you aren’t supposed to be mad anymore. Even if he hadn’t texted you since you saw him last.

Not that I’m counting days or nothing… three by the way.

Tommy must have noticed that you were silently spiraling staring at your coffee because he clears his throat, “Today’s gonna be mostly takin’ measurements. Can’t map too much out till we know what’s going on with the plumbing. Once we get that figured out we can start bringing other guys in here to start work.” You nod back at him, “Sounds good to me.” You can’t clearly make out what conversation is happening in the bathroom, but you do hear something that sounds like “shit.” and then clearer as footsteps get closer, Joel saying “Nah, I’ll tell her. You just head out.” Paul walks halfway past the kitchen as Joel comes into it, then he turns and tips his hat at you. “Nice meetin’ you ma’am. Place is nice. Got good bones. Just like her owner. Huh?” What the fuck, Paul??? Then he slips out of the front door quickly, no second glance at you–or Joel. Which is a damn good thing, because the air in the house pulls tight the second the door shuts. From the corner of your eye you catch Joel’s expression, lips pressed flat, nostrils flared. He looks like he could punch a wall. Or Paul. Maybe both. And honestly? Part of you wants to laugh. The other part is…deeply, profoundly turned on. Possessive Joel? Over a dumb offhand comment? You are not proud of it. But you are, in fact, delusional. And thriving.

Still, the tension doesn’t go away. It just hums. You don’t even need to ask what Paul said. You just know that the news you’re about to hear is going to piss you off more. By how quickly Paul's truck leaves the driveway you know that the shower situation is worse than you expected. You turn yourself toward Joel, who is standing next to the sink, on the opposite side of the kitchen as Tommy. He looks scared. And maybe he should be. You cross your arms and meet his eyes. “Don’t sugar coat it.” you say. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Well, for starters. Diverter is fucked, so whoevers been trying to run water from the tap has been running it into the wall. For a while, looks like.” Your face drops, but you just grit your teeth and hum. “Keep going.” “Shower pan’s gone too. Paul opened the wall, looks like some super virus incubator in there. We’re going to need to reframe and rebuild the whole thing.” You force a smile even though you can feel angry tears rising to your eyeballs. “So, what you’re saying is,” your voice cracks a bit, “not only will I continue to be shower-less for a while. I might also end up being one of those mold people?”

Joel frowns. “Mold people?”

You sigh. “Yeah, mold people. You know? The people who find black mold in their house and then blame it for, like, their great grandfather's death and every other problem they have in their life.” “Well, ‘m not sure about the mold thing, but if we start on the shower–” he looks down at his watch, “yesterday. We could have it done in a week and a half, maybe two.”

You can feel your pulse in your gums. His voice sounds a little like its coming from underwater. You know that if you hear any more you’re going to cry, or throw something. And you’re not entirely sure which one would be more satisfying at this moment. You blink. “So I’m paying for another month at the gym.” Joel opens his mouth. Closes it. He scratches the stubble on the side of his cheek, then his face half-lights up. “Or” he says, like he’s about to drop the most helpful suggestion in the world. “ you could always shave your head maybe? Saves the trouble of washin’ it.” You laugh. Just once, It’s sharp, and humourless and downright mean. Then you set your coffee down a little too hard on the counter. You pick up your laptop and walk straight past him, past Tommy, down the hallway and– Click. Your bedroom door shuts behind you before he can say another word. Nobody follows. The bedroom curtains didn’t get closed this morning. It’s hot as hell but it feels better than standing in that goddamn kitchen.

You let yourself collapse onto the bed, arms folding underneath you, face pressed into the comforter. Deep breaths, he’s just dumb. He didn’t mean to be that dumb…right? You let the bed muffle a scream before you reluctantly pick yourself back up and open your laptop. The search tabs never got closed. Indeed is still open.

