Shellie • she/her • old AF🤣 • GenX • New-ish How can you not 💗Pedro, seriously?! Avid reader and a supporter of writers (totally in awe of what you do, thanks for sharing) Items here are 18+ MDNI
Some truly amazing chapters, one shots, WIP games, etc. have dropped over the past week and I have been savoring reading them and finding new stories to add to my list based on reblogs, WIP posts, and so on. Not that they haven’t in the past, but my current situation has limited some of my reading and interaction more than I would like.
Finally, the weather has cooperated to provide me with time (snow day ❄️🌨️ subzero temps day 🥶!) to start digging in without truly putting off work (hurray to the beginning of a new semester when there isn’t much homework yet) to read new and re-read old favorites.
The only thing left to do is find a cozy blanket, favorite reading glasses, cup of tea and sink in. Also removing my Garmin watch. I don’t need it telling me to get up and move or, no joke, that I seem stressed and to take a breath! You’d be stressed to if you saw the shenanigans Frankie, Dieter, Din, Joel, Pero, Harry, Dave, Marcus (x2), and Tim were up to with reader/original character!! Can’t wait! In the spirit of transparency, I may have chipped away at the reading earlier than today 🥰😘🤩
Thanks for sharing, writing, and being here. There’s an embarrassment of riches here thanks to you all (and those I have yet to discover!)
Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)
Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.
About Lydia: A couple of years ago she'd have told you her life was over. Now, at 41, Lydia has realised the future is hers to make - even if that means never opening her heart up again.
She's an art historian and European - though this should not be taken to imply a specific appearance or ethnicity! Her family and other aspects of her background are established.
You'll notice that the physical descriptors for Lydia are deliberately loose, other than: her age, that she's fem/AFAB, her hair is starting to grey, and she's got stretch marks and a whole metric ton of issues with her own body. In other words: she can look whatever way you want her to look in your own imagination, bearing these aspects in mind, and be from wherever you want her to come from.
Rating: Explicit (18+) - individual chapters will have their own ratings (there's a lot of fluff and angst ahead) but smut will be very clearly signalled. Expect bad language throughout. If you read beyond the warnings on each chapter, you are agreeing you're 18 years or older.
Content: Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (she is 41 and Ben 47 when the story begins); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; explicit smut (eventually); discussion of infidelity and emotional abuse; discussion of self-esteem issues; references to body issues; strong language; alcohol; I'll update if I need to as the fic continues
A/N: My love for Mr Ben is well-known but I couldn't stop thinking about him as a literature professor and, well, here we are. This is my first fic, and it's written as an AU with nary a sprinkling of canon about a character who existed for five minutes in a sketch. Make it make sense, Rose.
This is going to be a multi-chapter series (I have a plan and an outline document and everything). I plan to add some headcanons for Professor Benjamin at some point, and will pop some little drabbles in amongst the full chapters.
There will be smut - but this is a slow-burner. You have been warned.
Main Series:
Chapter 1 - The Visitor
Chapter 2 - Bright in the Sea
Chapter 3 - Ghosts
Chapter 4 - Save Me
Chapter 5 - This Must Be The Place
Chapter 6 - If You'd Accept Surrender
Chapter 7 - Forget Who We Are
Chapter 8 - Sister Winter
Chapter 9 - Open Your Eyes
Chapter 10 - Something About You
Chapter 11 - My Favourite Work of Art
Chapter 12 - If I Must Have A Future
Chapter 13 - Coming Soon!
One-Shots and Drabbles:
An Inspecteur Calls: A Pedrotober One-Shot
Books: A Merry Fic-Mas One-Shot
Christmas Tree: A Merry Fic-Mas One-Shot
Please let me know if you'd like to be added to a taglist!
Thanks: to the people who made me feel less bonkers for developing an entire world around Ben and Lydia - @cutesyscreenname, headcanon collaborator, moodboard creator, and Prof Benjamin E. Morales enabler supreme; the incredibly encouraging, kind, and heroic fic writers whose understanding of how to embrace the sensitive and emotional hidden side of 'canonical' characters is an inspiration - @lunapascal, @imaswellkid, @julesonrecord
(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more)
Thank you @maggiemayhemnj for the tag! Here are some of my favorites I can relate to or love for different reasons. 💕
NPTs @isabellaboo2025 @rosebuds-and-moonlight @iknowisoundcrazy @inept-the-magnificent @604to647 @pedroscurls @pedges-world @savedyounine and YOU-DO IT (if you want to)!!! (Apologies if you’ve already been tagged!)
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
Plot summary: It’s October 1943, the country in the grip of World War II, and your small English village is fast becoming home to an influx of American servicemen sending hearts a-flutter. Yours already belongs to your teenage sweetheart until, that is, you meet Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales.
Warnings: 18+only. You know there’s going to be smut 😜
A/N: Couldn’t help myself….this story has evolved from this WIP. Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list 🥰 I’m envisaging the characters being slightly younger than in the movie. This is also my first time writing for Frankie, so please be gentle 😂🫣
Chapter Summary: Over the evening you have enough time to realize how much you really want Harry. Cheers to NYE traditions then...
Chapter warnings: fluff and flirt and maybe kissing...
wc: 1.2k
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
Music was louder now, the kind that filled corners and bounced off walls, thumping beneath the chatter of thirty voices that had grown looser, louder, happier with each fresh pour of champagne. Laughter spilled like champagne too, bubbling. You let it wash over you as you lingered on the sofa with a cluster of friends, Amy draped across your lap like a cat, legs warm against your thighs.
But even with Amy pressing her cheek against your shoulder, even with the hum of conversation around you, you couldn’t help the way your eyes found Harry again and again across the room.
This time, he wasn’t composed, deliberate Harry. He wasn’t measured or watching. He was leaning into Kazeem’s side, one arm slung across his friend’s shoulders as they laughed so hard they shook. You blink. You had never seen him like this before - cheeks flushed, grin loose, body unguarded. He looked lighter. Younger. Free in a way that was devastating to witness.
And he looked good. The sweater you’d already clocked earlier looked even softer in the amber light. His dark-rimmed glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he threw his head back laughing, and when Kazeem’s hand slapped his chest in their shared hilarity, Harry didn’t flinch, didn’t resist - he pulled him closer, laughed harder.
Not a single scrap of ego in sight. No brittle edge of masculinity that so many men wore like armor. Just warmth. Affection. It made you blush and your heart pound, and you had to look away before the butterflies in your chest gave you away.
Amy’s head tilted up from your lap, catching your line of sight. A sly smirk spread across her face.
“If I don’t see a New Year’s kiss at midnight,” she murmured, words syrupy with drink, “I’ll shove you both off the balcony myself.”
You laughed under your breath, trying to bat her off. “Let a girl breathe. I need -"
But Amy didn’t wait for your excuses. She rose fluidly, weaving her way, passing the couch table and crossed legs until she was standing in front of Harry and Kazeem, who were still doubled over with some old university joke.
“I’m beginning to think you’re more in love with him than I am,” Amy teased, eyes on Harry as she slid herself into their circle.
You felt a flush of something that wasn’t quite jealousy, but close - a proud tug like a warm ache. Love. You hadn’t heard Amy sound like that in a long time.
Harry threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty,” he said, grin crooked. “But don’t forget, I’ve seen him naked more times than you can count.”
Kazeem barked out a laugh that filled the room, pulling Amy into his lap with ease. Harry let himself be nudged out of the way, still chuckling as he stumbled lightly back toward the sofa.
And then he was beside you.
He dropped into the seat with a careless grace, a beer bottle dangling from one hand. His other arm lifted, spreading casually across the back of the sofa. He wasn’t touching you - he wasn’t even trying to - but the space he filled, the warmth he radiated, the faint graze of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm as he adjusted… it was enough to make your pulse race.
You told yourself not to lean back. You did anyway, almost unconsciously, your shoulder brushing the crook of his elbow.
Across from you, Amy and Kazeem were already tangled together, their kiss unashamed, long and hungry.
“They’re a sight, aren’t they?” Harry’s voice was low, amusement threading through it, and the vibration of it ran straight down your spine.
“They’ll probably make the most disgustingly beautiful babies alive,” you said before thinking.
His laugh came soft, a sound you felt in your chest. You turned your head to meet his gaze. His eyes, behind the glass, were dark and impossibly warm. Abd he didn’t look away.
And then his fingers brushed your skin again - this time deliberate.
Your breath caught. To shield your sudden spike in pulse you tipped your glass toward him with a crooked smile, voice teasing to mask the thundering in your ribs. “Careful. Someone might think you’re making a move on me.”
The alcohol loosened your tongue, made you bold. But you didn't care. Not tonight.
He leaned closer, grin tugging his mouth. “Just making sure I’m not left alone at midnight.”
You snorted, heat rising to your cheeks. “Wow. Someone’s confident. What makes you so sure you’ll get a New Year’s kiss?”
His reply came as a whisper against your ear, intimate enough to scatter goosebumps down your arms. “Wasn’t talking just about a kiss.”
Your breath stuttered and you open your mouth to reply, but before you could, Amy shrieked from across the room.
“Two minutes to midnight! Everyone out on the terrace!”
The living room erupted. Chairs scraped, coats were grabbed, champagne flutes refilled in haste as people spilled toward the wide glass doors of the balcony. You rose too, slipping away toward the bedroom where Kazeem had stashed your coat earlier.
The pile on the bed was chaos - wool and leather and fur thrown together - but your jacket was nowhere to be found. You cursed softly under your breath, considering just braving the terrace without it.
When you turned, he was there.
Harry leaned against the doorframe, half-shadowed by the dim light, the glow from the terrace spilling faintly around him. Outside, the countdown had already begun, muffled but insistent, voices chanting in unison.
“Ten…”
He pushed off the frame and stepped toward you.
“Nine…”
You let the jacket you just held slip from your hands and straightened your spine. “So this is your grand move?” you murmured, unable to stop the smile tugging your lips.
“Eight…”
“Depends,” he said, closing the space with unhurried confidence. “Is it working?”
“Seven…”
Another step. The room seemed to shrink around you.
“Six…”
You crossed your arms, the smirk barely disguising the tremor in your body. “Only one way to find out.”
“Five…”
Now he was in front of you, so close you could see the flecks of hazel behind the glass of his frames.
“Four…”
His hand rose gently, fingers grazing the line of your jaw before tipping your chin upward.
“Three…”
Your lips parted without your meaning to, breath catching, waiting.
“Two…”
The terrace roared:
“One! Happy New Year!” the crowd bellowed, cheers rising like fireworks.
But you barely heared them.
Because Harry was kissing you.
Softly at first - so soft you thought you might had imagined it. A brush of lips, tentative, reverent, as though he was giving you the chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
You surged instead, hand fisting in the front of his sweater, pulling him down to you. And just as the fireworks cracked over the skyline, the kiss deepened. He tasted of beer, of warmth, of him - everything you wanted, everything you hadn’t let yourself admit you needed until this very second.
Outside, the city thundered with color and sound, champagne glasses clinking, voices shouting greetings to the new year.
Inside, in the shadowed quiet of the bedroom, you pressed yourself against Harry, kissing him like nothing else mattered. Not London. Not the new job. Not the impossible tangle of what-ifs.
A collection of fun and fluffy one shots set in the same bakery. Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stories, twelve recipes.
Series Master List
Welcome back to the bakery!
The poll from last week was conclusive, a large majority of you wanted a certain relationship challenged man to visit the bakery. But Pedro has done so many wonderful new characters in the two and a half years it's been since I wrapped up this series, so I'm sure I'll return and bring some more visitors to, frankly, the luckiest baker girl in the world.
It was a lot of fun to re-visit this setting, the bakery was just where I left it (with Frankie, my love) and I really hope you'll enjoy this new chapter as much as I did.
Love you all!
It's funny, in the bakery, how you notice some customers more than others. It might be the busiest part of your Saturday afternoon rush, long line of customers, juggling questions from patrons about allergies, orders, requests and that really tasty treat their great aunt baked for them back in 1983 with cinnamon, could you make that please? For tomorrow?
But when the well dressed man stepped inside, you noticed, immediately.
He didn't make a scene, didn't even say anything, and his clothes were understated, muted colours and soft fabrics, but still; you noticed him, and how warm the colour of his eyes was as he smiled at you.
And ordinarily you wouldn't remember his order either, not from a customer who just came in once and bought two of your individual lemon meringue tarts. Just a guy buying a nice dessert for a date.
But when he came back a month later, you noticed him entering again, and you remembered exactly what he'd ordered.
"Hi, what can I get you?" you ask, smiling at him as he comes up to the counter, "The lemon meringue tarts, or something new this time?"
Those warm brown eyes widen in surprise first, and then he smiles back at you, "I'm impressed. Do you remember everyone's orders?"
"No, but I was extra proud of those tarts, and I remember thinking that I hoped you and your date enjoyed them," you reply, "Were they a success?"
He gives a small chuckle, shrugging, "Yeah, the tarts were great, but the date was a bust."
"I'm sorry," you say, wondering what woman would turn down a man with eyes like his. They're the same warm colour of the chocolate you melt into your ganache almost every day, a rich, dark brown that distracts you for a few moments as he smiles, "So, no second date, what can I get you instead?"
He looks almost embarrassed, and shrugs again, looking down at his hands before he glances over at the display case.
"I've actually got a new date tonight. She's making me dinner and told me to bring dessert, so; here I am."
"So you need my dessert to guarantee you a second date?" you joke, and he laughs.
"If you can guarantee that, I'll pay double."
"Might be a tough order to fill, but these passion fruit mousse cups are sure to help," you say, pointing to two delicate cups filled with a pale mousse, decorated with fresh raspberries and a dusting of powdered sugar, "The secret is the sweet caramel in the bottom."
