summary: You’ve been hiding your sickness—and the truth—from Joel for weeks. But when a pregnancy test confirms your fears, the weight of it becomes too much to bear. Telling him risks reopening old wounds… but keeping it secret might break you both.
WC: 3.8K
tags: Age gap (60s Joel x 30s reader), pregnancy reveal, anxiety, crying, panic, mentions of past child loss (Sarah), emotional vulnerability, soft Joel, comfort, domestic tenderness, happy ending
My Masterlist
You’ve been sick for days. Maybe longer.
It started as something small—dull headaches, a little nausea in the mornings, that tight ache behind your ribs when you stood too fast. Nothing worth bringing up. Not with Joel. Not when he already worries too much.
You’d blamed it on stress. On the cold. On whatever dried meat Maria had handed you from the trade post. But it hasn’t gone away. It’s gotten worse.
Today, it hits harder than usual. Your stomach twists before your eyes even open. You lie in bed, curled on your side, one hand pressed to your mouth, breathing shallowly through your nose.
Joel’s already up. You hear him in the kitchen—footsteps creaking across the floorboards, the soft clink of silverware, the low grumble of the stove catching. You try to move, but the moment you sit up, your body rebels.
You make it to the bathroom just in time.
You vomit hard, clutching the edge of the sink like it might keep you tethered. Cold sweat beads on your neck, your spine prickling with heat and nausea and panic.
It’s not the first time this week.
And still, you haven’t told him.
By the time you pull yourself together, Joel’s voice is already calling down the hallway.
“Breakfast’s ready. You up?”
You splash water on your face and don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, your lips chapped. You stare at yourself a moment too long.
Then you step into the hallway like nothing’s wrong.
He doesn’t question you.
He never does at first.
Joel’s at the stove, dividing up the food onto two plates. It’s not much—just scrambled eggs and a toasted slice of bread—but he’s humming under his breath like he’s proud of it. You try to sit down without making a face. The smell turns your stomach.
“Didn’t hear you get up,” he says, voice low and easy. “Sleep okay?”
You nod. Lie.
He sets the plate in front of you. You force yourself to eat a few bites, chewing carefully, swallowing around the nausea.
“You sure you’re not gettin’ sick?” he asks after a while, studying you. “You’ve been lookin’ a little… off.”
You shake your head too quickly. “No, just tired. Stomach’s been weird. Probably a bug or something.”
He doesn’t push. Just narrows his eyes, then reaches over to squeeze your thigh under the table. A quiet gesture. Comforting. You wish it didn’t make your chest ache.
You don’t talk much after that. Joel launches into something about a new gate they’re reinforcing on the east wall, and you nod along, trying not to gag every time you lift your fork. You excuse yourself early and claim a headache. He offers to make tea. You say no.
By the time you crawl back into bed, you’re already crying.
The test isn’t something you went looking for. Not really.
It’s tucked in the back of your dresser, hidden beneath a pair of old gloves and a cracked mirror you meant to throw away. You remember Maria handing it to you months ago, half-joking—“Just in case.” You’d laughed then. Said something sarcastic. Stuffed it in the drawer and forgot.
But you find it now.
Hands shaking.
Heart pounding.
You stare at the little plastic thing like it’s a weapon.
You haven’t had your period in… shit. You count on your fingers. At least two months. Maybe more. You try to remember when the last time was and come up blank. Just nausea and headaches and crying over stupid things like burnt toast and Joel leaving his damn flannel on the floor again.
You sit on the edge of the bed and peel the wrapper back slowly.
The directions are smeared but readable. You follow them. You take the test.
You wait.
Two minutes feels like an hour.
You pace the room, bare feet cold against the floor, every breath too shallow, too loud. You’re not ready for this. You can’t be. You’ve been careful. Joel’s older. You thought…
You glance at the stick.
Two pink lines.
Clear as day.
No denying it. No maybes. No confusion.
You’re pregnant.
You sink to the floor and cry so hard your throat burns.
It’s not that you don’t want a baby.
It’s that you don’t know how to have one. Not here. Not in this world. And not with Joel, not after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s lost.
You think about Sarah. The photo he keeps in his coat pocket. The way he still gets quiet when kids are nearby. The way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s waiting for you to vanish, too.
He hasn’t said her name in months.
But you see it in his eyes.
You press your hands to your stomach. Try to imagine what’s inside. Try to make it feel real.
And it does.
Terrifyingly real.
But you don’t tell him.
Not that night. Not the next. Not the week after.
You keep pretending.
Keep hiding.
Keep waking up sick and saying it’s nothing.
Because you love him too much to ruin this.
And you’re afraid—so afraid—that this will be the thing that finally breaks him.
You don’t remember when it stopped being something you could ignore.
Maybe it was when your nausea turned into full-blown vomiting every other morning. Maybe it was the way your body started to ache differently—heavier, tender in places it hadn’t been before. Or maybe it was the way Joel kept watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.
You try to keep up the act. Try to smile when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Try to laugh when he mutters something sarcastic about Jackson politics or how damn cold it still is. You sit with him by the fire at night, listening to the quiet crackle of the wood, letting him rest his hand on your thigh like nothing’s changed.
But everything’s changed.
You’ve got a secret growing inside you. One you didn’t ask for. One you still don’t know how to feel about.
And it’s eating you alive.
You start waking up before Joel does, slipping quietly out of bed to vomit or dry heave into the toilet, chewing your lip to keep from crying out. You brush your teeth in silence. Splash cold water on your face. Sit on the edge of the tub until the spinning stops.
By the time he’s awake, you’re already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page on in three days.
“You sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?” Joel asks again that morning, a mug of tea in his hand instead of coffee. “You’ve been… quiet.”
“I’m just tired.”
He gives you a look.
You try to change the subject. “What time you heading out with Tommy today?”
Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just hands you the mug. It’s chamomile. Your favorite. He’s trying. It makes your heart ache.
“I could stay,” he says slowly, sitting down beside you. “Ain’t nothin’ urgent. We were just gonna check the perimeter out past the ridge.”
“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I’m fine. Go.”
His jaw tightens a little. Not in frustration—more like… uncertainty. Like he doesn’t quite believe you but doesn’t know how to press without making things worse.
He kisses your forehead before he leaves.
You cry as soon as the door shuts.
You wander out later, needing air, even though the snow’s still packed in frozen ridges along the path outside the cabin. The sky is overcast, the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You wrap Joel’s flannel tighter around you—he left it behind again this morning—and follow the half-trodden trail into the woods behind the cabin.
No one follows.
No one knows.
You find the edge of the treeline, the big flat rock you sometimes sit on in warmer months. You stand there now, breath puffing out in clouds, staring down at your gloved hands like they might hold an answer.
You fish the test out of your coat pocket.
You’ve been carrying it with you. You don’t know why.
Two pink lines, clear as ever.
You could throw it into the snow. You think about it—feel the urge in your fingers, the burst of anger that’s starting to rise like bile. You want to throw it, scream, crush it beneath your boot, pretend this isn’t happening.
But you don’t.
You sit.
And you hold it.
And you cry again.
That night, Joel makes soup. He tries not to burn it this time. You sit at the table and pretend to eat, smiling when he cracks a joke about the carrots being too soft. You’re exhausted, not just physically but from the weight of pretending.
“Was Maria askin’ about you today?” Joel says casually, handing you a piece of crusty bread. “Said she hadn’t seen you in a while.”
“Just been tired.”
“She said you should stop by.”
“I will.”
You won’t.
Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. “You know you can tell me if somethin’s wrong, right?”
You freeze.
He says it so gently, it almost breaks you. No suspicion in his voice, just quiet concern. The kind he only shows when he thinks you’re about to run—or when he is.
You want to tell him. You do.
But fear clamps down hard on your throat.
What if he looks at you and sees a mistake?
What if he looks at you and sees Sarah?
What if this is the thing that makes him leave?
You force a smile. “I know.”
Joel looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.
He just reaches for your hand across the table and holds it in his calloused palm.
And you grip it like it’s the only solid thing keeping you from unraveling.
-
The nightmares come next.
You dream of blood. Of silence. Of holding something small and helpless and watching it disappear. You wake up gasping, clutching your stomach. Joel stirs beside you but doesn’t wake, and you’re glad. You don’t want him to see you like this.
You start wearing looser clothes. You start avoiding the mirror. You start skipping dinner.
Joel notices. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.
“Did I do somethin’?” he asks one night, voice quiet against your shoulder.
You’re in bed, turned away from him, pretending to be asleep. His fingers brush your arm.
“You’ve been distant.”
You say nothing. Your throat tightens.
“I ain’t mad,” he adds. “Just worried.”
You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.
“I love you, y’know,” Joel murmurs. “Even when you shut down like this.”
That’s the moment your heart breaks.
Because you realize what you’re doing isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. Not to the tiny life you’re carrying inside you.
But you’re still not ready.
Not yet.
You nod into the pillow, blinking tears onto the fabric.
“Love you too.”
A week passes.
Maybe more.
You lose track of time, counting your life in nausea and guilt and half-eaten meals. Joel never says it out loud, but you can see it in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.
You think about telling him every night.
You rehearse the words. I’m pregnant. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared.
But when you open your mouth, nothing comes.
Until finally… it does.
You don’t plan to tell him that night.
It’s the same as every other evening lately. Joel gets back late from patrol, shedding his coat and boots at the door with a tired grunt. You’re already in the kitchen, stirring soup that smells better than it tastes. You’re still too nauseous to eat more than a few bites, but you pretend for his sake.
He doesn’t notice.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just waiting.
The table is quiet as you both eat. Joel hums under his breath between spoonfuls, something familiar—an old Johnny Cash tune, maybe. He thanks you like always. Tells you it’s good even though it’s barely seasoned.
After dinner, he offers to wash up, and you let him. Your hands won’t stop shaking anyway.
You find him in bed later, shirtless and reading something he borrowed from Tommy—a survival manual someone dug up from the library. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just shifts a little to make room for you under the quilt, reaching out to rest a warm hand on your hip when you slide in beside him.
You lie there stiffly.
Heart pounding.
Stomach twisting.
“You’re awful quiet,” he murmurs after a while, voice rough from sleep already creeping in.
You swallow. “Just tired.”
“Mm.” He turns slightly, fingers idly stroking the hem of your shirt. “You been sayin’ that a lot lately.”
You tense.
“I—” Your voice cracks. “Yeah.”
Joel doesn’t push. Not right away. He just keeps tracing slow circles on your skin, quiet and patient, like he’s waiting for something you’re not sure you know how to give.
And then—
“Been thinkin’…” he says slowly. “Maybe you oughta see that doctor Maria keeps fussin’ about. Just in case.”
You flinch. He feels it.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.
Joel rolls onto his side to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His brow furrows, and the concern there nearly guts you.
“You’ve been sick almost every damn day,” he says gently. “You ain’t eatin’. You’re pale. You cry at soup commercials.”
You bark a laugh that dissolves into a sob before you can stop it.
Joel’s expression shifts. Alarmed now. He sits up fully, cupping your face in both hands. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”
You shake your head, curling into yourself. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“What—? Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
And finally—finally—you say it.
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Not shocked. Not gasped or cursed.
Just… silence.
You feel him go still, like every muscle has locked up at once. His hands fall from your face.
You don’t look at him.
“I found the test a couple weeks ago,” you say, words tumbling now, rushed and raw. “I thought it was a stomach bug, or something I ate, but then it didn’t stop. And I remembered Maria gave me that test a while back and I just—fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, Joel. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”
“To me?”
Your breath catches.
Joel’s voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You finally glance at him.
He looks shell-shocked. Not angry. Not even upset. Just… wrecked. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “After everything. After Sarah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Joel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the blanket bunched around his waist, like it might offer an explanation he can’t find in your words.
“I thought you’d leave,” you admit softly. “Or worse—I thought you’d stay, but you’d hate me for it.”
Joel blinks slowly. “You really think that little of me?”
“No.” You wipe your eyes. “No, I just—I know what this means for you. I know what it could bring back.”
Joel’s breath hitches. He leans back against the headboard, one hand dragging over his face. The silence stretches between you like a rope pulled taut.
“I ain’t mad,” he says finally.
You flinch.
“I ain’t,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just… I need a second.”
You nod. Curl your knees to your chest. You try not to cry again, but your chest won’t stop heaving, your hands won’t stop trembling.
Joel stays where he is for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching you.
But he doesn’t leave.
And somehow, that’s what breaks you the most.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty.
Then Joel shifts.
He reaches for you slowly, hesitantly, and when you don’t pull away, he pulls you into his arms.
You bury your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart.
He holds you through all of it. Lets you sob until your voice goes hoarse, rubbing your back and whispering nothing-words you barely register.
When you finally quiet, he kisses the top of your head.
“You should’ve told me,” he says, not angry. Just aching.
“I was scared.”
“I know.” He sighs against your temple. “So was I.”
You blink. “You?”
Joel nods, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red.
“I knew somethin’ was off. Knew it wasn’t just the weather or the food. I kept thinkin’ about what it could be, and I… I think I knew. I just didn’t wanna be the one to say it.”
“Why?”
He swallows hard. “Because if I said it, it’d be real. And if it’s real, it can be lost.”
Your breath catches.
He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.
“But I’m not walkin’ away,” he says, voice rough but certain. “Not from you. Not from this.”
You close your eyes.
“Joel—”
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, whisper soft. “But I want to try. If you want this… I want it too.”
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“I do. I really do.”
He pulls you into his chest again and kisses your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“You’re not alone,” he says.
And this time, you believe him.
You wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.
It’s still dark, the kind of blue-black quiet that only settles in just before dawn. Joel’s arm is wrapped around your middle, his chest pressed warm and steady to your back, one hand splayed low over your stomach like he already knows what’s growing there.
Maybe he does.
He hasn’t moved all night.
You lie still for a while, not quite ready to break the spell. The room is quiet, the fire low in the hearth, the storm outside soft but persistent. You can hear his breathing behind you—slow, even, calmer than you’ve heard it in days.
It’s the first time you’ve really slept in weeks. The first time you haven’t woken up sick with dread curling through your spine. There’s fear, still. Of course there is. But it’s quieter now. Outweighed by something else.
Something that feels a little like hope.
Joel stirs not long after, mumbling sleep-drunk nonsense against your neck.
You hum softly, shifting to face him. His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep. You expect him to look tense. Uncertain. But he doesn’t.
He looks soft.
His thumb brushes your hip. “Mornin’.”
“Hi,” you whisper.
His gaze drifts to your stomach, then back to your face. “You feelin’ okay?”
“Better.”
He studies you a beat longer. “You sure?”
You nod. “Yeah. Still tired. A little queasy. But… it’s different now.”
Joel’s fingers flex against your side. “Yeah. It is.”
There’s a quiet pause. Neither of you says it, but it’s there in the air between you. Real. Alive.
“I kept thinkin’ about what I’d say,” you admit quietly. “When I finally told you.”
Joel smiles faintly. “What’d you come up with?”
You shrug. “I didn’t think I’d get that far.”
He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek.
“You were right to be scared,” he says. “I was scared, too.”
You nod.
“But I want this,” he adds. “I want you. I want this baby.”
You blink fast. “You sure?”
“Sweetheart.” His hand moves back to your belly, resting there like it belongs. “I ain’t been sure about much in my life, but this?” He leans in, voice low and raspy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Your eyes sting again.
He kisses you softly—slow, lingering, like he’s not in a rush anymore. And for once, neither are you.
Later, when the sky lightens and the rain slows, Joel gets up and pads to the fire to stoke it back to life. You sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his flannels, watching him move around the cabin like he’s already settled into this new chapter.
He talks as he works.
“Might need to reinforce that back door soon. Wind keeps slippin’ through the cracks.”
“Mmhm.”
“And we’ll need more blankets. If you’re gonna get cold easier, can’t have you freezin’ all night.”
You smile, resting a hand on your stomach.
“Could build a new shelf for the pantry,” he adds, glancing at you. “Start settin’ aside things for winter. For… y’know.”
He gestures vaguely at your stomach, the faintest blush creeping into his cheeks.
You can’t help it—you laugh.
“What?”
“You’re nesting.”
He frowns. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
Joel mutters under his breath, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.
He crosses the room a moment later and crouches in front of you, palms resting on your knees.
“I’m serious, though,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever we need. You just gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, alright?”
You nod.
