falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part i)
EVENT HORIZON: The line crossed beyond which return is impossible.
summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.
a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!
Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.
The sound was distant, quelled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries slashing through the night, wounded, helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made little, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. It cried, night after night, with the same pitiful wails, like it were fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.
And the mother?
Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big white house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged, but it was polished, the porch steps stayed sturdy, and the windows were wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.
Though it wasn’t warm.
Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside, ever.
No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.
Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.
But it was.
Because he could hear it. And it sounded fucking miserable, and he’d had enough.
When the cries began to get worse in the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind blew at him, biting into his skin, augmenting his edge, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.
But—he hesitated.
There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby, nevertheless, and its struggling mother.
He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, unchanging raps.
A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.
The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.
The poor mother looked like hell.
Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her long hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.
And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer, desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing, thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”
She trailed off as if the words had run out, or she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like the sound had physically struck her. She turned away, pushing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.
And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…
He couldn’t do it.
Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—
“Let me try.”
X
Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.
Didn’t stop to think if he had the right or question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened once more, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.
He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.
It was beyond audacity or desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now, and with it came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.
Leela's house smelled faintly of old wood, old cotton, dust, and a softness underneath—like sun-warmed linen, the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never once left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were lumbering against the worn floorboards, his breaths crowding in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Nearly six doors on the second floor as far as he could see, but only one was open.
He stepped inside.
The first thing he noticed was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, definitely placed there on purpose, a meagre little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.
Old. The hinges were barely holding together. The wood had whittled away from time, its edges dulled, a possible relic that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the flowery sheets were neatly tucked and arranged properly. Everything was in its place.
This wasn’t neglect.
This was someone trying—failing.
And then the baby. The newborn, should he say. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red against the tanned skin, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It didn’t take a dumbass like him to know it was starving, wasting away with exhaustion.
But goddamn, if that wasn’t one beautiful fucking baby.
Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy, glinting, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, clammy and curling at the ends like downy little question marks. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.
His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until the mother's voice cut through the noise.
“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”
He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”
She stopped short, her lips parting. She swallowed down whatever she’d been about to say.
“Girl,” she breathed.
Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.
“You fed her anything?”
There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—
“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried some water... um... I don't know.”
Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this baby girl—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn, dreadful mother.
“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.
Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”
He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”
She flinched, shoulders jerking.
He barely registered his words drawing blood. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he assumed had died a long time ago.
Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid spine. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail, small thing, light as air, fists still curled, breaths coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between screeching cries.
Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath as uneven as her baby’s, arms wrapped around herself as though she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.
Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the newborn. On how her delicate limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.
He started rubbing gentle, calming circles against her back, one that had been taught to him by a kind nurse in the maternity ward decades ago, and as the calloused warmth of his palm pressed softly but firmly over her fragile bones, he remembered. The old, terrible sentiment stirred in him—buried deep, and it twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. He simply kept stroking, kept murmuring, low, quiet, syllables he wasn’t even aware of.
“Thatta, girl. There you go.”
“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”
“I got you.”
The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—
Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.
Joel exhaled, keeping his touch measured as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.
“See? Just needed a little push,” he mumbled.
Leela was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.
When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.
“She got a name?”
When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s hollow stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.
Joel’s hands closed around an imaginary gun as he frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”
And just like that, it clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself, or how she hadn’t called the baby anything, not a nickname, no endearments. The way she hadn't moved a step closer to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitance in her voice as she held herself together, unknowingly accosting a struggle.
“She’s yours, ain’t she? Whole damn town knows.”
Her gaze flickered, a firmness rising. “She is.”
After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.
Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop. Not mine, he assured himself.
He breathed out, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—
“Look,” he muttered, frustration leaching through, “you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do fuck all. Jesus, at least get yourself some help.”
Leela cringed, a barely noticeable flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.
The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing there but the empty gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers, all of which dropped an uneasy knot into his gullet.
He exhaled sharply. “Maria’s coming in tomorrow,” he said, and as he did, he was setting it in stone. “Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do with... the baby.”