"You have a deal," he nods, pulling out his phone, "I'll take both."
"Excellent choice, and come back and let me know how it went. I'll add it to my marketing if you got a second date."
He smiles again, tapping to pay while you pack up the dessert.
"Have a great date," you say, and he gives you a wave, still smiling as he leaves, the fine lines around his warm eyes crinkling as he does.
"Thanks, and thanks for the help."
He comes back again the very next Saturday, patiently waiting in line towards the end of the day. He's wearing a suit this time, a sharp cut model across his wide shoulders, and the curls around his ears are shorter this time, like he just had them cut. They still look silky soft to the touch, and you have to drag your eyes from them as he steps up to the counter.
"Hi," you greet him with a warm smile as you run your hands over your apron, dusting it off, "Welcome back, did you get a second date?"
He chuckles, and nods, "Yeah, actually. I've got a second date tonight, and this time I'm cooking."
"Was it the passion fruit dessert?" you ask, biting the back a twinge of disappointment, "I told you they were good."
"Might've been the dessert," he smiles, "It was stellar, really world class. I'm sure she was impressed by my impeccable dessert picking skills."
"So now you need to out do it?" you laugh, "How am I supposed to top myself?"
"I've only had two of your desserts, and both have been better than anything I've ever tasted," he says, smiling as you feel your cheeks heat up under his praise, "I'm in your hands, anything you recommend."
"Well, at least now you have a second date, less pressure on me," you joke, "It's all up to you now."
"Don't remind me," he grimaces, but he's smiling too, "First dates seem to be easy, it's all the ones afterwards where things get complicated."
"So we need a sure thing here?" you ask, looking at your selection, "How about we bring in the big guns? My absolute favourite?"
You point to the pudding cups on one of the shelves, "It requires a little bit of assembly from you, but I'm thinking that might impress her even further, what do you think?"
He tilts his head and crouches down to take a closer look, "Chocolate mousse?" he asks and you shake your head proudly.
"No, and that's part of the secret. It's chocolate pudding. So much richer, smoother and more indulgent than mousse. And they come with some candied almonds, preserved cherries and whipped amaretto cream. It's the most decadent dessert, and the perfect balance of textures and flavours."
"Sold," he says with a groan that makes your stomach flip, "It sounds incredible."
"Might even get you to fou-"
You bite your tongue before you finish the sentence, but you hear a chuckle from your handsome customer as you quickly bend down to retrieve the desserts. Covering up for the giant foot in your mouth, you spend extra time with your back to him, packing up the cups, the almonds, cherries and the double cream.
"There," you say, putting the take away bag on the counter without looking at him, hoping he can't feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, and tapping in the total in the machine. A mischievous smile is still making his lips curl up as he taps his phone to pay, you see it as you glance up, and it makes you grab a cloth and furiously begin wiping the counter as he continues to smile.
"Have a good night," he says, "Thanks again for the dessert advice."
"Bye," is the only reply you give, and when the door jingles shut, you bury your face in your hands. Never mind that he's the most handsome customer you've had in a long time, you had to go and put your foot in your mouth and suggest that he should have sex with his date.
Very professional.
Also not very professional to have a crush on your clearly not single customer.
He comes back the very next Saturday, a bit before the afternoon rush, and this time he's in a soft looking navy sweater that stretches across his shoulders even more than the previous week's suit. The sight makes you weak, slightly unsteady even, and you force air in through your nose.
Smiling when he reaches the counter, he taps the wood and grins.
"You're a genius, that was the best dessert I've ever had, and Camilla loved it too."
Camilla
Your least favourite name in the world from this moment on you realise, as an ugly feeling sinks to the pit of your stomach. You almost grimace, but school your face just in time as he gives you the look of a love sick puppy, all warm brown eyes and soft smile.
"She said it was delicious, really tasty."
"I'm so glad," you say, forcing a customer service smile to your face that doesn't reach your eyes, regretting your stupid decision to sell him that dessert. Should've sold him something bland, not that you have anything bland in your bakery.
"So what does Camilla want for dessert tonight?" you ask, the back of your jaw tight as you try to not fill the name with venom, but he frowns, just for a split second.
In all honesty, you don't even know his name, so why should you be jealous of this unknown woman? But the tone of your voice clearly said something else, and you bite back on the resentment that filled you at the thought of him with another woman.
"Well…" he replies, suddenly looking a bit shy, coy even, as he looks over your selection, "I said I'd get those chocolate mousse cups again, and-"
"Pudding," you cut him off, and he looks up at you.
"Pudding?"
"It's chocolate pudding, not mousse. That's part of why they're so good," you say, and it comes out harsher than you intend.
"Ok, chocolate pudding. I'll have two of those. And then four croissants, for tomorrow morning."
You've done it now, you see it. Your tone snapped, even though you tried to force down the green eyed monster.
And he's stiffer when he replies, the smile slipping from his face as he clearly catches on, just a regular customer now, and he doesn't say anything else when you pack up the pudding cups, the almonds, cherries, and cream. And the four croissants.
For tomorrow morning. After he and Camilla….
"46.98. Please," you say, cutting off your train of thought.
He taps to pay.
"Have a nice night."
And leaves.
He doesn't come back after that. Not for a couple of months. You guess he and Camilla are a thing now. The thought crosses your mind as you make another batch of the chocolate pudding. It's become a staple at the bakery, it turns out not only people trying to have successful dates like it. You don't enjoy it as much these days though, the uncomfortable memory of your handsome customer still sits attached to the flavour.
So it's with mixed feelings you look up when the door bell jingles late on a Saturday afternoon and spot him walking into the bakery again. Tampering down the warmth that spreads through your chest at the sight of him, you remind yourself that he's not single, and you have no business pining after a taken customer. Especially not one who clearly has money to spend on some of your most expensive desserts. Good business is good business after all.
But it's hard to not let your eyes linger over him as he waits in line, the way he stands with a simple confidence, a hand on one hip as he looks out through the big shop front window with a blank face. His hair is longer now. Not unkempt, just not recently trimmed like last time, and he's in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. He might even look a little bit tired, but he still smiles when he comes up to the counter, the lines around his eyes are deeper today.
"Hi, welcome back," you greet him, and you can't help the smile that you give him in return. He's still as handsome as before, and when his eyes soften and smile widens, you feel your resolve to be indifferent melt away.
"Hi," he says, "You still remember me?" His greeting is paired with a crooked smile as he makes an apologetic sound, clearing his throat, "It's been a while."
"I thought maybe the dessert was a flop," you reply, "Did I accidentally add salt instead of sugar?"
He chuckles a little at that, but shakes his head, "No, your dessert was perfect as always, I just…"
The pause is long as he shifts on his feet and looks down at the counter for a second, a slight hesitation in him before he continues.
"I just…haven't been buying desserts lately."
You wait for him to continue, as someone behind him clears their throat, impatient.
"Sorry, I'm holding up the line," he says, glancing over his shoulder as he straightens up, "What do you recommend today?"
"What are you in the mood for?" you ask, ignoring the rude customer stomping behind him.
"Something…simple," he replies, "Like something you'd serve your grandmother," the last thing he says with a breath of self-conscious laughter, "I just really loved the Victoria sponge cake she used to make."
You smile at him, "Victoria sponge is a classic for a reason, it's one of my favourites too."
His eyes are making you feel warm as the corners of them crinkle, and he puts his palms on the counter and leans forward, his body relaxing and coming a little bit closer to you.
"I knew you wouldn't judge me," he returns your smile, "I bet you make really good Victoria sponge too, everything of yours that I've tasted has been incredible."
You know you're a great baker, but his compliment still makes your cheeks heat up as you try to stop yourself from grinning too widely.
"Thanks, it's all about the ingredients, and finding a balance. Cakes like the Victoria seem simple, but if you don't get the balance right it will just be bland jam wedged between dry slices of cake."
"I love hearing you talk about your desserts," he replies, ignoring the shuffle of the waiting man behind him, "You're really passionate about it, I like that and-"
"Excuse me, can we skip the flirting, man? I'm on the clock here."
The man waiting seems to have run out of patience, and now he huffs, shuffling as he tries to push up to the counter.
You frown at him, opening your mouth to retort, but the handsome man shakes his head, ignoring the other one with barely a glance over his shoulder.
"Do you have any Victoria sponge?" he asks, and you have to shake your head, apologising.
"No, sorry, I don't have any today. But a coffee cake maybe? I have a really nice apple and cinnamon coffee cake with walnut crumble. It was my granny's favourite."
He nods slowly as he seems to think about the offer, and then pulls out his phone, "Sounds great, I'll have that."
Later, when you're cleaning up the kitchen, the thought of him comes back to you as you go through the tedious job of organizing all the clean dishes. The way he'd said that he hadn't been buying dessert lately; such an odd way of phrasing it. He hadn't been buying desserts from you, but why say he hadn't been buying desserts at all?
'Maybe Camilla is on a diet," you say out loud to the empty kitchen, snorting as you picture the woman who you dislike even though you've never met her. You give her a haughty look, the kind you sometimes get from bridezillas when you deliver their wedding cakes. Pinched, constricted and possibly constipated.
"Did you say something?"
The high schooler who's been cleaning the front of the bakery puts their head around the door frame, and you shake your head.
"Just thinking out loud."
The handsome dessert buying customer comes back a couple of weeks later, and you have to admit to yourself that seeing him makes your heart jump a little. Especially as this time he smiles at you as he steps inside. The shop is having a bit of a lull, and it gives you an unrestricted view of him as he closes the door. The dark brown curls are neater this week, trimmed around his ears and pushed back from his forehead.
"You got a haircut," you say as he comes up to the counter, and he grins, reaching up and carefully patting his hair.
"You sure pay attention to the details," he laughs, "Yeah, just this morning."
"It looks good, the curls suit you."
"Thanks," he smiles back, "I needed a clean up, I've got a date tonight."
Your stomach sinks, and you fight to keep the smile in place on your face, but you're sure he sees it slip for a second.
"Camilla, right?" you ask, just to have something to say as you try to not break the edge of the counter with how hard you're gripping it.
He looks surprised at first, then shakes his head, "No, no, that didn't work out. But I…uuh…got set up on a blind date, need to…get out there again. So I'm cooking for her tonight."
He shrugs, almost an embarrassed look on his face as he says it.
"Good for you," you reply, but you don't mean it, and you can hear the edge in your voice. He doesn't seem to notice it though. He's glancing over the display case, nodding at the chocolate pudding cups.
"Can I have two of the chocolate puddings? They were really great. And four croissants."
"Sure, coming right up," you say, and slide the glass door open. You want to say something, comment on his choice of dessert, but all you can think of is that he's buying four croissants too. Which means he's planning on letting his date spend the night. Croissants are for breakfast after all.
Neither of you fill the silence as you pack up his order and ring it up. It feels uncomfortable, and you want to say something, get back to that easy back and forth from his previous visit. But nothing comes to you, and he taps his phone to pay.
"Thanks, have a good night."
"Yeah, thanks, same to you, have a good date," you say finally, and he nods, just a small smile in return.
The high school kid jumps when you stomp into the kitchen as the front door closes.
"Please, can you handle the till for a while, I need some air."
They nod, and bee line to the front of the bakery as you make your way to the back door, sinking down on the small staircase.
You haven't even asked his name, he's a complete stranger, except that he's not. Or at least he doesn't feel like one. But except for his taste in desserts and expensive looking clothes, you know nothing about him. And yet the very idea of him having a date, a date that's not with you, where he'll serve your dessert, and feed her your croissants the next morning, fills you with nausea and jealousy.
Stomping your feet again, you march back into the kitchen and pull out ingredients for a brioche dough, slamming the ingredients together and forgoing the mixer for your own hands. When the high school kid looks into the kitchen again they've got a worried look on their face.
"You ok? You're kinda…grunting a lot."
Huffing, you slam the dough into the table again.
"Yeah, just seeing if this dough is better worked by hand," you lie and take a break, stepping back to glare at the dough. In reality, you're trying to not see his face as you punch your fists into it. The kid shrugs, and gives you another concerned look before the jingle of the bell pulls them back to the front of the bakery.
Stupid man, stupid desserts.
It takes you another fifteen minutes of kneading to work out whatever he ignites in your system, but eventually you give in and leave the dough to rest overnight. The only conclusion you've come to is that you won't be working front of house next Saturday.
Which is good, because he does come in the next Saturday, and he buys another dessert, and four croissants, from your high schooler while you hide in the back.
And then he comes again next Saturday, for more dessert and croissants. But this time he buys four pain au chocolate too, and through the bakery door you hear a woman tell him it's her favorite and she can't wait to try one 'when we get home'.
You can't help yourself. Slowly backing up, and holding on to the bowl you're mixing spices in, you glance through the door and catch a glimpse of them.
He's standing by the counter, getting ready to pay, as the woman he's with is looking at some of your more elaborate cakes on display. The dark green sweater on him looks both expensive and soft as feathers, but it stretches over his wide shoulders, tight around his biceps. His curls are a little bit longer now, and rumpled by the wind outside. With an absentminded smile at his date, he reaches up and pushes them back, and then he spots you.
Your face must be telling him something, because you lock eyes, and a grimace flashes over his face, or you think it's a grimace, he almost looks embarrassed for a split second, and you can't even move as he keeps looking at you. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown you've ever seen, and it's not like you haven't seen them before and noticed them, but now…the way the light catches them as he glances down at his hands, and then up at you again, the tiniest frown creasing his brow.
Why doesn't he look away?
"Excuse me, sir? That'll be $68.98."
"Harry, honey, you need to pay," the woman says, snaking her arm around his, and you jump back out of sight, almost dropping the bowl.