“No more secrets,” you whisper.
“No more secrets,” he echoes.
He leans forward, presses a kiss to your thigh, then rests his forehead there for a long moment. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy.
“You ever think about names?”
Your heart lurches.
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Well,” he says softly, “maybe we should.”
You stare at him.
“I know it’s early,” he continues. “But I keep thinkin’ about it. The kind of name we’d give. What kind of person they’ll be.”
You reach for his hand. “You really want this?”
“I already do,” he says.
You smile, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “What if it’s a girl?”
Joel swallows hard. “Then I guess I’ll have two reasons to keep this world safe.”
You press your forehead to his.
And you both sit there in the early morning quiet, breathing together, dreaming of something you never thought you’d have again.
A future.
That evening, Joel pulls you into his lap while the fire crackles, his hand absentminded on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles over the curve that isn’t there yet but will be.
He talks to the baby like he’s already met them.
Tells them how much he’s looking forward to teaching them to fish, to play guitar, to run without looking back. He jokes about how stubborn they’re probably gonna be, how it’s definitely your fault, and how he’s not gonna let them out of his sight until they’re at least twenty-five.
You laugh, and cry, and laugh again.
And when you fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in weeks that your dreams aren’t full of fear.
They’re full of names.
And tiny hands.
And sunlight.
tags: @lowrisemiller @pedrito-is-punk7 here ya go from a post a couple weeks ago
Hii, I adore your writing. Can you please do one where Joelxreader had a fight, he didn't feel good enough, old and went to sleep angry. He woke up in the middle of the night, didn't see you there and even noticed your side was cold, which meant you hadn't been there for a while. He panicked and thought you left him.
In the end he did find you in the house and you made up. Some fluff please, smut if you want. Thanks :)
Only You
Word Count: 1,830
Tags: Angst, insecurity, emotional hurt/comfort, panic, soft making up, light smut (mildly descriptive, f!reader, oral f receiving), age-gap themes, language
AN: Thank you so much for this request! Hope you like it! As always, my inbox is always open for requests for anything specific you wanna read <3
My Masterlist
“You can’t just shut me out every time something scares you, Joel!”
Your voice cracked as it bounced off the walls of the cabin. Joel didn’t flinch. He stood near the table, arms crossed, face like stone.
“I ain’t shut you out.”
“You have,” you insisted, eyes shining. “For days. You’ve been in your head, pushing me away, barely talking, barely looking at me. And when I try to ask—when I try to love you through it—you act like I’m the one hurting you.”
Joel’s jaw flexed.
You took a step closer. “What is going on?”
His voice was low. Bitter. “What’s goin’ on is that you’re finally seein’ me for what I am.”
You blinked. “Joel—”
“I’m tired, baby. Tired of pretendin’ like this is easy. Like I ain’t constantly waitin’ for the other shoe to drop. You’re young, you’re kind, you got a whole damn life ahead of you, and I’m just—” He shook his head. “I’m just some old man clingin’ to somethin’ that don’t belong to him.”
Your heart shattered right in your chest.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered. “Don’t take what we have and twist it into somethin’ ugly just ‘cause you’re scared.”
“I ain’t twistin’ nothin’. I’m tellin’ the truth.”
“Well, it’s a shitty truth,” you snapped, tears brimming. “And it isn’t mine.”
Joel stared for a beat—then turned. “I’m done talkin’.”
He walked out.
Not a slammed door. Not a final word. Just silence. Like he’d already decided.
You stood there in the stillness, breath shaky, limbs buzzing with frustration. He didn’t even look back.
You didn’t go after him.
Your hands trembled as you grabbed a blanket from the closet and curled up on the couch. You couldn’t cry again. You were too angry. Too heartbroken. Joel had this way of building walls and convincing himself he was protecting you by doing it. But all it did was make you feel like a stranger in your own home.
You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, blinking up at the darkened beams as the clock ticked on. He didn’t come back out. You didn’t go in.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed you.
Joel’s eyes snapped open.
The room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of moonlight through the curtains. His body was still warm with sleep, but something felt wrong.
He reached out instinctively for you—cold sheets. Empty space.
His hand searched again, heart beginning to race. Your side of the bed wasn’t just empty—it had been that way for a while.
“Fuck,” he muttered, bolting upright.
The fight came rushing back in pieces—your voice trembling, the look in your eyes when he said you deserved better. The way he walked away like a coward, thinking silence would protect you both.
But now?
Now all he felt was dread.
“Baby?” he called into the dark, voice rasping from sleep and guilt. No answer.
He got up fast, pulling on the first hoodie he found and moving through the house, bare feet padding softly across the wood floor.
No sign of you in the kitchen.
Bathroom light off.
Coat still hanging by the door, shoes untouched.
His chest clenched.
Maybe you left anyway. Maybe it had taken a few hours to decide, but you realized he wasn’t worth it after all.
He deserved that.
But it would ruin him.
The fear took over, clawing up his throat as he stumbled into the living room—and stopped.
There you were.
Curled into a ball on the couch, blanket twisted around your legs, a crease between your brows even in sleep.
His knees nearly gave out with relief.
He moved slowly, crouching beside the couch and brushing a piece of hair away from your forehead.
You stirred at the touch, eyes fluttering open.
“Joel?” Your voice was groggy, confused.
His face was crumpled in guilt. “I thought you were gone.”
You sat up a little. “Why would I leave?”
Joel looked down. “’Cause I gave you every damn reason to.”
There it was—cracked and raw. All his worry, all his anger, all his fear that you were too good for him, poured out like floodwater from a broken dam.
You reached for his hand. “I needed space, Joel. I wasn’t leavin’. I was hurt.”
“I know,” he rasped, voice thick. “I—fuck—I didn’t mean any of it. You were right. I pulled away and then got mad when you noticed. That ain’t fair.”
You squeezed his fingers gently.
“I didn’t want to sleep without you,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Woke up and you weren’t there and... I lost it.”
His eyes were glassy. The vulnerability in them made your chest ache.
“Come here,” you said softly, shifting over to give him space on the couch.
He settled beside you, slow and careful like he didn’t think he deserved to. You pulled the blanket over both of you.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice barely audible against your temple. “I feel like I ain’t enough sometimes. Like you’ll wake up one day and see what I see.”
You looked up at him, gently guiding his face to meet your gaze.
“You wanna know what I see?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“I see a man who has survived things most people wouldn’t. I see someone who carries so much pain but still chooses love. I see someone who protects what he loves with everything he’s got.”
Joel’s eyes shone in the low light.
“I see someone I want. Someone I love. Exactly as he is.”
A shaky breath escaped him. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do,” you whispered. “Stop sayin’ that.”
You kissed him then—soft and slow, mouths moving like they’d missed each other all night.
Joel deepened it, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat. His hand settled on your waist, pulling you closer.
You climbed into his lap without hesitation, straddling him beneath the blanket, hands cupping his face.
He kissed you like he was trying to make up for all the words he didn’t know how to say.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered against your lips.
“You didn’t.”
“Never wanna go to sleep mad again.”
You smiled, touching your nose to his. “Then don’t be an ass next time.”
That earned a breathy laugh from him. “Fair.”
His hands slid under your shirt, rough palms skimming the soft skin of your back. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the way his touch still made your stomach flutter.
You rocked gently against him, your forehead resting against his, heartbeats syncing in the quiet.
“Let me show you,” he murmured, voice husky. “Let me show you how much I need you.”
You nodded, voice caught in your throat.
Joel kissed down your neck, warm lips lingering at your pulse point. One hand slipped between your thighs, fingers teasing gently through your sleep shorts.
You let out a soft moan as he touched you, his name a breath on your lips.
“You always so wet for me, baby?” he murmured, fingers stroking slow, deliberate.
You whimpered. “Only for you.”
He slid a finger inside, then another, curling them just right. His thumb circled your clit with practiced care, watching your face the whole time.
“You’re perfect,” he said, voice gravel and reverence. “Every part of you.”
You bucked against his hand, breath catching. “Joel—”
“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, kissing you again, slower this time. “Wanna make you feel good.”
Your body trembled as he worked you open, fingers stroking deep until your thighs shook around him.
“Cum for me, baby,” he said against your neck. “Let go.”
You fell apart with a soft cry, clinging to him as the wave washed over you.
He held you through it, murmuring sweet nothings as you came down, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your cheek, your lips.
When your breathing slowed, you looked up at him. “Can we go to bed now?”
He smiled. “Yeah, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
Joel carried you back to the bedroom like you weighed nothing, setting you gently under the covers before crawling in beside you.
You curled into his side, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.
You wake up to the sound of your own stomach growling. At first, you try to ignore it, shifting under the blanket and curling further into the warmth of Joel beside you. But sleep won’t come.
You glance at the clock. 2:13 a.m.
Typical.
Carefully, you slide out from under Joel’s arm and tiptoe your way out of the bedroom. The floors in his house creak like hell, and the last thing you want is to wake him. He’s been sore from patrol all week — knees aching worse than usual, back stiff, and mood swinging like a goddamn pendulum. He deserves the rest.
You tug his flannel shirt around you tighter and pad into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes.
What are you even hungry for?
You open the pantry. Crackers. Old jerky. A jar of questionable preserves. You wince at the label’s date and shove it back onto the shelf. Maybe toast. If the bread isn’t stale. Or a spoonful of honey?
Your stomach rumbles again — louder this time. You sigh and flick on the oven light, bathing the room in a warm amber glow, soft and dim enough not to feel too awake.
That’s when you hear it: the shuffle of bare feet on hardwood and the low, gravelly voice you know better than your own heartbeat.
“You tryna sneak out or somethin’?”
You spin around. “Shit—Joel.”
He’s standing in the doorway, shirtless, hair tousled and sticking up in wild directions, eyes half-lidded and squinting against the light.
“You scared me,” you whisper, heart still fluttering from the surprise.
Joel just gives you a slow once-over. “And you’re in my shirt.”
“Your shirt’s comfy,” you murmur, tugging at the hem. “And I was hungry.”
“Hungry at two in the damn morning?”
“Midnight cravings don’t check the clock, Joel.”
He runs a hand down his face, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “You could’ve woke me.”
You shrug. “Didn’t want to bother you. Figured I’d sneak a spoonful of peanut butter and crawl back into bed.”
Joel walks past you toward the cabinets. “We’re makin’ pancakes.”
You blink. “Wait—really?”
“Yeah, really. But you’re helpin’. Ain’t gonna be your damn short-order cook.”
You grin and follow him to the counter, grabbing the mixing bowl.
Joel pulls out the flour and a half-empty carton of milk while you grab eggs from the icebox. He’s still squinting, clearly not fully awake, but his hands move on autopilot. You get the feeling he’s done this before — maybe for Ellie, maybe for Sarah.
You don’t ask. You don’t need to. His quiet comfort in the kitchen tells enough stories.
“You got a real specific kind of hunger,” he mutters, cracking eggs into the bowl like it’s a challenge. “Can’t just eat a piece of bread like a normal person. No, gotta make pancakes from scratch in the middle of the night.”
“I never said you had to make them,” you reply, reaching over to snatch the whisk from him. “But now that you’re here…”
Joel grunts and raises a brow, but you catch the tiniest smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
You start mixing the batter while Joel greases the skillet. The scent of butter begins to drift through the kitchen, rich and warm and nostalgic. The kind of smell that makes you feel like a kid again.
But it wouldn’t be a late-night kitchen scene without a little chaos.
You’re scooping flour when Joel bumps your elbow reaching for the sugar, and half the cup dumps across the counter. Some of it lands squarely on your shirt—his shirt—and dusts the front like powdered snow.
“Joel!” you gasp, flailing slightly. “You flour-bombed me!”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” he says, deadpan, though you can see the amusement in his eyes. “Clumsy woman’s makin’ a mess in my kitchen, that’s what I see.”
You retaliate with a light sprinkle of flour to his chest. It clings to the soft hair there and leaves a ghostly handprint. Joel blinks down at it, then narrows his eyes.
“Oh, you’re askin’ for it now.”
Before you can back away, he dips his fingers into the batter and smears a line across your cheek.
“Joel!”
“You started it.”
“You ruined the pancake batter!”
“Nah, I improved it. Gave it some character.”
You stare at him, eyes wide with playful indignation, and then you both burst into laughter. It echoes off the tile and the quiet, sleeping walls of the house. You realize how rare this is — not just the moment, but this version of Joel. Loose. Soft. Light in his eyes. Laughing with you like nothing else in the world exists.
Once the batter’s somewhat salvaged and the skillet is ready, you both settle into your makeshift system. You pour; Joel flips. He grumbles every time a pancake gets too brown, and you tease him for being a “perfectionist pancake dad.” He tries to act annoyed, but his little grin betrays him every time.
“You ever do this?” you ask softly, handing him a plate.
He doesn’t look at you. “Do what?”
“This kind of thing. Middle of the night, pancakes, talking.”
There’s a beat. His eyes stay on the skillet as he flips one more cake with practiced ease.
“Used to,” he says eventually. “Long time ago.”
You nod. “Thanks for doing it with me now.”
Joel finally looks at you — and there’s something tender in his gaze, something wordless that wraps itself around your ribs and holds.
“I don’t mind,” he says. “Not with you.”
The pancakes turn out a little lopsided and uneven in color, but neither of you care. You stack them on mismatched plates, drizzle what little maple syrup you have left over the top, and sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The oven light glows warm behind the stovetop, casting golden shadows across Joel’s bare chest and sleepy smile. The air smells like vanilla and sugar and him.
You take a bite and hum, mouth full. “See? Worth waking up for.”
Joel watches you, head tilted just slightly, fork in hand but untouched. “You got syrup on your lip.”
You swipe your tongue across it and shrug. “Fixed.”
He leans in — close enough that his knee bumps yours, close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “Didn’t say I didn’t wanna get it myself.”
Your pulse skips.
He kisses you, slow and sweet, one hand braced against the floor and the other curling gently behind your neck. The kiss is soft but unhurried, like he’s tasting the syrup and you all at once, and savoring both. When he finally pulls back, your lips are sticky and smiling.
“Better,” he murmurs.
You roll your eyes and bump his shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”
“And you’re a damn menace,” he replies, nudging your foot with his. “But I like you anyway.”
The house is quiet, the rest of Jackson asleep, and yet the space between you feels full. Full of laughter and syrup and the warmth of something that stretches far beyond pancakes on the floor.
Joel finishes off the burnt one — because “wastin’ food’s a sin” — and then sets his plate aside, rubbing his hands on his sweatpants.
When he shifts, he opens one arm toward you in invitation. You don’t hesitate.
You crawl into his lap, your back against his chest, your body fitting like it always belonged there. Joel exhales like a weight lifts off his shoulders just having you close. His arms wrap around your middle, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“You warm enough?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Perfect.”
You sit like that for a while. No need to fill the silence. Just the occasional deep breath, the soft drum of his fingers tracing lazy circles over your arm, and the contented hum he gives when you nuzzle into his neck.
He starts to sway just slightly — not quite rocking, but a rhythm so natural you barely notice it until your eyes get heavy.
“Sleepy now, huh?” he whispers.
You hum back, already halfway there.
Joel shifts a little and curls his hand protectively over your thigh. “You want me to carry you back to bed?”
You shake your head against his chest. “Can we just… stay here a little longer?”
He kisses your temple. “As long as you want, baby.”
The hardwood floor isn’t exactly comfortable — not like Joel’s bed, not even close — but wrapped up in him, you couldn’t care less.
Your legs are tangled together, your cheek resting just over his heart, where the steady thump lulls you closer to sleep with every second. His fingers trace patterns over your thigh, your hip, the curve of your back. Absentminded. Reverent.
You’re barely awake when you hear him speak.
“So, uh…” he murmurs, voice thick with hesitation and sleep. “This kinda thing. It’s real easy with you.”
Your breath catches, just a little. “Yeah?”
He nods against your temple. “Don’t usually—y’know, let people see me like this. Bein’ all soft, makin’ pancakes like a damn idiot.”
You smile, eyes still closed. “You’re not an idiot. You’re sweet.”
Joel lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Don’t spread that around.”
“No promises,” you tease. “You did smear pancake batter on my face, so... I’m definitely telling someone.”
“Traitor.”
You turn your face just enough to press a kiss over his heart. The thump beneath your lips stutters, then steadies again.
