Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | part:3 {18+ minors DNI} [masterlist]
|part 3| Capital 'F' Fireworks| 2.6k words|
Joel Miller, a single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!
Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️
sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.
"You see his jaw clench before he sucks his teeth. “That so, darlin’? You’re tellin’ me you got some other sorry bastard willing to put up with your bratty attitude?” He tilts his head to the side, inching closer to you, lips ghosting your ear. “He know how to fight?” " |A/N part 3!!! I hope I let these two live happily ever after because I love them so much. let me know how you guys like the story, your reblogs and comments make me so happy!!!
Warnings: Mild language, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). eventual smut, alcohol use, YEARNING, mild smut, kissing, jealous!Joel
The sun is kissing the horizon, the sky turning navy as the moon starts to show her face.
It’s nearing 9 pm and the majority of parents have ushered out their crotch goblins, hauling them off in minivans before the fireworks blast off—settling the shrieking of the party. The yard is littered with the aftermath, beer cans, half-eaten hotdog buns, and a lone flip-flop that nobody wanted to claim.
The sound of a thousand crickets harmonizes with The Grateful Dead. Jerry Garcia sings “Touch of Gray” from a speaker hidden near the porch, volume dialed down low. The air is heavy with humidity, sticky and hot, clinging to your skin like a damp blanket. It’s gross, but you’re kinda grateful for the sweat—and the dark at this moment. You have no doubts that you’re still red in the face from Joel’s lips on yours in the kitchen. The heat that won’t die down, ’cause you’re repeating the moment over and over. It’s in your head like a damn highlight reel every time you blink your eyes.
Across the yard, your dad trudges toward a guy you vaguely clock from Saturday poker nights as a kid. Darren? Darryl? Yeah, Darryl. He’s at the far end of the backyard, hauling a cardboard box that just says America! Fireworks! in big red, white, and blue letters. They start unpacking the explosives like little kids on Christmas, unwrapping Roman candles, bottle rockets, and other sticks of death with hilariously patriotic names like Wave the Flag, Victory Eagle, and We Want You! They set them all up in a neat little row on the fence line.
You do a visual sweep to see who’s still lingering around and spot Kim, still on the patio. Her chin rests on her hands, elbows ground into the table, looking far too interested in whatever conversation she’s having. You can barely make out a blonde guy across from her, laughing away. She’s giving him her best “fuck me” eyes. Good for her! You whip your phone out and text her from across the yard.
(9:04 PM) You: Who needs to use protection now? Ahahaha u gonna hit that or what 😜lmao
You see her pull her phone out of her purse glancing down, she shakes her head. Looking up, squinting till she spots you in the dark, then flips you off, sticking her tongue out. You laugh and type out “love you bestie,” hitting send just as Joel leans into your ear, his drawl real quiet, smooth like tumbled stones.
“Who’s got you smilin’ like that?” It comes out playful, but you hear a whisper of jealousy in his words, so you play along.
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know, cowboy?” you tease, giving him a wink as you pretend to hide your phone from him. “Maybe I’m textin’ someone about dinner reservations—you wouldn’t get it.” A grin spreads wide across your face, but not his.
You see his jaw clench before he sucks his teeth. “That so, darlin’? You’re tellin’ me you got some other sorry bastard willing to put up with your bratty attitude?” He tilts his head to the side, inching closer to you, lips ghosting your ear. “He know how to fight?”
Well, that played out differently in my head. Did it get hotter out here?
You don’t answer his question, just bite your lip, still standing shoulder to—elbow with him. You stare ahead and watch as Sarah finds a spot worthy enough of setting down her towel to watch the show. You elbow Joel in the side to get his attention. “You don’t have a breathalyzer on you by chance, huh?” you grin. “Figure we should check if Dad’s sober enough to drive himself to urgent care if he blows his fuckin’ hand off.”
Joel lets out a chuckle, shaking his head—He’s gotta be sick of your shit by now. “I’m afraid not, darlin’. We’re just gonna have to hope for the best. You’re a smart girl though, sure you could jerry-rig a tourniquet.” His voice is quiet, teasing, and you catch a glint in those dark eyes that has your stomach doing kickflips.
Sarah’s voice shrills through the darkness of the yard, cutting the moment short. “Hey! You guys! Over here!”
The two of you head over to her. You drop down to the ground sitting beside her. You lean back on your hands, reaching out behind you, grass already itching the backs of your thighs through your dress. Joel settles on the other side, stretching out his long legs. His boots kick up a patch of grass as he gets comfortable. He leans back as well, mimicking your pose, placing his hand next to yours propping himself up, close but not quite touching. It’s still too close though—you can feel the warmth radiating off his knuckles, and it’s got your pulse doing dumb shit. You can smell him, pine and musk, making the kiss replay in your head one more time, still buzzing on your lips.
