pairing: joel miller x f!reader
warnings: eventual smut | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | mutual longing | pining | slow burn | causal intimacy | soft but charged tension | no outbreak
word count - 7.3k
summary - You rent a guesthouse by the beach, needing space to figure things out. He lives in the main house - quiet, distant, and kind in ways that surprise you. Slowly, something shifts.
part two part three
𓇼𓆉𓇼
You don’t even remember typing the last sentence. Something about Q3 projections, client engagement, numbers and buzzwords that used to mean something, now just static in your head. You stare at them like they might rearrange themselves into a reason to keep going, but they don’t. Across the office, someone laughs a little too loudly. Over by the breakroom, the microwave beeps and nobody moves. Your inbox pings again.
URGENT: NEED FINAL REVIEW BY 3PM. Appreciate your hustle.
You close the email. Not out of defiance. Just... fatigue. Everything feels like noise.
The coffee in your cup is cold but you drink it anyway. There’s no creamer left in the breakroom and you have no energy to care. You stare at the screen and pretend to read something important while you try not to cry from a place that doesn’t even feel emotional, just tired.
It’s not that the job is terrible, because it’s fine. Everyone says you’re lucky to have it. There’s good benefits, steady pay, and a team that uses too many emojis in Slack but means well enough. It’s not bad, but you hate it. You hate the way it’s slowly eaten pieces of you in exchange for... what? PTO you never use? A title no one outside of work understands? Deadlines you never chose?
You open a browser tab. “Quiet places to stay near the beach.”
You’ve searched it before - every other week, like clockwork. Like maybe this time there’ll be something new. A way out.
There’s a little house on the coast, but it’s too expensive. A cabin in the woods - too isolated. A pastel Airbnb with ‘good vibes only’ in the header image. God, no. You close the tab.
Your eyes flick to the sticky note on your monitor - “Your passion will lead you.” You don’t even remember who wrote it. Some old team meeting, probably. You peel it off and crumple it into your palm and just hold it there for a while.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Jules:
Jules: Made the mistake of swimming after lunch again. I’m 90% seaweed now.
You smile, half-hearted but real. You text back a simple “RIP”, then pause for a second, staring at her name. Without thinking too hard, you press Call. She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?.”
“You’re not seaweed, you’re just dramatic,” you say, flopping back in your chair.
“I am seaweed. I’ve accepted it. I’m part of the ecosystem now.” Jules sounds like she’s walking - wind in the background, maybe seagulls too. “Are you alright?”
You hesitate, then shrug. “Yeah. Just... needed to talk to someone who isn’t obsessed with productivity metrics.”
“Say no more,” she groans. “I got dive-bombed by a pelican this morning, so let’s talk about that instead.”
You laugh, and for the first time today it doesn’t feel forced. The conversation wanders - lunch spots, bad music, someone named Eli who forgot to anchor the kayak rental dock again. It’s easy and familiar, until you’re quiet for just a little too long.
You hesitate, chewing your lip. The silence stretches just long enough before you say it. “I’ve been thinking about taking time off. Like, not a full break, just… remote. For a while.”
Jules doesn’t skip a beat. “So come here.”
You snort. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”
“And I’ve been right for two years. I’m overdue for being smug.”
You stretch your legs out under the desk, voice softer now. “I’m serious, though. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“Then stop trying to figure it out,” she says. “Come stay for a bit. Reset. I know a guy. Well, I know of him. Joel. He rents out this little guesthouse sometimes. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and like, weirdly peaceful. I can ask around.”
You blink up at the ceiling tiles. “Would he be okay with that?”
“He doesn’t even know me. It’s word-of-mouth type stuff. I’ll see what I can find out. You just say the word.”
You let your eyes close. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”
You hang up the phone and sit there for a minute, letting the silence settle, listening to the overhead lights buzz. You can’t help but notice that your back aches. The office is nearly empty now, just the cleaning crew and the low hum of someone’s forgotten desktop fan. You stand up slowly and shut your laptop, sliding it into your bag. You make no announcement, no grand exit, you just leave.
The sky outside is dusky pink by the time you get home. Your apartment still exactly as you left it: keys in the dish, shoes kicked off halfway to the door, a half-finished coffee cup on the counter you meant to rinse out this morning. It smells like lavender laundry detergent and burnt toast. You drop your bag by the door and pull out your phone again.
Jules: Asked around. Guesthouse is open. Told ‘em you’re chill and don’t throw parties. It’s yours if you want it.
