𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 (Part 2)
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dadsbestfriend!joel x f!reader
Part 1
Warnings: MDNI, dad’s best friend, age gap (legal), post-smut intimacy, soft!Joel, secret relationship, fluff, emotional tension, hand touches, subtle jealousy, kitchen scene, implied smut
You were still buzzing.
Not from the wine. Not from the laughter outside or the music humming on your dad’s speakers. But from him. From Joel. From the way your hands had scrambled over his flannel, the way he’d pressed his mouth to your neck, and the way you’d whispered his name like a sin.
That shed should’ve felt cold and nasty. Unforgivable.
But it hadn’t.
It felt like home. Or something close.
You hadn’t seen him since.
He’d slipped out first — buttoning his shirt with slow, shaking fingers, like he already hated himself for what he’d done. Didn’t say a word afterwards. Just looked at you, all flushed and messy and full of his touch, and disappeared, but you did share that moment right after, it sort of confirmed things. You thought.
So you washed your face. Fixed your hair. Changed into a soft sundress — something easy, innocent, like nothing happened — and came back to the party like your whole world hadn’t shifted on its axis.
It’s late when you go inside. The kitchen is dim, yellow light buzzing, and you’re half-heartedly digging in the fridge for lemonade when you hear the screen door creak open.
You already know it’s him.
He doesn’t say your name. Just stands in the doorway for a beat, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to want this.
Then he shuts the door behind him. Clicks the lock.
Your breath catches.
“Hey,” you say, too quiet.
Joel steps toward you. Slowly. Cautiously. Like you might run if he moves too fast.
“You alright?” he asks. His voice is lower now. Soft. Careful. “After earlier.”
Your heart flutters.
You nod.
“Are you?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stops in front of you and reaches out — hesitantly — to brush a loose curl behind your ear. His fingers linger at your jaw, rough but warm. Familiar.
“Shouldn’t’ve let it happen,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “But I ain’t sorry it did.”
You step into his chest. It’s instinct. His hands go to your hips automatically.
“I didn’t want you to stop,” you admit.
He groans. It’s low and pained, like the words cut him open.
“Don’t say things like that, sweetheart.”
“Why not?”
His grip tightens — just a little. Enough to remind you he’s there. That you’re not dreaming.
“‘Cause I want you again,” he says. “Right now. Against that counter. In my truck. Hell — I don’t care where. But you’re too sweet for that, aren’t you?”
You look up at him, lip caught in your teeth.
“You didn’t treat me like I was too sweet in the shed.”
Joel chuckles — low and dangerous — and you feel it all the way to your toes.
“That was me losin’ control,” he says. “This—” he presses a hand to your back, gently guiding you to lean against the kitchen counter “—this is me takin’ my time.”
He kisses you this time. Not hungry. Not greedy.
Just soft.
Like it means something.
And when you whimper, hands tangling in the hem of his shirt, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours.
“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers. “Whatever this is. We’ll do it right.”
You nod, and he presses a kiss to your temple — careful and reverent — like he already knows he’s yours.