Joel’s arms tighten around you, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward — it’s peaceful. Soft. Like the world outside doesn’t exist, and all that matters is the two of you in this sleepy kitchen, with syrup on your fingers and love in your bones.
Then, quietly—so quietly you almost don’t hear it—he whispers it:
“I love you.”
Your eyes open.
Not because you’re surprised. You knew it. You’ve felt it in the way he looks at you, how he shields you from the cold, how he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk. But hearing it—so unguarded, so soft—makes something bloom in your chest.
You shift just enough to meet his eyes.
“I love you too,” you whisper back.
And god, the way he looks at you then. Like you hung the stars. Like you’re the reason he stayed soft all this time.
He kisses you again — slow, deep, sleepy. One hand curls into your hair, the other pulling you tighter like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
“You ready for bed?” he murmurs against your lips.
“Nope.”
He huffs. “You plannin’ to make a nest on the floor, then?”
“Maybe,” you mumble. “Kinda like it here.”
Joel laughs under his breath, low and rough. “Yeah. Me too.”
Still, he stands with you cradled in his arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You bury your face in his neck, and he walks you both back to the bedroom with slow, steady steps.
You’re half-asleep before your head hits the pillow, tucked into his side. His flannel shirt still wrapped around you. His fingers tangled with yours.
And before the darkness fully pulls you under, you hear him again:
summary: Things are changing in Jackson — the whispers, the looks, the way safety doesn’t feel quite as solid anymore. But when old fear resurfaces and quiet strength isn’t enough, she learns who’s really standing beside her when it matters most.
WC: 4.3K
tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Protective Joel, Reader Has Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Past Abuse, Angst with Comfort, Joel Fights For Her, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn
Series Masterlist
The bakery smells like cinnamon and brown sugar.
Like it always does.
The ovens are warm, the sourdough has just finished its second rise, and the front display is already half-empty from the morning rush. It should feel like any other day — comforting, quiet, routine.
But it doesn’t.
You can feel it the second the bell jingles.
The first customer — someone you’ve served a dozen times before — lingers too long at the counter. Doesn’t make eye contact. Offers a tight, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. When you pass her the scone, her fingers brush yours, and she pulls back too quickly.
“Thanks,” she says — too soft, too clipped.
She drops her coins into the jar and hurries out.
You blink, confused. Then shake it off.
Maybe she’s just cold. Maybe she’s in a rush. Maybe she’s—
The next one’s worse.
An older man who usually greets you by name steps inside, gives a casual nod… and doesn’t say a word beyond his order. No banter. No “morning, sweetheart.” Just:
“Loaf of rye.”
You wrap it. Smile. “Fresh batch just came out. Still warm.”
“S’fine.”
He leaves the coins and walks out without another glance.
This time, your chest tightens.
It keeps happening. One after the other. Familiar faces that suddenly feel distant. Too quiet. Too aware. As if something about you is louder now — and they’re pretending not to notice.
Or pretending it’s not their business.
You catch it fully about halfway through the morning, just behind the curtain that separates the kitchen from the front room. You hear it — two women by the register.
“I heard she’s staying with him now.”
“Joel Miller?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Well… I guess everyone needs a warm bed.”
Laughter.
You freeze.
The sheet of parchment you were rolling out crinkles under your grip. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.
You know they don’t mean to be cruel. Not exactly.
But they are.
And you feel it deep.
You step back into the kitchen, hands trembling, and press your palms to the cool metal counter. Try to breathe. Try to focus.
You’ve lived through worse than gossip.
You’ve lived through him.
But the weight of their words — casual, sharp-edged, smug — makes something twist in your gut.
Because this isn’t just about you.
It’s about Joel now, too.
And maybe worse than being ignored… is being noticed for the wrong reasons.
You manage to hold it together until the front bell jingles again and the door shuts behind your last customer.
You slide the tray into the warmer with steady hands, smile pinned to your face until the curtain falls behind you and you’re safely out of sight.
And then it hits.
Your chest tightens. Stomach knots. Breath stutters.
You grip the edge of the prep table, fingers digging into the wood. The air feels thick in your lungs. Like you’re breathing through flour. Like everyone out there saw something on you — a stain, a mark, a weakness — and now you can’t scrape it off.
“Everyone needs a warm bed.”
The words echo in your head. Sticky and cruel.
Your ex used to say things like that. Whisper them in your ear after fights. After bruises. After you cried.
Used up. Not worth keeping. Just a hole to keep warm.
You feel your knees wobble.
You sit down hard on the stool by the sink, hands shaking.
You press your palms against your temples and breathe. Try to ground yourself. The bakery is safe. The bakery is yours. Joel’s voice is in your head from last night: You’re not too much. You’re mine.
You whisper it to yourself.
“You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.”
You don’t cry. Not really. Just shake. Just fold a little inward.
And then you hear it — the familiar creak of the door. Boots on tile.
“Hey,” comes Joel’s voice, slow and low. “Didn’t see you out front. You alright?”
You freeze.
Wipe your face with your sleeve.
“Yeah,” you say too fast. Too bright. “Just needed a break. It’s been… busy.”
Joel steps into view.
He sees you perched on that little stool, hands still trembling slightly in your lap. Your smile — practiced and a little too tight. Your apron wrinkled like you’d been clutching it in your fists.
He doesn’t call you out.
Doesn’t say you’re lying.
Joel crouches in front of you, steady as ever. One hand on your knee. The other braced lightly on the edge of the prep table. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.
He just waits.
You want to tell him.
You want to say:
They’re talking.
They’re looking at me like I’m a dirty secret.
Like I’m not good enough for you.
But the words won’t come. They get stuck somewhere behind your teeth — tangled up with years of silence, and the voice in your head that still tells you it’s better not to need anyone at all.
You force a smile.
“I’m fine. Really.”
Joel’s eyes narrow. Not unkind — just sharp. He sees straight through it.
“Did something happen?”
“No. Just a busy morning. That’s all.”
He watches you for another second, then nods slowly. But he doesn’t let go of your knee.
“You been sleepin’?”
You nod.
“Eatin’?”
Another nod. Less convincing.
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you home tonight?”
That one hits harder.
You pause.
“I think I just… need some quiet. That’s all.”
Joel’s jaw flexes — just once. A tiny flicker of something that looks like worry.
But he doesn’t fight you.
Doesn’t tell you what to do.
Just nods again, slow and deliberate.
“You call me,” he says quietly. “If anything feels off. Anything at all.”
“I will.”
You won’t.
You both know it.
Joel stands. Squeezes your knee gently before letting go. Then leans down, presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he leaves.
You stay on the stool long after the door closes behind him.
The lunch rush is gone.
You’re wiping down the front counter when the bell chimes again — softer this time, not frantic or fast. The way it sounds when someone walks in with purpose.
Maria.
She’s not in a rush. Not armed like she usually is when she’s making her rounds. No clipboard today, no radio chatter echoing from her shoulder. Just a heavy coat, a wool scarf, and a look in her eyes you recognize too well.
She’s here for you.
“Hey,” she says casually. “Got any of those honey oat loaves left?”
You force a smile, reaching behind the counter. “One.”
She nods, walking slowly toward the display, eyes skimming the shelves but not really seeing them.
“It’s quieter in here than usual,” she murmurs.
“It’s been like that all morning,” you say, placing the bread in a paper bag. “Weather, probably.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Mm. Or maybe Jackson’s gossip mill just needed something new to chew on.”
You freeze, just for a second. Then slide the bag across the counter.
“Three credits,” you say.
Maria pulls the coins from her pocket, slow and deliberate. Sets them down one by one.
“You know,” she says, voice still soft, “I’ve seen a lot of things change around here. People. Alliances. Reputations.”
You say nothing.
She picks up the bag. Doesn’t move toward the door.
“You and Joel — it’s not my business. And for the record, I don’t think anyone decent gives a shit.”
You shift on your feet, throat tight.
Maria leans forward slightly, voice dropping.
“But I also know what it looks like when a woman starts shrinking into herself. Starts looking over her shoulder again. Starts pretending she’s okay when she’s walking around like she’s holding her breath.”
You blink fast. Swallow.
“If someone’s making you feel unsafe,” she says carefully, “you need to tell me.”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly.
Maria stares at you a beat longer.
Then:
“Just remember what we built this place for, alright? Jackson’s not perfect. But we don’t protect abusers here.”
That hits.
Hard.
You nod, barely.
She backs off then — gives you space.
“If you want to talk… or you want someone else to say it for you — I’ll be around.”
You manage a small, whispered, “Thanks.”
Maria gives you one last look — unreadable, but not unkind — then leaves with her bread.
You don’t breathe again until the door shuts behind her.
The bakery is dark when you lock up.
You stand by the door for a second, keys in your hand, listening to the wind whistle down Main Street. It’s quiet tonight. Still. The kind of quiet that would’ve comforted you, once.
Now it feels like something waiting.
You glance toward the back room, where the radio sits on the shelf near your flour bins. Joel’s voice lives there. Solid. Steady. Always willing.
You call me. If anything feels off. Anything at all.
Your feet move before you even think about it.
You step inside, flick the little lamp on, and wrap your hand around the radio.
It’s warm from the oven heat still lingering in the room. Familiar.
You press your thumb to the button — just lightly. Not enough to click.
“Joel…”
You don’t say it. Just think it.
You imagine what he’d say.
How fast he’d be here.
How angry he’d be if he knew you were even considering walking home alone through the back path.
But that’s the thing.
He’d come.
And you’d feel safe.
And then you’d feel weak for needing it.
You stare at the radio for another few seconds, then exhale sharply and set it down — harder than you mean to. The plastic rattles against the shelf.
“I’m fine,” you whisper to the empty room.
Then you turn off the light.
And step out into the dark.
You pull your coat tighter around you as you step out of the bakery and into the dark.
The cold bites at your cheeks, the air sharp and dry. Snow crunches beneath your boots, and the lamps overhead flicker with a low hum, casting long shadows across the quiet path.
This street used to feel safe.
It still is, technically — Jackson’s not like the world outside. There are rules. Guards. Curfews. Everyone plays their part to keep things in order.
But tonight?
Tonight it feels like something’s watching.
You walk faster.
The main street would’ve been the smarter choice — well-lit, even this late, with a few folks still moving around the square. But you told Joel you needed space. You told yourself you’d be fine. So you took the shortcut.
The alley behind the town’s supply sheds is narrow but clean, lined with stacked crates and the back doors of shops you know by heart.
You’ve walked it a hundred times.
But tonight every footstep echoes.
Every creak of wood sounds like a warning.
You tell yourself it’s in your head. That it’s just a long day, gossip getting under your skin, Maria’s words bouncing around in your ribs. You’re tired. That’s all.
Still, you slip your keys between your fingers — just in case.
Halfway down the alley, you pause.
You thought you heard—
A footstep?
Maybe.
You glance behind you.
Nothing.
You start walking again, faster now. The alley curves slightly at the end, toward the fence that runs along the greenhouse.
Almost home.
Almost—
You round the corner.
And stop.
He’s standing there.
Leaning against the brick, arms crossed, one boot kicked back against the wall. Like he’s been waiting. Like this isn’t the first time he’s done this.
Your ex.
The one who never yells. Who doesn’t need to yell. Who smiles while he makes you feel small. Who looks at you now like he never stopped being allowed to.
Your stomach drops.
You don’t run.
You don’t speak.
You just freeze.
You freeze mid-step.
He pushes off the wall like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you came to him.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says — voice too smooth, too familiar. “Funny runnin’ into you out here.”
You don’t answer.
Your fingers tighten around your keys, hidden in your coat pocket, the edges biting into your palm.
“Thought maybe you were avoidin’ me,” he continues, stepping forward. “That true?”
You take a half-step back.
But there’s nowhere to go. Behind you is darkness and snow. In front of you is a man who already knows how to make you feel trapped with just a tone of voice.
“Heard you been spendin’ time with Joel Miller,” he says, smile curling in a way that turns your stomach. “Didn’t think he liked broken things.”
You flinch — visibly, involuntarily.
He sees it.
He feeds on it.
“You know what people are sayin’?” he continues. “They’re laughin’ at you. Sayin’ he must be real desperate. Sayin’ he probably feels sorry for you.”
He steps closer.
You try to move around him. He blocks you.
“Ain’t nobody ever gonna really want you, y’know that?” he hisses. “Not after me. Not once they know what you let happen.”
The words hit harder than any shove ever could.
Your throat burns.
You want to scream. Tell him to fuck off. Run.
But your body won’t move. Your chest won’t expand. Your voice won't rise above a breath.
“You’re just a place to put it,” he says. “You always were.”
And then he grabs your arm.
Not hard — not like before.
But enough.
Enough to slam you back to that place where your brain goes blank and your ribs squeeze shut around your lungs. Enough to send you spiraling through a memory you never wanted to feel again.
He shoves you gently — just enough to press you back against the wall.
And leans in.
“Bet Miller doesn’t even know what you sound like when you cry.”
Your stomach turns.
You try to twist away, to push, to say something — anything — but all that comes out is a ragged gasp.
That’s when you hear it.
Bootsteps.
Heavy. Rushed.
And Joel’s voice — low, furious:
“Get your fuckin’ hands off her.”
The voice cuts through the dark like a blade.
You feel your ex’s hand twitch where it’s still pressed to the wall beside your head — startled — but he doesn’t move away.
You don’t look up at first. Can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere high in your chest.
But then Joel is there.
Fast. Heavy. Burning.
You see him out of the corner of your eye — broad shoulders, dark coat, fists clenched at his sides. The heat rolling off him is more than anger. It’s wrath.
Your ex turns slowly, lips curling.
“So this is your knight, huh?” he says with a smirk. “Joel fuckin’ Miller. Thought you’d have better taste.”
Joel doesn’t speak.
His eyes flick to you — pressed back against the wall, frozen — then back to him.
“I’m not touching her,” your ex says mockingly. “She came back here on her own. I was just remindin’ her of a few things.”
He takes a step forward.
Joel doesn’t flinch.
“You know she used to cry after?” he says — loudly, cruelly. “Every time. All that fight in her mouth just melted when she realized what she was.”
You suck in a breath so sharp it feels like it slices your throat.
Joel’s entire body changes.
Tightens.
Still doesn’t speak.
“You think you’re the first to hear her moan?” your ex spits. “You think she’s not gonna use you the same way she used me? Play the victim, let you fuck the sad out of her, then move on when someone better comes along?”
Joel steps forward.
Slow. Controlled.
Dead silent.
“What,” your ex sneers, “you think you’re different? She’s still just—”
Joel punches him mid-sentence.
The sound of knuckles on bone echoes like thunder in the alley.
Your ex stumbles back — blood spurting from his nose immediately. He barely catches himself against the brick, hand flying up to his face, blinking in shock.
“The fuck—?”
Joel’s already on him.
Another punch. Harder.
A third lands to the side of his jaw with a sickening crack, knocking him sideways into the stack of crates by the greenhouse wall. Wood splinters. Something shatters.
“You talk to her like that again—” slam
“You even look at her—” slam
“You’re fuckin’ lucky I don’t kill you.”
Joel’s voice is low and deadly, every word laced with years of held-back fury.
Your ex swings once — wild, sloppy. He clips Joel’s shoulder.
It only pisses him off more.
Joel grabs the front of his coat and shoves him to the ground. Straddles him. Fist raised.
“You wanna feel what she felt?” he snarls. “Huh? You wanna know what it’s like to be helpless?”
He punches him again. And again.
Blood smears across Joel’s knuckles. His breathing is ragged. Controlled, but barely.
“You’re done. You hear me?” he growls. “She’s not scared of you anymore.”
Your ex is coughing, sputtering — hands raised in surrender, face already swelling.
“You’re done.”
Joel lets go.
He stands slowly, chest heaving, fists still clenched.
Your ex stumbles up, eyes wild with fear and humiliation. Blood dripping from his nose, lip split wide. He doesn’t say anything.
He just runs.
Slips in the snow.
Keeps running.
Joel watches him go. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase.
Just breathes.
Then — slowly — turns back toward you.
You haven’t moved from the wall.
Still trembling.
Still gasping for breath that won’t come.
And Joel’s face shifts instantly — rage melting into panic.
“Baby—?”
He’s walking toward you now, hands up, slow and careful.
“Sweetheart, look at me. It’s over.”
But you’re not hearing him.
Because in your head — it’s still happening.
Your back slides down the wall.