Austin, TX. Social work. Remote preferred. It feels like everything is mocking you. Dirty hair, moldy walls, unemployed. Loser. You refresh the page. Again, and again. Scrolling the website for at least another 45 minutes. Same job listings. Same impossible expectations. Somehow every single one of these places wants ten more years, five more certifications, and a pulse that doesn’t flinch when someone raises their voice. You click into a new school counselor posting, knowing damn well you don’t meet the license requirements for Texas yet. Close tab. Next listing. Remote admin support. The starting wage is insulting, but at least it’s something. You fill out the quick apply with shaking fingers, heart in your throat for no real good reason. Finish it, hit submit. Then another, and another. Eventually you stop reading the descriptions altogether. You’re just…clicking. Chasing the high of some digital Hail Mary. After a while you lean back into the bedframe, stare at the ceiling. Try to breathe better. You scratch your scalp. When you pull your hand out of your hair it’s visibly greasy. So you click open another damn tab. Airbnb, whole house. Filters: 1 guest. 1 week.

You’re scrolling past ranchers and bungalow with fairy lights and overpriced micro-lofts downtown, with exposed brick in the ‘bedroom’. One listing says “cowboy vibes and a clawfoot tub” for– one hundred and eighty five fucking dollars a night. You nearly burst into tears looking at it. But still, you check your bank account. The screen loads, and loads. And when it finally opens, the number hits you right in the chest. So you toss your laptop to the bottom of the bed. Your eyes blur, your head smacks the headboard again. Do not cry. Do not cry. You are not going to cry because Joel Miller made a bad joke about you shaving your head. He couldn’t have known you’re one more offhand comment away from losing your damn mind over the Planet Fitness water pressure. You squeeze your eyes shut, just to rest them. Just for five minutes. You think.

When you wake up an hour later, your cheek is stuck to the inside of your elbow with a line of drool in the ditch. The room is stuffy. Your laptop’s screen has gone to sleep, unlike you, who is now wide awake and buzzing with post-nap regret and generalized humiliation. You sit up. Rub your eyes, crank your neck till it lets out a satisfying pop.

Then–

Knock knock. Your head whips toward the door and your blood goes cold as you make the realization that you are not alone in this house. Joel is on the other side of that door and he’s about to see you, covered in drool and uglier than normal. His voice is quieter than usual, like he’s trying not to spook you. “You decent?” You blink, then sigh. “Unfortunately.” Theres a pause, “Wanted to ask about those built-ins. You said somethin’ about shelving for that corner in the living room, right?” You stand, dragging your fingers through your hair, tugging the scrunchie that's hanging on by a thread out of it. You try to smooth the sleep lines out of your cheek with your palm. You crack the door open. He’s standing there–tool belt slung low around his hip, one hand on the doorframe, the other hanging at his side. Your mind hits the gutter immediately, this looks like part of a bad porno that most people normally fast-forward through. What is it about a fucking toolbelt?

After a second that felt like an eternity you pull your eyes away from the belt, and his arms, and look up at him. He’s looking back at you with a careful expression…like he’s gauging whether he should step in closer or further away. “Yeah,” you say, “I mentioned shelves.” He nods. Still watching you, like he’s checking that you’re okay without asking you’re okay. Then he reaches out…just briefly. He runs his hand gently down the back of your head. A soft, palm-smoothing motion. Like brushing crushed velvet back into place. Like petting a skittish cat that finally lets you close. You freeze. Not because it’s bad. But because it’s nice. Because it makes your breath catch and your eyes burn and your stomach twists into something that wants. His hand drops just as fast. “Didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, low. “Earlier.” You swallow, trying to play it off real cool. “Oh. You didn’t.” He raises a brow, unconvinced, and you look back at him, like, really look. “You made a joke about me shaving my head on a day I was already hanging on by like one emotional thread. And, for the record, it’s actually supposed to be hair wash day. So it looks like I’m going to go and sob in the Planet Fitness bathroom for the third time in a week.” He nods, once, then scratches the back of his neck. “You don’t gotta do that.” You frown back at him, “Are you telling me to not cry? ‘Cause I do not need you to also be telling me to grow up right now.” “No,” he says. “I mean, that too–not the growing up part, but no. You don’t have to go to the gym.” You tilt your head. “What, you offering to hose me down in the yard?” He huffs, almost smiles as he shakes his head. “I’m sayin’...you could use mine. My shower. If ya want.” You stare at him, running the words back over in your head. He shrugs, drops his voice down. “Calm down, it’s just a shower.” You quip back before the words leave his mouth fully, “You’re on a fuckin’ roll today cowboy. ‘Calm down?’” Your voice sharpens with a smirk before you can stop it, “I thought you said we’re taking things slow. Now you’re asking me to get naked in your house?” He doesn’t flinch, but you can see the slightest flush of pink creep up his neck. “I’m offering a plumbing solution. You’re the one makin’ it weird.” You roll your eyes, “You mean like last time? When my sink exploded and you left like a bat outta hell?” He slaps his palm to his forehead, “I’m about to take back my offer if you keep bein’ a smart ass.” Your voice softens a bit, “My cars practically out of gas.” “I’ll drive.” he hums, “Me ‘n Tommy should be done here around three.” You nod at him. “Fine. But only because I’m worried about catching athletes foot.” Joel huffs a quiet laugh, then steps back as you shut the door.