Your dad’s voice booms through what’s left of the crowd. “Alright everybody, move back, I ain’t coverin’ no one’s copay.” He fumbles out a barbeque lighter and does a few test clicks before holding it up like a torch. “Okay, from three! Two! One!”
The sky explodes, red, white, and blue splashing over Sarah’s wide eyes. She squeals, head tipping back. You do the same, smiling like an idiot. Fireworks never fail to make you feel, and act like a little kid. Joel’s dimple grows more prominent with each passing flash, his eyes are locked on Sarah, watching her glow; but every so often you see them flicker to you. You catch his jaw tightening like he’s fighting something. He leans back further now, fingers inching closer, still not touching, but you can feel the ghost of it.
The last boom echoes in the sky. The yard erupts in applause and whistles. The kids that remain run around rogue with sparklers still, nearly taking their eyes out before being collected by their adults. Your dad’s already at the firepit, slamming down a pickaxe on some kindling, building up the bones of what you’re sure will be an impressive bonfire. People are pulling stray chairs to make a sloppy circle around it, cozying up, beers in hand. Your dad sprays the wood with a bit of butane and grabs the same barbeque lighter from earlier. A few sparks, and the fire roars to life, nearly taking Dad’s eyebrows as an offering as it ignites.
“Hey, kid! Go grab the graham crackers, s’more time!” he hollers, slamming down the last of his beer. “Joel, wanna grab what’s left of the booze in there while she’s at it?”
Is Dad playing wingman for me right now? Or is he just truly a dumbass?
“More beer, on it—just make sure she doesn’t light herself on fire, but if she does—” He pauses dramatically, looking around the yard while pointing to Sarah, “throw’er in the pool for me, I guess.” He tousles Sarah’s curls before getting up off the ground, groaning as he does. “Go find more chairs, kiddo. We’ll be back.” He reaches a calloused hand out to you, pulling you up off the grass and to your feet, hand lingering in yours.
You stumble inside. The screen door creaks shut, and he’s on you before you even hit the kitchen. Lips on yours, softer this time, but with more intention, less teeth, still just as hungry. He steers you back into the fridge. You hear the contents rattle as he cages you in, sliding his knee between your legs, possessive. He pulls back for a moment, half-panting into your mouth. “Dinner reservation my ass.” He’s practically growling now, leaning his whole body weight into his knee, sending a jolt of electricity to your core. “Not sharin’ you.” he nips at your lower lip, feral. You melt into him, tugging at his shirt, letting your hand travel down till they hit denim. You can feel him getting hard against your hip, it makes your head fucking spin. The door bangs open again. This time it’s Kim and blonde guy stumbling in, giggling as she grabs her purse from the kitchen table.
“Oh, wait—oh! Shit, sorry, my bad lovebirds! Pretend we’re not here, just—uh—carry on!” She winks, slurring, “Get it, girl,” as she drags her new friend out the front door, and Joel pulls back, breathless, muttering, “Fuckin’ hell,” lips red, grinning, ”What am I gonna do with you?”
“I can think of a few things,” you laugh, but your voice shakes and you head to the pantry for the real reason you’re in here. S’mores, graham crackers, chocolate, where the hell’s the chocolate—cool—got it. Joel turns around to grab the drinks from the fridge and catches a stray one, stopping it from crashing to the ground as the door opens. He takes out a six-pack of Bud and the last few Smirnoff Ices, placing them on the counter, but not before he throws one at you. “Don’t get any ideas, you brat.” You catch it, fumbling the chocolate bars in your hand, sticking your tongue out at him as you do.
You head back outside. Smoke and the crackling of the firepit fill the air. Sarah’s slouched in a camping chair with a towel wrapped around her, covering her from the waist down to her bare feet. You sit beside her and hand her the package of marshmallows, watching the way her eyes go wide with excitement.
Your dad gestures over to her. He’s sharpening a stick that he’s surely just yanked off a tree; there’s still a damn leaf on it. “Here, kid, use this.”
Sarah looks back at him, confused, her tiny eyebrow raised, having no idea what he’s telling her to do. “Use it for what?”
Your dad doesn’t reply. He just shoves a marshmallow onto the end of the stick, and she gets the drill. “Oh—yeah, we usually have actual roasting sticks,” she giggles and practically shoves the marshmallow into the center of the fire. It ignites into a flaming ball of molten sugar. She pouts, sliding the charred marshmallow off the end of the stick. She tabs another one on the stick and tries again, more careful this time; crouching a few feet away from the fire.