Your legs give out, and you crumple into the snow without feeling it. Cold sinks into your palms, your knees, your chest — but your body’s too far gone to register it. Everything is numb except your lungs, which feel like they’re caving in.
You can’t breathe.
Your eyes are wide, locked on nothing. Ears ringing. Hands shaking. Mouth open, but no sound comes out.
You're still there.
Still in it.
His words echo in your skull like knives:
“She’s just a place to put it.”
“You know what she sounds like when she cries.”
You gasp for air, but it doesn’t come.
Your chest heaves. Your vision blurs. You claw at your coat like it's strangling you.
And then—hands.
Large, steady, familiar.
Joel.
He’s in front of you now, kneeling in the snow, his body close but not touching — not yet.
“Hey. Hey, baby, look at me.”
You can't.
You’re shaking too hard.
“You’re alright,” he says softly. “He’s gone. He can’t touch you anymore.”
His hand reaches for yours. Doesn’t force it — just waits.
You grab it like a lifeline.
And then everything breaks.
You start to sob.
Ugly, gasping, panicked sobs that come from somewhere deep — somewhere old. The kind that make your whole body convulse, like it’s trying to expel every horrible thing he ever said, ever did.
Joel pulls you into his lap.
Sits down fully in the snow and wraps his arms around you. One hand cradles your head. The other rubs your back, slow and firm and steady.
“You’re safe now,” he whispers. “You hear me? You’re safe.”
You can’t answer. You’re crying too hard.
So he keeps talking.
“I got you. Right here. Just breathe with me.”
He presses his lips to your temple, his voice lower now — all warmth.
“In and out, baby. That’s it. There you go. You’re doin’ so good.”
You cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you from slipping under. Your fists curl into his coat, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, hot tears soaking into the fabric.
“I thought—” you choke out. “I thought I was gonna die.”
Joel’s hold tightens.
“Not while I’m breathin’,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “Not fuckin’ ever.”
You sob harder, and he rocks you gently — back and forth in the snow like you’re something precious.
And maybe you are.
Because Joel holds you like you’re everything.
You don’t know how long you sit there in the snow, buried in Joel’s arms.
Your sobs taper off slowly — like the last of a storm draining out of you. Your hands are still fisted in his coat. Your face is raw from the cold, from the crying. But you’re breathing again.
Shallow. Uneven. But real.
Joel doesn’t let go.
His hand never stops moving — stroking up and down your back in slow, grounding lines. His mouth stays near your temple, his breath warm on your skin.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “You’re okay. I got you.”
You shift slightly, pulling your head back from his shoulder, just far enough to see him.
His face is tight. Wrecked.
There’s blood on his knuckles. His jaw is clenched like he’s still fighting the urge to run back and finish what he started.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
Joel freezes.
“Don’t.”
“I—” Your voice breaks. “I should’ve told you. I didn’t want—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he says, voice suddenly rough.
His hand slides to your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that didn’t get the memo to stop.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. He did. All of it.”
You look down at his chest. “I didn’t think I could tell anyone. I thought—if I just ignored him long enough…”
“He’d stop,” Joel finishes softly. “That he’d disappear.”
You nod. Eyes burning.
“He made me feel like I was crazy. Like I was broken. And then when people started talking about us—” Your throat closes. “It felt like they agreed with him.”
Joel exhales hard through his nose. Like the thought physically hurts him.
“They don’t know you,” he says. “They don’t get to define you.”
His thumb trails under your jaw.
“You’re not broken. You’re not too much. You’re not anything he said.”
You shake your head. “You don’t have to say that just because—”
“I’m sayin’ it because it’s true.”
You finally look at him again. Really look.
His face is open in a way you’ve never seen. Not just angry. Not just protective. Tender.
You blink fast.
“You beat the hell out of him.”
Joel shrugs, voice quieter now. “Didn’t feel like enough.”
You let out a soft, watery laugh. The first one in hours.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes I did.”
He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours.
“If I ever see him near you again, I swear to God—”
“He won’t,” you whisper. “Not after tonight.”
Joel’s hands are warm on your face, cupping you like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
“I wish you didn’t have to be strong like this,” he murmurs. “I wish you never had to learn how.”
You close your eyes.
Let yourself lean into him.
Let yourself believe — just for a moment — that you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.
He doesn’t ask if you want to go home.
He just helps you stand — one arm around your waist, the other holding your hand like something sacred — and guides you through the snow-covered streets without a single word.
The town is quiet.
Too late for witnesses. Too dark for whispers.
The streetlights cast long, golden streaks across the rooftops. Your boots crunch beside his in perfect rhythm, and you stay close — closer than you need to, because you can still feel that alley clinging to your skin like frost.
Joel doesn’t let go once.
By the time you reach your apartment, your legs ache, your eyes sting, and the weight of the night settles back over your shoulders like wet wool.
You fumble with the key.
Joel gently takes it from you. Unlocks the door. Steps inside first like he’s still scanning for danger. Then gestures for you to follow.
“Sit,” he murmurs. “I’ll get you water.”
You do as he says.
You sink onto the edge of your bed — coat still on, scarf loose around your neck, snow melting from your sleeves. You don’t know what to do with your hands.
He comes back with a glass and kneels in front of you again. Just like earlier. Only now, there’s no panic. Just presence.
He watches you drink. Waits until you set the glass down.
Then his hand reaches for yours again.
“You want me to go?”
The question is so soft you almost miss it.
Your first instinct is to say yes — not because you want him to leave, but because you don’t want to need him to stay.
You hesitate too long.
Joel brushes your knuckles with his thumb.
“I’ll sleep on the floor.”
You shake your head.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Just... don’t leave.”
That’s all you say.
You don’t say I’m scared to be alone.
You don’t say I’ve never felt safer than I do with you.
You just say don’t leave.
And Joel hears everything you didn’t say.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ‘til you tell me to.”
He helps you out of your coat. Tugs your boots off. Hands you a blanket and lets you change while he turns away, giving you space.
When you slip under the covers, Joel moves slow.
Sits beside you. Then behind you. Then lies down fully — careful not to press too close, not unless you reach for him first.
Which you do.
You find his hand beneath the blanket and pull it over your waist. His arm wraps around you like it belongs there.
And that’s how you fall asleep.
Not with sex. Not with heat. Not with anything messy or dramatic.
Just with Joel’s chest at your back.
His breath in your hair.
And his voice, low and quiet in the dark:
“I got you, darlin’. I’m right here.”
And he stays.
AN: Okay so… yeah. That one hurt. Thank you for loving her through it. And if you want to be on the taglist, don’t be shy — drop a comment and I’ll add you faster than Joel can throw a punch 😘
Sweet on You Taglist: @suzysface, @vikiii07, @chewie-bars, @nrschuster30, @thecasualnope, @lady-artemis27, @seraphimcollections, @brittmb115 @dean-and-baby343 @biopicsabouthorsesonly @its-in-the-woods @cosm1c-babe @marysucks-blog
summary: In the quiet aftermath, you're left sorting through the cinders of everything you've endured. As the reality of your pregnancy sinks in, painful memories resurface, the whispers grow louder, and your carefully-held control begins to unravel. But in these fragile moments, Joel remains quietly at your side, a gentle, steady presence, helping you hold on to what's left—even as uncertainty smolders.
Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson era, slow burn, hurt/comfort, trauma recovery, emotional baggage, found family, protective Joel Miller, reader is a survivor, reader has PTSD, past hostage situation (implied), PREGNANCY reveal, soft moments in a harsh world, Joel cares in his own way™, gentle intimacy, angst with hopeful undertones, canon-typical violence (referenced), no smut (yet).
Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist
The nausea woke you before the light did.
A deep, twisting kind that bloomed in the center of your body and radiated outward like something was pushing from the inside — not violently, just... insistently.
You swallowed hard, rolled to your side, and curled up with the blanket pulled to your chin. Breathing slow. Through your nose. You'd learned not to move too fast. Learned how to let the wave pass without choking on it.
You waited for it to ease.
It didn’t.
The cabin was cold again.
You hadn’t fed the fire before bed. Couldn’t remember why — maybe you forgot, maybe you didn’t care. The air bit at your skin as you sat up slowly, wrapped the threadbare blanket around your shoulders, and planted your feet on the floor.
Your body ached.
Not from labor. Not from injury.
Just from existence.
From being held together by brittle things — thread, frost, sheer will.
You pressed her palm against your stomach.
Still small. Still nothing to see.
But it felt different today.
Not just nausea. Not just the ache.
It was the knowing.
The first real sense that something was happening inside you— not distant anymore, not theoretical. Real. Growing.
Changing you, cell by cell.
You pulled your hand away like you'd touched something hot.
The dream had already faded, but its weight clung to your chest like smoke that wouldn’t clear. You didn’t remember the details—just the panic. The feeling of being chased, voiceless, unheard.
But worse than that... you remembered being slow.
Not because you were running through mud. Not because the terrain held you back.
But because you were chained again.
Heavy iron around your wrists, dragging through the dirt. That awful resistance pulling at your every step, like her body was something you had to fight just to carry.
You hadn’t dreamed about the chains in weeks.
And now... you felt them inside yourself.
Too full to run. Too bound to hide. Dragged down by something you didn’t ask for and couldn’t escape.
You wondered—quietly, bitterly—if this was what motherhood was supposed to feel like.
The thought turned your stomach.
And then—
Metal scraping stone.
A bootstep behind you.
A voice in your ear that didn’t belong to anyone anymore.
“A girl like you’s not worth much on her feet.”
Your wrists burned.
You blinked hard and the room came back into focus—the pale light, the cracked firewood, your breath in the cold air. But the echo didn’t leave. It never did, not fully.
You pressed your hands to your stomach like you could force the memory back down where it came from.
You couldn’t.
And now you were carrying proof of it.
The knock was soft.
Not urgent. Not rushed.
Just a quiet thump against the wood, like he was giving you the chance to ignore it if you wanted.
You stood frozen on the other side of the door, fingers hovering over the handle. Your breath fogged the glass. For a moment, you thought about pretending you weren't home.
But you already knew he wouldn’t knock twice.
You opened it.
Joel stood there, his coat dusted with snow, boots planted solid on the porch like he’d been there a while. He didn’t look up right away. Just held out the same beat-up thermos and small cloth-wrapped bundle he’d brought the morning before.
“Didn’t think you’d feel like cooking.”
His voice was quiet. Gruff in that way that wasn’t unkind — just restrained. He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t comment on the dark circles under your eyes or the way her hand lingered on the edge of the doorframe like you needed help standing.
He didn’t need to.
You looked at the bundle. Could already smell the faintest trace of eggs and toasted bread, wrapped in warm cloth.
Your stomach flipped — part hunger, part resistance.
“I’m not—” you started to say.
“You don’t gotta eat it now,” he cut in gently. “Just... figured I’d bring somethin’ by.”
He glanced past you into the cabin. Not in a prying way. Just enough to check the fire. The blankets. Your face.
And then back to you.
You stepped aside before you could think twice.
Joel moved slow. Familiar. Set the food down on the table like he’d done it a hundred times. Didn’t linger. Didn’t sit. Just looked at you like he was waiting for you to say it was okay.
“I was headin’ toward the stables,” he said. “Can walk with you. If you want.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But it did.
And you hated that it did.
“I’m not sure I’m going today,” you murmured, voice low.
He didn’t push.
Didn’t flinch.
Just nodded once. “Alright.”
But he didn’t leave, either.
The silence stretched between you, soft but charged. You shifted in place, hand ghosting toward the cloth bundle on the table but never quite reaching it.
Joel watched you like someone who knew the signs. Who’d seen people on the edge of saying something important and knew better than to ask for it.
Then, finally:
“You looked like you needed someone here this mornin’.”
You exhaled — slow, shaky — and nodded once.
And that was enough.
But you didn’t recover from it. Not really.
Even with the food on the table and the heat from the fire starting to build again, the memory still clung to your skin. The dream from the night before had followed you into waking — vague shapes and metal restraints, the weight of being dragged down by something inside yourself.
A chain that wasn’t there anymore, but still felt like it was.
You dressed slowly. Fingers shaking. Your body moved like it didn’t belong to you.
You managed to choke down a few bites of bread, mostly for show. Your stomach hated you for it.
The bundle of food Joel brought stayed on the table, untouched after that.
When you finally pulled you coat on and stepped outside, Joel was already waiting.
He stood on the edge of the porch, hands in his coat pockets, not looking impatient. Just... present. Like he’d always been there.
He didn’t offer his arm.
Didn’t hover.
Didn’t ask what was wrong.
He just looked at you, then turned, and walked beside.
Not ahead. Not behind.
At your pace.
Like he knew you were barely holding it together. Like he’d walk as slow as you needed.
And for the first time in days, despite the sickness in your gut and the ghost of iron on your skin, the air didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Not because it was better.
But because he was still there.
And he didn’t ask you to be anything but exactly as you were.
The stables smelled like snow-damp hay and old wood. Familiar. Usually comforting.
But not today.
You could feel it before you even stepped through the main gate — a change in the air. Eyes lifting. Conversations lowering. That unnatural hush that meant people had been talking until you walked in.
You kept her head down, brushing past the edge of the fence, fingers curled tight in the sleeves of your coat. Your steps were steady, but your chest tightened with every one.
Someone laughed a little too sharply near the feed barrels, and it sounded like a crack in the silence.
Joel walked beside you without saying a word.
You busied yourself in Dusty’s stall, hands moving through the motions like muscle memory might be enough to carry you through. Brush. Bucket. Feed. Repeat. The horse nudged your shoulder gently, huffing warm air through your scarf.
You focused on that — the rhythm of it.
Pretending you couldn’t feel the eyes.
Pretending you didn’t hear the murmurs.
“She looks pale again.”
“Tommy said she passed out last week, right? In front of Joel?”
“I heard it was the infirmary. Some kind of… scare, maybe.”
“Or something else.”
The last voice was quieter. Hesitant. Almost careful.
You didn’t turn your head. Didn’t let your body react.
But the shame spread like fire up the back of your neck.
Joel was across the stall, checking the latch on one of the back gates. You felt him glance your way once. Twice.
You didn’t meet his eyes.
Not because you didn’t want to.
Because if you did, she might break.
Another voice, closer now: “Is she—?”
“Don’t say it.”
“Well, she’s been sick. People notice things.”
Silence. A pause that said more than anything else.
Then: “He’s been bringing her food.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t think it’s like that.”
“Still. They’re always together now.”
The air shifted again, colder somehow.
You gripped the bucket too hard. Nearly dropped it.
Your vision blurred for a second — whether from nausea, heat, or sheer panic, you weren't sure.
Suddenly the stall felt too small.
The world too close.
You stepped back, out into the cold air, and forced yourself to breathe.
In. Out. In again.
You wanted to scream. To disappear. To tell them they didn’t know anything, that they hadn’t been there, that this wasn’t what it looked like.
But your throat stayed closed.
Because part of you believed it, too.
The shame. The weight. The fear that people saw you— not as a survivor, but as a problem.
As a rumor.
Joel was there again before you realized he’d moved.
He didn’t touch you.
Just stood beside, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his coat, the steady presence of him grounding you like a fence post in high wind.
You didn’t look at him.
But you felt the question he wasn’t asking.
And you gave the smallest shake of your head.
Not now.
Joel didn’t push.
He just stood there.
Silent.
Solid.
Unmoving.
Like the whispers couldn’t touch you as long as he stayed between you and the noise.
Ellie wasn’t eavesdropping.
Not technically.
She’d been sitting behind the small fence near the side barn, eating half a protein bar she’d forgotten in her coat pocket. It was quiet. Midday cold. She hadn’t meant to stay long – just long enough to warm up before heading back to patrol prep.
But then she heard them.
Voices. Two of them newer volunteers – teens, maybe twenty at most. Not whispering exactly, but talking low, like they thought no one could hear them.
“She was real weird this morning. Wouldn’t even make eye contact.”
“She’s always like that. Kind of... standoffish, right?”
“I mean, I get it. People are saying she’s been through some shit.”
A pause.
Then—
“You think Joel’s the dad?”
Ellie blinked.
She didn’t move.
“She’s with him all the time. He brings her food. Walks her to the stables.”
“Maybe he feels guilty.”
“Or maybe it’s his. You don’t think that’s why she’s acting like that?”
Ellie’s jaw clenched.