Your fingers hover over the screen. Then:
You: I want it.
You toss your phone on the bed and open your closet. Not frantically, but automatically. Like your body already knows what to do even if your brain is still buffering.
You grab the canvas duffel from under your bed - the one you always told yourself you’d use for a weekend getaway that never came. You don’t pack much, just a few outfits and a swimsuit you haven’t worn in two summers. You bring your laptop and a couple books you keep rereading, even when they don’t hit the same. Toiletries, chargers, that old hoodie you wear when you’re pretending everything’s fine. You stand there for a moment, staring down at the bag. It doesn’t feel impulsive or like you’re running away, it feels necessary. Like your body hit its limit before your mind caught up. You don’t know what’s waiting there and don’t know how long you’ll stay, you just know you need to go.
𓇼𓆉𓇼
You spot her before she sees you. She's leaning against the side of a weather-faded Honda with the windows down, one foot propped against the tire, hair tied up in a messy knot. She’s scrolling through her phone and squinting at the sun, sunglasses sliding halfway down her nose. When she looks up, she smiles like this is just another Thursday. Like you didn’t just leave your whole life behind.
“Hey,” she says, casual and warm.
You manage something close to a smile. “Hey.”
She opens the trunk without comment, just nods toward your bag. “Throw it in. The AC barely works and I’m already sweaty.”
You toss your bag into the trunk and slide into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smells like sunscreen and sand, and there’s an empty iced coffee cup wedged between the seats. Jules pulls out of the airport lot without turning on the music. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the salt air.
Neither of you talks at first and you’re grateful for that. Outside, the landscape shifts from traffic and chain stores to palm trees and beautiful beaches. The sky is wide and pale, hazy from heat. You pass weathered houses on stilts, homemade signs for bait shops and beach yoga, kids on bikes in swimsuits still dripping from the ocean.
It’s not quiet in the way you expected. It’s the kind of quiet that has texture - wind through seagrass, tires on gravel, gulls somewhere above you, calling out like they own the place.
“You hungry?” Jules asks eventually, glancing at you as she turns onto a smaller road. “We can stop before I take you to the house.”
You nod. “Yeah. I could definitely eat.”
She takes you to a place with a cracked vinyl sign and a handwritten chalkboard menu out front. It smells like vinegar and something fried, and you already feel your hair starting to frizz in the heat.
The two of you sit at a shaded picnic table with water-streaked plastic cups and paper baskets of food between you. Jules picks at a plate of fries and orders a lemonade so sour she winces with every sip. You get grilled shrimp, something light.
Neither of you is in a rush. It takes a few minutes before the conversation settles into something real.
“I still can’t believe you actually did it,” Jules says, brushing crumbs off her lap. “I mean, I knew you were close, but…”
You shrug. “I didn’t quit, exactly. Just asked to go remote for a while. My boss said I looked like I was about to pass out on a Zoom call, so.” You gesture vaguely. “Here I am.”
Jules raises an eyebrow. “And they let you?”
“Yeah. Shockingly, they don’t care where I answer emails from, as long as I keep answering them.”
She leans back in her seat and watches you. “I’m glad you’re here.”
You give a half-smile. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Then you’re doing it right.”
You blink. “That easy?”
She nods. “You’ve been so stuck trying to figure it all out. What if you don’t? What if you just… exist for a while?”
You pick up a shrimp, tearing the tail off slowly. “You’re starting to sound like someone who eats seaweed and meditates on a paddleboard.”
“I’m starting to live,” she says. “There’s a difference.”
She tells you about her work - marine conservation, public education. She gives talks to tourists about nesting sea turtles, organizes cleanups, curses at jet skis under her breath. It’s all stuff she used to talk about back in college like it was some distant dream. Now she’s just doing it. Barefoot, usually.
“You really like it here,” you say.
“I really like me here,” she corrects.
And that hits harder than you expect.
The drive to Joel's is quieter. You lean your head against the window and let her navigate through narrow side roads lined with tall grass and crooked mailboxes. There’s a rhythm to this place already, like it doesn’t care what time it is.
When she turns into the driveway, you sit up. The house is simple. Single-story, pale siding, a wide porch mostly in shade. A gravel path curves around to a second structure tucked behind it. The guesthouse is smaller, boxier, but clean and cared for.
“That’s you,” Jules says, pulling up in front of the smaller house. “Joel lives in the main one.”
You glance out the window. “Is he home?”