If he replies, you don't hear it over the pounding of your heart as you set the bowl down on the large kitchen counter. Your hands are trembling, and you take a deep breath. Heat is coursing through your limbs, your knees actually feel weak, like you're a damsel in a romance novel, and the image of the way his lips pulled up in a smile, just before she tucked her arm into his, burns your cheeks.
Closing your eyes, you take another deep breath and listen to the door close behind him. And the woman he was with.
Another date.
Someone he's been with long enough to bring here, to pick up things for 'when we get home'.
Whatever you imagined when he looked at you, it was just that; imagination.
Most Saturdays he doesn't come in after that. Just now and then, buying four pain au chocolate, but you make sure you never serve him. In fact, you hardly ever work front of house on Saturdays now. You just hear him come in, his voice so recognisable as he asks for the pastries. The tone of it makes you stop in your tracks every time, listening to hear if he's brought her with him again, or if he buys something different. But for weeks that's all he buys, pain au chocolate.
In your mind you see him and the woman tucked up in bed, feasting on them every Sunday morning, and you consider taking them off the menu. Make him buy her the damn pastries at another bakery.
But you don't. They stay on the menu. And so does Harry.
Weeks pass, and still even a glimpse of him makes you jump back into the kitchen. And you know he sees you, you just can't bring yourself to speak to him. How many words have you said to him in total? Barely a conversation to fill a napkin if you were to scribble it down. And yet, every glimpse of him reminds you of how his eyes soften when he smiles, the curls around his ears, the way every sweater seems to stretch across his shoulders, like he's buying them a size too small just to taunt you.
"Pain au chocolate guy wants to order an engagement cake."
The high school kid has stuck their head around the corner of the door, their eyebrows rising in surprise at the panicked look on your face.
"P-pain au chocolate guy?" you stutter, and they nod.
"Yeah, the rich guy who comes in and buys only pain au chocolate on Saturdays. He said he needs to talk to the baker about an engagement cake."
"Uuuhhh…" you stall, glancing around the kitchen as you beat back the panic in your chest, "Ok, send him in."
Fuck
You shake out your hands and quickly dry them on a towel before smoothing down your hair. The pulse of your heart beat must be showing on your neck, you can feel it beating as you hear Harry's shoes scuff over the floor of the bakery.
"Hi."
His voice is the same warm tone as always, and he's holding out his hand like you've never met, "I realised I never introduced myself properly all the other times I stopped by. I'm Harry Castillo."
"H-Hi Harry," you stutter out, "Engagement cake?"
You dive right in, small talk is the last thing you want with this man, especially not if he's going to gush about his…fuck…
Fiance.
Harry nods, and pulls out his phone, "Yeah, I've got some notes, but it's a surprise for Amanda so I couldn't ask her what she'd prefer."
There's another name you'll detest; Amanda.
"Yeah, ok," you reply, grabbing your notepad, "Tell me what you've got."
"So, I know she likes chocolate, and pain au chocolate. And…" he pauses and grimaces, "And that's it."
"I can work with just chocolate," you reply, keeping your eyes on the notepad, "Any colour preference? Decorations like flowers or patterns?"
"Ah…I'm…I'm not sure actually…" he hesitates, ending with a huffed sound that could be an embarrassed chuckle, and you glance up at him.
"I should know right?" he says, and his face is apologetic, like he's apologising to you for not knowing his soon-to-be-fiances cake preference.
"Why don't I just work with what you like? Like a version of a Victoria sponge cake maybe? I can do that with chocolate filling."
"You remembered that?" Harry smiles, his face softening, and you can't help but smile back.
"Yeah, I mean…of course? You said you liked something simple, like your grandmother's."
"I know, I just can't believe you'd remember that, with all the customers you have."
The way he's looking at you, that way his eyes are all warm and gentle, it makes your insides squirm, and you quickly look back down at the notepad.
"So, I can have the Victoria sponge as a base, and build a few layers on that, and maybe a chocolate ganache to cover it with? And I can keep the decorations clean and simple, to tie in with the classic style of the cake."
Harry doesn't reply for a few moments, and you look up at him again. He's frowning, rubbing a hand over his chin as he seems to think.
"If it was for me, I'd say yes. But Amanda, she's…she likes it a bit more decorated I think."
You nod, scrapping your notes about keeping it simple, and wait for him to continue.
"She…she's shown me the kind of engagement rings she likes, and they're all…very elaborate," Harry shrugs again, "Not really my style, but if it's what she wants."
"Why don't you bring her and you can decide on a cake that you both like," you suggest, biting back on the jealousy.
"She told me she wants the engagement to be a surprise,"
"But she knows you're proposing?"
It comes out with a surprised tone, and Harry makes a non-commital shrug.
"Yeah, we've discussed marriage, how we're going to set it up, merging our assets, the pre-nup obviously. But she told me to plan a surprise engagement party for her, and invite her friends."
"Sounds like a business deal," you reply before you can stop yourself, and you bite your tongue as you see the look on Harry's face. "I'm sorry, that was out of line, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"
"It's not a business deal," he cuts you off, "She's a good match for me. We're a good match."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…let me just look at the notes and I'll come up with some ideas for a more elaborate design, but keep your Victoria sponge as the base, with chocolate of course."
You're backtracking quickly, trying to smooth over your blunder as Harry frowns, looking past you, and then down at his hands.
He nods, looking up at you, and it stops your rambling.
"I'll leave my business card, e-mail me your thoughts and I'll get back to you," he says, and now it really does feel like a business deal.
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he leaves without another word.
The afternoon shifts into evening, but you can't stop berating yourself. Sketching ideas for the cake gets you nowhere, your usually so creative brain can't seem to merge the classic Victoria sponge with a more elaborate design. It all turns out gaudy and tasteless, and you can't see Harry in the cake at all. Scraping yet another failed design, you sigh and sink down on the low stepping stool, kicking your feet to make it go rolling across the kitchen floor. It comes to a slow stop against the heavy shelf of appliances, making it rattle slightly. Pushing yourself up with another deep sigh, you open the big walk in fridge and let your eyes drift across the space.
Your eyes land on a jar of raspberry jam from last summer. You'd gone with a friend to a farm that let you pick raspberries, and you'd returned sweaty, scratched and tired, but with two buckets of the sweet berries. The jar on the shelf is the last of it.
Maybe if you make a Victoria sponge to start with, just the classic, traditional one, some idea would come to you for Harry's engagement cake. But it's not like he's going to order the cake from you anyway. Not after you went and called his marriage a business deal. You'll never see him in this bakery again.
You begin picking up the ingredients anyway, if nothing else, you can sell it in slices tomorrow. And you suddenly feel like eating Victoria sponge cake, and not because it's Harry's favourite.
As usual the act of baking calms you, focusing you on the measurements and the manual steps, beating the eggs and sugar, folding in the dry, it all comes together as you try not to think of Harry. With steady hands you pour the batter into the cake tin and put it in the oven.
The door closes with a soft click as you set the timer.
A sharp knock on the bakery door makes you jump, the glass in the window pane rattling with the force of the rapping knuckles, and you drop the bowl you've been holding.
"What the fuck…" you hiss, looking at the dent in the metal as another knock rattles the door.
Putting the bowl on the counter you stride over through the door of the kitchen and into the long since closed bakery shop. It's raining outside, and the fat drops streak across the window, blurring the outlines of the man standing outside, and it stops you in your tracks.
Harry pauses his knocking, his hand hanging in the air in front of him, as he meets your eyes. The rain has plastered his hair to his skull, soaked through his sweater, and as you watch, he lowers his hand and wipes it across his face.
For a beat you wonder if you should tell him to go away, but before you've made your mind up, your feet move to the door, and your hands unlock it.
"Harry, what-"
"You had no right," he says, his voice tight as he looks at you through the falling rain, "I was happy. And you…" he stops, biting down on the sharp words, "You… It wasn't a business deal, we were a good match."
What he's saying sinks in as you feel the rain drops begin to collect on your own skin as the wind picks up.
"You…you broke up with Amanda?" you ask, and Harry winces, or shivers, and you grab his arm, pulling him through the door, and out of the rain.
"You're soaked," you say unnecessarily, looking around for a clean kitchen towel, but Harry doesn't seem to hear you. Suddenly he's crowding you, his hand firm on your cheek, his mouth a hair's breadth from yours, warm breath teasing your lips.
Time seems to freeze as your heart stops beating. He smells of rain, wet sidewalks and damp leaves, softened by the heat of his body.
He drops his hand and steps back, and for a split second you think he's going to rush out through the door again, back into the rain.
Instead he charges into the bakery, spinning on the spot as he shoves his hands through his wet hair and glares at you.
"Why did you have to be so…." he spits, "why did you say…all that, all that…that…"
He trails off, and he seems to shrink as your eyes meet across the kitchen floor. Air escapes him, a slow exhale as you wait for him to finish his outburst.
But nothing more comes, instead he slumps, burying his face in his hands with a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry."
The words are just a low mumble behind his palms.
"I'm sorry too," you say, slowly coming over to him, and holding out a clean towel, your hand trembling slightly, "I was out of line, I shouldn't have said anything."
Harry shakes his head, and takes the towel, "No, it's not on you, you just said what I already knew."
With another sigh that seems to come from his toes he straightens up, looking at the towel in his hand.
"I already knew, even before she started talking about engagement. You…you just put your finger on a sore spot."
Shrugging, he makes an effort at wiping his face, and then drops the towel on the edge of the sink.
"Thanks, I'll leave now. I'm sorry for barging in, and for…" he trails off again, and you don't miss the glance at your lips. They still carry the imprint of his breath, and you can feel his fingers on your chin.
"Stay," you blurt out, taking a step forward. "Stay, don't…go."
Harry's eyes are impossible to read as you look at each other across the kitchen, but you hope he can see how much you want him to stay.
"Please," you whisper, "I always…want you to stay when you come here."
This time he's less sudden, crossing the short space between you with a few long steps as you wait for him by the work bench. His hand is warm on your cheek, cupping your face gently as you tilt your head up to his, your lips parting. The shirt across his shoulders is damp under your hands, but already warming up from the heat that he seems to radiate as he crowds you again. When his nose brushes against yours, you exhale, his lips teasing yours before he lets himself properly kiss your open mouth. There's no rush, just a slow taste. Your mouth closes around his plump bottom lip, tasting the rain as his hands slowly move up your back, and he steps closer, making space for himself against your body.
You can't help the moan that escapes you, his body is warm and firm, even under his rain damp shirt, and the sound makes him groan in reply, a low rumble deep in his chest. He pries his lip from your mouth, and touches it with the tip of his tongue, gently tasting, making you open up for him. With a whine you slide your fingers into the curls at his neck, tugging him closer, and the effect is instant. Harry's large hands slide down your back, onto your thighs, and he lifts you up onto the bench, suddenly pressing up against your core as he yanks you closer to him. As if he's trying to eliminate every smidge of space between your bodies as he licks into your mouth, stealing your breath.
The metal bench is cool underneath you as he pushes you further back, your legs closing around his waist, and he nudges your head to the side, licking a wet trail beneath your ear. You can feel the beating of your heart in your finger tips as they wrap around his curls, Harry's scorching breath against your neck, teeth grazing across the thin skin.
"Harry," you moan into the empty kitchen, gasping for air when he moves his hands, his thumbs drawing sharp lines over your pebbled nipple, making your breath hitch.
"You taste so good," he mumbles, moving up to your lips again, "salt and sweet, chocolate and cream. Do you always taste this good?"
"You'll have to find out," you mumble against his mouth, and you can feel him smile into your lips.
"Happily," he replies, "Are you free tonight?"
The question makes you giggle, and Harry pulls back to look down at you, raising his eye brows.
"Look at where you've got me, Harry," you say, "And tell me you think I'm not free tonight?"
His face splits into a wide grin, and he drops his head down again, pressing a soft kiss on your lips, much more chaste this time.
"I got carried away," he smiles in reply, "You taste so good, and you smell more delicious than any of your desserts."
"You taste like rain," you tell him, and he laughs, shaking his head to make rain drops scatter across your face.
"I'm not sorry I barged in," he says when you've brushed back the curls from his forehead again, "I'm just sorry I didn't realise I should've been dating you all this time. Can I make you dinner tonight?"
"I'm not sure, what's for dessert?" you ask him, and the grin on your face makes him press his lips to your neck, smiling as you squeal under him when he nips at the delicious skin.
"You," he replies, "Only you."
Why would you trust anyone other than Mary Berry to make the perfect Victoria sponge cake? Light and fluffy and filled with jam, it's a Brit
I had to include Mary Berry's receipe because who else, right? And I hope you enjoyed this re-visit to the bakery, and wish Harry all the best for his future dating life. I'm sure baker girl will make him very happy...
Tagging some of you who I know read A Baker's Dozen back when I first posted it. You all gave it so much love and I hope you want to dip back into this cosy universe!
while i would have loved to have seen din give a long emotional speech to grogu after he woke up and heard din tell grogu how proud he was of him for saving his life... i also know that din could barely choke out the words that he did because he was so emotional in that moment and he's more likely to show his pride in grogu's actions in other ways... such as allowing grogu to press the button in that put the razor crest into hyperspace. plus, i'm sure that the next time grogu was eating cookies, din didn't try and stop him from gobbling up the lot!
(on a personal level i'm glad din didn't give such a speech because i had already given myself a headache from crying at that point and i had no tissues left...)