She stood, slowly, footfalls deliberately heavy so they’d hear her coming.
The voices stopped instantly.
She didn’t even look at them. Just gave the sharpest, most unimpressed eye roll she could manage as she passed, muttering loud enough for them to hear:
“Y’all ever consider minding your own business?”
One of them flushed. The other looked away.
Ellie didn’t stop walking.
She found Joel near the back paddock, restacking wood like it offended him.
He looked up when she approached, one eyebrow raised.
“You okay?”
Ellie shrugged. “Fine. Just people being dumb.”
Joel grunted.
Ellie kicked at the frozen dirt with the toe of her boot. “You know they’re talking, right?”
Joel didn’t answer.
Just kept stacking wood, jaw tight.
Ellie watched him for a second longer.
Then added, quieter this time, “They don’t know anything. About her. Or about you.”
Still no response.
But his hands stilled for just a moment on the next piece of wood.
That was enough.
You didn’t hear Ellie coming.
The girl was quiet when she wanted to be. Sharp-footed, sharp-tongued, always carrying herself like she knew something everyone else didn’t. Which, to be fair, she usually did.
You sat alone near the edge of the paddock fence, arms crossed over your knees, chin resting there. The cold had stopped bothering you an hour ago. The quiet was easier than being looked at.
Ellie dropped into the snow beside you like it was planned.
Didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, kicking at a patch of ice with the toe of her boot.
Then:
“They’re talking about you.”
You flinched — so slightly you didn’t think Ellie saw it.
But of course she did.
“They’re saying shit they don’t understand,” Ellie added. “Making it sound like it’s your fault.”
Still, you said nothing.
Ellie looked over, eyes narrowed against the light. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought... if it were me, I’d want to know someone noticed.”
A long pause.
“I’m not good at... soft stuff,” Ellie muttered. “But Joel—he doesn’t... do this for people. Not unless he means it.”
That made you glance at her. Just once.
Ellie didn’t smile. Didn’t soften.
But she said:
“You don’t owe anyone anything. Not them. Not him. But... if you need someone else who gets it?” She tapped her chest once, dry. “I’m around.”
And then, just as quickly as she came, she stood and walked off toward the stables, like the whole thing hadn’t happened.
But the words stayed.
Heavy in the cold.
Warm in the chest.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were the only one carrying the weight of what wasn’t being said.
You didn’t mean to say yes.
When Maria mentioned the midwife again that morning, her voice was soft. No judgment. No pressure.
“Elise is available today,” she said, wiping her gloves on the hem of her coat. “Just for a check-in. If you feel up to it.”
You almost said no.
The word hovered on the tip of your tongue, sharp and instinctive — a reflex born of surviving too long without being touched kindly.
But for some reason… you nodded.
Just once.
And Maria didn’t smile like she’d won anything.
She just squeezed your shoulder, light and brief, and said, “I’ll let her know you’re coming.”
The infirmary felt different this time.
Not like a place you were dragged into, feverish and slipping.
You walked in on your own.
That felt worse somehow.
Elise met you with warm hands and a voice like well-worn cotton. She was older, with silver streaks in her dark braid and eyes that had seen everything without ever flinching.
She didn’t ask what happened.
Didn’t ask how.
Didn’t make you explain the parts you couldn’t say.
“Just a check-up,” she said gently. “Nothing invasive. No pressure.”
You nodded again.
Because anything else might break you.
You sat on the edge of the cot while she moved around the room, gathering things. Her presence was quiet. No clipboard. No lecturing. Just steady hands and soft hums under her breath.
She asked a few things—simple questions.
How you’d been feeling. If you’d eaten. If you’d had any cramping or bleeding. If you knew how far along you might be.
You answered what you could. Shook your head when you couldn’t.
Elise never pushed.
“Your body’s been through a lot,” she said, pressing a stethoscope gently to your back. “It might take some time to trust you again.”
You didn’t know what to say to that.
So you just breathed.
She guided you to lie back, tucked a folded blanket under your head. Her hands were warm as they rested on your abdomen — not demanding, not probing. Just there, grounded and present.
You flinched anyway.
Not from pain.
From memory.
But Elise just waited.
No rush.
You forced yourself to relax beneath her touch, inch by inch.
“It’s early,” she said after a moment. “No bump yet. But you’re further along than most who realize it this late.”
You stared at the ceiling.
Blank.
Distant.
She turned on a small hand-held doppler. The soft static crackled in the quiet.
You didn’t breathe.
Not until—
There.
A sound.
Soft and quick.
A flutter.
Like tiny wings inside a cage.
The heartbeat.
Your heartbeat was already too loud in your ears, but this—this was different. Higher. Faster. Foreign.
Real.
You turned your head away, eyes stinging.
Elise didn’t comment.
She just turned the machine off after a moment and set it aside like it hadn’t just changed everything.
Elise helped you sit up.
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” she said softly, placing a warm hand on your shoulder. “But when you’re ready to talk — about anything, not just the baby — I’m here.”
You nodded.
You didn’t trust your voice.
Didn’t trust your face to hold still if you opened your mouth.
Elise didn’t press. Just handed you a paper cup of warm tea and wrapped a scarf gently around your shoulders before walking you to the door.
But you didn’t go back to your cabin.
You couldn’t.
The walls there would feel too close. The silence too sharp. You couldn’t sit in that bed, couldn’t lie there with your hand over your stomach and pretend you didn’t hear it.
The heartbeat.
It had been soft, fluttery. Quick.
Like wings trapped in your ribs.
And now it wouldn’t leave your head.
You walked instead.
Down the quiet back path that curved behind the stables, boots crunching in old snow, breath fogging in the air. You kept walking until the buildings thinned out, until the sounds of life — conversation, work, hammers, voices — faded behind you.
The edge of Jackson came up fast.
The outer fence, lined with worn boards and barbed wire. A patrol tower further down. No one nearby.
You sat in the snow anyway, back against the fence post, coat pulled tighter, fingers stiff.
It was cold. And still.
And you were alone.
That heartbeat was still ringing in your ears.
Too fast to be yours.
Too alive to be anything else.
It hadn’t sounded like pain. Or punishment. Or consequence.
It sounded like... life.
That terrified you more than anything.
You didn’t cry.
There were no tears left, not today.
But your hands trembled in your lap, curled against your coat like maybe you could hold the truth inside long enough to stop it from blooming.
“You’re further along than most who realize it this late.”
Elise’s voice echoed in your chest.
Further along.
No bump yet. No movement. But real.
So real you could hear it.
So real it had a rhythm.
So real it would have a name, one day — if you let it.
You didn’t know how long you sat there.
The sun had started to sink behind the trees, casting gold over the snow. Your legs were numb. Your fingers stiff. You hadn’t moved.
Didn’t want to.
Didn’t trust yourself to.
And then—footsteps.
Boots. Slow. Familiar.
A shape standing just behind the fence line, blocking the wind.
You didn’t have to look to know it was him.
Joel.
He didn’t speak right away.
Just stood there, letting the wind move around both of you. Not close enough to crowd you. Not far enough to leave.
You stared out at the tree line, jaw tight, heartbeat loud in your ears — not the one from inside you, not anymore.
Yours.
Familiar. Steady.
Wrecked.
After a long stretch of silence, his voice came low and careful, like he was testing the air between you.
“Guessin’ you heard it.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Didn’t need to.
Joel nodded slowly, like he hadn’t expected anything back.
He crouched beside you in the snow, joints stiff from the cold, one hand braced on his knee. He didn’t look at you — just kept his eyes on the horizon, the sky going gold and gray above the trees.
“It’s real now, huh?”
The words landed soft.
No pressure. No expectation.
Just the truth.
You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak.
But your hand slid down, resting gently — instinctively — over your lower stomach.
Not protectively.
Just... trying to believe it.
Trying to feel something other than fear.
Joel didn’t reach for you.
Didn’t touch you.
But his voice was there again, low and steady.
“I don’t know what it’s like. What you’re carryin’. But I know how it feels... when somethin’ changes you, and there’s no goin’ back.”
That made your throat tighten.
He didn’t say anything more.
Didn’t have to.
Just sat with you, the two of you braced against the cold and the weight of what couldn’t be undone.
And for the first time since you’d heard that fluttering sound in the clinic — that echo of life you didn’t ask for — you didn’t feel like you were holding it alone.
It was dark by the time you made it back to your cabin.
The air had turned sharp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin even beneath thick layers. Your legs ached from sitting too long, and the back of your coat was damp with melted snow.
Joel walked beside you the whole way.
Still not saying much.
He didn’t ask why you sat out there for hours.
Didn’t ask what Elise had said, or what it felt like to hear that sound inside you — the one you hadn’t been ready for.
He just walked.
At your pace.
Again.
When you stepped inside, the air inside your cabin felt too warm, too small. Joel didn’t follow. He stopped at the door, hand still resting on the frame.
You stood with your back to him, unsure if you wanted him to leave or stay. Unsure if either option would make it hurt less.
Then you spoke.
Your voice cracked on the first word.
“Why?”
Joel looked up, his brow furrowed, lips parting just slightly.
You turned, arms crossed tight across your chest, like that could hold the question back.
“Why do you keep showing up?”
Joel didn’t flinch.
Didn’t act surprised.
He just held your gaze.
There was a long pause before he answered — like he was choosing the smallest truth that could still be honest.
“Because I remember what it felt like when no one did.”
Your stomach twisted.
You looked away.
Tried to swallow down the ache in your throat, but it stayed.
“He’s not yours,” you said quietly.
Joel’s jaw tensed. “I know.”
“I’m not yours.”
“I know that too.”
The silence stretched long and thin between you.
And then, just above a whisper: “Do you think I should keep it?”
That was the first time you’d said it out loud.
It.
You couldn’t even call it anything else yet.
Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the floor, then back to yours.
“I think...” he started, voice rough, “whatever choice you make — it oughta be yours. Not fear. Not shame. Not anyone else.”
You felt something crack inside your chest.
A hairline fracture.
A shift.
And Joel stepped back, just enough to let the night air slip between you.
“I’ll be here,” he said. “No matter what.”
That night, you sat on the edge of your bed, eyes fixed on the dark window.
You didn’t know what you wanted.
But you knew what you feared.
And somehow, Joel had seen both.
And he hadn’t walked away.
The fire crackled low in the corner of the room, casting flickering shadows across the cabin walls. Joel sat in the chair closest to it, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he’d forgotten how to let them rest.
He hadn’t moved in over an hour.
Just sat there, staring into the flames like they might answer questions he hadn’t been able to ask.
Sarah’s face lingered behind his eyes.
Not the loud memories — not the way she laughed or the songs she hummed when she brushed her hair. Just the stillness. The weight of her absence.
Then Ellie.
The day she left her pack at the edge of the fence line. The way she looked at him when she said she didn’t want to talk about it, and the way he understood that better than anyone.
And now… you.
Sitting out by the fence, frozen fingers wrapped around your coat, knees tucked into your chest like you were trying to disappear into yourself.
He’d seen it.
Seen the way you sat in the snow after the midwife visit, hollow-eyed and too quiet, like you were still hearing something you didn’t know how to live with.
He’d seen it, and still—
He hadn’t walked away.
Couldn’t.
Didn’t want to.
Joel rubbed a hand over his jaw, the ache in his chest a familiar one now — like guilt and tenderness had wrapped themselves into the same damn knot.
He didn’t know what he was doing.
Didn’t have answers. Couldn’t fix what had been done to you, couldn’t undo the silence, or the bruises that never made it to skin.
But he could show up.
And somehow, that had become the most terrifying part
You’d asked him tonight why he kept coming back.
He hadn’t lied.
He remembered too well what it was like to survive something and have no one there on the other side. To wake up and realize the world had moved on without you. That no one was coming.
So he’d come.
Again and again.
And now… he couldn’t stop.
Wouldn’t.
He stared into the fire, jaw tight, hands curling just slightly.
He didn’t want to call it care.
Didn’t want to name what it felt like when you looked at him with those tired eyes and didn’t flinch.
But it lived in his chest anyway.
Raw.
Unspoken.
Unmovable.
Joel leaned back in the chair with a long, quiet breath.
He’d stay.
As long as you need.
Even if you never asked.
Even if it hurts.
Especially if it hurts.
You didn’t sleep.
You tried.
You lay in bed long after the fire burned out, staring at the ceiling, the blankets twisted around your legs, your palms pressed flat against your chest like maybe you could steady your own heartbeat.
But the silence was louder tonight.
And you couldn’t stop hearing it.
That sound.
The heartbeat.
Quick. Fragile. Alive.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
But it did.
And now it was in you — not just physically, but in you, like a thread you couldn’t pull loose. You’d heard it once and couldn’t un-hear it. Couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. Couldn’t stop wondering if it would sound the same tomorrow.
You turned on your side. Then your back. Then curled into a tighter ball.
Nothing helped.
Every position felt wrong.
Too much weight. Too much skin. Too much breath in your lungs.
Your thoughts spun until they looped in on themselves, chasing fragments that wouldn’t settle.
You’re pregnant.
It’s real now, huh?
Do you think I should keep it?
I’ll be here. No matter what.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
But the silence still held it all.
At some point, sleep must have taken you. But it didn’t last.
You woke with a gasp.
Breath ragged. Skin cold.
The dream was already slipping away — but the feeling stayed.
Panic.
Not yours.
The baby’s.
In the dream, something had happened. You couldn’t remember what. Just the fear. The overwhelming need to protect something that didn’t feel like yours until the moment you thought it might be gone.
You’d reached for your stomach in the dream, hand splayed, breath caught in your throat—
And you were doing the same thing now.
Fingers pressed tight to your belly.
No bump.
No movement.
But something.
You hated the way it felt — the panic. The grief.
You hated what it meant.
Because it meant you cared.
Even if you didn’t want to.
You sat upright, dragging the blanket off your shoulders, running both hands through your hair like you could shake the feeling loose.
You couldn’t.
You stood. Walked the cabin in slow circles. Lit the lantern. Blew it out again.
Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
And you didn’t want to be alone.
Not like this.
The sky was still dark when you stepped outside.
Not the soft kind of early morning that promised light soon — this was the kind of darkness that clung to your clothes and filled your lungs. The kind that made every sound feel louder. Every footstep like a confession.
You didn’t bring a coat.
Just your boots. A sweater pulled over your sleep shirt. You didn’t think it through. You didn’t think at all.
You just walked.
One hand clutched your side. The other curled into a fist. Not from pain — from something worse. That nervous electricity that buzzes in your ribs when you’re about to do something stupid.
Or something brave.
Maybe both.
You stopped outside his cabin.
The window was dark. You didn’t know if he’d be awake. You didn’t know what time it was, or what you would say if he answered. All you knew was that the silence in your own space was too much, and the echo of the heartbeat was still pounding in your skull like it was trying to be heard.
You stood there for a long time.
Long enough that your toes started to go numb.
Long enough that your body tried to convince you to turn around.
Then—
You knocked.
Soft. Hesitant.
Once.
The kind of knock that gave him the choice to ignore it.
You almost hoped he would.
But you heard movement.
A low creak. Floorboards. The scrape of a chair leg.
Then the door opened.
Joel stood there in a worn thermal and jeans, his hair tousled from sleep, firelight from inside casting shadows across his face. His eyes found yours instantly.
And then dropped — just for a second — to your arms crossed over your chest, the way you were shivering.
He didn’t ask what you were doing there.
Didn’t question the silence.
Didn’t even say your name.
Just stepped aside.
Held the door open.
And waited.
You stepped in.
The warmth hit you like a wave — woodsmoke, quiet, the glow of coals in the fireplace. You hadn’t realized how cold your hands were until you felt them start to sting.
Joel shut the door behind you.
Didn’t press. Didn’t ask.
Just stood there, waiting for whatever you had in you to give.
And finally, you said it.
Voice so soft it barely made a sound.
“Can I stay… for a little while?”
You didn’t mean to sound like that. Small. Breakable.
But Joel didn’t flinch.
He didn’t ask what was wrong.
He didn’t ask what you needed.
He just nodded once and walked past you, slow, careful.
He sat in the chair closest to the fire. The one he’d probably just left. Rested his elbows on his knees. Looked into the flames like he always did when he wasn’t sure what to say.
And you stood there.
Still.
Frozen in place.
Then—
You moved.
Not to speak.
Not to fall apart.