She shrugs. “Probably. He’s around a lot, working. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t do the whole neighborly chit-chat thing, but I’ve never heard a single bad thing.”
“Sounds perfect.”
You step out of the car and stretch your legs. Jules grabs your bag from the trunk and sets it on the porch for you.
“You’re not gonna introduce me?”
She laughs. “I don’t know him. I just heard he had a place. Told a guy at the coffee shop my friend needed a quiet rental, and two days later he left a note saying the guesthouse was unlocked.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“Small town.” She shrugs. “People hear things. People help. No one wants to make it weird.”
She glances toward the main house. The blinds are drawn. Somewhere behind it, you hear a faint, steady rhythm - maybe a hammer, maybe something heavier. Not loud, just… present.
“He’s harmless,” she says. “And honestly? Quiet might be exactly what you need.”
𓇼𓆉𓇼
The first morning you wake up in the guesthouse, it takes a second to remember where you are. The light hits differently here, muted through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, like it filtered through the ocean first. The ceiling fan ticks gently above you, blades slicing through the air at a pace that feels patient. You reach for your phone out of habit. There’s no new messages, no calendar pings, and no blinking notifications. For a split second, you panic, then remember: it’s Saturday. You got here on a weekend.
You told your team you’d be online Monday morning and said it like it was no big deal. But now, standing here in someone else’s t-shirt with the sun warming your arms through the window… Monday feels like it might be a century away.
You make coffee in the small, slightly temperamental drip machine on the counter. The mugs are mismatched - one with faded sailboats, one that says “I’m crabby before caffeine” in peeling red letters. You pick the least offensive one and step outside barefoot.
The porch boards are warm under your feet. Everything smells like sun, salt and wood and something faintly green. You sit on the top step, cross your legs, and wrap your fingers around the mug like it’s the only thing anchoring you here.
The quiet isn’t exactly peaceful, not yet. It’s unfamiliar and expansive, stretching out in front of you like something you’re supposed to do something with. You don’t, you just sit there and listen to the wind push through the dune grass. To the porch creak when you shift your weight and the absence of anything that needs you.
Later, you half-unpack. You open drawers just to see how they close, leave your bag unzipped on the floor, and put a book on the nightstand you probably won’t finish. You don’t organize anything, you just scatter yourself around the room like you’re testing the space.
The guesthouse feels clean, but not in a rental kind of way. There’s intention to it, like someone still cares about the way it looks when no one’s watching. You notice it in the way the towels are folded, the soap dish resting perfectly straight.
At some point in the late afternoon, you crack a window open. The air that slips in is heavier now. Still warm, but with a little weight to it. Like it’s tired, too.
And then you hear it. A low, steady bzzzzzt drifting across the property. Not jarring, just present. There’s a rhythm to it, like someone who’s done the same motion so many times it no longer takes thought. A pause. Then again. And again.
It’s not constant, it's consistent. The sound comes and goes, sometimes broken by the scrape of wood or a hollow thud. Somewhere behind it all, barely there, music plays. Not loud enough to make out lyrics. Just a muffled melody, anchored by a low voice and something with strings. Bluesy, maybe. Old for sure.
You glance toward the main house without meaning to, just for a second. Through a break in the trees, past the far side of the porch, you catch movement. A man with his back turned, walking from what looks like a detached garage or shed. Barefoot in the grass. A loose-fitting T-shirt hangs low over work-worn jeans. He’s carrying something under one arm. A length of wood, maybe? You don’t squint or crane your neck.
It’s not interesting. It’s just a part of the place, just what’s happening here. Still, you find yourself pausing at the counter longer than necessary. Your fingers trace the rim of your coffee mug and decide to leave the window open.
He knocks that evening, just three times. Soft, spaced out like he almost changed his mind halfway through. You open the door and he’s there - solid, quiet, uncomfortable in a way that doesn’t seem like insecurity. More like he just doesn’t do this very often.
Up close, Joel looks a little older than you’d guessed. Sun-worn, beard neatly trimmed, hair graying at the temples in a way that doesn’t look curated. His face is unreadable. It’s not guarded exactly, just still.
He holds out a paper bag. His other hand rests awkwardly on the back of his neck, thumb grazing the edge of his shirt collar. “Welcome,” he says, low and flat like he rehearsed it once and decided that was enough.
“Thanks,” you say, blinking a little too slowly. You didn’t expect company. You’re barefoot, wearing sleep shorts and a tank top you’ve had since college.
“I’m Joel.” He jerks his chin toward the front house. “I live out here.”
