Summary: A corn maze, sticky caramel apples, and Joel’s teasing grin… sometimes the sweetest messes are the ones you make together.
Word Count: 1.4k
Warnings: A few suggestive things said, fluff, playful banter, kissing, pet names (sweetheart, darlin')
Notes: This is my first fanfic. I have multiple in the works, please consider giving me a follow here on Tumblr, leaving a like and reblog. My AO3 ~ My Masterlist
Happy Birthday Joel! 🧡 You've brought more happiness into my life than you'll ever know. I will love you until my dying day and will be perpetually consumed with thoughts of you.
The stalks tower over you, their dry leaves whispering against one another with the breeze. The corn maze stretches out like a golden labyrinth, the afternoon sun painting it all in buttered light.
Joel’s beside you, map folded in his back pocket, per his words, Don’t need it. Only reason it’s here is so you don’t panic. His hand is wrapped snugly around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles idly as the two of you walk the dirt path.
You pause at a fork, eyeing the options. “Left or right?”
“Right,” Joel says immediately, confident as ever.
You squint at him. “Are you sure?”
He tilts his head, smirking. “Sweetheart, I can build a whole house from the ground up. Think I can handle a little corn maze.”
You grin, tugging him toward the left just to be contrary. “Then it shouldn’t matter if we go this way.”
Joel chuckles, low in his chest, and follows without complaint, though you catch the way his head shakes like he already knows you’re leading him the wrong way. The path narrows, stalks closing in tighter, and he draws you a little closer to him.
“Admit it,” you tease, “you’re dying to peek at the map.”
“Nope, sure ain’t.” he bawks, his fingers dragging low along the edge of the corn stalks as you walk.
You slip your arm around his waist, leaning against him with a grin. “You’d rather wander in circles than admit I was right?”
Joel looks down at you, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Depends. You gunna make it worth my while if I admit it?”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat anyway. “Maybe.”
He leans in, beard scratching your temple as he murmurs, “Then I’m lost as hell, darlin’.”
You laugh, swatting at his chest, but you don’t pull away. He presses a quick kiss to your hair, then tugs you along, pretending like nothing happened.
As Joel leads you deeper in, every turn feels the same, gold walls and narrow corridors, but with his hand hooked firmly at your waist, you don’t much care if you ever get out.
Another fork appears, the paths stretching into shadow. You pause, tipping your head. “Alright, Bob the Builder, which way now?”
Joel chuckles then squints down one path, then the other, exaggerated like he’s reading blueprints. “Left, and I’ll let you take it from here little miss know-it-all. Let’s see if you can actually get us outta here before winter.”
You stick your tongue out at him, but you fall into step, his hand never leaving your waist. The maze winds on, and every so often, Joel teases you, muttering things like:
Guess you’re tryin’ to get us good ‘n lost.
Hope you packed us some snacks, darlin’.
Reckon I’ll build us a cabin right here in the corn if you can’t find our way out.
And you can’t help it — you love it, his little heckling. Every line drips with fake seriousness. You laugh every time, sometimes shaking your head, sometimes firing back a comeback, but mostly you just let him have it. Because you like how it makes your chest feel light.
Eventually, after a few more wrong turns (according to him), the path bends and the glow of sunlight spills through the exit up ahead. You gasp, triumphant. “See? I told you my way would work!”
He squints at you, playful. “Well would you look at that, miracles do happen.”
You laugh at his mock-serious tone, still glowing from your little victory.
The two of you drift with the small crowd spilling out of the maze, the air rich with kettle corn and hay.
Joel glances toward the open field. The pumpkin patch stretches out in neat rows, orange globes scattered against fading green vines.
“Tell you what,” he drawls, nodding in that direction, “why don’t we go pick out a couple pumpkins, and you can prove you’re better at that than me too.”
Walking towards the field, you grin. “Pumpkin selection is a sacred art, Mr. Miller. And I was born to pick aesthetically superior pumpkins.”
His hand finds the small of your back, steering you down the dirt path between the rows. “Go on then, Picasso,” he pauses, glancing down at you with a half-smile. “Pick your masterpiece.”
You toy with the edge of your sleeve, voice quieter, looking up at him. “Are we gonna carve them together?”
Joel huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s the idea.”
And with that, you start your selection.
_________
After the perfect pumpkins have been chosen — yours round and cheerful, his sturdy and a little lopsided, though he swears it has character — you and Joel wander toward the cider stand. The air now smells of cinnamon and other spices.
Joel nods toward the counter, thumb hooked in his pocket. “Think I’ll grab a cider. You want one, sweetheart?”
You shake your head, slipping your hands into the sleeves of your sweater. “No, can I just have a couple sips of yours? I’ve got my eye on one of those caramel apples.”
Joel’s voice drops, rough with amusement. “That’s right… damn near slipped my mind how much you like sticky, messy things.” His grin widens, wicked as he winks at you.
Heat blooms under your skin at the clear double meaning. You swat at his arm, head swiveling to make sure no one heard him. “Joel,” you hiss, half-scandalized, half-delighted.
He just smirks, like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on you. Then steps up to the counter, ordering both without hesitation.
Joel hands you the apple, wrapped neatly in wax paper, then tips his head toward a stack of hay bales. “C’mon. Let’s sit a minute.”
You settle beside him, the hay scratchy under your legs, the day alive with chatter and the soft strains of fiddle music from a nearby speaker.
Joel takes a long sip of cider, then turns the cup toward you, still cradled in his big hand. “Go on then, thief. Just don’t drink it all.”
You lean in, his knuckles brushing your cheek as you wrap your lips around the rim where his just were, he tips the cup slightly, and cider flows to your lips. It’s hot and sweet, warming you clear down to your stomach. Joel just watches you, amused while you take a slow sip.
When you pull back, your breath fogs in the cool air. “Mm,” you murmur, licking a drop from your lip. “Perfect.”
You hold up the caramel apple in reply, the glossy surface catching the sunlight. “Your turn.”
Joel leans in and takes a slow, deliberate bite, caramel snapping under his teeth. You feel the warmth of his breath, the faint brush of his beard against your knuckles.
“Lord,” he mutters around a mouthful, “stickin’ to my damn beard.”
You laugh, shake your head, and tilt closer. “Hold still.”
Your thumb swipes a streak of caramel from the corner of his mouth, but instead of pulling back, you lean in and press a kiss there.
Joel huffs a soft laugh, about to say something, but you slip your hand up, fingers curling along his jaw to hold him in place. “Oh,” you murmur, turning his face gently toward you, “you’ve got some here.”
Kiss.
He blinks, caught off guard, eyes darkening as you tilt his chin the other way. “And here.”
Kiss.
You're grinning now, playful and bold, turning his face back to you. “Oh, and here.”
Kiss.
By the third kiss he’s gone still beneath your hand, his eyes fixed on you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.
You grin against his skin, your voice low and teasing. “Mm. Always makin’ a mess, Miller. Good thing I don’t mind cleanin’ you up… sticky stuff and all.”
Joel’s breath comes heavier, his hand coming up to cover yours at his jaw, rough thumb brushing along your knuckles. His mouth curves into that slow, dangerous grin as he leans in, mouth right next to your ear. “‘Ur playin’ with fire, darlin’. Windin’ me up out here, knowin’ I can’t take what's mine till later.”