Just to sit on the rug by the fire, knees pulled to your chest, back resting against the side of the couch.
Not close enough to touch.
But close enough to feel him breathing.
Close enough to hear the silence together.
He didn’t ask how long you needed.
Didn’t check the time.
Didn’t move.
He just stayed.
And for now, that was enough.
You sat there in the glow of the fire, hollow and heavy.
Not burning anymore.
But not ashes, either.
Just cinders.
Holding on.
AN: Thank you deeply for continuing on this emotional journey with me. This chapter was challenging and raw, touching upon heavy topics and difficult memories. Please know your feelings matter deeply—take the time and space you need, always. As we navigate these fragile moments together, I'm grateful you're here. Thank you again for your gentle support, and please, as always, be kind and gentle to yourself.
summary: You return to the Texas farmhouse you swore you’d never see again. The land hasn’t changed. Neither has the silence. But Joel Miller is still here—and he’s not the kind of man who lets someone fall apart alone.
tags: Joel Miller x Reader, slow burn, AU, hurt/comfort, Texas setting, panic attack, gentle Joel, found family, trauma recovery, soft angst, rural life
Series Masterlist | My Masterlist
The road stretched long and flat before you, the two-lane highway buckling slightly in the heat. The farther west you drove, the more the landscape opened up—oak trees giving way to fields browned by the sun, barbed wire fences leaning like tired sentinels along the edge of the land. You’d forgotten how quiet it could be out here. Not the kind of silence you find in a city at night, but the kind that felt old, like the land itself was holding its breath.
Your truck’s AC wheezed in protest as it pushed lukewarm air against the back of your neck. You’d been on the road since dawn, the address your lawyer sent burned into the GPS like a map to a life you didn’t want. When the chipped wooden sign came into view—Clearstone Ranch still hanging by a rusted nail—you felt your stomach twist in on itself.
You hadn’t been back since you were seventeen. Since the night you packed a bag with shaking hands, climbed out your bedroom window, and never looked back. Now here you were, driving up the same gravel path, dust curling around your tires, the air heavy with heat and old memory.
The house looked smaller than you remembered.
The white paint had long since peeled to gray, the porch sagged just a little more, and the shutters hung crooked over windows you used to stare out of for hours. But it was still there—stubborn as ever. A weather-worn monument to everything you’d buried.
You parked near the edge of the wraparound porch, cutting the engine and letting the silence settle in. Cicadas screamed in the trees. The wind stirred through dry grass, whispering against the wood. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, heart thudding in your throat.
You thought you’d feel... something. Anger. Grief. Maybe fear. But mostly, all you felt was tired.
You reached for the door handle with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. Gravel crunched beneath your boots as you stepped out into the heat. The sun was merciless—sharp and hot, baking everything in its reach—but you welcomed it. Better than the cold that had lived in your chest for years.
The screen door to the house swayed lazily, bumping the frame with a rhythmic creak. You walked up the steps, fingers grazing the railing, half-expecting it to splinter under your touch. But it held. The wood was old, yes—but not rotted. Someone had been keeping it up.
You frowned, a strange tug in your chest.
The will had said everything was yours now—the land, the house, what was left of the equipment. But no one mentioned that someone was still living here. Or at least... working it.
You turned slowly toward the fields.
And that’s when you saw him.
Out past the barn, near the old fence line, a man stood with his back to you, hammering in a new post. His movements were steady, methodical, like he’d done this a hundred times before. The sun caught the sweat on his shoulders, the back of his worn flannel shirt dark with it.
Even from this distance, you knew who it was.
Joel Miller.
He hadn’t changed much—still broad-shouldered, still moving like someone who carried weight well beyond what you could see. His hair was more silver now, and his beard was thicker than it used to be. But it was him. The man who’d been working this land since you were a kid. Quiet. Solid. Safe in the way grown men rarely felt when you were young.
Joel had always kept his head down around your father. Never said much. But when he passed you in the hallway or saw you sitting on the porch with a book clenched too tightly in your hands, there was a softness in his eyes. He never asked questions. Never pried. But you always had the feeling... he knew.
And now here he was—still here.
He must have heard the truck because he paused mid-swing and looked up. The distance between you shrank with the intensity of his gaze. His eyes narrowed for half a second, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.
Then recognition settled in.
He dropped the hammer into the dirt and started walking toward you, slow and even. You stayed where you were, hand still resting on the porch railing like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
When he reached the edge of the porch, he stopped just short of the steps. Close enough to see the sweat on his brow, the faint crease in his forehead. He looked at you like you were a ghost—like maybe you weren’t really there.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you back here,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel.
You swallowed. “Didn’t think I’d come back.”
Joel nodded once, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to fill in the years. “You... holdin’ up alright?”
It was such a simple question. Not why are you here? or what do you want? Just—are you okay?
You nodded slowly. “I’m... managing.”
Joel gave a quiet sound, almost a hum. “Well. You came a long way to manage.”
You almost smiled.
There was a pause. Not awkward—just full. The kind of silence that had history behind it.
“I wasn’t sure if anyone’d been here,” you said, finally.
He shifted his weight. “Kept the place goin’. After your old man passed, figured the animals still needed tendin’. Someone had to.”
You looked past him, toward the barn, the fields that were neater than they had any right to be. “You’ve been here all this time?”
Joel’s gaze didn’t waver. “Didn’t have much reason to leave.”
You wanted to ask why. Why stay here? Why stay after everything? But the question caught in your throat like barbed wire.
Instead, you just nodded. And for a brief, fragile second, you felt something unfamiliar stir behind your ribs.
Not safety. Not yet.
But maybe—maybe—a place to start.
Joel didn’t move right away. He just stood at the foot of the porch, hat in hand now, the sun behind him casting his figure in warm, amber outline. His eyes hadn’t left yours—not in a threatening way, not even a questioning one. Just steady. Watchful.
You used to think he looked tired back then. Now you realized that was just who he was—weathered by life in the way the land was: sun-bleached, wind-scored, and still standing.
“I didn’t know you were still here,” you said, breaking the silence.
He tilted his head slightly. “Figured the place needed someone. Wasn’t much left in the bank account, but the land’s good. Animals don’t stop eatin’ just ’cause the world keeps turnin’.”
There was a flicker of something under the words—something you didn’t want to name yet. Loyalty, maybe. Or guilt.
You shifted on your feet. “I wasn’t sure I’d come back.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Didn’t blame you for goin’, neither.”
That caught you. The way he said it—not with judgment or curiosity, but quiet understanding. Like he’d been waiting years for this conversation and didn’t want to crowd it.
You looked away toward the barn, toward the rolling hills that stretched beyond the back pasture. “I wasn’t running toward anything,” you said, half to yourself. “Just away.”
Joel didn’t speak. He let the silence stretch again, long and soft like a breath held between two people who weren’t sure if they could exhale yet.
“How bad was it?” he asked after a while, voice low. Not demanding—gentle. Like he already knew the answer but needed to give you space to name it, if you ever wanted to.
You shook your head. “Don’t ask that.”
He nodded, accepting it without offense. “Alright.”
That was Joel, always had been. He never pushed. He never tried to insert himself in places he didn’t belong. But he saw more than he let on. You remembered that, even when you were fifteen, hiding bruises behind long sleeves and silence. He never said anything—but sometimes he’d leave a sandwich out when you skipped dinner. Or stay near the house longer than he needed to in the evenings.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
“You stayin’?” he asked after a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“You thinkin’ about sellin’ it?”
You shrugged. “Would anyone buy it?”
Joel’s mouth twisted—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Some city folks been lookin’ at land out here. Not sure they’d know what to do with it, but they’d sure try.”
That pulled a soft laugh from you, small but real. Joel’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. A pause followed—not uncomfortable, just... heavy.
“You still got the bunkhouse?” you asked.
He nodded. “Clean enough. Got power and water. If the main house don’t feel right, you’re welcome to it.”
You glanced at the house behind you. It loomed like a shadow you hadn’t shaken. “Thanks,” you said. “Maybe just for tonight.”
Joel looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he just gave you a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “You need anything,” he said as he turned to go, “I’m out back. Don’t sleep much.”
He walked away without fanfare, the way he always did—boots crunching on dry earth, shoulders a little stiff. But you noticed the way he paused by the barn, glancing over his shoulder once before disappearing inside.
You stood there for a long while after he was gone, the weight of the heat pressing down on your back, the scent of dust and sun-baked wood thick in the air.
It was strange—coming back to this place expecting only ghosts, only ruin—and finding Joel Miller instead.
Still here.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
The screen door let out a long, metallic groan as you pulled it open. The main door behind it was unlocked—not that it ever used to be. Your father believed locks were for cowards. You’d learned early that walls didn’t stop anything anyway.
The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.
It was cooler, stale from months of stillness, thick with dust and time. The scent hit you first—old wood, mildew, smoke, and something faintly sour beneath it. And underneath all that: memory. Heavy and sharp.
You walked slowly, boots creaking across floorboards that whined like they remembered too. The living room was untouched. Your father’s recliner still faced the TV. The coffee table sat in the same spot, ringed with stains from beer cans and ashtrays, a newspaper yellowing on top.
It was like stepping into a museum of your own grief. Or a trap you weren’t sure you could leave.
You moved through the kitchen quickly, not touching anything. Past the counter where you learned to flinch. Past the window you once considered climbing out of, long before you actually did.
In the hallway, the shadows gathered. Light from the dusty windows cut through them, but it wasn’t enough. You paused outside the door at the end—the one you used to lock at night and pray would hold.
Your room.
The knob turned easily. The hinges squealed. The air inside was heavier.
The bed was still there. Sheets stripped, mattress sunken in the middle. The closet door hung open an inch, just enough to feel wrong. You crossed the floor slowly, your breath catching with each step. It was like the house knew you were back, like it had been waiting.
You sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, and tried to breathe.
But something shifted.
The air felt too thick. Your skin prickled. Your chest tightened.
You couldn’t swallow.
The silence roared in your ears, and suddenly the walls felt too close. The window wasn’t open. You hadn’t cracked it. You were locked in. The same way you used to be.
Your hands started to shake.
You pressed them to your thighs, tried to ground yourself, but your vision blurred at the edges. Your heartbeat was too loud, too fast. You couldn’t catch your breath.
No, not here. Not now.
Your throat closed, panic pressing up your ribs like a rising tide. The room felt like it was tilting, folding in on itself. Your lungs wouldn’t open. You felt the edge of something hot behind your eyes, a sob threatening to rip free, and you didn’t want to make a sound. You didn’t want the house to hear you break.
Then—
A knock.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Another knock, gentler. Then the door opened with a slow creak.
“Hey—” Joel’s voice, quiet, careful. Then silence. He must’ve seen your posture—curled forward, hands gripping your thighs, shoulders hunched like you were trying to disappear.
He crossed the room in a few steps, not hurried but not hesitant either.
“Hey, hey,” he said again, softer now, crouching in front of you. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”
You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, tears slipping free. “I—I can’t—” you managed. “It’s—too much—”
“I know,” he said, voice low and steady. “You’re safe now. You hear me? You’re not there anymore.”
You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t speak. Your hands were trembling, your breathing shallow and rapid.
Joel didn’t touch you. Not yet. He just stayed there, close, grounded, solid. Like an anchor. “Breathe with me,” he said gently. “In real slow. Just like this.”
He exaggerated a breath, deep and calm, and waited.
You tried. Failed. Tried again.
“Good. There you go. Keep goin’. You’re doin’ just fine.”
It felt like hours, but maybe it was minutes—maybe less—before the storm inside you started to pull back. Like waves easing from the shore.
You finally lifted your head, tears streaking down your cheeks. Joel was still there, crouched low, his eyes on you like nothing else mattered.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracked and raw.
He shook his head immediately. “Don’t you be sorry.”
“I didn’t—I thought I could handle it,” you said, choking on the words. “I thought I could just walk in and deal with it, but—”
“You don’t gotta explain nothin’,” Joel said, finally reaching out—not to touch you, but to place a hand near yours on the mattress. Letting you come to him, if you wanted. “You did the hardest part already. You came back.”
You stared at his hand, at the way his fingers were calloused, dirt still under his nails. You remembered those hands fixing fences, steadying frightened horses. Always working. Always there.
Without thinking, you moved your hand to rest over his.
Joel didn’t flinch. He turned his hand under yours, letting your palm settle into his like it was meant to be there.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. But eventually, your breathing eased. The shaking stopped. The pressure in your chest loosened, like you’d finally let something go.
Joel sat back just slightly, his voice still soft. “I brought you somethin’ to eat. Thought maybe you hadn’t yet.”
You nodded, unable to say thank you, but hoping he saw it in your eyes.
“I’ll leave it in the kitchen,” he said, standing slowly. “You don’t need to come down if you’re not ready.”
He paused at the door, then looked back. “You’re not alone here. Not anymore.”
And then he was gone.
The room was still quiet. But somehow, it didn’t feel so heavy.
You looked down at your hand, the one that had rested in his. It still tingled with warmth.
Maybe it was okay to fall apart—if someone was there to help you put the pieces back.
You didn’t leave the room for a while.
The panic had passed, but the exhaustion it left behind was bone-deep. You lay back on the bed, arms folded over your chest, eyes on the ceiling, watching the fan blades that hadn’t moved in years. You didn’t cry again. There wasn’t anything left to cry out.
But you did breathe.
And that alone felt like something close to progress.
When you finally stood, the light outside had gone honey-gold. Evening was settling in, warm and slow. You made your way down the hallway with cautious steps, as though the house might still startle awake and snap at you if you moved too quickly.
The kitchen was quiet, but the scent of something warm lingered—rosemary, butter, maybe eggs.
On the counter sat a plate, still covered with a clean dish towel. Next to it, a folded note in blocky handwriting:
Eat something. I’ll be around. —J
You stared at the note for a long time. The simplest thing. And yet it cracked something open in you again—not like the panic from before, but softer. Sadder. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had fed you without wanting something in return.
You uncovered the plate. Scrambled eggs. Pan-fried potatoes. A biscuit that looked a little lopsided but smelled like heaven.
You sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly, almost reverently. It tasted better than it should’ve—like comfort, like care. Every bite anchored you a little more in the present. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were scraping the last of the potatoes with your fork.
The sound of boots on the porch made you pause. You turned just as Joel’s shadow filled the screen door.
You stood before he could knock.
He didn’t step inside this time—just hovered at the door, hat in hand again, eyes flicking to your face like he was trying to read if you were okay to talk.
“I ate,” you said first. “Thank you. That was… more than I expected.”
He gave a small nod, almost a smile. “Didn’t have much. Hope it was alright.”
“It was perfect.”
Joel looked relieved in that quiet, subtle way of his. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced over your shoulder, toward the hallway behind you.
“You stayin’ in the main house tonight?” he asked.
You hesitated. The air inside still felt thick. The bedroom walls too close. “I was thinking maybe the bunkhouse. If that’s alright.”
“‘Course it is,” he said without missing a beat. “It’s cooler out there anyway. Less creaky floors.”
You cracked a smile, just a faint one. “That sounds good right now.”
“I’ll walk you out, if you don’t mind.”
You didn’t.
You grabbed the duffel you hadn’t unpacked, and together you stepped into the soft dusk. The cicadas were louder now, the sky streaked with oranges and purples, the first stars blinking through. The air was warm, but it carried a breeze, the kind that tugged gently at your sleeves and made the edges of everything feel a little softer.
Joel walked a half-step ahead of you, not speaking. He didn’t need to.
The bunkhouse sat behind the main barn, tucked beneath the shadow of a cottonwood tree. You remembered coming out here once, as a kid—when your father had chased you out of the house in one of his moods. You hadn’t stayed long. You hadn’t dared.
Now, Joel unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on the light with practiced ease.
“It’s not much,” he said, stepping aside. “But it’s clean. Got hot water. Sheets are fresh. I come out here sometimes when the house gets too quiet.”
You stepped in slowly. The space was small but comfortable—a narrow bed, a small table and chair, a counter with a sink and stovetop. The floor was swept clean, and a little stack of books sat near the nightstand. A lamp glowed in the corner, giving the room a soft, golden hue.
It was more than enough.
“This is… nice,” you said, setting your bag down. “Thank you.”
Joel stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, gaze steady. “You don’t gotta thank me. Just glad you’re here.”
That stopped you.