You nod. “Nice to meet you.”
He shifts, like he might bolt. “Should be everything you need in there,” he says, nodding toward the house. “But if not, I’m around. Just knock.”
You reach for the bag and he seems almost surprised you’re taking it. Inside, you find a small jar of amber-colored honey, a bunch of clipped herbs, basil, mint, rosemary, and a small, handmade cutting board. The wood is pale, sanded smooth, warm under your fingertips.
“I made that,” he mutters, almost too low to catch. “Just had scraps.”
You run your fingers gently over the edge. “It’s beautiful,” you say, looking back at him. “Really. Thank you. That’s… thoughtful.”
He nods, once. Then again. His eyes drop slightly, and when they come back up, his ears are flushed just a little pink. “Most people like the quiet out here,” he says. “Gets easier, after a while.”
You smile - soft, tired, but sincere. “It already feels better than where I was yesterday.”
He holds your gaze for a second too long. Not intense, just surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to say that. “I’m glad,” he says, voice low. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like he’s not sure what to do with it.
You nod. “Thanks again. For all of this.”
He just nods once more, and then he’s gone. Turning back toward the main house without another word, feet quiet over the gravel, his shoulders tight in a way that doesn’t read like discomfort. Just restraint.
You set the bag on the counter and pull out the cutting board again. Turn it over in your hands. It’s simple, but carefully made. There’s clean edges and it’s sanded smooth, obvious that someone spent time on it.
You brush a thumb across the surface once before setting it down beside the stove. You’re not sure what you expected, maybe nothing at all, but this feels kind. Quietly so. You open the jar of honey, just to look at it. Then you put it away and rinse your mug. The house settles again around you, soft and still. And for once, you let it.
𓇼𓆉𓇼
You sleep later than you meant to. The light is already full and soft when you open your eyes, the kind that suggests it’s closer to mid-morning than anything ambitious. The ceiling fan ticks overhead, blades slicing through the air in a rhythm that’s starting to feel familiar. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a long while, letting your thoughts drift somewhere quiet. You’re relieved that there’s no alarms, no meetings, and no expectations - because it’s Sunday.
You make breakfast in bare feet. You made eggs that were cooked a little too long, toast with too much butter, coffee in the mug with the sailboats on it. You eat standing at the counter, leaning against it like there’s nowhere else you need to be. The house is still and the air smells like citrus and toasted bread. You pull your hair up, throw on a tank top and shorts, and decide to give yourself the day. You think to yourself that it’s so relieving not to have a plan.
You do small things like finish unpacking, fold your clothes neatly into the drawers you didn’t touch yesterday. You pause over a notebook you’d almost forgotten about - half-filled, tucked into a bag pocket. You leave it out on the table with a pen on top.
You light a candle you found tucked in one of the kitchen drawers, lavender and something woodsy, and let it burn while you open windows to let the air in. You sweep the kitchen and wipe down the bathroom sink. Rearrange the three books you brought twice before deciding not to read any of them.
Time starts to slide. By noon, you realize you should probably get groceries. You haven’t had a vegetable in days and you’re down to one sad heel of bread. You grab your tote bag, slide your sunglasses on, and walk into town.
The road is mostly empty, but a few bikes pass you, one kid on a skateboard. The heat clings but the breeze helps, and there’s something grounding in the sound of your own footsteps. It smells like salt and sunscreen and dry grass. You pass houses with porches draped in windchimes and laundry lines fluttering in the sun. There’s a hand-painted sign for a café you make a mental note to try later.
The store is small and old-school, with handwritten signs and wire racks that squeak when you turn them. You pick up the essentials: fruit, bread, a cold drink, something salty for later. A small journal with a linen cover catches your eye near the register. You don’t need it, but you buy it anyway.
At the checkout, the woman behind the counter glances at you and smiles. "New in town?"
You nod, setting your bag down. "Just for a little while."
She rings up your things, slow and easy. "Well, welcome. Hope you stick around."
You smile. "Thanks."
You walk back slower than you came. The sun's higher now, the heat sinking into your shoulders in a way that feels earned. You carry your bag in one hand and a bottle of cold tea in the other, condensation dripping down your wrist.
Back at the guesthouse, you put everything away without thinking too much about it. You make a sandwich with avocado, tomato, a little lemon and eat it on the back steps with your feet in the grass. The sounds are the same as yesterday: birds, breeze, the distant hum of something mechanical.