You flop down on the bed again, groaning into the sheets, but this time it’s more like an excited teenager who just got asked to the school dance.

What the fuck are you doing? You’re going to go to Joel Millers house. To shower. After highkey snapping at him. After thinking about his toolbelt for way too long. After admitting you’ve been crying in a public bathroom stall on a regular basis. You lay there a while. Long enough to hear some shuffling in the hallway, low but travelling voices. Tommy’s laugh, Joel’s sighs. You hear the snap of a tape measure echo, the occasional whirr of a drill. It feels…weird, but not bad weird like earlier, nice weird. Like when your cousins come home for the holidays and the house feels a little bit fuller. Guess you’d managed to forget how lonely this place had been feeling till now. By the time you finally peel yourself off of the bed and rejoin them in the kitchen, it’s quarter to three. Tommy’s packing up a tool bag, there's still one donut left in the box, all of the coffees are half drunk and still sweating on the counter. He glances up when you walk in, he gives you a once-over, but doesn't say anything but the nap flattened hair, or wrinkled shirt. “Alrighty, I’m headin’ out.” he says, slinging the toolbag over his shoulder. “Got an estimate to run down in San Marcos.” You offer him a lazy little wave. “Thanks for breakfast, Tom.” He grins back at you, “Don’t get used to it.” Joel follows behind him to the door, they talk for another minute on the porch. You manage to catch parts of their conversation as you watch through the window–Tommy muttering something like “She’s got you all fucked up, don’t she?” You watch Joel punch him in the shoulder, muttering a low fuck off that you hear through the glass. When Joel comes back in, he lingers. Doesn’t go for his tools immediately, doesn’t reach for his coffee. Just kinda…stands there. You raise a brow. “Aren’t we on a schedule?” He scratches his face, “Tommy’s done for the day. Figured I could finish up a few more things, then we can head out. That sound alright?” You nod, “Yeah. Lemme grab my stuff.”

You disappear down the hall again, this time with marginally less dramatic energy. When you make it back into your room you sift through your toiletry bag to make sure you have everything. If you’re going to have access to a proper shower for the first time in a while you’re going to take full advantage. It’s everything shower time baby. After a quick dig through your laundry you manage to pull out something that smells vaguely floral, so it must be clean. You pack–shove everything up in a tote bag from one of the coffee shops back home and kick the bedroom door shut on your way out. By the time you make it to the living room Joel’s already standing by the door, holding it open for you with your keys in his hand. You step outside into the sticky afternoon heat, stomach knotted with something you refuse to name. // The truck ride is quiet. Not an uncomfortable silence, just there. The windows are cracked, letting in little gusts of warm air that smells like asphalt and freshly cut grass. Joel drives with one hand on the wheel and the other draped across his thigh, his jaw set the way it always is. Fingers tapping the steering wheel like he’s maybe thinking about saying something, but he doesn’t and neither do you. You just watch the side of his face instead–how the afternoon sun catches and sharpens the lines near his eyes. How his jaw clenches harder every time he turns. You sit quietly, clutching your toiletry bag to your chest as you watch your neighborhood thin out and head even further from the city, suburbs giving way to wider yards and older trees.