Which earned him a glance. And for the first time, he really saw Leela.
The flawed mother behind the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—and especially, the fear. That deep, paralysing, unspeakable fear that settled into a person’s bones and made a home there.
Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. The baby girl had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, brimming with wildness, untamed endurance. But a fragility, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.
Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.
Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”
Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.
But she was looking at him, explicit, plain—eyes wide and glistening, breaths erratic like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—this woman meant it. She was serious.
“You're right,” she whispered, voice barely there. “I might kill her. Just take her away, please.”
A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for a handle to hold onto.
The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against puckered skin. She had gone quiet, her body motionless in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.
His hands twitched at his sides. He knew exactly what he should do. He should take the kid off her hands. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift that baby girl into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.
But Joel didn't move; couldn't bring himself to move.
Because now that he was looking at her, from his conscience, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not the blatant fear of Joel or the fear of what people might say. Fear of herself, as though he own conviction was a luxury.
Leela stood there, arms wrapped tight around her baby, herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, silent now, as if sensing the displacement around her. Her mother's fingers barely touch her, hesitant, weak, the way someone might hold a delicate, jagged piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.
Joel’s stomach turned.
“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.
A sharp and molten sense turned in his gut, rising fast—panic, maybe. Or that bone-deep realisation of what would happen.
“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out gruff, unwavering.
Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”
“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”
She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against the baby’s blanket, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.
Joel had seen this before, known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made that ugly, cruel knot crest back in his chest, and made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, didn’t sit right.
Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment. To hold a second chance, brand new, all his.
“You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, spired as arrows, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one.”
She flinched, as if he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.
Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back; the blood had been drawn.
He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But there was something about this strange mother, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.
“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.
And with that, he turned and walked out the door.
The flurries of winter outside were colder than before, or maybe it only seemed that way. Snow scraped beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged pants in the quiet of the night. His knuckles ached from the tight fists he hadn't been able to loosen, his pulse still hammering.
Stupid mother. That poor child. There was truly no rest for the wicked.
He was halfway across the street when that resentment shifted.
His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her threadbare voice, her hands fluttering, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.
He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The big, white house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.
Joel looked up at the home.
The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.
He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass. This time, jaw tight, he turned away.
X
That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.
Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.
Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark, hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—as if it was the only way, or maybe she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her daughter.
Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept glimpsing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, because letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.
Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that, hadn’t knocked or hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door or even bothered to lock it after Joel had walked out last night.
He adjusted the rifle on his back and breathed out the concern.
Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part, in fact, more than his part. He had brought help in and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did, which was why the town counted on her to run it.
Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. How it stood there, silent, old, watchful, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. He related to that insentient home more than most people, or the way Leela had stood in that dim, empty nursery, shoulders curled inward, appearing more like a ghost than a person.
He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.
Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering about how he looked like shit.
“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said.
And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.
By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his gloved hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, ensuring the gears weren't easy to jam, and stopped on the way home to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit. Soon enough, he was lugging a whole bottle home.
He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. It was an expression he repeated to himself, to anchor himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots or the floor beneath.
Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.
Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. “You good?”
Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”
He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. “All set over there?”
“Far from it.” Her voice was edgy, a sure point of contention. “I need your help.”
Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”
But Maria didn’t laugh, or even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.
Joel’s 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall, which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, and a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.
Joel didn’t let himself think about that house too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.
“Well?”
Maria sighed, staring out the window toward the street, and into his neighbour’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.
“She’s not okay, Joel.”
Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”
“No,” Maria said, sharper now. “I mean it.”
She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with a charge heavier than concern. She looked tired—unravelled—in a way that wasn’t merely about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.
Joel exhaled a breath, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.
Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s more disturbed than the last time I saw her a month ago. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “Look, I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, trusting and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”
Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”
“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”
Joel dragged a hand down his beard, letting go of an infuriated sigh. “Jesus, you gotta be shitting me. That girl’s a damn mess.”
“...she’s trying her best.” Maria sighed a long one.