Joel must be working again. You hear the faint buzz of a tool starting and stopping. The occasional scrape of wood or clatter of metal, but there’s no music this time.
You don’t look. Instead, you wander. The edge of the property curls into a small patch of shade where two trees lean slightly toward one another. Between them, strung with thick rope and a little sag, is a hammock. You don’t know if it’s meant for guests, or if Joel uses it, or if it’s just been there long enough to belong to the landscape now.
But it’s empty. You climb in slowly, testing the tension. It sways just enough to make your stomach shift, then settles. You close your eyes and just breathe. It smells like pine needles and sun-warmed rope. You don’t fall asleep, but you stop keeping track of time.
Eventually, the light begins to shift. You hear the soft rustle of branches overhead and the distant creak of the guesthouse porch when the wind changes, nothing pressing or loud. You stay right where you are. But eventually hunger pulls you out of the hammock. You stretch your legs, brush off your shorts, and wander back toward the house, pausing once to tip your face into the breeze.
As the sky starts to turn the color of pale grapefruit, you head out again, this time toward the beach. You walk slowly, toes sinking into the sand, the air cooler now, salty and soft against your skin. The tide is low, and the waves lap gently against the shore, folding and unfolding themselves in a quiet rhythm. You don’t swim, don’t sit. Just walk. Let your feet carry you past bits of driftwood and tangled seaweed, past shells you don’t stop to collect.
You don’t think about much, just listen the sound of the water and wonder about the way it feels to be small in the best kind of way. Later you wander home and decide to start on dinner. You’re in the mood for something simple, something easy. And you can’t remember the last time it tasted this good.
𓇼𓆉𓇼
Your first Monday in the guesthouse starts with light and birdsong instead of traffic. You wake before your alarm, blinking at the ceiling like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that the rules have changed. For a moment, you expect the old rush, shower, clothes, keys, commute. But it never comes.
You make coffee and sit at the kitchen table with your laptop, the windows cracked open just enough to let the morning air in. A soft breeze rustles through the trees. Your inbox is full, but not urgent. You reply to a few things, flag some others, and fall into a rhythm that doesn’t feel punishing.
It’s not the work that ever drained you. It was everything around it—the noise, the pressure, the way the office swallowed whole days and spit them back out in meetings and recycled air. The elevator rides, the fluorescent lights, the sound of someone reheating fish in the breakroom microwave.
Now, you keep your camera off for most of the morning. Nobody seems to mind. In the afternoon, you join a Zoom meeting with your camera on and your feet tucked under you. Someone from your team, Rachel, maybe, or Erin, squints at the screen and says, “You look really relaxed. The change of pace must be helping.”
You smile. “Definitely. It’s been nice to breathe a little.”
Someone else nods. “Glad you're settling in.”
The meeting moves on. You eat lunch on the porch with your laptop balanced on one knee. You start a list of things to do later, but you forget about it almost as quickly. At one point, you hear the sound of Joel’s saw in the distance. It’s not constant, just there. A soft reminder of something happening outside of you, but you don’t look.
By the time you shut your laptop, the sun has already shifted to that late-afternoon gold. You stretch your arms above your head, roll your neck, and wander inside to change.
Jules picks you up just after six.
“First day on the beach payroll,” she says when you slide into the passenger seat. “How does it feel to not be rotting in a cubicle?”
“Less fluorescent,” you say. “Less... everything.”
She takes you to a little place near the water with plastic chairs and string lights overhead. You order wine and grilled fish with citrus slaw. She talks about the tourists, about the guy who keeps trying to name starfish after himself in her marine tours, about how she still hasn’t figured out if her neighbor owns a rooster or is just playing one through a speaker.
At some point, you ask, casually, "Do you know anything about Joel? The guy who owns the place."
Jules leans back in her chair. "Not really. He’s kind of a local fixture, but he keeps to himself. Builds furniture, mostly. Some people say he sells it out of state."
You nod. "He dropped off a cutting board the day I got in. Didn’t really stick around."
"Yeah, that sounds like him," she says. "He’s not unfriendly. Just... private. Been here a while. Doesn’t talk much."
You let that sit, not because it means anything, just because it's something to file away. You let her talk and you let yourself laugh. You also let the breeze lift your hair and the wine loosen your shoulders. It doesn’t feel like a milestone, it doesn’t feel like a reward, it just feels good. You head home with the last of the light still clinging to the sky, salt on your skin, and no plans for tomorrow except doing it all again.