—TASTE BACK — PART ONE: "MR. AND MRS. MILLER" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (ex!husband joel miller x f!reader) MDNI!!
fic masterlist | read on ao3 | capuccinodollupdates
summary: Three years after a painful divorce, destiny forces you to cross paths with Joel in the paradise of Maui; and at a wedding, of all places. Though you try your hardest to keep your distance and maintain your sanity, old habits and buried desires don't take long to set everything ablaze. wc: 13k
A/N: So, a quick heads up: this one shot somehow evolved into a multi chapter work and it also ended up being way more emotional than I originally planned. Don't get me wrong, you all know how much I love the cheesy romance and the angst. But hey, it’s a fun ride too. Also, just as a gentle content warning, this story briefly alludes to some sensitive themes, specifically pregnancy loss and fertility struggles, though they are never addressed directly. If these topics are triggering for you, please read with care. <3
If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment and reblog! I really appreciate feedback<3
Room 401. You tossed the keycards onto the king sized bed in the center of the room and let your duffel bag slide off your shoulder, thudding onto the carpet by your shoes. You let out a sigh.
Jo and Cillian had truly outdone themselves.
The Ritz-Carlton was a masterpiece of teakwood and volcanic stone nestled along the Wailea coast, and the view was absolutely breathtaking. Massive sliding glass doors revealed everything, from the Pacific stretching out like a deep blue silk shroud in the distance, to an endless line of palm trees swaying in the breeze.
It was an enviable location for anyone wishing for a dream wedding, and if this was your room, you couldn't help but wonder what the newlyweds' suite looked like. High, plush beds with comforters as soft and white as cotton, blue and earth toned accent pillows resting against fluffy inviting pillows, and a delicious clean scent permeating every corner. Opposite the bed sat a delicate console topped with a large TV, and next to it, a small sofa just as pristine white as everything else.
You smiled to yourself and kicked off your shoes; a welcome relief after a ten hour flight. Your lower back ached slightly, the back of your neck was slick with sweat, and a faint headache was beginning to brew. But you were in Maui. Finally.
It was the first time you had left Austin in a very, very long time. God knew you needed it; after so many years cooped up within the same few miles, any escape offered to you was welcome. Besides, you could consider this a reward.
When Jo and Cillian first sent the invitation, you thought they were out of their minds. There was absolutely no way you had the time or the money to jet off for an entire weekend wedding. You were buried under work and had recently taken out a loan just to keep your workshop afloat, so you didn't RSVP right away. You figured the best you could do was send a lovely gift to their address. Perhaps one of those custom armchairs you crafted, the one Jo had loved so much. No, two of them. One for her, and one for him.
Fast forward a few months, and you already had the plane tickets in hand. Business had started doing much, much better, and you had finally gotten your head above water, so you could actually afford a weekend away. Plus, the room was already paid for; how could you possibly say no to that?
You walked toward the sliding glass doors, your bare feet relaxing into the floor as the scenery unveiled itself behind the glass. The wind seemed to be blowing hard, and when you slid the door open, the rush of warm humid air brushed against your neck and cheeks.
The scent of plumeria blossoms was intense, and the sound of the ocean crashing against the black rocks made you smile. You stepped out onto the balcony, feeling the sun warmed wood beneath your feet, and pulled out your phone. It only rang for a few seconds.
"Hey, Dean… Yeah, I just walked into the room," you said, leaning against the railing and closing your eyes to block out the sheer vastness of the paradise in front of you. “It’s unreal, honestly. Jo and Cillian picked the best place on earth… I miss you too. A lot.”
You sighed, catching your breath. Dean’s voice was a bit muffled on the other end.
"Sorry… I can’t hear you very well," you said, pacing from one side of the balcony to the other. Dean asked something. “I think the signal’s terrible out here. Can you hear me?”
You pressed your other hand over your free ear, as if that would actually help. Obviously, it didn't, so you clicked your tongue and frowned.
"I think I’ll call you back in a moment, yeah?" you said, raising your voice for some reason as if that would do the trick. It didn't. "I’ll text you now. I love you."
You pulled the phone away from your face and glanced at the screen. Shit. Okay, no big deal. You’d just send him a text.
Signal is bad here, I'll call you in a bit :) <3
"You gotta head down there, closer to the palm trees, off to the right. Stand right about there, and the boy'll hear you a whole lot better."
The voice came out of nowhere, drifting over from the nearest edge of the balcony. To your right, just on the other side of the dividing wooden partition, was a voice you knew better than your own.
Your heart gave a violent shudder, but you forced yourself not to jump. You turned your head by fractions; the movement felt absurdly careful. None of this was funny.
Joel.
Joel was standing right there, leaning against the railing and peering just slightly around the edge of the wall. He held a glass of water in one hand and his phone in the other.
He turned toward you, his mouth curving into a relaxed smile. He looked exactly the same, yet so, so different. The sun had etched fresh lines around his eyes, and his beard carried more gray than you remembered. His features seemed softened somehow, though they were still just as rugged.
"Joel," you said, your tone far too polite. "I… I had no idea you were staying next door."
“Guess that’s just bad luck,” he replied, a half smile brushing his lips without ever reaching his eyes. "How you been?"
You bit your tongue and your jaw tightened. “Really good. You?”
Really good. Great. Thriving. The best you had been in years. Your business was doing well, you looked good (maybe the best you had ever looked in your life) and every single night you went home to a man who respected you and loved you, but above all, a man who was actually there. Dean.
"Doin' alright myself," he answered, shifting his gaze out toward the horizon, watching the blue ocean and the palm fronds swaying back and forth.
The hair on his forehead drifted with the breeze, and he squinted slightly against the sun. A fine sheen of sweat coated his brow, and the tips of his ears were flushed pink.
Two years. Two whole years had passed since you last laid eyes on him. You had sworn to yourself that it would be the final time, and you had kept that promise. That morning, you slipped out of his bed while he was still fast asleep, leaving absolutely no trace behind. It was the hard stop to a cycle that had once seemed endless.
But that was just how you and Joel were; it was how you had always been. Ever since you crossed paths by pure chance at a bar fifteen years ago. Your eyes had locked with his, he was the one to approach you first, and you spent the entire night tangled up in each other, talking about everything and everyone until the sun came up and he had to head off to work without a single wink of sleep.
Two years of dating, ten years of marriage, and one year of seeing each other off and on post-divorce. Walking away from him had been agonizing; after signing the papers, you ended up in his bed more than once, and he was in yours far more often than you cared to admit. Until that one morning you finally walked out; you left a brief note on his kitchen counter telling him that enough was enough, that you needed to leave this behind, and then you blocked his number and left for good.
Two years had passed since that day. You hadn't seen him since.
You offered a faint smile and nodded, dropping your gaze to the planter beside the window.
"Alright. Uh, see you around," you said, not even waiting to see if he would answer. You immediately stepped back inside the room and slid the glass door shut.
Through the glass, you watched as his hand disappeared from the balcony railing.
Your feet sank into the sand and tiny grains scattered with every step you took.
You had to do something, and fast. Talk to Jo, beg her to swap your room with someone else or pay out of pocket for a completely different one if you had to. You needed to act.
Ever since you ran into Joel two hours ago, your heart had been pounding harder than usual. Tachycardia, maybe; as if he were a massive, undiluted cup of black coffee, far too strong, messing with your anxiety and sending your blood racing through your veins.
You hadn't even called Dean back. There was no earthly way you could speak to him without the emotions tearing through you right now bleeding into the tone of your voice. He would know instantly that something was up, that you were hiding something. And the second you told him it was about Joel, that he was right here, separated by nothing more than a single wall, you knew he would catch the very first flight out to Maui. Because Dean knew everything, or at least almost everything. He knew it had been a brutal divorce, not because you had fought constantly through it, but because it had been so damn painful, like ripping a fingernail straight from the skin. The wound still throbbed.
Right in front of you, the ocean spread out pure and beautiful. The waves crashed against the shore, melting at your feet and soaking you up to your ankles. The hem of your skirt fluttered in the breeze; delicate sheer crimson fabric that draped down to your calves. And the sun blazed with the exact same brightness as your top, a cropped form fitting canary yellow.
You knew it was possible he would be here. You knew Jo and Cillian might invite him. Jo had actually given you a heads up a few months before the invitations went out.
Joel might go, are you comfortable with that?
Of course, absolutely. It's your wedding, I'd hate for you to feel bad about inviting someone just on my account. Just do it, seriously, no drama.
And now he was here, though you had at least held onto the hope that you could avoid each other a bit more. To not run into him at the ceremony, or during the dinner; to stay far enough apart that this could pass without any aftermath. What kind of aftermath, exactly? You weren't worried about arguing with him, nor were you worried about the conversation turning awkward and filled with cruel jabs. That wasn't how you and he operated; it never had been. You were worried about other things, things that were far beyond what you could handle right now.
Suddenly, a woman's voice called your name from a distance.
"Hey, hey!"
You turned around instantly, recognizing it right away and letting the pure excitement wash away every single one of your anxious thoughts.
"Hey!" You started running toward her with your arms wide open, and in your head, cheesy music started playing, like the entire world slipped into a cinematic, frame by frame cadence like those funny montages of people reuniting after a lifetime apart.
Kathani was running toward you with that exact same energy; her hair billowed in soft brown waves, dancing across her shoulders just like her light blue dress. She looked like a fairy.
"Kat!"
Your arms wrapped around her in a breathless embrace. Long months had flown by since you last saw each other, maybe even a whole year.
"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," she said against your shoulder, squeezing you even tighter. "You look so so beautiful, from a distance I honestly thought I spotted an angel!"
"Oh, stop!" You gave her a playful little shake, stepping back a bit to get a better look at her. "What are you talking about? You look absolutely gorgeous."
"We both look gorgeous."
You laughed. "I'll take that."
She offered a warm smile and rested her hands on your shoulders.
"Jesus, how are you? Last month I almost made it out to Austin, but work got in the way and I couldn't go. How is everything back home?" Suddenly, her eyebrows shot up. "Hey, Jo told me Joel might be coming—"
Your eyes went wide as saucers. "Kat, you gotta help me. His room is right next to mine."
"What?"
You nodded quickly. "I swear, please, you have to help me."
"But how? What happened? Like, right next door?"
"Yes. Right next door," you shrugged helplessly. "The second I arrived, I went out onto the balcony to call Dean, and there he was on the balcony right next to mine, which is basically attached. He must have heard the whole conversation!"
Kat smirked. "Oh my God, I bet he absolutely wanted to crawl into a hole and die!"
"Kathani!"
"What?" She shrugged. "You know it’s true. The only reason he even showed up is probably to see you. Since when does Joel take trips like this?"
"I don't know, it's been a while. Maybe he does now."
"Right, now," she rolled her eyes. She let out a breath and studied you for a quiet moment. "I'm sorry. How are you holding up? How do you feel about it?"
How did you feel about it? How did you feel about it… how did you feel about it.
Conflicted.
"I'm fine," you said, turning your gaze back toward the ocean. "I mean… I'll manage." You looked back at her, giving a firm nod. "I'm in Maui. Look at this view, it's gorgeous."
"It really is."
"I don't want Joel overshadowing this."
"Hey," Kat gently touched your arm to catch your eye. "Take a breath. I don't think he's going to try and cross any lines, not after how things ended. And if he does get in your space, I'll get rid of him for you."
You laughed. "Easy there. I just need to pay him no mind and that's it. We'll be spending most of our time out of our rooms anyway."
The sky was a striking blend of pinks and oranges when you made your way down to the beach for dinner. It was paradise; a long, long table was set up right in the center of the open air restaurant, draped in a crisp white tablecloth and adorned with centerpieces crafted from local flora. Servers drifted around, putting the final touches on everything for the rehearsal dinner.
You had headed down early to grab a drink.
Switching rooms was out of the question. Earlier, during the welcome cocktails, you had pulled Jo aside to ask if a swap was possible.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "Why? Is there something wrong with yours?"
A bit flustered, you told her, "It’s right next door to Joel's."
Jo frowned and shook her head. "No way. I specifically told Nora to put you two far apart."
Nora, one of the planners.
Well, long story short: it was a total communication breakdown. Apparently, the phrases they can't be next to each other and they have to be next to each other sound way too similar, or maybe it was bad phone reception, or ambient noise, or who even knows. Nora had purposely booked you in adjoining rooms. And when you saw the look on her face when Jo brought it up (a look of pure wedding-induced panic and stress) you simply threw in the towel.
"It's fine, don't worry about it. I don't want to cause any trouble, it's your wedding."
And it was. You weren't about to demand a new hotel room just because your ex husband happened to be on the other side of the wall. Jo was already stressed enough without having to fix your mess, which, to be completely fair, wasn't even that catastrophic.
Fortunately, Joel had kept his distance during cocktails. He stayed on the periphery, had a drink or two, and then you watched him head out before the mixer even wrapped up.
Now, you were sipping your drink, settled at the bar while smooth music filled your ears and the distant sound of the tides eased your mind.
Bing. Your phone lit up.
[Kat]: emergency meet me in the lobby NOW
[Kat]: hurry before dinner starts I have to tell you something
You frowned and instantly slid off your barstool, taking care not to let your dress tangle around your legs. It was brand new, a light blue shade that perfectly matched the dinner dress code. You had been paying close attention to details like that. You even wore a white flower tucked into your hair right above your ear.
With your drink in hand, sipping from the straw, you walked over to the lobby, and the moment the automatic doors slid open, you spotted Kat standing near the reception desk. Her eyebrows shot up the second she caught sight of you, and she approached with long hurried strides.
She grabbed your arm and pulled you off to the side. You nearly spilled some of your drink but kept the straw securely between your lips.
You knit your brows and took a sip. "Mh—hey, what's goin' on?"
Kat let out a breath. "Have you seen Joel?"
"What? No, why?"
She pressed her lips together tightly and gave a firm nod. "He didn't come alone."
"What?"
"Joel. He didn't come by himself. I just saw him go up the elevator with a woman, and she kissed him."
Your heart did a strange jerky twist that. For some reason, it actually stung.
You swallowed hard, and your eyelids suddenly felt heavy.
"But he was completely by himself during the cocktails."
"I think she arrived later."
Caught completely off guard, you took a step back.
Okay.