You looked at him—really looked—and something passed between you in the quiet. A thread pulled tight. Not romantic, not yet. But intimate. A shared understanding. You’d both lived in silence too long.
Joel stepped back then, as if sensing the moment had reached its edge.
“I’ll be out with the horses for a bit longer. If you need anything…”
You nodded. “I know where to find you.”
He looked like he wanted to say more—but instead he just gave a short nod, pulled the door shut behind him, and disappeared into the fading light.
You stood there for a minute after he left.
The quiet settled around you—but this time, it didn’t feel dangerous. It didn’t feel like it was closing in. It just felt... still.
You sat on the edge of the bed, running your hands over the clean sheet. Then you lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of evening—the creak of the barn, the distant murmur of Joel’s voice as he talked to the horses.
And for the first time in years, you thought:
Maybe I could stay.
You couldn’t sleep right away.
The bunkhouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket—not threatening, just... thick. Outside the window, the stars had come out in full force, wide and wild across the Texas sky. You forgot how many there were out here. No city glow to mute them. Just stars and silence.
You cracked the window open to let in some air, and the soft rustle of night drifted in—wind in the trees, the low creak of barn wood settling, and somewhere in the distance, the slow murmur of Joel’s voice.
You didn’t know who he was talking to. Maybe the horses. Maybe the dog. Maybe just himself. But it comforted you in a way that startled you with its gentleness. That deep, gravelly voice. Steady. Familiar. Like an anchor buried in earth.
You sat at the little table and pulled the note he’d left you from your pocket. You unfolded it again, rereading the simple scrawl.
Eat something. I’ll be around. —J
That was Joel. No flowery language. No promises he couldn’t keep. Just presence. Just being there. And after the day you’d had—after the years—you realized that might be exactly what you needed most.
You stayed there for a while, elbows on the table, chin in your hands, letting your thoughts settle like dust after a long drive.
Being back wasn’t easy.
Hell, it was barely tolerable.
But it hadn’t broken you.
And Joel… Joel hadn’t looked at you like you were fragile. He’d looked at you like you were real. Like you were allowed to hurt, and allowed to come back, and allowed to need someone, even if only for a minute.
That alone made the air easier to breathe.
Eventually, you turned off the light and stretched out on the bed, the sheet cool against your skin. The room smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry—nothing like the house. Nothing like the past. It wasn’t home yet. But it wasn’t hostile either.
You let your eyes drift shut.
For the first time in a long time, your body began to unwind.
Out the window, you heard the barn door creak again—then the faint sound of Joel’s boots crunching gravel. You heard him pause outside, maybe checking the latch on the gate. Maybe just listening.
Maybe just making sure you were still breathing.
You didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.
But somehow, you knew he’d stay out there a little longer than he needed to. Just in case.
You woke briefly to the sound of coyotes in the distance. Their howls cut across the fields like sharp wind, and for a split second your heart jumped, the past flaring up like a match.
But then you heard it again—Joel’s voice.
Closer now. A soft whistle. The rustle of hay. The low scrape of metal as he closed the barn for the night.
And just like that, the fear faded.
You rolled to your side and stared at the shadowy outline of the ceiling.
You were here. You had survived the first day.
And tomorrow… you’d decide what came next.
You didn’t know if you were ready to stay.
But maybe—for the first time—you weren’t so afraid of trying.
AN: And that’s Chapter 1, babes. We’ve got slow burn, emotional damage, and a cowboy with quiet hands—so saddle up, because this ride’s just getting started 🤠💔 If you want to be tagged in future updates (so you don’t miss any of the angst or accidental hand touches), just drop a comment and I’ll hook you up.
Summary: As quiet intimacy gently blossoms between you and Joel, subtle moments of warmth and careful vulnerability begin to soften the uncertainty you've held close. Thoughtful gestures from Joel, Ellie’s awkward but heartfelt gift, and Maria’s quiet reassurance remind you that you're not alone—allowing fragile embers of hope to slowly, gently take hold.
AN: Hey y'all! I kinda got carried away writing this chapter so it's a little longer than the other ones. Hope ya like it!
Also, I sliced my finger open last night so I am currently unable to type as well as I'd like to but THANKFULLY I already have the next couple chapters written so expect those in the next few days!!
Previous Chapter | Series Masterlist
Morning arrived slowly, gently—gray light filtering softly through your curtains, the quiet stillness of winter lingering comfortably around your cabin. You’d slept deeply, dreamlessly, the first truly peaceful rest in what felt like weeks.
When you woke, you felt different—lighter, perhaps, though still uncertain. You lay quietly in bed for a long moment, listening to the soft whisper of snow brushing gently against your window, feeling the steady rise and fall of your own breath beneath warm blankets.
You weren’t sure what you expected today—weren’t sure what you were ready for—but when a gentle knock at your door broke the peaceful silence, you found yourself rising slowly, almost instinctively, moving toward it without hesitation.
Joel stood there quietly, holding a small cloth-wrapped bundle. He looked softer than usual, hair tousled slightly from sleep, his expression gentle but still careful.
“Mornin’,” he said softly, voice low, almost hesitant, as if unsure he was welcome yet.
“Morning,” you echoed quietly, stepping aside without needing to think, silently inviting him in.
He moved carefully, his presence calm but still tentative, as though he didn’t want to disturb the fragile quiet you’d built. As he unwrapped the bundle at your table, the warm smell of fresh bread and carefully scrambled eggs drifted gently into the room, comforting in their simplicity.
“Thought you might want somethin’ warm,” Joel explained softly, not meeting your eyes, voice still careful.
“Thank you,” you murmured genuinely, moving quietly to sit across from him, noticing the careful space he left between you.
You both ate quietly at first, the silence gentle, punctuated only by soft clinks of silverware and the occasional quiet rustle of fabric. Joel’s presence, so quiet and calm, felt different today—not heavy or tense, just steady, comforting.
“You sleep alright?” he asked eventually, voice careful but warm.
“Yeah,” you answered softly, looking up briefly, meeting his eyes. “Better than usual.”
Something in Joel’s eyes softened at your quiet honesty, his expression gentle. “Good,” he murmured quietly, holding your gaze briefly, then letting it drift away.
You studied him softly, noticing how the morning light caught gently against his features—the lines of quiet worry, the gentle warmth behind careful eyes. You felt something shift softly inside your chest, a quiet tenderness, something fragile but sweet.
You weren’t sure what this meant yet—this quiet morning, Joel’s gentle presence, your own careful vulnerability. You weren’t ready to define it, to rush toward certainty or clarity. But in this gentle moment, it felt right to let yourself simply feel it—quiet warmth, careful trust, a gentle comfort you hadn’t known in a very long time.
Joel stayed quietly after you both finished, neither rushing to leave nor asking anything more of you. You stood side by side at your window, looking out at the soft snow falling slowly, your shoulders close but not quite touching, the quiet intimacy of the moment unspoken but deeply felt.
It was Joel who broke the silence gently after a long while, voice quiet, almost hesitant. “You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said softly, still looking carefully ahead, giving you space.
You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know if you could. But after a moment, your voice came quietly, carefully honest.
“I don’t want to anymore.”
You felt Joel relax slightly beside you, felt his presence soften further, gentle relief radiating quietly between you.
You stood there quietly together a while longer, the quiet warmth of morning, Joel’s gentle steadiness, and your careful vulnerability filling the silence between you.
Today wouldn’t solve everything. You knew uncertainty still lingered, gentle but persistent. But here, right now, in this soft, quiet moment, it didn’t feel as scary.
For today, it was okay just to stand beside him quietly, allowing yourself to want comfort, to want gentleness, to want the soft, careful warmth of not being alone.
You first noticed it in the quiet moments—soft, fleeting sensations, easy enough to dismiss at first. A gentle ache in your lower back, tenderness in your chest, a subtle exhaustion settling deeper than usual into your bones.
They were small signs, barely noticeable at first, but you felt them with quiet certainty each time they appeared. Each one gently reminded you that your body was changing, carrying something fragile and alive within you.
You’d wake early some mornings, a soft nausea settling gently in your stomach—not sharp, not painful, just enough to remind you quietly that everything was different now. You’d sit up slowly, carefully pressing a hand to your belly, waiting, feeling.
Each quiet moment felt complicated, bringing with it waves of uncertainty and tenderness tangled gently together. Some days the fear would resurface sharply—would you be ready, could you do this, was this really what you wanted?
Yet other times, the fear softened quietly into gentle curiosity, a small sense of cautious wonder. You began to hold your own body more gently, becoming aware of yourself in ways you hadn’t before. It felt strange, intimate, unfamiliar—but not wrong. Just different.
In the quiet privacy of your cabin, you found yourself carefully acknowledging these small changes. You stood in front of your mirror some nights, your fingers gently brushing the skin of your belly, wondering when you’d see the first true sign of growth. Your reflection stared back softly—still hesitant, still unsure—but somehow stronger, quietly carrying a secret that was slowly becoming visible, tangible, real.
One evening, after a long day at the stables, you sat quietly on your bed, peeling off your boots slowly, thoughtfully. Your lower back ached gently again, your body asking for rest in a way it hadn’t before. You lay back carefully, eyes drifting closed, hand resting softly against your abdomen, allowing yourself for a quiet moment to imagine what might come next.
The future still felt uncertain, gently fragile, but less terrifying now. You imagined small fingers, a tiny face, gentle warmth pressed quietly against your chest. The image made your throat tighten softly, not with fear, but with something quietly powerful—something hopeful, something real.
You hadn’t fully decided yet—not officially, not openly. But you’d quietly begun leaning into these small signs, allowing yourself to feel them, to acknowledge them gently without rushing toward any decision. You weren’t ready to fully embrace it, but you also weren’t running from it anymore. You simply held it gently, cautiously, quietly accepting the uncertainty without forcing it away.
As you lay quietly in bed, your breathing gentle and slow, your hand still resting softly on your stomach, you felt a soft flutter of wonder—a quiet acknowledgment that this was real, that you were slowly becoming something different. Not less, not weaker—just changed, quietly stronger, even in the uncertainty.
You knew these first signs were only the beginning. Soon enough, your secret wouldn’t be yours alone to carry. Soon enough, others would notice, would whisper, would judge.
But tonight, it was just yours. Soft, quiet, gently held within your own careful hands.
You knew Ellie noticed before she said anything.
She’d always had a sharp, quiet way of seeing things that others missed. So when she caught up to you one afternoon after chores, matching your stride down the quiet street, you felt something inside you tighten softly with anticipation.
“You’re different lately,” Ellie announced bluntly, keeping her tone casual even as her eyes carefully watched your reaction.
You glanced sideways at her, trying not to show the way her words made your chest tighten slightly. “Different how?”
She shrugged, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, kicking lightly at the snow beneath your feet. “I dunno. You’re quieter or something. Less…tense?”
You smiled softly, shaking your head. “I think you’re imagining things.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow at you, lips twitching slightly. “Yeah, right. Sure I am.”
You both walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the snow crunching quietly beneath your boots. Ellie cast another quick glance your way, eyes sharp but gentle, gauging your mood carefully before she spoke again.
“It’s Joel, isn’t it?” she finally said, voice quieter now, carefully teasing. “I see the way you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching.”
You stopped abruptly, cheeks warming despite yourself, embarrassment mixed gently with surprise. Ellie stopped a step later, turning to face you, grinning slightly.
“What?” she said innocently, eyes bright. “I’m just stating facts here. It’s obvious.”
“It’s…complicated,” you murmured softly, shifting your gaze away from her. The quiet intimacy of recent days surfaced quickly in your thoughts—the soft, shared breakfasts, Joel’s quiet attentiveness, the gentle comfort of his steady presence.
Ellie’s teasing softened suddenly into something more careful. “Yeah. It always is.”
You looked back at her then, realizing her teasing had been a careful way of acknowledging something deeper, something gentler she knew you might not be ready to say aloud.
“You’re okay with it?” you asked quietly, voice hesitant, the question catching slightly in your throat.
Ellie shrugged gently, the teasing leaving her eyes completely, replaced by soft sincerity. “Joel’s an idiot half the time—but he’s a good guy. And if he makes you happy…”
Her voice trailed softly away, the unfinished thought clear enough without being spoken.
You smiled faintly, nodding slowly. “He’s been kind,” you admitted softly. “Gentle.”
Ellie wrinkled her nose slightly, making a playful face, but the warmth in her eyes stayed genuine. “That’s gross,” she teased lightly, nudging your arm gently with her elbow. “But good. You deserve that.”
Your throat tightened quietly at her words. Ellie rarely spoke openly about feelings—but the sincerity behind her careful teasing meant more than she could probably know.
“Thanks, Ellie,” you murmured softly, meeting her eyes again. “It means a lot.”
She shifted awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by the open tenderness, rolling her eyes dramatically as she stepped back, shaking her head.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered quickly, though a small smile lingered softly on her lips. “Whatever. Just don’t let him be too sappy, okay? I can’t handle it.”
You laughed softly, genuinely, the gentle ache in your chest easing slightly. Ellie grinned quietly in response, pleased with herself, the warmth behind her teasing staying gently visible in her eyes.
You both began walking again, quieter now, Ellie’s gentle support wrapped softly around you, careful and unspoken. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t push further—but you could feel her quiet care beside you, steady and real.
And maybe, you realized softly, quietly holding onto this moment, having someone notice wasn’t so scary after all.
Joel had always been good at noticing small things.
It was a survival instinct, sharpened by years of careful watchfulness—something that had once been about staying alive, now quietly softened into something more subtle. Now, he noticed the tiny details in ways he never had before. Now, his gaze rested carefully, protectively, not because of danger, but because of something gentler, quieter, warmer.
He noticed the way you moved lately—softer, slower, more deliberate. He saw how your eyes sometimes drifted gently downward, your fingers absently touching your stomach, brief and quiet, as though reassuring yourself that everything was okay.
He’d watched you carefully over breakfasts and quiet walks, noticing the subtle ways your guard had started to lower around him. He saw the quiet warmth in your eyes when you looked at the small hat he’d brought you, noticed the careful softness when Ellie teased you gently, the faint smile you didn’t hide quickly enough.
Joel didn’t quite know what to do with the quiet ache he felt watching you like this. It was tender, vulnerable—an ache he wasn’t sure he fully trusted yet. Caring meant opening himself up, meant feeling things he’d spent years learning to push down deep.
He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t planned it, hadn’t wanted it—but now, in quiet moments alone, he found himself thinking about you more and more. Not just to protect you, but to hear you laugh softly, to see the gentle shift in your expression when you allowed yourself a quiet moment of hope.
He thought about Ellie’s teasing smile, the gentle warmth behind her blunt words. Ellie saw it too, Joel realized quietly. Saw something happening between the two of you, subtle but undeniable, even if he wasn’t sure yet how to name it.
Joel wasn’t sure if he was ready for that—ready to acknowledge what it might mean to care again, deeply and softly. He’d lost enough already; he’d felt enough pain to last a lifetime. And yet, each quiet moment with you felt less like risk, and more like quiet possibility—something worth holding onto, even carefully, even uncertainly.
He sighed softly, staring out the window of his cabin toward yours, watching the gentle glow behind your curtain, the quiet outline of your shadow as you moved slowly, thoughtfully inside. He imagined you standing there, one hand pressed gently against your stomach, quiet, careful, hopeful.
It scared him, this quiet attachment, the gentle protectiveness he couldn’t deny anymore. But beneath the quiet fear lay something else, something softer, something he’d thought he’d lost a long time ago—a quiet longing, not for certainty, but for closeness. For gentle companionship. For the comfort of being seen, softly and honestly.
Joel exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, allowing himself to quietly accept this growing feeling, even if just for tonight. He couldn’t control what happened next, couldn’t promise everything would be okay, couldn’t know how you’d decide or how your story would unfold.
But he could stay close. He could keep watching quietly, carefully, noticing the small ways you were slowly becoming yourself again. He could hold onto this fragile, careful hope he felt—not demanding anything from it, not forcing it into clarity, just feeling it quietly, gently, as it slowly softened the ache in his chest.
Maybe this was enough, he thought quietly. Maybe this careful, uncertain closeness—the way he watched over you, the gentle way you let him in—was enough to keep him steady.
Joel stood slowly, moving toward his bed with quiet steps, eyes still lingering softly on your cabin outside.
He knew he was in too deep now—knew his careful distance was becoming harder and harder to keep.
But for once, Joel didn’t want to pull away.