𓇼𓆉𓇼
He shows up again on Tuesday in the late morning. You're mid-email, one hand wrapped around your coffee mug, rereading the same sentence twice when there’s a knock on the door. It’s light, tentative. Like last time, like he’s still not sure if he should be doing this at all.
You hesitate, push your chair back, and cross the room. When you open it, Joel stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets. There’s no paper bag this time, no offerings, just him.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Sorry to bother. Just wanted to check in. Make sure everything’s alright in the place."
You blink, then nod, holding your mug against your chest. “Yeah. Everything’s good. No issues.”
Joel gives a short nod. His eyes shift toward the trees, like he might leave immediately, but he doesn’t. “I don’t usually rent it out this time of year,” he says after a beat. “Heard someone was looking for somewhere to stay. Figured the timing worked out.”
You lean a little into the doorway. “It did. It’s been... a really good reset.”
Joel glances down, thumb skimming the edge of his jeans pocket. “I’m not much of a host,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if I should stop by. But figured I should check in, at least."
You smile, soft. Not too much. “I appreciate it. Everything’s been really comfortable. Quiet.”
He nods again. "Good."
For a second, neither of you says anything. The wind rustles through the trees, and a bird chirps somewhere off to the left. Joel shifts his weight and the porch creaks faintly under his heel.
“Place is nice,” you add. “Feels lived in. In a good way.”
That makes him glance back toward the house. “Built most of it myself. Added the guesthouse a few years back. Didn’t think I’d use it much, but...” He shrugs. “People end up needing space."
You take a sip from your mug and nod. “Seems like a good place for it.”
Joel rubs the back of his neck. “If anything needs fixing - drawer sticks, windows squeak, anything like that, I’m around. Workshop’s just behind the shed."
You follow his gesture. You hadn’t really looked beyond the trees yet, hadn’t thought about what was back there. But now you notice it, a wide structure tucked in the shade, low roof, stacked planks leaning against the outer wall.
“Thanks,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”
You glance at him again, not expecting to find anything new, but this time, your eyes catch on the way his hands shift slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. They’re rough. Not just callused, but visibly worn. Small scars along his knuckles and a tiny cut near the base of his thumb, half-healed.
He notices your glance but doesn’t comment, just clears his throat softly and lifts his eyes to yours for a second.
“I didn’t know I could feel this... still,” you say, before you really think about it.
Joel nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
You didn’t mean to say it and you don’t follow it up. But he doesn’t ask. He nods once more, then hesitates like he might say something else. He doesn’t - just lifts a hand in a half-wave and steps down off the porch. You watch him walk back across the grass, slow and steady, barefoot like always. He disappears behind the line of trees, swallowed by the quiet.
You shut the door gently and try to get back to work, but it takes a minute. Your coffee's gone lukewarm. The email you were writing doesn’t seem important anymore. You sit at the kitchen table and stare at your screen while the cursor blinks. It takes three tries to remember what you were even supposed to say.
Not because of him, because the interruption broke whatever shallow concentration you had going. You close the laptop for a while and step outside instead. The hammock is warm in the sun. You sit sideways in it, feet on the grass, journal balanced on your knees. You don’t write much, just a line or two. Something about the trees, something about the quiet.
Eventually, you wander inside, rinse out your mug, and grab a peach from the fridge. The rest of the day stretches ahead of you, soft and slow. You don’t see him again that day, but you think about the way he stood on the porch. Like he didn’t quite belong there, but showed up anyway. It wasn’t much, not personal, but something about it lingers.
You go back to work with the window open. The saw starts up again around two. Again, you don’t look, but you hear him.
By late afternoon, the light shifts. The workday winds down, email closed, another empty mug sitting by your keyboard. You stretch, fingertips pressing into the tight knots in your neck. Out on the porch, the breeze has picked up. You step outside with a glass of water, blinking against the sun.
Down near the workshop, the truck is pulled up closer. Joel’s there, dragging the hose across the gravel. A bucket waits nearby, sponge in hand. You catch yourself watching almost instantly.
He moves the way he always seems to, unhurried, steady. Shirt sleeves shoved high, forearms slick with water. The damp fabric of his t-shirt pulls faintly across his back when he leans forward into the cab. Broad shoulders, trim waist, the slow flex of muscle beneath sun-warmed skin.
It’s more than you expected. Not that you’d expected anything. He was just the landlord, someone you barely knew. But now your gaze lingers, and it’s hard to blame the sun for the warmth climbing up your neck. He straightens, lifts a hand to the back of his neck. The small shift draws your eyes again before you can stop them.