What could you even say? Nothing. It wasn't as if you were supposed to feel bad about it anyway; you yourself had been in a wonderful new relationship for several months now. Did you even have a single right to feel even slightly slighted just because he had a girl—
Jesus.
You knit your brows. "Are you absolutely sure it was him?"
"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms. "He didn't spot me, but I definitely saw him. They got out of a car at the entrance and then headed straight for the elevator. She had a suitcase."
"But Jo would have told me. If Joel was bringing a plus one, Jo would have let me know."
"What if it slipped her mind? Or what if she deliberately avoided mentioning it for some reason?"
"Why… why would she do something like that?"
Kat raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips slightly, right on the verge of saying something.
Before she could get a single word out, you cut her off.
"It's fine. I have a plus one too, it's just that Dean couldn't make it," you shrugged. "Joel has every right to bring someone."
"Yeah, but he's staying in the room right next to yours."
Oh. Great. Thank you, Kat.
"You're not being very helpful," you said, crossing your arms.
"I'm sorry," she sighed, tilting her head back slightly. "Look, come sleep in my room tonight, okay?"
"Jesus, Kat," you said, shaking your head, "I think… I think you're blowing this way out of proportion. Joel and I… we're divorced, alright? I have a new life. I don't care if he's with someone else, or if he's right next to my room. I freaked out earlier but," you laughed, "it's no big deal, seriously. I can handle it."
Kat nodded, though you knew it was highly unlikely she believed a single word coming out of your mouth. She knew you entirely too well; she had been right there during that first year after the divorce, watching you go back to Joel again and again, returning and leaving, back and forth. And she had been there when you walked out for good, too; she had comforted you more times than you could count.
"It’s been two years," you made clear. "I’ve moved on, and clearly, so has he."
"Clearly?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "What’s with that tone?"
You scoffed. "Nothing. I know exactly what you’re thinking, okay? But it’s over. Joel is in the past. I have Dean now."
"Okay, I know. But just think about it," she said. "About my room tonigh. My door is always open."
Going for your third glass of wine in less than an hour was definitely not a good sign. But she was loud; her voice was too high pitched and bubbly, and she wouldn't stop chiming in with remarks about every single thing anyone else said. Tiny comments, kind comments, but incredibly grating comments because they simply hammered away at your brain.
She was the polar opposite of you, and for some reason, that left you with a twisted feeling in your chest.
She was twenty five years old. You had never envisioned Joel as the type of guy who would date someone so young, someone so different. You couldn't wrap your head around how that even functioned; had he suddenly changed, turning into someone who now enjoyed things he never used to? Had he transformed into one of those divorced guys in their forties who date girls in their twenties just to feel young and revitalized? He used to make fun of those type of men.
He didn't seem like the man you knew; now he was quiet, chuckling every now and then, bringing his glass to his lips every time she told him "not to be silly" while tapping his shoulder and tilting her head.
But then again, he wasn't the man you knew. Because you didn't know him anymore. People change a lot in two years, and he certainly wasn't your Joel anymore. He had stopped being that a very long time ago.
The only saving grace was that they were seated all the way at the opposite end of the table. You could easily get out of interacting with them, or even looking their way, and that was exactly what you did for the most part.
What was the point of wasting your time on that stuff when one of your closest friends was about to get married? None at all.
So you ate and drank and caught up with your friends, actually having a wonderful time despite your miserable luck. And as the alcohol began to make you feel more loose and upbeat, you couldn't stop laughing at every single story everyone shared. Anecdotes from when she was little, a teenager, and even after heading off to college or starting to date Cillian. Some of them you remembered vividly, because you had been right there.
And the entire time, every now and then, you could feel it. His gaze, locked right onto your profile, burning your skin in a shameless way. You did everything in your power not to look over, to give no hint that you knew exactly what he was doing, and you succeeded through the whole dinner—until Jo's sister launched into that anecdote about the time Jo got locked out of the house and they tried to scramble in through the bathroom window.
While trying to squeeze through, her shorts caught on the window frame, and Jo tumbled to the floor completely bare from the waist down. Her shorts and underwear were left dangling from the window.
Oh Jesus, you remembered it so vividly. It had been so fun. She had come down to open the front door with a towel wrapped around her hips and her eyes were streaming with tears from laughing so hard. And when you went upstairs and saw her poor, sad little torn panties hanging from the frame, you burst out laughing just like you were doing right now.
A wave of pure amusement swept through you, and you threw your head back, covering your mouth as a tiny snort escaped your throat. And then, completely on instinct, your eyes sought him out.
He was watching you, of course, but his lips held a still quiet smile. You suddenly remembered those old days when he would deliberately make you laugh until your stomach ached and you made those funny noises. You used to hate it, you always had, but he would tell you they were sweet and nice, and how much he loved hearing them. You had never understood it. Now, he just smiled in silence, eight seats away from you.
You smoothed over your tight flushed cheeks and dropped your gaze as you picked up your wine glass. You just had to wait a little longer for dinner to wrap up and for the small party to migrate to the other side of the room.
You were doing just fine, weren't you?
A few seconds later, you looked back at him. He wasn't watching you anymore; his eyes were fixed on his wine glass, which he held by the stem with his fingers, tracing the clear glass with his thumb. Then, he let out a long, heavy breath through his nose and brought the glass to his lips, emptying the entire contents in a single swallow.
"We’re getting married tomorrow!"
Jo’s shout was so full of pure joy and laughter as Cillian spun her around the dance floor that your heart truly felt like it expanded and a wave of warmth washed over you.
You watched them from the bar and lifted your phone to snap a photo. Several, actually. You had no idea how many shots you had taken by now.
At some point during the night, just a few minutes ago, Joel and his girlfriend (Jen, according to a whisper from Kat half an hour earlier) had headed out. And because of that, you felt so much lighter and more comfortable in the space.
It was for the best, this whole keeping your distance thing. And honestly, the fact that Joel had brought someone was probably for the best too, since it prevented the two of you from drifting toward each other in any way. Come to think of it, what a shame Dean hadn't come along. Everything would have been so much easier to handle with him here. I mean, you had invited him, and he asked if you were sure. And I mean, at first, you weren't so sure. I mean, what were you even saying? How many drinks had you even had by now?
Dean. Dean, you needed to call him.
Shit, your feet were killing you. So you kicked off your heels as you walked toward the steps leading down to the shore. Leaning against the railing for balance, you unbuckled the delicate straps from around your ankles, dangling the shoes from your fingers a few seconds later as you descended bare footed. You dropped them somewhere there.
Oh, good heavens. The sand felt incredible beneath your bare skin.
You tilted your head back, letting out a deeply relaxed sigh. In front of you, very very far away, the ocean shifted beneath the moonlight, looking exactly like a painting. The sky was completely clear, with a massive perfectly round moon hanging at the absolute peak of the heavens.
Your cheeks were warm and your neck was flushed, but the gentle breeze brushing against your skin cooled your arms, your legs, and your bare back as you strolled toward the water. It was refreshing. The further you wandered, the more the noise of the party faded away, giving your mind a little more room to breathe and your thoughts space to wander.
You really should take advantage of this and call Dean now. But it was probably late. He was bound to be asleep by now; it had to be the middle of the night back home. No, it definitely was. You had checked.
Shit. You left your purse up there.
You turned around to look back at the celebration in the distance and a smile tugged at your lips.
From afar, everything looked so beautiful. The sky was pitch black, but the place looked like a glowing jewelry box filled with tiny people moving in every direction; jumping and laughing, their voices reaching you as soft overlapping sounds, like tiny ant voices.
Jo and Cillian looked so blissfully happy. They were dancing right in the center of the floor, and though you could barely make them out through the crowd, you could still spot them instantly. He had his hands around her waist, holding her close as they moved together. They were so deeply in love, so radiant. You remembered that exact feeling vividly, as if it had been yesterday.
No, it had been thirteen years ago, at a lovely little venue back in Texas. It hadn't been anywhere near as fancy as this, but it had its own unique charm. You remembered the flowers everywhere, the tablecloths as bright as white light, the napkins monogrammed with your initials. You actually still had one tucked away in a small pale pink box. You still held onto so many of those trinkets; entirely too many of them, which you honestly should just throw out. Why keep holding onto them?
You were young when you married Joel. He was young, too. Just two twenty somethings full of goals and dreams.
You were barely twenty one when you first met him, and from that very first moment, you knew it was something special. Something forever, you thought. And two years later, he asked you to marry him. It was a bit of a chaotic mess that ended up turning into something incredibly sweet and beautiful.
It was a rainy night. Joel had taken you out to dinner and scored movie tickets. About Time had just hit theaters and he knew you were dying to see it because you had watched the trailer on Youtube. So you had dinner and then you headed to the cinema. Of course, he hadn't anticipated the ending leaving you so sad, and he had to comfort you in the dark of the theater while you tried to get your sobbing under control. And by the time you walked out, the downpour had gotten even worse.
Huge puddles flooded the streets, and as you walked to the car, you slipped and landed right on your ass. Your clothes were caked in mud, which splashed all over Joel, and a few seconds later when he tried to pull you up, he went down himself. It was so fun; the two of you couldn't stop laughing. Every time you tried to stand up, you just kept sliding around, your outfit ruined and his right along with it. And by the time you finally made it inside the car, you were both an absolute disaster.
You knew that hadn't been his original plan, or at least, you found out later. Joel had set up a beautiful arrangement on his apartment balcony, but the rain completely ruined his plans. And when you finally got back to his place, you looked at him; soaked, dirty, covered in mud, with his hair a mess and his clothes completely unraveled, and you just kissed him.
"We're a mess," you murmured against his teeth as he guided you inside the apartment.
He laughed, and that was when you noticed it; he was incredibly nervous. The way he looked at you was different, and for a second, he almost looked physically ill.
And then, he went for it. He slid his hand into his pocket, and before pulling it back out, he confessed his love to you all over again. He dropped down on one knee.
You had never been happier in your entire life than you were right there, in that tiny apartment, with just the two of you.
Three years later, Joel bought you another ring. According to him, the first one wasn't good enough. You disagreed; you absolutely adored your ring. He had worked so hard to afford it, and it meant the world to you. But he insisted on giving you a new one, something much larger. He was doing well at work by then. So he put together another dinner, one completely uninterrupted by rain, and presented it to you on a perfectly clear night.
But time moves fast, and many years later, those are nothing more than memories.
Maybe you should go for a walk to clear your head.
You let out a breath and turned around to head in the opposite direction—
A sharp gasp caught in your chest, and you froze in your tracks. Your hands immediately flew to your chest.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, holding up a hand. "Didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry."
You knit your brows, still feeling your heart hammering away.
Joel stood right in front of you, with a worried look on his face. His brows were slightly drawn, his eyes glistened, and his hair drifted in the sea breeze. He wore a white, long sleeved button-down with a few of the top buttons undone, revealing a hint of sun flushed skin at his chest. His cream colored dress pants billowed slightly in the wind.
"I thought you left," you said.
He shook his head. "No. Jen wasn't feelin' well. Just walked her back to the room."
You felt a faint throbbing behind your brows. "Is she alright?"
"Got a headache, is all."
"Oh."
It only took a split second for your eyes to lock onto his, freezing you both in place.
He swallowed hard.
"I didn't know our rooms were gonna be right next to each other," he said.
You paused for a beat.
"Neither did I."
He gave a slight, quiet nod, a heavy, downcast look lingering in his eyes.
"I can ask for a different room tomorrow morning, if you'd like."
You offered a faint smile, though your eyelids felt incredibly heavy.
"Yeah, okay," you said, taking two steps forward and brushing right past him. "Thank you."
As you moved away, Joel tracked you with his gaze. You turned as you passed him, keeping your path along the shoreline in an escape attempt that felt frustratingly drawn out. You could feel his eyes burning into the back of your neck.
"I'm sorry." His voice carried clearly through the moonlight behind you.
You stopped instantly, completely unable to help yourself, and pivoted on the sand to face him.
"I shouldn't have brought her here." He took a step forward.
You gave a single shake of your head. "Joel, it’s fine."
"No, it ain't."
"It really is."
"I can tell it ain't," his brow furrowed.
"Then why did you bring her?"
"I don't know. Seemed like a good idea right up until I got here and saw you."
You huffed a breath. "Is it my fault now?"
"No, no," he rushed to shake his head. "That ain't what I meant at all."
You closed your eyes and ran a hand down your neck. Frustration bathed you as you felt the heavy weight of the alcohol in your veins.
"Joel, just… don't. Please don't," you said, taking two steps back. "It’s fine, it is. You’re with someone else, and so am I. We don't need to be having this kind of conversation, not right now."
It looked as though he was right on the verge of saying something. He parted his lips for a moment, but snapped them shut a second later. He stayed perfectly still, holding you captive under his gaze, because you couldn't bring yourself to do anything but stand there and look right back at him.
"We haven't seen each other in two whole years," he said then, like a tired accusation.
"Joel…"
"You left me a damn post it note."
Your mouth fell open, your chest beginning to rise and fall more rapidly as your breathing turned sudden and shallow. He seemed more worked up now, too.
You couldn't do this.
On pure instinct, you spun around and practically fled. You walked as fast as your feet could push through the sand, breaking away from him.
Behind you, you heard his voice calling out your name, getting closer and closer with every passing second. You only made it a few yards.
He caught you by the arm, and your name spilled from his lips like a breathless sound.
You wrenched yourself free from his grip, spinning around.
"Please, don't do this," you pleaded in a whisper, locking eyes with him. "What'd you want me to do? Just stay there? Watch us keep running in the same damn circles?"
Joel stepped back, taken aback, but his gaze never wavered. His jaw tightened, the wind blowing a stray lock of hair across his forehead.
"Could've said goodbye," he said. "Face to face. We deserved more than a goddamn note left on the table after everythin’ we were"
Your heart squeezed tight.