He snorted. “Yeah. Hell of a job she’s doin’.”
“Joel, this is serious.”
“What? S’pose I’m wrong now? You want me to play babysitter to that screw-up mom.”
“She just needs a little support—”
He cut in with a grumble. “She needs somebody who knows what they’re doin’. And that’s not my problem.”
Maria’s face tightened. “You think people just wake up knowin’ how to survive this?”
Joel looked away, jaw tight.
“She’s scared, and exhausted, and alone, Joel,” Maria explained, a little more gently this time. “New baby, no family, no help. You remember what that was like?”
Joel’s expression hardened instead of softening. “Don’t do that.”
Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his goddamn part here, hadn't he? He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home, a pretty face, and all that space. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. That was the hand she was dealt. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?
But Maria didn’t appear to be giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropped several octaves, and edged with meaning. “I don’t think she knew whoever got her pregnant, Joel. I know she didn’t. And she sure as hell didn’t choose it.”
Joel stiffened, every muscle aching. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was implicit significance there, solemn enough that it didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a pebble.
She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.
“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she looks at that baby and sees her child. I think she sees the worst thing that ever happened to her.”
Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.
Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.
The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, unfamiliar, and that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment at his venomous words.
It was a quiet resignation, as if she were handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her.
A fist of darkness coiled around his stomach. Joel knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, this was worse than grief. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.
This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.
Joel exhaled a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
But the truth was, he’d already stepped in and gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t certain, and now, if he walked away, he’d never be able to live with the consequences.
Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fuckin’ mistake, Maria. I’m the last damn person who should be around somebody like her.”
She cocked a brow. “Somebody like her?”
“Just... y'know. Somebody hurtin’.”
That took some of the fight out of Maria immediately. “You don’t have to fix her, Joel.”
He laughed once under his breath. “Good. ‘Cause I sure as hell can’t.”
“I’m just askin’ you not to leave her alone with it.”
Silence settled over them. He stared at her a second, then shook his head in defeat. What the hell else was he supposed to say? Call her a stuck-up piece of shit and kick her out? Yeah, right, like Maria would not go apeshit on his ass.
“So, you’ll do it?” Maria chirped.
He shot her a look. “Don’t sound so happy about it.”
Relief flashed across her face before she smoothed it over. She nodded, hearing only what she needed to hear. “You’ll figure it out. And I’ll check in when I can. If either of you need me, I’m around.”
Joel grunted in acknowledgment.
Her hand rested briefly on the knob. “Thank you, Joel.”
He waved her off like he didn’t want to hear it. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.
X
Dewy dawn washed over his neighbour's house, alabaster and frigid, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect oversized home once, costing north of at least five mil, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, cavernous porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.
But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the disrepair of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost its vitality...
...and the front door was open again.
Joel clenched his jaw.
Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.
He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, cautious, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.
Her home wasn’t cluttered or in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A life suspended mid-thought. A place inhabited by a mind too consumed to fuss over the details of living.
Against one wall, three blackboards leaned slightly askew, their surfaces dense with math—long, elegant trails of equations and symbols that curled and darted in sharp, decisive strokes, a handwriting that came from obsession, not care. At their base lay a scatter of chalk nubs and crumpled paper, some balled tight, others torn through in places, as if discarded mid-frustration into a wastebasket that stood nearby, perpetually missing its mark.
Precise shelves lined the walls—solved Rubik’s cubes, notebooks snapped shut with elastic bands, rows of empty pens jammed upright in a clay mug. Everything had a place, yet none of it did—more like artefacts left behind after long stretches of deep work. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.
Joel glared through it all, taking it in.
A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.
He didn’t know what he wished to see when he ascended the stairs, only that everything about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.
He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the sleepless night before; this was more peaceful, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made that knot in his chest tighten before he could push it down.
Carefully, he strode forward, peering into the nursery.
Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been practised, knowing, hers were unsure, a mimicry, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.
She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never having seen the business end of a pair of scissors. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, as if she had settled into the shape of a mother.