You glance away fast, glass poised halfway to your lips. You take a too-long sip, hoping it’ll cool whatever heat is rising under your skin, but it doesn’t. You didn’t think of him that way. Until just now, maybe you hadn’t thought of him much at all. But now the image sticks. And when you head back inside, it follows you a little too easily.
𓇼𓆉𓇼
The rest of the week settles into a kind of rhythm. Not rushed. Not structured, really. Just… easy. Mornings start with coffee on the porch, the air still cool enough to warrant a sweatshirt most days. You read there sometimes, legs curled beneath you, the hum of cicadas rising with the sun. The sound of the saw picks up mid-morning more often than not, low and steady from across the yard. After a few days, it blends into the background, like the soft rustle of the seagrass or the gulls overhead. You can’t say it bothers you.
Work stays quiet and manageable. It’s easier here, something about the space between things. The absence of constant pinging and half-conversations and calendars stacked to the minute. You knock out your to-do list early most days, freeing the afternoons for whatever feels right. Sometimes that means walking down to the beach with a book tucked under your arm. Other days it means errands in town - a new bag of coffee, a browse through the little shop that sells lavender soaps and sea glass trinkets. You’ve started to recognize faces. A few hellos here and there, and it’s nice.
You see Joel more, too. Not deliberately, it just happens. There’s a run-in at the mailbox midweek - he’s heading out as you’re heading back. A nod, a quick “hey,” an easy smile. A few words exchanged about the weather, about the stretch of warm days ahead.
Later, you catch him outside the workshop, arms full of lumber. He shifts the load with a quiet grunt, glances up as you pass on your way to the hammock. Another nod followed by a smile, and you can’t help but return it.
There are other moments, too. Small ones. You’re trimming back the hedge one afternoon when you hear his voice nearby, low and even. On the phone, maybe. You don’t listen in, but the cadence of it draws your ear. You glance over without meaning to, catch the edge of him framed in the workshop doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other at his hip. You look away fast. No reason to stare. Still, your gaze drifts that way more often than it used to.
Another morning, you catch a whiff of sawdust and soap on the air as you cross the drive. Not close, just enough to register. Enough to linger. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re just paying attention more, that’s all. But later, curled in the hammock with your book resting open against your chest, you realize you haven’t turned a page in several minutes. Your eyes keep flicking toward the workshop, half-expecting movement.
You sigh, shake your head, force yourself back to the words on the page. When the truck door thuds shut later that day, you’re already looking toward the sound before you can stop yourself. A glimpse through the porch rail, the steady motion you’ve started to recognize. The faint rise and fall of his voice. Familiar now, in a way it wasn’t before.
Funny how that happens. Nothing more to it than that, at least, that’s what you tell yourself. But you don’t go back inside right away. The sun is soft now, the porch warm beneath your legs. You let the minutes stretch, listening to the faint rhythm of his voice, the shuffle of movement from across the yard.
A soft scrape, the low creak of a hinge. You glance over again. The workshop door’s fully open now, sunlight spilling across the worn boards inside. Joel moves through the space, a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed high. Your gaze lingers longer than it should. You shift in your seat, fingers curling against the armrest.
The bag from town still sits just inside the door, lightbulbs you’d grabbed on a whim. You hadn’t meant to let them sit this long, and the porch fixture had been dim since your first night here. A small thing, a small excuse, but it’s enough.
You stand, brushing your hands lightly over your thighs. The path feels shorter than usual as you cross the yard. The door stands open ahead of you, the hum of the radio low beneath the quiet. You pause at the threshold, one hand on the frame.
“Hey,” you call, voice light. “Do you have a second?”
Joel looks up, straightens from the bench. His brow lifts faintly. “Yeah,” he says. “Everything alright?”
You shake your head quickly, offering a small smile. “All good. Just-” you lift the bag slightly, “-thought I’d check about the porch light. I grabbed some bulbs, wasn’t sure if there’s a trick to it.”
Something shifts in his expression then. Shoulders easing, mouth tugging faint at one corner, something warmer than before. “Good timing,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to get around to that. Come on in.”
The words catch something low in your chest, loose and warm. You step inside. The scent greets you first. Cedar and oil, the sharper bite of fresh sawdust. Thicker here, grounding. Light cuts through the room in long strips, painting the floor in soft gold. Tools hang in careful rows above the benches, handles worn smooth from use. The faint hum of the old radio plays beneath it all. Low and steady, like a heartbeat threaded through the air.