"You and I could never just say goodbye, Joel. We tried a hundred times. You know exactly how it ended every single time."
Joel closed his eyes for a beat, and you knew the blow had landed right where it hurt.
The silence that followed was absolute. And when he looked back at you, the vulnerability in his glistening eyes made your chest ache.
"If it was that hard..." he started, "then why'd we have to say goodbye in the first place?"
Your lower lip trembled. "Joel... don't."
Your vision blurred completely as tears flooded your eyes, spilling over before you could do anything to stop them.
It was cruel of him to ask you that now. Not when you’d spent two whole years trying to convince yourself you’d made the right choice.
You’re with Dean, you reminded yourself urgently. Dean is at home. You’re happy with him. And you couldn’t forget that Joel had moved on too; his girlfriend was upstairs at the hotel.
Joel fell quiet. He shook his head again and again, like he was trying to rid himself of a thought he couldn’t outrun. His gaze dropped to the sand, fixing on some distant spot before he spoke.
"These past few months, I’ve been lookin’ for a house…" he admitted softly. "Lease on my apartment’s almost up, and I figured maybe it was time for a real home. And every place I walk into, I catch myself lookin’ for big windows, a wide backyard, and some corner with enough light to work without havin' to turn the lamps on in the afternoon."
Then, he looked up, locking those glistening eyes straight onto yours.
"I could buy it," he said quietly. "I make enough now to get a real nice house. But what the hell’s the point of all that money if you ain’t in it? Tell me somethin’… why is your voice still in my head every time I make a decision?"
It took you several seconds just to draw breath.
You swallowed hard, absorbing the bruising impact of his words. You had to forcefully suffocate your own thoughts, the ones screaming that you were completely consumed by him, too. That sometimes, when you were in your shop holding a piece of sandpaper, his voice would appear out of nowhere, reminding you to always go with the grain so you wouldn't ruin the finish. Or that every time your car engine made a strange noise, you’d remember his advice to check the hoses before panicking. His ghost was everywhere.
But you couldn't tell him that. So instead, you said;
"Your girlfriend is upstairs."
You spun around abruptly and took off at a brisk pace, nearly breaking into a run in a desperate attempt to get away. The ocean breeze whipped against your face, but it did nothing to cool your burning cheeks.
Glancing back, you saw him: Joel was gaining on you with long strides, his white shirt billowing in the wind. Tears escaped without control, blurring everything in sight.
You whipped around to face him the moment you felt him too close.
Joel stopped short. His face was twisted with ache, and he stood completely still and quiet for a few seconds. His eyes shone brighter now, welling up with a thin glaze of tears that grew thicker by the second.
"What are we doin'?" he asked then, cracking completely. He stepped a fraction closer, repeating with desperation, "What are we doin'? It was supposed to be us!"
You swallowed hard, feeling a physical pain right in the center of your chest, as if Joel’s words had cut straight through your skin.
You looked at him through the tears that refused to stop falling.
"A lot of things happened, Joel. Did you forget that already?"
He stared at you in silence.
"I needed you!" You confessed.
"You pushed me away, every damn time," he countered.
"I was grieving," you shot back. "I know it was hard sometimes, but I was grieving."
"I was grieving too," Joel snapped. He took a step toward you, desperate to make you hear him. "That was my baby too. And every time I tried to get close to you, you... you just pushed me back, pushed me away like you couldn't stand the sight of me. Like you didn't want me there."
"Of course I wanted you there! You were my husband," you cried out, letting out a shaky, nearly choked breath. You paused, looking at him with all the frustration you’d kept locked away for years. "But where were you? You spent more time out there than you ever did at home."
Joel ran a hand over his face, completely spent, and let out a trembling sigh.
"I was scared," he confessed. "There’d never been anythin’ we couldn’t fix together before. But this... this was bigger than us. Every time I walked through that front door, I felt like I'd failed you. Like I couldn't protect the one thing we wanted most. I was terrified of sayin' the wrong thing, terrified of makin' it worse. And it felt like makin' it worse was the only damn thing I knew how to do."
"So you left," you shot back, pointing at him. "You just kept leaving. You weren’t there." Your voice trembled harder with every word. "You thought no matter how many times you walked away, I’d still be there waiting for you, and that’s not how this works." Your eyes burned as fresh tears spilled over. "I was scared too."
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said, taking a step forward. "Not a day goes by where I don't think about what I could've done to stop it, to protect us—"
"How could you have stopped it? It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't mine," you whispered. "All those years..." You shook your head. "All those years I felt like a failure for not bein' able to—I tortured myself thinkin' it was only a matter of time before you got tired of me and walked away. And then when it finally..." You shook your head again, refusing to let the memory surface. "The only thing I needed was for you to be there."
"How could I ever get tired of you?" he asked with painful disbelief. He gave a quiet shake of his head. "I told you a hundred times. You were my family. Anything else, we could've gotten through it together. I married you 'cause I wanted you, just you. Kids or no kids, I wanted you."
You stared at him in absolute silence. His words cut right through you, leaving a burning ache in your chest, yet at the same time, they felt like a warm, long overdue embrace around your heart.
Why didn't he say all this back then? Why did he have to wait all this time to lay it all out, right in the dead of night, in the middle of all this?
You froze, the weight of the years crashing down on you, and gave a shake of your head.
Taking a step back into the cool sand, you whispered, "It doesn't matter now."
"It does t—"
"No, it doesn't," you cut him off, your voice hardening. "It's too late. I'm with someone else, and you are too."
"I don't love her."
"Joel."
"What, you wanna pretend we both just moved on?"
"We're divorced," you said, the word tasting like ash in your mouth.
"I never wanted to divorce you and you know it," Joel countered.
You shook your head and then you felt it; panic starting to crowd out the ache.
You had to get out of there. You needed to leave this beach right now, before you broke, before you did something you couldn't take back.
You lunged to the side, trying to bolt past him, but Joel reacted instantly, catching you by the hands. The heat of his touch burned.
In a blind reflex, you slammed your palms against his chest and shoved him back with everything you had, breaking his grip. And you ran.
You ran with your breath clawing at your lungs, fleeing toward the small party. You knew he wouldn't follow you there; Joel would never push his way through your friends to make a scene, or to keep telling you things that shouldn't matter anymore.
When you finally hit the steps leading up from the beach, you spotted your heels tossed in the sand right where you had left them. You didn't even pause to pick them up. You took the stairs barefoot, crossed the room where the music was still thumping, and with trembling hands, snatched your purse off one of the chairs. You headed straight for your room. All around you, everyone was far too drunk to even notice.
You had spent the entire day mastering the art of looking anywhere but at him.
During the morning, it was easy. Mainly because he was nowhere to be seen. You were confined with the other bridesmaids and Jo’s family. In her hotel room, time flew by in a blur of wedding prep. Everyone talked, laughed, and rallied around Jo to soothe her nerves. Good nerves, born from being on the verge of something beautiful and life-changing. Not the bad ones that make you want to bolt out the back door of a church.
During the ceremony, everything shifted. As a bridesmaid, you stood on one side of the altar, while Joel stood on the other as a groomsman. The distance was safe, but it wasn't enough; you felt his eyes on you the entire time.
Whenever you looked toward the newlyweds, Joel caught your peripheral vision, his dark eyes fixed squarely on your face. He didn't break eye contact, not even when the crowd burst into applause. It was constant; even if he turned to smile or speak with someone else, it was only a countdown until his eyes found yours again. And then, the realization hit: you were watching him, too.
Of course you were. If you caught him staring dozens of times, it meant your own eyes were wandering toward him just as often. A simple truth that struck you just as Jo and Cillian walked down the aisle between the rows of seats, everyone celebrating the union of their beautiful love.
You kept your chin up, gripping your bouquet so tightly your knuckles turned white and pretending the heat rushing to your cheeks was just the early afternoon sun. You decided then and there that enough was enough. You couldn't keep looking at him, or he would keep looking at you. Moving forward, the best option was to ignore him entirely.
So you stuck to Kat like glue. You hadn't told her what happened the night before; you hadn't told anyone. Apparently, neither had he (which was to be expected) though you couldn't help but notice how Jen's eyes locked onto you just as much as his did.
There she was, right in the middle of the wedding guests. She wore a faint smile that seemed perfectly natural on her face, but her gaze swept up and down your body, over and over.
As a rational person, you knew exactly why she was doing it. You were her boyfriend’s ex-wife. During dinner the previous night, the two of you hadn't interacted at all. And when you felt her trying to approach you before heading to her room, you had turned on your heel and fled, pretending you hadn't seen her. She probably just wanted to introduce herself; Joel had likely told her the bare minimum. You, however, had zero interest in meeting her.
As a woman, though, you feared a deeper reason. Some energies are impossible to ignore, like the raw tension between her boyfriend and you, standing on opposite sides of that altar like a sick joke. If Jen suspected something, or if she noticed how Joel couldn't keep his eyes off you (and she only needed a functional pair of eyes to see it), you didn't blame her.
You just had to ignore them both. It was easy enough during the ceremony.
But the real trial began at the reception.
By seven in the evening, the Maui sky had transformed into a stunning canvas of coral and purple hues, fading out over the Pacific. On the open air terrace by the beach, the reception was already in full swing, with some guests already on their second drinks. Strings of warm fairy lights flickered between the palm trees, fighting against the encroaching twilight that swallowed the coastline, while the warm breeze carried the tides mixed with the sweet music from the live band.
All around you, everything was pure luxury and charm. The venue was breathtaking, and every detail was exquisite; from the decor near the beach exit to the main dancefloor, the ornaments hanging from the ceiling with tiny crystal stars and delicate ribbons, and the tables arranged with flawless glassware and matching chairs.
You stood near the outdoor bar, laughing out loud as Kat made an exaggerated toast with her champagne flute, while Gemma, Jo’s sister, swept you both into a hilarious anecdote about the morning's chaos. You laughed along despite having been there yourself, then pulled out your phone to show Eric, Gemma’s husband, a video of the whole thing.
Between the tropical cocktails, the catchy music, and the girls banter, you finally felt your shoulders drop; for a wonderful stretch of time, you managed to immerse yourself entirely in the party, genuinely enjoying the moment. And you were incredibly grateful for it.
It was only when the girls drifted toward the dance floor that you found yourself alone, waiting for your next drink. You leaned your weight against the wooden bar and, almost unconsciously, let your eyes sweep across the crowd illuminated by the hanging lights. It was a quick instinctive scan; a final defense mechanism to ensure the perimeter was clear, confirming that neither he nor his girlfriend was nearby before you could fully let your guard down.
You exhaled a quiet sigh, watching your hands against the wooden bar.
"This place ain't got nothin' on our little wedding, right?"
The voice echoed from right behind you. You whipped around.
Joel was there, leaning lazily against the counter, giving you a sidelong glance. He looked effortless cocky, completely relaxed. He looked devastatingly handsome in his suit, though his collar was already unbuttoned and his tie hung loose.
Not again.
"Joel," you warned.
He picked up on the warning right away. His stance softened slightly as he stood up straighter, throwing his hand up in peace.
"Sorry. Just jokin'. Ain't tryin' to stir up trouble again," he said, stepping a bit closer and shaking his head. "Just wanted to say I'm sorry. For last night. I crossed a line. Too many of 'em, to be honest, sayin' what I said. It wasn't right of me."
He cast his gaze downward, looking genuinely remorseful for a brief beat. Right then, under the amber lights, you finally caught the dark tired shadows bruising the skin under his eyes. He looked exhausted.
You didn't say a word, but you nodded slightly, accepting the olive branch.
He looked back up, pinning you with his gaze. "Don't you worry about me, okay? I won't be botherin' you again."
"How sure are you about that?"
Joel offered a smile that didn't make it to his eyes.
"In the last two years, did I ever bother you?"
"I blocked you."
He huffed an incredulous breath through his nose. "No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
Joel clicked his tongue, taking a sip of his drink. "Nah."
Your brow furrowed as a prickle of stubborn pride hit your chest. Grabbing your purse from the bar, you reached inside for your phone. Your thumb flicked across the screen as you glared up at him.
"I'm telling you, I blocked you."
He raised the glass to his lips again, and just before taking a sip, his eyes locked onto yours over the rim. "What you wanna bet?"
Anoyed and determined to shut him up, you went into your contact settings and pulled up your blocked list. Your eyes darted across the screen. There were a couple of unknown numbers, some old spam contacts you didn't even remember blocking, but you searched and searched... and the list was far too short. None of them were Joel.
You froze right there in the middle of the party. You knew it with absolute certainty because, despite two years of radio silence, you still remembered every single digit of his number by heart. None of those numbers matched his.
Had you seriously never blocked him?
You sighed, setting your phone face down on the bar.
"Alright." You glanced over in the opposite direction.
Across the room, Kat was staring at you with her eyebrows raised. She threw up a hand as if to say What the hell are you doing?. You answered her with a tight flat pout.
You turned back to Joel; he was watching Kat with a faint half amused frown.
Without moving much, his eyes dropped back down to you.
"Anyway, I'm sorry," he said, nodding gently. "For all of it. I really am."
You just nodded back.
The tension in his brow softened, and his gaze traced your face; eyes, mouth, eyes, eyes, mouth, eyes.
And then, he asked;
"Is he a good man?"
A beat.
"Yeah," you said softly.
"Does he treat you right?"
You swallowed. "Yeah. He does."
He pressed his lips together and nodded. "Good. I'm real happy for you."
The second those words left his mouth, you caught it: the tiniest twitch in his right eye, almost imperceptible. A minute tremor he couldn't hide.