He doesn’t live too far, maybe ten minutes or so away. When he pulls into a cul-de-sac, your stomach tightens again. His house is…not quite what you expected. Not that you really had an expectation. Two stories, but still modest. It’s tucked behind a wall of overgrown green–hedges, spruce, some weird climbing vine that’s trying real hard to devour the lattice it's on. The base of the house is brick, there's wooden panelling on top, with a stretched out roof that droops slightly at the corners like it’s tired of standing. There's a double garage, one door painted ever so slightly darker than the other. Flower pots litter the concrete walkway, a little crooked. Someone tried here. You can even see the outline of an old basketball hoop on the driveway, bracket still bolted into the siding. Joel doesn’t say anything as he puts the truck in park. He just cuts the engine and steps out, rounding the front of the truck before opening your door for you. Southern men are built different…or maybe it’s just men who were born before the Clinton administration. You follow him up the short path, trying not to let your eyes linger on the leaning mailbox or the sad, thirsty little succulents lining the house. On the porch sits a lonely rocking chair with a very old looking beer crate next to it acting as a makeshift side table that holds a ceramic ashtray filled with…guitar picks?? Joel opens the front door with a quiet grunt and gestures you in first. You step into a narrow split-level foyer, there are stairs leading up and down. He motions you toward the main floor, and you follow. The deeper you make it inside the more surprised you become. For one, it’s clean. But not obsessively so. It’s comfortable, a little cluttered in the way that makes it feel like someone actually exists here. It smells like cedar, coffee, and something cinnamon and artificial. One of those Glade plug-ins, or that kind of cheap hand soap you can buy at Costco in December, with the fancy packaging. You know the one. Its dim here. Not dark, just extra shaded. The blinds are half-drawn and the walls are painted in warm neutrals. Beige and taupe, heavy wooden trim around the doorframes. The living room is sunken, carpeted in something older but not stained or anything. There are books stacked sideways on the coffee table. A half-empty water bottle sits on the couch. A guitar case sits tucked away in the corner of the room. Framed photos on the hallway wall. You immediately clock the evidence. A girl lives here. Or did. Or does. He directs you toward the kitchen, still silent, letting you take in the scene. There’s a sweatshirt draped over the arm of the couch that is decidedly too small and too lavender to belong to Joel. You see a claw clip attached to the fridge handle. Your heart drops. Fuck. Did he lie? Is there someone else? A girlfriend? A fucking wife? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Don’t most construction guys not wear a ring so they don’t get degloved or something??? You freeze in the middle of the living room, gut twisting so violently it makes you actually nauseous. Then you look closer at some of the photos hanging on the wall. A younger version of Joel, looking damn near the same…just shorter and darker hair, softer maybe. He’s got his arm playfully wrapped around a young girl that’s got his eyes wearing a soccer uniform holding a trophy. Next to that one, another, both of them older now, her hair is darker. Pretty, seventeen, maybe eighteen. She’s in a cap and gown, his arm is slung over her shoulder again, both of them smiling like they don’t do it often. Oh. Your chest lifts a little. Joel notices where you’re looking. “Her name is Sarah. My daughter.” You blink. “Right.” “She’s eighteen,” he says. “First year at UT. Stayed local so she could still live here with me. Not that she’s ever home.” There’s warmth in his voice you’ve never heard before. Pride tucked under the sarcasm, “I’m only sure she still lives here because I need to keep restocking the shampoo and granola bars.”

Your eyes flick to the floral mug sitting on the counter, then back to the clip on the fridge. The panic is only barely starting to loosen. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I figured someone else might live here.” He raises an eyebrow. “Someone else?” You shrug, heat prickling your cheeks. “I didn’t know if you were…y’know. Seein’ someone.”