The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela darted a glance. She even tried for a small smile, a ghostly little quirk of her lips.
“Hello, Joel.”
He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past, disturbed him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.
The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, recognising him through her childish daze, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.
Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head to ward off the daze.
“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.
Leela caught on. Her fingers fidgeted at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. A small, involuntary movement.
“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… secretion, you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”
Joel nodded. “And?”
Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”
He frowned. “That’s it?”
Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”
The words made a darkness flicker through him; he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.
Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”
Leela hung her head, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.
Joel sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math. Just instinct,” he muttered.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, gingerly, gently. He eased her up, letting her body idle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.
The second she was in his arms, warm, beaming, the fault line inside him splintered.
She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.
Joel swallowed, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow palm over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was everything akin to bedtime and warmth, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.
For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.
The scent of her, the faded remnants of old cotton, and the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this, when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, loaded with groceries, with the Texas sun blistering overhead.
A different life. A different world, one he had no business remembering.
Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, shoving the feeling down before it could take hold.
“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”
Leela was watching him, waiting for him to call her an idiot again, definitely expecting no less from him. She observed the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way he imagined she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.
He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, adjusting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”
Leela didn’t reach for her baby at once; her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.
But finally, she forced herself to move.
Her hands cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, foreign. It was inflexible, too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her close, her arms locked tight, all too unconfident, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper followed by a sharp, warning cry.
Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck, and she barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked.
She was already veering forward, pushing the baby back toward Joel, who carried her without hesitation. “No, I can't.”
The crying stopped almost instantly.
Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently in an informed movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.
Leela, however, looked shaken. Her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.
Then, she winced.
Joel’s attention snapped, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.
“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down for a bit?”
She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.
Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.
With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”
Leela wavered at the suggestion. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty, likely because she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough to let him guide her.
Joel remained prudent, supporting her weight without making a big deal out of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it became instinctual.
He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.
Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.
“I'm sorry, Joel.”
His brows ticked down. “For what?”
She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”
There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. Anyone could have sensed it, the quiet fatigue. It was her statement of fact.
Joel pressed his lips together.
Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The weariness, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it. No midwife, no warm meals, no one watching over her in those first brutal days. Just her and the baby and that awful, aching silence.
“She came too soon,” Joel murmured, mostly to himself.
Leela turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward him without fully meeting his eyes. “Eight months and seven days,” she said quietly. “That’s not normal, is it? That’s why she’s so small.”
Joel opened his mouth, but nothing came. What could he say to that? To her?
Leela waited a beat—just long enough to hope for something more—then slowly drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, rested her chin on top, and looked past him.
She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
There it was. No frustrations or helplessness. It was her calm, relinquished reality.
Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her little breaths unwavering and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened scarcely.
Leela’s words lodged in his chest like a thick splint. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard those words before, from sleep-deprived parents who hit the wall. Hell, he’d stood in that same darkness, said those same things to Tommy when the world felt like it was slipping past him. But the way Leela said it—flat, detached, mechanical—like she’d already stopped trying to fix it, the part of her that cared was fading out, and that left a big imprint.
Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.
Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.
“You could start by giving her a name,” he said, glancing at Leela. “Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name.”
Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realising that, yes, she still had to name the kid.
After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. “Do you want to pick one for her?”
Joel snorted. “Me?”
She nodded, entirely serious.
He shook his head immediately. “I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'”
Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened that apathy in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, “I always liked the name Maya.”
“Maya?” He tested the name on his lips. “I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya.”
Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by an unspoken sentiment. She leaned down, her head dipping toward the baby still bowed against Joel’s chest.
For the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel noticed it.
That fondness—subtle, but unmistakable. A faint, aching kind of love that didn’t ask for words. It lived in the way her fingers moved over the baby’s forehead, gentle, mindful, tracing the soft landscape of tiny wrinkles and delicate features. It showed in the subtle curve of her body, how she curled—almost unconsciously—toward her daughter. Even in her exhaustion, some part of her was always reaching, always drawn to protect.