Joel held your gaze for one last second, and then he gave you a small wink, just like he used to. With a faint smile, he pulled himself away from the bar and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
Dinner passed in a rush of laughter and scattered conversations across the tables. There were emotional speeches; the best man brought Cillian to tears with a childhood story, and when it was your turn alongside the bridesmaids, you managed to keep your voice steady and bring a smile to everyone's faces.
After what had happened the night before, you didn't want to drink too much alcohol; you’d only had a couple of glasses with your meal, keeping your feet firmly on the ground.
By the time dinner wrapped up and the dance floor opened, the vibe grew much more relaxed. The semi-formal atmosphere completely dissolved under the colored lights now washing over the place. You were actually having fun; you danced for a long stretch with Kat and the girls, and later, Jo’s dad pulled you out for a few clumsy but incredibly fun spins that had you laughing out loud. In the middle of one of those upbeat songs, your eyes caught Joel in the center of the floor, dancing perfectly like a gentleman with Cillian’s mom. Your gazes locked for a split second, barely a heartbeat, before you both quickly looked away.
You kept enjoying yourself. Songs flew by, along with casual toasts and group photos. But later on, as you walked near the edge of the room, your eyes drifted toward the back.
Joel and Jen were sitting at a secluded table, away from the main lighting. You allowed yourself to watch them for a moment, hidden behind the crowd. Their faces were dead serious; her brow was furrowed and her arms were crossed, while Joel spoke in a low voice, gesturing faintly with one hand. They looked like they were arguing. Having a quiet argument, at the very least. But before either of them could look up and catch you staring, you broke eye contact and moved to another part of the room.
But the damage was already done.
Suddenly, a wave of absolute desolation hit you like a bucket of ice water. The air around you began to feel heavy, suffocating, and a sharp ache settled right beneath your ribs.
You needed to get out of your own head. Urgently, you pulled your phone from your purse and tried to call Dean. You needed to hear his voice, to remind yourself that you had a real life waiting for you back home, to cling to him like a lifeline. To remember you had something else.
The line rang.
And rang.
And rang. But Dean didn't pick up. You hung up, waited a few seconds, and tried again. Then a third time. Nothing. Just the sound of the voicemail.
You dropped your hand, slipping the phone back into your purse with a mix of frustration and anger, forcing yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.
"Hey, there you are!"
Jo’s cheerful voice snapped you right back to reality. Your friend approached you, her cheeks already flushed from the alcohol, holding her glass at a slight tilt. She was wearing a gorgeous white dress that hit just below her knees, loose and flowing perfectly against her body.
"I've been meanin' to talk to you all night but I've been so busy!" she laughed, running a hand through her hair. "Nobody warned me I’d spend my own wedding just listenin' to the guests!"
You smiled, forcing down the suffocating feeling from a second ago. "Everyone’s gonna want a piece of you today, Jo, it’s your night. But enjoy it; everything is beautiful, and you look even more stunning."
Jo offered a tender smile and threw her arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace that smelled of her expensive perfume. When she pulled back, she looked at you closely; her smile faltered slightly into a remorseful pout.
"Hey, I am so sorry... I had no idea he was bringin' someone. We gave a plus one to all our main guests and I just didn't think that—"
"Jo, it’s fine. Seriously."
Jo shook her head, frustrated. "No, it’s not fine. The nerve of him. You didn't even bring Dean. I really wish you had."
"I'm telling you, everything is completely fine," you insisted, forcing a bright smile. "I'm having fun, can't you tell?"
Jo tilted her head back a bit, narrowing her eyes to read you, but the pure bliss of her own wedding night made her give in.
"Well, yeah. I guess you are."
Right then, a collective shout erupted from the dance floor. A big group of people was forming a circle, clapping along to the beat and calling for the newlyweds.
You glanced over and gave her a gentle nudge. "I think you're needed over there."
Jo grinned mischievously. "Yeah... and you're coming with me!"
Before you could even protest, she grabbed your arm firmly and dragged you toward the center of the floor, pulling you both right into the middle of the circle. The DJ dropped an absolute classic: Abba’s Dancing Queen. And the energy of the room swept you up completely. It was one of your favorite songs.
Suddenly, there was no room left to dwell on phones that didn't ring or tables hidden in the back of the room. Jo started dancing dramatically in the center, making you genuinely laugh, and you joined right in; jumping, singing the lyrics at the top of your lungs with the rest of the guests, and clapping as others took turns showing off their best moves in the middle. For a few minutes, surrounded by your friends, the music numbed the ache in your chest. You let yourself lose control, floating in the pure fun of the night and the embrace of the people you loved most.
You couldn't tell how much time slipped by, but it had to be at least four or five songs. Standing in the middle of the circle, you ran your hands through your hair to push it away from your face. It was boiling hot inside, or maybe it was just your racing pulse making you feel like the air was running out.
Stepping away from the group, you backed up a few paces with a permanent smile straining your lips after minutes of non stop laughing.
You glanced to the side, right where the exit to the outdoor grounds opened up, and the pull of the fresh air was immediate and far too tempting to ignore. You walked in that direction, leaving the pounding thud of the music behind, and stepped out into the night, heading down the short flight of stairs to the lower level.
Resting your hand on the wooden railing, you walked down the ramp toward the right, keeping your eyes fixed on the dark infinity of the ocean, where the crests of the waves glowed faintly under the moonlight.
You stopped, letting out a long heavy sigh and running a hand over your neck to catch the cooling breeze.
Look at this place, you’d barely even enjoyed it. With all the wedding chaos and everything else, you hadn't found any free time to look around. But tomorrow you could; after brunch, the afternoon was open for everyone, and you assumed the evening would be too. Jo and Cillian would have their own activities as newlyweds, and some guests were leaving due to work; most of them, actually. But you were staying until Monday afternoon, and so was Kat. You’d be able to do all sorts of fun things. That thought actually made you excited.
You decided to turn around to watch the party from a distance, but the instant you shifted your body, the air caught in your throat.
You saw him. Joel was standing right there, less than two meters away. He was leaning his hip against the railing on the other side, staying completely still, almost camouflaged by the shadows and the branches of a large bush covered in tiny pink and white flowers. He was staring right at you.
A spike of panic shot through your body. You wanted to speak; you wanted to tell him you were sorry, that you had no idea he was down here. Because it was obvious you had crashed his alone time.
Your brain went on the defensive, screaming at you to turn around, head straight back up the ramp, and return to the party or at least find another corner of the hotel to breathe. But your feet wouldn't cooperate.
You couldn't say a word, and you couldn't move. You just stood there, locking eyes with him in absolute silence. You watched him, and he watched you. And in that second of paralysis, Jen's existence didn't even cross your mind; nothing existed outside of that suspended space in the dark.
Before you could gather enough air for another breath, the distance simply… vanished.
He was on top of you, and you were on top of him. You’d never know how it actually happened, who closed the final gap or who took the first step, but suddenly Joel’s arms were wrapping around you and his mouth was crashing onto yours.
It was a devastating kiss, charged with an intensity that shattered your whole body. His hands flew urgently to your face, cupping your cheeks with desperation, while his lips smashed against yours in a hungry claim. Your bodies pressed completely together, erasing any trace of air between you. Not that there was much left to begin with.
Without breaking the kiss, Joel spun you around in a fluid movement, pulling you right to where he’d been standing, and pressed you firmly against the railing. You felt the cold wood bite into your back, immediately followed by the overwhelming heat of his body crushing into yours. One of his hands dropped forcefully to your waist, anchoring you to him, reminding every single inch of your skin exactly who owned this memory.
Your heart was racing out of control, hammering so violently against your ribs that you could hear it in your ears, drowning out any coherent thought that dared to surface in your mind. There was no Dean, no past, no mistakes. In that dark corner beneath the flowers and facing the sea, you couldn't think about absolutely anything else but him.
Kiss him; kiss him deeply. Deeper, devouring any shred of doubt that might be left in you.
You felt a blind desperation flood your veins, a voracious hunger you didn't even know you had been harboring, suddenly demanding more, and more, and all of him; all, all at once, all began happening far too fast, as though time had accelerated with no way to force it back into its natural rhythm.
The heat of his skin and the firmness of his hands clouded your judgment entirely, pushing you right to the edge.
In a sudden move, you forced your lips to break away from his. You pulled back just a few inches, just enough to look into his eyes in the dim light, your breath ragged and your heart thumping in your ears and between your thighs.
You didn't even recognize your own voice when you said;
"Go to my room in ten minutes."
Before he could react or utter a single word, you planted your hands on his shoulders and, with a push that was sharp from urgency but soft with desire, you broke free from his grip.
You caught one last glimpse of his stunned expression and bolted back toward the stairs, fleeing at a frantic pace toward the light and noise of the party, with the taste of Joel still burning your lips and your tongue.
You reached the room with your heart beating a mile a minute, your racing pulse thumping in your ears as you walked barefoot across the soft carpet.
God, what were you doing?
This was terrible, complete madness. You’d walked in barely five minutes ago, and you’d spent the last three leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on your face and staring into the mirror, desperately searching for the strength to put on the brakes. But you found nothing. Your mind threw out a thousand reasons to stop, but not a single one could douse the fire in your belly or prevent what you were about to do.
And then, the sound came: knock, knock, knock.
A violent jolt shook your stomach, filling it with wild butterflies as if you were twenty one years old all over again, and you hated with all your soul that that was your very first thought.
You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands down the fabric of your dress, and stepped toward the entrance.
You opened the door just a crack, peeking through the narrow opening, and Joel was on the other side, staring dead at you through the small space. There was no doubt in his eyes; only a tired, exhausted, desperate, and silent hunger.
Without uttering a single word, unable to break eye contact, you threw the door wide open. Joel stepped inside immediately and kicked the wood shut behind him, closing it with a soft thud that sealed the deal. He lunged toward you with firm strides, crowding you back into the room; his right hand caught your waist and, with a yank, flushed your body right against his hard frame, while his other hand flew straight to the back of your neck, burying itself in your hair.
He kissed you, and you melted into his arms instantly.
Joel crushed you against him, devouring your mouth while his fingers raked over you in pure desperation. His hand at the back of your neck forced you deeper into the kiss, while his other palm slid firmly down your back, tracing your curves until it anchored at your thighs, squeezing the firm flesh. You put your hands all over him, starved for the physical contact you had missed for so long; your palms slid over his jacket, up his chest and broad shoulders, before wrapping around his neck to drag him even tighter against you. You let out a muffled moan against his lips.
Joel broke away for a split second just to catch his breath, panting, and his hands immediately dropped to your dress. Finding the hem near your hips, he bunched the fabric up in a frantic rush, gathering it past your navel before yanking it over your arms in a clumsy anxious motion, tossing it to the floor. You were left in just your panties and strapless bra.
You trapped his lips again in a hungry kiss while his fingers fumbled for the clasp of your bra; the lace gave way and dropped to your feet, leaving your breasts completely bare. Urgently, you brought your hands to Joel’s chest, tearing at the buttons of his shirt with fingers clumsy from the rush. In one continuous motion, you stripped the shirt and jacket off his shoulders together, leaving him bare chested, and he immediately reached down to undo his dress pants.
Everything grew overwhelmingly intense all at once; you could feel every part of your body screaming, starving and desperate for him. You crawled backward and laid down in the middle of the bed, feeling the cool air of the room hit your bare breasts and send a sudden shiver straight to your nipples. You settled onto the sheets, watching him with ragged breaths as he kicked off his pants and boxers in one quick motion.
Joel’s desperate erection, massive and rock hard, pointed straight at you, glistening faintly with pre cum under the dim glow of the lamp. He crowded over you, sliding between your thighs, while his large hands hooked into your panties and stripping them down your legs with a rough tug.
You parted your legs completely for him, exposing yourself, and Joel let out a shaky exhale, and leaned down to kiss you again. It felt like coming home.
His tongue clashed against yours in an incredibly wet, deep kiss while you instinctively arched your hips upward, feeling the heat of his shaft grazing your entrance. Joel ripped his mouth away, panting; he brought his hand to his lips, spitting a generous amount of saliva directly into his palm, and locked his eyes onto yours with animal intensity as he reached down and stroked himself a few times, lubricating his cock.
You moaned in protest at the delay, your hands raking over his tense shoulders as you shifted your pelvis desperately, begging for the contact. Joel dropped his hand and repositioned the hot, swollen head of his cock right against your soaking entrance.
He hovered over you, his arms rigid and the muscles of his back bulging from the sheer effort of holding back. Then, he began to sink into you inch by inch, the desperate restraint making him gasp out loud. He was too thick, too massive, but your pussy was so incredibly wet that it yielded, stretching to harbor him completely as he pushed deeper and deeper.
A sharp cry tore from your throat when he filled you to the brim, the delicious, scorching pressure of his hardness stretching your walls. Joel pressed his forehead against yours, cursing under his breath, completely overwhelmed by how fucking tight and wet you were.
"You have no idea how much I've missed you," he growled against your ear, losing the last shred of control he had left.
Any remaining restraint shattered into a dirty, animal need. Joel began to fuck you with wild desperation, thrusting hard and deep, burying himself completely inside you with heavy strokes that made the bed creak. Your body was burning with pleasure, and so was his; he was slick with sweat, the heat of his skin plastering against yours with every single hit.
You wrapped your legs around his hips, squeezing him tight to lock him inside you, forcing him to go even deeper. He was flush against you, his chest heaving against yours, his lips finding your neck to bite and suck the skin there while your brain remembered every single one of these familiar sensations. It was overwhelming.
The sound in the room turned completely obscene: the loud, wet friction of your bodies colliding, the echo of your unhinged moans, and Joel’s raspy grunts vibrating in the dim light. You were so fucking wet that every thrust made a slick, dirty squelch that only fueled the filthiness of it all and drove your heart rate higher. He was so fucking hard you could feel the pulse of his cock slamming against your deepest spot, tearing you apart with pleasure in an intense friction that made you lose your mind.