His face goes a bit harder, serious. “Now why in the world would I be bringin’ you here if there were anyone else in the picture?” “Because you’re a man.” you reply flatly. He throws a hand on his hip and looks you dead in the eye, “True, a single one. For a long time now.” You let out a long exhale through your nose and murmur, “Thank god.” He smiles at you now, then gestures toward the hall. “Bathroom’s the second door on the left. Fresh towels in the closet right next to it.” He clears his throat. “Water pressure’s good too, none of that Planet Fitness bullshit.” You nod, stepping past him–but not before letting your shoulder brush his. As soon as you lock the door behind you you press your back against the door, and you just breathe. The bathroom is small, clean, lived in. Much nicer than the gym. You’re hyperaware of every detail, the cracked tile in the corner, the cabinet door hanging a little crooked. The smell, like sage and mint. There's a little window above the toilet with a sheer curtain, enough to let white light filter in without leaving you feeling exposed. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror you wince. Your hair is actually worse than anticipated, it looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days. Your eyes are still somehow puffy from your nap. There's even dried drool on your cheek. Cute. You turn on the shower, letting it run hot. Steam climbs the mirror in seconds and you strip slowly in front of it. You let your clothes fall into a pile beside the sink and then step in. The water pressure is–fuck. It’s perfect. Strong enough to make it through your hair and hit your scalp, the heat making it ache in the best way. You just stand there for a while, hands braced against the cool tile, letting the water cascade down your back with your eyes closed. You grab your bottle of cheap shampoo and lather your hair and scrub like it’s contaminated. Then you rinse, and scrub it one more time before putting more of the absurdly expensive hair masque you brought in it than necessary. As the conditioner sits in your hair you take the time to carefully shave most of your body before reaching for your soap. Your hand pauses before your grab it, and you look at what you’re sure is Joel’s bodywash. You pick up the bottle, flicking open the cap and squeeze it near your nose. Bad idea. Not only can you smell it, very well. You can also taste it. You’ve got cedar and sage half up your nose. But it smells like him. Woodsy and warm. The same smell that clung to your sheets for days after he left. The same smell you convinced yourself you’d imagined, and it’s not even cologne–it’s just him. Like worn flannel and pine tar and him. By the time you force yourself out of the shower your skin is soft and hot, dripping water onto the tile as you reach for the towel you placed on the edge of the counter. You dry off just barely before reaching into your toiletry bag to take out that mango body oil you grabbed last minute. You smooth it over your skin and let yourself air dry for a minute before wrapping yourself in the towel and rooting through the tote bag for your clothes and–fuck. You’ve got clean underwear, biker shorts but apparently no shirt? You swear you threw in something oversized and comfortable but no. The universe is conspiring with Joel and trying to keep you half naked in his house like the sick, sick, bitch she is. You debate it. Really, you do. Put back on the sweaty shirt you came in with? Use the towel as a makeshift toga and sneak through the hall? Nah, not happening. You stare at the door for a long time, then take a deep breath, wrapping the towel tighter. You crack open the door and call out, voice all sweet and awful. “Joel?” Footsteps, then his voice, just outside. “You alright?” You close your eyes, mortified beyond repair now. “Yeah…I just shit–I forgot a shirt.” Silence for a second, then “Want me to grab you one?” “No,” you deadpan. “I just wanted to warn you that I’m about to be all tits out in your house.” Silence. “Yes, I would like a shirt. Please.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, “If you insist.” You hear his footsteps get farther away and then he’s back within a minute. Hand reaching into the bathroom holding something threadbare and black. “Thank you,” you say before closing the door again. He doesn’t reply, just heads back in whatever direction he was in. You unfold the shirt and honestly–you’re impressed. Suicidal Tendencies logo half faded from wear, cotton and soft as sin. Is this guy not a fucking republican? Maybe he doesn’t have good lyric comprehension. No… that can’t be right. You laugh out loud to yourself as you imagine Joel fucking Miller humming along to Fascist Pig. Maybe it’s…Sarahs? Some weird thrift find, just liked the logo or something. Or maybe he’s just way fuckin’ cooler than you thought? You truly did not expect that. Somehow it makes it worse, makes it more personal. And of course, it smells like him. You throw it on, dragging it down over your still-damp skin. It clings to every line of you. It shouldn’t feel like intimacy but it does. Wearing his shirt is worse than being naked, because being naked doesn’t SMELL LIKE HIM. You smooth out the hem and rub more oil into your legs. When you finally step out of the bathroom, you feel like a new person. Clean, soft, glowing. You smell it. Something cooking. Bastard. He’s made dinner.

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