Joel sets the case of beer down at your dad’s feet, grabbing one for himself and putting it into the cupholder of the chair next to yours, but he doesn’t sit down yet. He spins on his heels, heading for the back gate without glancing back at you.
After a few minutes, he reemerges from the front of the house, acoustic guitar slung over one shoulder and a red flannel tucked under his opposite arm. He leans the guitar against a tree and walks over to Sarah, still sitting in front of the fire, stuffing her face with marshmallows and half-melted chocolate, wrapping her up in the flannel. She looks hilarious like she’s a cartoon character wearing an oversized housecoat. The shirt hits her below the knee, arms extending far beyond her little hands.
You watch as he grabs the stick from her and shows her how to roast the perfect marshmallow, twirling the stick slowly, over and over, until it’s the perfect shade of gold. He puts it between two crackers and adds a piece of chocolate, bringing it up to Sarah’s mouth, but then he fakes her out and eats half of it himself. Sarah smacks him on the side of the head, causing the entire group to start laughing.
He sits in the chair beside you, close enough that his knee presses firmly to yours. You point over to the guitar, “Okay, cowboy, you’re gettin’ more and more impressive every minute—where’s Wonderwall?” He sighs, glancing at you with a half-smirk.
“Patience is a virtue, gorgeous—I’ve been tryin’ to tell you that—good things come to those who wait.” He doesn’t even drop his voice down, saying it matter-of-factly. You swoon.
That was bold as hell. Dad’s too drunk to care, or does he even care anyway? Who cares, he called me gorgeous.
Once Sarah’s done licking chocolate off her fingers and smearing the leftovers onto Joel’s flannel, she plops down, scooting her chair closer to yours. Then, without warning, she climbs into your lap, sticky hands and all. “You’re comfier than that dumb chair,” she says, settling in like it’s the most natural thing. You laugh, wrapping an arm around her to keep her steady. Her hair brushes your cheek.
“Yeah, well, you’re a mess, princess.” She grins, totally unfazed, and you can’t help but grin back. Her warmth, her easy trust, it’s doing something to your chest you can’t quite name.
Joel walks over to the tree, slinging the guitar back over his shoulder. He sits back down, tuning it with a few quick strums. The warm glow of the fire catches his face, those lines around his eyes, that damn dimple. He eventually starts picking out a slow, mellow tune, “Future Days” by Pearl Jam or something close to it. His voice joins in, low and gravelly, not perfect but warm, and it’s like the whole yard quiets down to listen to him. Crickets, chatter, even the fire seems to hush.
Sarah hums, half-asleep in your lap, her weight sinking heavier against you. Your dad’s grinning; Darryl’s tapping his foot. Kim—wait didn’t she leave?…guess not. Is cozying up with blondie on a blanket, shooting you a knowing look across the flames, expression soft.
You’re watching Joel, his fingers moving over the strings, his focus soft but steady, and it hits you like a truck. Sarah’s steady, sleepy breaths, his quiet strumming, the way he glances at you over her head, like you’re a part of this little world they’ve got.
Oh, fuck. I’m fucked. Capital F. Fucked. This man could ruin my whole damn life.
Not just him. It’s her too. The whole fucking thing. Your heart’s doing somersaults, and you don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run. So you just sit there, holding Sarah tighter, letting the feeling burn. It’s almost embarrassing, barely two months ago this guy was a total stranger. Even now, you’ve only spent a day with him, but it feels like you’ve known him your whole life. It feels—right, like you’ve lived your whole to get to this feeling.
Maybe I’m just delusional.
The yard empties. Darryl and the poker guys stumble off; Kim and blondie vanish with a wave and a flash of the middle finger. It’s just you, Joel, Sarah, and your dad now. The fire dies down to glowing embers. Your dad’s half-asleep in his chair, muttering about cleaning up tomorrow.
Joel sets the guitar aside, stretching his arms out, and looks at you, like really looks, then says, “Hey, lemme borrow your phone. Wanna get a picture of this.”
You fish it out of your pocket, handing it over, and he snaps a quick shot, you and Sarah, her curled up in your lap, firelight flickering on your faces. He fiddles with it, smirking, then hands it back. “Sent it to myself—now you’ve got my number too, trouble.”
He scoops Sarah up, her head smacking against his shoulder, and leans in close, close enough you can feel his breath, murmuring, “Thanks for tonight, darlin’.” His lips brush your temple, soft and quick, and he pulls back, that dimple flashing in a quiet smile, carrying her off to the truck.
You’re left there, giggling like an idiot, kicking your feet under the chair, heart racing as your dad snores beside you. Yeah. Definitely fucked.