Joel grabbed your hands, interlocking his fingers tightly with yours against the pillows, using you as an anchor to drive the pace even faster. He was losing it right along with you, driving into you as if he were trying to brand you forever—no, he had already done that, so deeply that even now, fifteen years later, you were still a fool for him.
He squeezed your trapped hands while keeping up the frantic pace, the relentless impact of his hips against yours unyielding. He was completely surrendered to the desperation, searching for you at your very core. And you were already there, right at the bottom.
Then, Joel let go of one of your hands. That sudden freedom let you react; you whipped your arm up, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck to drag him down. You sought his mouth, trapping his lips in a desperate kiss that he met instantly, and a muffled groan vibrated in your throat. And in that exact heartbeat, something in the air shifted.
Joel’s wild, frantic thrusts began to lose their frantic speed, but none of their intensity. His movements grew heavier, deeply concentrated and profound, stripping away the raw animal haste to make way for absolute surrender. The rhythm transformed into an overwhelmingly intimate friction; each time his body sank into yours, he did so with an agonizing drag, holding himself deep inside you for an eternal second before pulling back just enough to drive right back in.
He stared dead into your eyes through the dimness of the room, his heavy breath crashing against your cheeks, searching for your gaze. His free hand came up to your face, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb while he penetrated you with a gentleness that made you arch your back, completely defenseless against him. You felt every single inch of his cock sliding inside you, hot and massive, filling not just your body, but every empty corner you had kept guarded during these two years.
And his body was so close to yours that you could feel the frantic hammering of his heart melting right into your own. Your moans shifted, turning from unhinged cries into quiet, breathless sobs of pure pleasure and relief.
The tension began to build in your belly in an unbearable way, a burning tide tightening your muscles from the inside out. Joel noticed; he felt you start to spasm and contract around his cock, trapping him in a hot soaking fist.
"That's it, baby... let it go," he murmured, licking your neck.
You couldn't hold it back any longer. Your hips lifted in one final unconscious spasm and your orgasm hit you like a lightning strike, making you shudder from head to toe as your inner walls squeezed around his shaft in violent, delicious waves. Joel let out a low, animal grunt, completely broken by the tight pressure of your climax.
Stripping away any remaining gentleness, he buried himself inside you one last few times with brutal thrusts, sinking right to the root, and froze there. His body went completely rigid, the muscles in his arms and back locking up like stone as he tore a raspy groan right against your ear.
Instantly, you felt the thick scalding jets of his come blasting inside of you, filling you to the brim and overflowing from your soaking pussy as he came with a force that left him shuddering violently on top of you.
Joel collapsed over you, letting his weight settle onto your body without crushing you, his breath ragged and his face buried deep in the crook of your neck.
Neither of you moved; he stayed buried inside you, softening but still pulsing, as the silence of the room settled back in, broken only by your exhausted gasps and the distant echo of the ocean outside the window.
Chapter 50.1- MiniFic- Bedroom Eyes (A Nebble Files Story)
Summary: Officer Jane Nebble is looking for a change by transferring to another police precinct. She sees this as a great opportunity, but will her new boss feel the same?
Pairing: Tim Rockford x OFC Jane Nebble
Word Count: 2106
Rating: I’m rating this 18+. There’s no smut here, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.
Warning: My warnings apply to the entire series. There are sexy photos. There is swearing. There is clinginess. There are knees. There is angst.
A/N: This is a purely fictional story. I don’t know crap about how police departments work internally, so don’t come for me.
He never, in the history of ever, would’ve thought that she would ask for such a thing. Even now, as he recounts the conversation to Dave and Frankie, he can’t believe it.
“All I asked her was what she would like for an anniversary gift. I told her that she’s given me the most amazing life and a beautiful daughter… just name it… it would be hers.” He takes a deep drink from his beer to steady himself. He glances around the bar and lowers his voice like he’s making a sinister confession. “And do you know what she said?”
Dave and Frankie both shake their heads and then lean further forward to hear better. They’re completely engrossed in this narrative, but Dave finally gets impatient. “So what’d she ask for?”
“She wants… sexy photos… of me!” he quietly exclaims. Frankie lets out a barking laugh and Dave follows suit. He’s stunned. “It’s not funny!”
“Sorry… sorry,” Frankie tries to control himself, “it’s just that… not to sound like a sexist asshole, but usually it’s a woman that does the whole ‘sexy photo’ thing. What the fuck are they called?”
“Boudoir photos,” Dave chimes in. “Carol did some once when I was stationed overseas on a government job for a month when Molly was real little. The things I did after I saw those pictures. I’m surprised we didn’t have Alice sooner.”
“But… but I’m not,” Tim stammers, “sexy…”
“Look,” Frankie says, “my friend Santi… he knows fucking everybody… and sold cars to half of those ‘everybody’. I’d bet money that he knows at least a dozen reputable photographers.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re doing this for Jane,” Dave reminds him. “Remember, you told her you’d give her anything she wanted. Now it’s time to follow through.”
************************************
And that is how he finds himself standing on the sidewalk outside an office building… with Dave and Frankie as his support team. He loves his wife to the moon and back, but he wishes she could ask for normal stuff sometimes. But, then again, what really constitutes ‘normal’? In their little family, ‘normal’ is just a dryer setting.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“Just think of Jane.” Dave slaps him on the back and steers him toward the door.
He’s not prepared. They step into the lobby of a high-end fashion magazine that even he has heard of. “Frankie… this is…”
“When I told you that Santi has connections, I wasn’t joking.” Frankie pushes the elevator button for the twenty-second floor. Tim is now trapped in a metal box that is swiftly taking him upward into the unknown.
When the doors slide open, they’re met with a sleek, minimalist reception area. A woman in a tailored charcoal suit greets them.
“Hi, Frankie.” She swans forward and cheerfully gives him a peck on the cheek.
“Hey, Evelyn,” he replies, returning the peck. “How’s the car running?”
“Much better now, thank you very much.” She glances at Tim. “So… this must be Barry’s 10 o’clock?”
“Yeah,” Frankie replies.
“He’s cute.” She eyes him up and down speculatively.
“He’s married,” Dave interjects.
“Happily?” she asks innocently.
“Very,” Tim answers in his Detective Voice.
“Shame,” she sniffs, turning on her heels. “Follow me.”
They follow her down the hall to a room marked ‘Photo Studio’. The doors are already wide open with a dozen or so people milling about inside. Backdrops are being approved and dismissed. Racks of clothing are being rolled in. He didn’t realize when he agreed to Frankie’s friend’s assistance that it would be such a production… with fancy lighting and props. He figured it would be like a Sear’s Portrait Studio where your parents take you and your siblings… in clothes that you hate… to pose in the most asinine ways known to man. This? This is fucking professional. These people must owe Frankie’s friend Big Time.
The photographer, who he is guessing is Barry, puts his glasses on and begins to inspect his subject. “He’s got nice features… strong profile… gorgeous eyes. Let’s see what the rest of him looks like.”
“Whoa whoa whoa.” Tim takes a step back. “I’m not getting naked.”
“Who said anything about naked? I just need you down to your boxers. I thought you wanted spicy pictures for your wife.”
“I… I do… but… do I have to be undressed? In just my underwear?”
“Well… what did your wife ask for?”
“She just said ‘sexy’. She didn’t really elaborate.”
“Okay… so sexy but with clothes on.” Barry think for a minute. “So… how clothed… or unclothed… are we talking exactly?
“I don’t know!” he exclaims a little in the frantic side.
“Do you love your wife?” Dave asks him with complete seriousness.
“Of course I do!! You know I do!”
“Then do as she asks.”
“I do do as she asks! Every fucking day!”
************************************
“NO!” he barks, swatting away the hand with the scissors.
“I’m just gonna neaten up-”
“No.”
“I’m just going to tidy up your-”
“No.” His tone is low and dangerous. “My wife… and only my wife… trims my beard and mustache.”
“But you have this spot right here… I can make it so it’s not so visible.”
“My wife likes that patch.” He bats the scissors away a second time. “It stays.”
He looks in the mirror, eyes zeroing in on the little heart-shaped patch in his beard… the one Jane always strokes with her thumb and kisses. For the majority of his life, he’s looked at that very spot on his face and hated it. Even Frankie’s friend, Santi, has a beard that is full and majestic, while his is… well… sparse like desert brush. But Jane… his dear, sweet Janey-bear… loves on every one of his perceived imperfections. He’s never thought himself to be very attractive… nose too curved… hair too unruly… lips that make him look like he’s constantly pouting. And then Jane came along… tracing her finger down the nose he despises. You look like a Roman statue, she says. She nuzzles her face into his floofy curls when she makes him be the ‘Little Spoon’ while they watch movies on the sofa. She nips the lips that she never fails to have endless kisses for. She loves him… all of him… flaws and all.
He doesn’t know what exactly he did to deserve her… but whatever it was… he’s glad he did it. He would do it a thousand times over just to see her smile. He can’t help the way the corners of his lips curl upwards at the thought of her.
************************************
The hairdresser is putting the final touches on his carefully sculpted curls when Barry comes in again. He has some garment bags in his hands.
“So,” he begins, laying the bags over the back of a chair, “if you don’t want to take more traditionally spicy photos, what do you plan to wear?”
“I don’t know. Do you have any suggestions that are a little less ‘naked’?”
“As a matter of fact,” Barry replies a little too gleefully as he starts to unzip one of the bags, “I do.”
************************************
He’s a pure ball of nervousness. He wrapped the book of photos the photographer made for him as carefully as possible and probably spent more time than necessary trying to get the bow right. It’s a little wonky, but it’s always been Jane who does all the fine details when it comes to giftwrapping.
He truly hopes that she likes them. Even if she doesn’t, she’d probably never tell him. He prays that she doesn’t laugh when she looks at them. He’s also thankful that Layla and Matt are staying with Nana and Papa for the weekend because he really… really… doesn’t want to have to tactfully avoid explaining his anniversary gift to Mommy… because how do you say ‘Daddy looks like a tasteful whore’ politely? You just can’t.
They return from dinner at a nice Italian place that Carol had highly recommended… bellies full and only mildly fuzzy from the wine. He barely has the front door closed when…
“Where’s my present?” she blurts out, a grin plastered across her face.
“What are you talking about?” He casually drops his keys on the table by the door. “I didn’t get you a present.”
“Bullshit!”
“No… I really didn’t. I completely forgot.”
She grabs his arm, forcing him to face her. “Rockford… you are the worst fucking liar. You’ve been sneaking around for two weeks,” she starts jumping around like an over-sugared toddler, “so…. gimme!!”
She knows him too well. He can’t help the laugh that escapes him. It’s loud and uncensored. It’s a laugh that only happens when she’s around. “Okay… okay… settle down, Beavis. Go sit down, and I will bring you your present.”
She lets out a squeal of joy as she dashes into the living room and throws herself down on the sofa. She’s positively vibrating with anticipation when he steps back in the room, present in hand. He hasn’t even got his ass down on the sofa cushion before she’s excitedly prying the package from his hands. One would think that he’d never given her a gift before.
She sits with it in her lap. She’s trying to be calm now, but he can see the tremble in her fingers as she caresses the wrapping paper. Then, she gently removes the bow, taking great care to keep it intact… and sticks it in her hair… before unwrapping the gift with what looks to be surgical precision. The paper gets folded and set aside. She turns the leather-bound book over, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth and grinning.
“You really did it?” she asks.
“Of course I did. It was what you asked for.” He presses a kiss to her cheek, being careful not to disturb the bow hanging precariously from her hair. “I just hope you like them.”
“Why would I not like them? They’re of you.” And just as she hooks her thumb under the edge of the front cover, “They are of you… right?”
“Now why would I give you pictures of some random dude?”
“I dunno. I mean you know how much I like that show Narcos… and that man, Javier, is just…” She starts fanning herself.
“Okay… okay… I get it,” he wraps his arm around her, pulling her closer to him, “but if anyone looking like that… and sporting the name ‘Javier’… comes to our house… I’m shutting the door in his face and locking it.”
“Awwwwweeee…” she nuzzles her face into his neck, “look who’s being possessive.”
“Not possessive,” he replies defensively. “I just… okay… yes… I’m being possessive.
“Rockford,” she looks up at him, eyes all round, “you never have to worry about losing me to anyone else… not even some hot-ass motherfucker on a tv show.”
“Jesus Christ.”
She continues, “because you’re my hot-ass motherfucker, and I don’t want anyone else but you. You’re mine, and I would gladly shut the door in his face for you.”
“That’s gotta be the strangest… and sweetest… thing you’ve ever…” his words trail off as she flips open the book. He watches as the smile on her face broadens.
“These are…”
“I had the photographer include some of the outtakes. I thought you would appreciate that.”
“Look at you in you’re ‘Sexy English Professor Era’.” Her fingers skim the narrow strips of pictures, a little growling noise coming from deep in her chest. “Never has an Oxford Comma been so fucking hot.”
“Now you’re embarrassing me.”
“I’m not apologizing. You know how I feel about you in a button-up shirt… and a tie… and oh…” Her attention is grabbed by something else. Her fingers trace across his lips in a close-up photo. She leans down and kisses it. “Not as good as the real thing.”
He can feel a heat rising in him as she continues to scrutinize the images. Any misgivings he had are squashed with each one of her observations. She makes him feel like the most handsome man on the planet. And then, she turns the page and…
“Oh my,” she gasps. She’s not even blinking anymore. In fact… her pupils are taking over every bit of the gray in her eyes. “Those shorts sure are shorting.”
He doesn’t dare say anything that might break the spell she is under. Her finger taps the page in an unsteady rhythm.
“You did get me flowers,” her voice trembles slightly, “and I think… I really do think… I’d like to see where your finger is in that last picture… Detective.”