Joel sets the rag in his hand aside, straightening as you approach. “What’d you grab?”
You pull the box of bulbs from the bag, fingers brushing the cardboard edges. “Just the basics. Didn’t know if they’d fit.”
“Let’s see.” He reaches for the box, and for a beat, your hands meet, his fingers brushing over yours as he takes it. It’s warm and calloused. A flicker of heat trails up your arm before you can think. Neither of you acknowledges it, but the air feels different now.
Joel lifts the box, tipping it in his hand. “Yeah, these’ll work.”
You nod, glancing past him toward the bench. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, on the broad planks laid out across the surface, the sharp gleam of steel, the soft curl of wood shavings beneath his arm. “You working on something?”
He shifts, setting the box aside. “Chair.” He gestures to the half-built frame clamped at the center of the bench. “Trying to get the joints right.”
You step closer, drawn without thinking. “It’s beautiful,” you murmur, tracing the clean lines with your eyes.
Joel watches you a moment, something flickering beneath the steady look. “Appreciate that.” His voice is quieter now, a rougher edge beneath it. “Lot of time goes into these.”
You glance up. He’s closer than before, only a foot or two away now, warmth radiating between the space that isn’t quite space anymore. “I can tell.” You rest your hand light on the edge of the bench, grounding yourself. “I didn’t know you built everything here.”
Joel’s mouth lifts again, softer this time. “Yeah. Most of it. Took a while to get set up.”
There’s a pause then - a full one. Not awkward. Just… aware. Your breath slows, skin prickling beneath the light cotton of your shirt. Joel shifts again, reaching for a small chisel. Your gaze follows without meaning to. The way his hands move, strong and precise, veins cutting sharp beneath his skin.
He glances at you, catches your eyes lingering. You look away fast. But not fast enough to miss the faint rise of color beneath his scruff.
He clears his throat. “You wanna see how it fits?”
You nod. “Yeah.” The word comes easier than your breath.
He picks up the seat slat, turns toward you, closer now. As he angles it into place, his shoulder brushes yours. It's light and brief, but enough to send your pulse climbing. You don’t move. Neither does he. The moment holds there, stretched thin across the soft weight of the room. Then, carefully, Joel steps back. “Still needs some shaping,” he says, voice rougher than before.
You nod, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. “It’s really nice.” Another pause. Joel’s gaze lingers on you, steadier than before. For a breath, neither of you moves. The air feels weighted now, thicker between the strips of light. You glance down, smoothing your fingers along the grain of the seat. “How long does something like this take?” you ask softly.
He shifts, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders, draws your eye before you can catch it. “Depends,” he says. “Piece like this… week or two. If the wood cooperates.”
You glance up again, meeting his gaze. The edges of your breath catch faintly, but you hold it steady. “I don’t think I realized how much goes into it.”
Joel huffs a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Most people don’t.”
There’s a shift in him now, shoulders looser, voice warmer. You can feel it in the way the air hums between you.
Your gaze flicks back to the shelves along the wall. Jars of nails and screws. Planes and clamps worn by use. The space feels different now, not just a workshop, but his. A reflection of the hands that shaped it. “You’ve been doing this a long time?”
Joel nods. “Yeah. Picked it up young. Stuck with it.” His mouth lifts faintly. “Guess I like making things that last.”
The words settle low in your chest. You don’t know why, but they do. You glance back toward him. He’s watching you again - not guarded, not unreadable, just there. Present in a way that makes your pulse hitch. And maybe it’s the way the afternoon light catches the curve of his jaw. Or the quiet between your words. Or the way your shoulders brush again as he shifts to reach for another tool, close enough that you can feel the heat of him.
Whatever it is, you’re suddenly aware that you’re standing closer than you’d meant to. That you haven’t moved. Neither has he. Another beat, full and slow. Then, reluctant but even, you draw in a breath. “I should probably let you get back to it,” you say, though your voice is quieter now.
Joel watches you for a second longer. "Yeah,” he says, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something that feels like it might have asked you to stay if the words were easier to reach.
You step back slowly, fingers brushing once more along the edge of the chair. “Thanks. For showing me.”
His mouth lifts again, the faintest tug of warmth. “Anytime.”
And when you turn for the door, you can feel his gaze follow you, trailing after you as you cross the sunlit yard. You don’t let your steps quicken. No sense in it. And maybe next time, you won’t leave so soon.
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