“Maya, Maya, Maya,” she whispered, breathing the name into her daughter's ear, speaking it into existence.
Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick into his ribs. It was too much, too close to something he didn’t want to touch, and something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.
He should leave, he knew he should. He should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in later tomorrow, and then walked out that door.
But he didn’t, and instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the baby girl. Maya.
He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”
Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math. Theoretician, perhaps.”
Joel couldn't help the roll of his eyes. Math. In a world like this?
People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.
His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?
He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”
“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate and glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”
Joel didn’t know what to make of that. His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through.
He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it really fucking was.
She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and lots of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it. The Riemann Hypothesis.”
Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.
He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.
He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”
“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Well, no one ever did.
That number sat wrong with him, irked him. Twenty-nine. Maybe it was the contrast—how, for all her intelligence and clinical detachment, she looked so damn young beneath the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.
Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could run equations for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.
That was until Maya decided to stir.
A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both heartbreaking, needy and urgent all at once.
Leela straightened instinctively, her hands jolting toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.
Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.
Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.
His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”
“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”
“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”
“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”
Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.
He listened to her, to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.
Joel let out a breath, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.
The sturdy, old crib. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.
He knew that kind of space, and what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.
“I’m decent now,” Leela offered.
Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of her shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.
The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.
“Do you have many children, Joel?” she asked suddenly.
He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.
His fingers curled into his knee, knuckles going white. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but hearing it from her—a strange woman he barely knew, cradling a baby no more than a handful of weeks old—cut deeper than it should have.
Did he have many children? No.
But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour, heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it, let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger unwelcome in the air between them.
He grunted out, “Not your concern.”
Leela nodded once. She refused to pry and dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.
“I understand,” she murmured.
Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, simple, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy.
Silence patched their looks, lingering, yet not uncomfortable.
Joel exhaled and turned his gaze toward the window, where pale morning light seeped in through the fraying edges of the curtain. The town was stirring—people rising, stepping into their routines, moving through the simple rhythm of another day. Normal. Predictable. And here—sitting in a quiet, half-empty house with a woman he barely knew and a baby who’d already been asked to survive more than most adults—wasn’t easy. This wasn’t anything close to normal.
Then, her quiet voice broke past it all.
“Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?”
He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought or hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she were mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.
The question slipped beneath his ribs and ploughed, gently, insistently, against an old bruise.
“Never.” The answer came without a doubt.
Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—that complete astonishment had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.
That was how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe even a nightmare.
Leela exhaled softly. “I wish I felt that way,” she muttered.
It wasn’t pity toward her—not quite. Leela didn’t strike him as someone who wanted sympathy. No, it was an implicit understanding. The recognition of a loss that ran deeper than words, taken from her before she ever had the chance to claim it.
Joel knew that kind of grief. He’d carried his own version of it, and while this pain wasn’t his, it brushed up against something familiar and hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.
Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. Now, Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing, never had been. Words were never easy for him; feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.
So, he did what he could.
“She looks like you,” Joel mused aloud.
Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You really think so?”
He smirked, nodding toward Maya. “Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl.”
She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, that disregard in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. “Mama’s girl,” she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.
Joel felt a smile in his chest, just a little one.
Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The mood in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt transient, like Maya hadn’t put down roots just yet.
Or maybe she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay in this particular room.
He tipped his chin toward the crib. “Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in.”
Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around. “I tried my best. Is it that bad?”
Joel huffed, shaking his head. “It could use a little more work.” He gestured toward the crib. “Fix another one of those.” Then to the bare space near the window. “Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there.” His gaze travelled to the walls. “Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights. Some toys, clothes, blankets.”
Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. “I don’t want to impose.”
He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. “You won't. I like to keep busy.”
Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognise from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet.
“Are you sure?”
Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. “I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job.” Then he cocked a brow. “And I’m fifty-six, not dead.”
Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You want me to take that crib back down?”
That did it. She laughed—a real, certain sound that cracked through the quietness of the room, sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.
Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here.”
Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet, but at least she meant it.
He didn’t say anything, only sat back and watched, and let her find her way.
X
Seventeen days.
That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.
And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sippy cup gathered dust.
It was gradual. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.
And Joel—well, he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.
The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.
“You don’t have to—” she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.
“I know,” he cut off before she could finish.
He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.
The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.
It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.
Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.
“Pink?” she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.
Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. “What? You don’t like it?”
Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, “I think Maya will like it.”
It was the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.
Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.
She was unraveling.
Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake, legs thrashing in a single jerk, pushing against some imperceptible force near her, like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.
Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.
She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. “I—I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Alright,” he said, pushing the bowl closer. “Eat.”
Leela wavered, nose scrunching. “I’m not—”
Joel shot her a look. “Eat.”
She sighed, but she picked up the spoon.
He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.
So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard. Pretended not to notice when her shoulders trembled just slightly—barely enough to catch, unless you were looking for it. But Joel always saw more than he let on.
And he heard it, too. The way her sobs came muffled through the thin walls at night—quiet at first, like she was trying to bury them in her pillow, then deeper, harsher, like something inside her was breaking open slowly.
Every part of him—every part that still gave a damn—wanted to move, to cross that invisible line, to knock, to say something.
Instead, he stepped outside. Leaned against the doorframe. Let the cold night air scrape against his skin. Stared at nothing.
Leela cried harder.
And then—one night—the floodgates broke. Her sob, raw, sharp, now pronounced, tore itself loose on the way out. It wasn’t merely grief anymore; this was wreckage.
Joel stood at the bottom of the stairs, jaw clenched, fists knotted at his sides. He stared up at the dark landing, every muscle in his body pulled taut, and if he just took one more step—
Never mind. He turned away. Walked out onto the porch and sat down on the cold wooden steps, elbows resting on his knees, breath fogging in the night. Let the chill dig into him like punishment. Good. He stayed there, still as stone, while the sounds from inside climbed and fell. That wasn’t his problem.
One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. “Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like.”
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. “Thanks, kiddo.”
Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. “Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?”
Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. “Been around.”
Ellie scoffed. “What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big cabin?”
His jaw flexed, and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.
“Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?”
Joel shot her a look. “No.”
“Yes,” Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. “Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting.”
“I ain’t babysitting,” Joel muttered, too quick.
Ellie smirked harder and sang out, “Riiiight.”
Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. “She needed help. That’s all.”
Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. “Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now.”
He cut her a sharp look. “Ellie.”
She grinned, enjoying this way too much. “What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice.”
Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.
“So, uh…” she cleared her throat. “How’s the baby?”
He hesitated. He hadn’t realised how much he’d started watching that kid; listening to her. He could differentiate Maya’s cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back, and he also knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.
“She’s, uh, good,” he said finally, and kept his voice level, unaffected. “Stronger. Sleeps better.”
Ellie studied him. “Bet she likes you.”
Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. “Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep.”
Ellie snorted. “Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy.” And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—“You’re gonna miss her after, huh?”
Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, an understanding creeping in.
And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving, or hearing those little cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.
Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?”
Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad.”
“Hey, knock it off.”
But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. “This is rich. Daddy Joel.”
Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. The more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.
It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, burrowing into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.
Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but that moment had stuck with him. Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her, beyond simply carrying her.
And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, watching the light filter through the window, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.
She smiled more, too. At him, all the time. And it did something to him that it shouldn’t have.
He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin, flashing her gums. He shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. He shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.
But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.
Maya knew him. Trusted him.
That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.
Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.
“You're officially relieved of duty, big brother.”
Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. “Didn’t know I was on duty.”
Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. “Thanks a lot, Joel.”
He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.
He felt Leela before he saw her.
She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.
She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. There was no point in saying goodbye.
Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.
Maria’s clear voice carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. “You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk.”
Joel kept on walking, crossed the street, and after seventeen long days, he realised—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.
Home meant walking into a place where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.
For seventeen days, he had fallen into something. A tempo. A system. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel routine, Joel realised he’d done the reckless thing he never should’ve allowed.
He’d let himself care.
X
[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]
[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]