And maybe, he realized quietly, he didn’t have to.
It was Joel who suggested it first—a quiet, careful invitation as he found you outside your cabin the following morning, gently knocking just as the sun rose higher, casting pale gold through the soft layer of clouds.
“Thought maybe a walk might do us good,” he murmured softly, voice quiet, careful, his eyes searching yours for signs of hesitation or uncertainty. “Only if you’re up for it.”
You considered him softly, feeling a quiet warmth in your chest at the cautious way he gave you room to decline. It wasn’t a demand or an expectation—just a gentle invitation, offered without pressure or hurry.
“Yeah,” you answered quietly, lips curving into a small smile. “A walk sounds nice.”
Joel relaxed visibly, his expression softening in relief. You stepped back inside briefly, pulling on your coat, wrapping a scarf gently around your neck, and slipping your hands into thick gloves. When you stepped back outside, Joel stood patiently waiting, hands tucked deeply into the pockets of his jacket, his eyes gentle and careful.
Together, you began walking slowly, falling naturally into step with one another. The world around you was quiet, peaceful, the snow soft beneath your boots, muffling every step. Your breaths clouded gently in the crisp air, mingling briefly in front of you, dissipating softly as you moved forward.
At first, neither of you spoke much—just the gentle quiet of shared footsteps, the soft rhythm of breathing, the careful companionship that now came easier than you’d ever expected. Joel’s presence beside you felt comforting, steady in a quiet, unassuming way. You glanced sideways occasionally, catching him quietly observing the landscape around you, his expression thoughtful but relaxed.
As you reached the quiet outskirts of Jackson, the silence between you gradually warmed into soft, easy conversation. Nothing heavy or demanding—just simple, quiet exchanges about small things, careful words that felt safe enough to share.
“Didn’t think I’d ever get used to this much snow,” Joel remarked softly, glancing toward the fields of white stretching quietly ahead of you.
You smiled gently, nodding in agreement. “Me neither. It’s strange…how quiet everything feels.”
He hummed softly, thoughtful. “Quiet’s good sometimes. Didn’t used to think so—but it is.”
You glanced toward him quietly, noticing the soft lines around his eyes, the gentle warmth hidden just beneath his careful, guarded surface. “You seem good at quiet,” you murmured softly, voice gentle with affection.
Joel’s lips curved into a faint, gentle smile. “Guess I’ve learned how to appreciate it.”
Your heart softened quietly at his words, the gentle honesty behind them. It felt good to talk like this—to walk slowly together, to share gentle reflections without fear or hesitation.
You moved forward slowly, the air calm, the sky above gently clouded, the quiet between you deepening softly into something warmer. Joel’s presence grew quietly closer as you walked, your shoulders nearly brushing, your pace easy and matched.
After a while, as you stepped carefully along the edge of the snow-covered trail, Joel’s hand gently brushed yours. It was soft, accidental, fleeting—just a quiet touch, quickly withdrawn, yet you both felt it immediately, sharply aware of the subtle intimacy it created.
Joel glanced quickly your way, careful, hesitant. “Sorry,” he murmured quietly, voice gentle.
But you didn’t pull away. Instead, your heart fluttered softly, a warmth gently settling in your chest. “It’s okay,” you whispered softly, your voice quieter, barely audible, but steady enough that Joel heard it clearly.
Joel’s expression softened visibly at your gentle acceptance, something quiet and tender in his gaze as he slowly, carefully let his hand brush yours again—intentional this time, gentle and cautious.
You felt your breathing catch softly, your heart quickening gently, quietly recognizing the shift between you—the careful openness, the gentle warmth in his careful touch.
Neither of you spoke further—not needing words anymore, just quietly savoring this soft moment, the careful intimacy, the gentle connection building between you.
When your fingers eventually intertwined softly, carefully, naturally, you felt something settle quietly inside your chest—an acceptance, a gentle trust, a quiet acknowledgment of everything that was slowly, carefully growing between you.
And as you continued your gentle walk back toward town, the silence between you was softer now—filled with quiet warmth, careful intimacy, gentle understanding.
For today, this careful closeness—this quiet touch, this gentle connection—was more than enough.
Your hand stayed quietly in Joel’s as you walked back through Jackson, each step feeling softer, warmer now. Neither of you spoke at first, content simply to feel the quiet connection, gentle and cautious, that now existed between your fingertips.
His hand felt large, warm, and reassuringly steady against yours. You found yourself carefully tracing the subtle callouses and rough spots on his fingers, quietly feeling the texture of a lifetime spent in careful survival. Each small movement felt intimate, vulnerable, a quiet acknowledgment of trust slowly forming between you.
Joel’s thumb brushed softly across the back of your knuckles—a gentle, barely-there movement—but it sent quiet warmth flooding through your chest. Your heart quickened softly, your breathing careful, steadying itself around this new, gentle intimacy.
After a while, Joel’s voice came softly, breaking the gentle silence between you. His tone was low, careful, almost hesitant.
“Is this okay?” he asked quietly, glancing gently your way, eyes soft but cautious, searching your face carefully.
You smiled faintly, nodding slowly, your heart fluttering quietly at the careful way he made sure of your comfort, the gentleness of his voice. “Yeah,” you whispered softly, quietly reassuring him. “It’s nice.”
Joel visibly relaxed again, his shoulders easing slightly, his fingers gently tightening around yours—careful, affectionate, but still cautious. You sensed his vulnerability, quiet but real, felt in the careful pressure of his fingertips, the gentle hesitancy in his touch.
Your pace slowed slightly, neither of you in a hurry to return yet. The world around you remained quiet, peaceful, muffled gently beneath fresh snow. Your shared silence was filled with quiet comfort and the fragile warmth of something new and carefully growing between you.
Joel’s thumb brushed softly over your knuckles again, carefully, slowly, the gesture simple but deeply intimate. You looked toward him again, catching his quiet, thoughtful expression, the gentle warmth hidden carefully behind his quiet reserve.
He cleared his throat quietly, eyes briefly lowering before meeting yours again. “Been a long time since—since I let myself…” He trailed softly away, not finishing the thought, but you understood anyway, recognizing the gentle confession in his quiet, unfinished words.
You squeezed his hand gently, reassuringly. “Me too,” you whispered softly, voice careful but steady. “I didn’t think I'd ever feel comfortable with something like this again.”
Joel’s gaze softened further, eyes gentle, voice low, almost reverent. “I'm glad you do now.”
His quiet words made your chest ache softly, tenderly, in a way you hadn't expected. You walked silently again for a moment, feeling the gentle weight of his words settle carefully between you. This quiet honesty, this careful vulnerability—it felt fragile but also deeply precious.
“I trust you, Joel,” you murmured softly after a quiet pause, your words gentle but sincere. You felt him go still beside you for just a heartbeat, a careful breath escaping quietly from his chest.
“Means a lot,” he finally answered quietly, his voice low, gentle, and thick with quiet emotion. “More than you know.”
You stopped walking then, turning gently to face him, your hands still carefully intertwined. Joel looked down at you, expression careful and open, eyes gentle and searching.
Slowly, cautiously, you reached up with your free hand, fingers gently brushing a careful strand of hair away from his forehead. The gesture was soft, intimate, natural—carrying the quiet trust you'd just voiced aloud.
Joel’s breath hitched softly at the gentle touch, eyes briefly fluttering closed before opening again, softer, warmer than before.
“You don't have to be careful with me,” you whispered gently, feeling your heart beating softly, steadily beneath your words. “Not like that.”
Joel nodded quietly, swallowing softly, visibly moved by your gentle reassurance. “Maybe careful’s all I know how to be,” he admitted gently, voice thick with quiet vulnerability.
You smiled softly, fingertips lingering gently on his temple before pulling slowly away, resting your hand carefully back at your side.
“Then careful’s enough,” you murmured softly, gently. “For now.”
Joel nodded again, quieter now, the soft intimacy of the moment settling gently between you. When you began walking again, your hands stayed softly entwined, your pace easy and slow, the quiet warmth shared between you deepening further with each careful step.
The first touch had been gentle, hesitant—but quietly, carefully, it had opened a space between you both, tender and safe, filled with gentle possibility.
Joel walked slowly back to his cabin, alone now, but carrying the gentle warmth of your touch with him. His fingertips still tingled faintly from the careful pressure of your hand, the soft reassurance of your voice quietly echoing in his ears.
“I trust you, Joel.”
Those simple, quiet words had settled deeply in his chest, stirring feelings he’d thought long buried beneath layers of loss and quiet resignation. Trust was something fragile, something he’d learned long ago could hurt more sharply than any wound.
Yet somehow, hearing it softly from your lips hadn’t scared him. It had felt natural—right even—in a way he hadn't thought possible again.
He thought carefully about your gentle touch, how your fingers had brushed softly against his temple. Such a simple gesture, yet it had quietly broken through layers of cautious armor he'd spent years building around himself. For just a moment, he'd felt fully seen, deeply cared for—safe, even.
Joel’s chest tightened gently at the memory, a quiet ache filled with tenderness rather than fear. He knew he was treading carefully, maybe even dangerously—opening himself up to something fragile and uncertain. But somehow, that didn't seem to matter right now.
He hadn't expected this—hadn't expected you. And he certainly hadn't expected the quiet, powerful way you'd begun to settle gently in his thoughts and heart, the subtle intimacy now warming the spaces he'd long kept hidden and cold.
Joel exhaled slowly, glancing briefly toward your cabin, now softly silhouetted against the early evening sky. He found himself wanting to go back—to sit quietly beside you, to feel your gentle presence again, to continue exploring the quiet tenderness now growing carefully between you.
But he knew he needed space first—space to feel it, space to let himself accept it quietly, carefully, without fear. He’d moved carefully his whole life, holding tightly to distance as his only safe measure. Yet now, your gentle closeness seemed to offer a different kind of safety—a gentler, softer way forward.
And maybe, Joel thought quietly as he reached his own door, stepping carefully inside and feeling the gentle warmth of your words still echoing softly within him, maybe careful was enough for both of you right now.
Maybe careful was exactly what you needed from him.
He allowed himself a soft, quiet smile—rare, fleeting, but deeply felt. Tonight, he knew he’d rest easier, warmer, feeling quietly connected to someone again.
Feeling gently hopeful, despite himself.
You were lost in quiet thought, seated alone in a quiet corner of the dining hall when Maria gently approached, placing a careful hand on your shoulder to announce her presence. Her touch was gentle, warm, quietly reassuring without being intrusive.
“Mind some company?” she asked softly, her voice gentle but steady, eyes warm as they carefully met yours.
You shook your head, smiling softly. “Not at all.”
She settled quietly across from you, her expression soft and thoughtful, her presence steady and grounding. For a moment, she said nothing—just studied you quietly, eyes gently searching your face, gauging how you truly were beneath your careful composure.
“How are you holding up?” she finally asked gently, voice quiet and sincere, genuinely interested in your answer rather than merely exchanging polite pleasantries.
You exhaled softly, hesitating just a moment before answering honestly, “Better. But...it’s still complicated.”
Maria nodded quietly, clearly understanding the careful layers hidden in that simple word—complicated. She leaned forward slightly, her posture gentle but open, inviting further conversation without pressing you too forcefully.
“Complicated is okay,” she reassured softly, eyes gentle but steady. “This isn’t something anyone should rush.”
You felt your chest tighten gently at her quiet validation, grateful she didn’t push for a clearer answer, a quicker decision. Maria’s careful, quiet understanding felt deeply comforting, allowing you space to breathe, to process, to feel without hurry.
“Sometimes,” you admitted softly, your voice careful but sincere, “I feel almost ready—like I can see myself doing this. But then it hits me again, and the fear just comes rushing back.”
Maria listened quietly, nodding gently in understanding, her expression tender but not pitying. “That’s normal. Fear doesn’t just disappear overnight. Especially when something matters this much.”
You looked up at her, something quietly shifting inside you at the gentle wisdom behind her words. Maria’s calm steadiness, her gentle empathy, felt like a quiet balm against your lingering doubts.
“Do you think I’m strong enough?” you asked softly, voice barely audible, your question coming quietly but from somewhere deeply vulnerable within you.
Maria reached carefully across the table, resting her hand gently over yours. Her touch felt warm, comforting, supportive without being suffocating.
“I think you’re one of the strongest people I know,” she said softly, sincerely, meeting your gaze steadily. “But you don’t have to carry everything alone to prove it.”
You felt tears gently prick behind your eyes, your throat tightening softly at the quiet tenderness and sincerity of her words. You hadn’t realized how much you’d quietly needed to hear that—validation that strength wasn’t something you had to prove alone.
“Joel’s been kind,” you murmured softly, gently changing the subject to something safer, though equally vulnerable. “Gentle. I didn’t expect that.”
Maria smiled softly, knowingly, a quiet warmth in her eyes. “Joel’s a good man beneath all that gruffness. Quiet, careful, but deeply kind.” She paused gently, considering you carefully. “And he seems different around you. Softer.”
Your heart fluttered gently, warmth rising quietly in your cheeks. You didn’t say anything, but the quiet acknowledgment felt good—another careful validation of something you’d cautiously started to trust.
Maria squeezed your hand gently again before pulling back slowly, giving you careful space. “I want you to know,” she said quietly, sincerely, “no matter what you decide, you have support here. You’re not alone—not anymore.”
You nodded softly, throat too tight to speak immediately, deeply grateful for her quiet empathy, the gentle assurance in her voice.
“Thank you,” you finally murmured softly, meaning it more deeply than simple words could capture. “I—I really needed to hear that.”
Maria’s expression softened further, warm and gentle. “It’s okay to need reassurance,” she reminded gently, kindly. “You’re allowed to be uncertain, to take things slow. It doesn’t make you weak.”
You felt quiet relief wash gently over you, settling softly into your chest. Maria had carefully given you permission again—to be uncertain, to take your time, to feel whatever quietly came without judgment.
And sitting quietly across from her, feeling the gentle warmth of her support, the quiet steadiness of her presence, you realized something important—something quietly freeing:
It was okay to still be figuring it out. It was okay to move carefully, slowly. Because here, in this quiet moment, you knew you were no longer doing it alone.
Later that evening, a quiet knock at your cabin door drew you gently out of your thoughts. The sound was hesitant, almost shy, a soft, careful rhythm that immediately told you who was waiting outside.
You opened the door slowly, finding Ellie standing there with her hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of her jacket, eyes carefully fixed on the ground at her feet.
“Hey,” she mumbled softly, shifting from one foot to another, clearly uncomfortable but determined to stay.
You smiled gently, opening the door wider to welcome her inside. “Hey, Ellie. Come on in.”
She stepped carefully through the door, glancing around your cabin with a quiet, self-conscious look—familiar, but different from the usual casual confidence she wore so comfortably.
You watched her quietly, curious but patient, sensing she needed time to speak. She cleared her throat softly, pulling something carefully from the inside pocket of her jacket, holding it awkwardly in her hands, eyes still downcast.
“Uh, I made you something,” she murmured finally, voice quieter now, vulnerable beneath her casual tone. She shifted nervously, before handing it carefully toward you.
Your heart softened instantly as you reached out to accept her gift, carefully unwrapping the folded cloth Ellie had carefully concealed it in. Inside rested a small wooden carving, shaped into the gentle form of a horse—a rough but thoughtful likeness of Dusty.
You felt your chest tighten softly at the quiet care and effort it must have taken Ellie to make something like this. You carefully turned it over in your hands, feeling the gentle grooves and rough edges beneath your fingertips, clearly shaped by careful, inexperienced, but deeply thoughtful hands.
“Ellie,” you breathed softly, voice thick with quiet emotion, “this is beautiful. You made this yourself?”
Ellie shrugged awkwardly, cheeks flushing gently, eyes still downcast. “Yeah, well—I mean, it’s not perfect or anything. Just thought you might like it.”
Her voice trailed softly off, quietly vulnerable beneath her attempt at casualness. You felt a quiet warmth spreading through your chest, deeply touched by the careful, thoughtful gesture—something small, but deeply meaningful, gentle proof of how much Ellie genuinely cared.
“It’s perfect,” you assured her gently, sincerely, feeling your throat tighten softly with genuine gratitude. “Really, Ellie—this means a lot.”
She glanced up quickly, searching your face carefully for any sign of insincerity. When she found none, a small, relieved smile softened her expression.
“Yeah?” she murmured softly, voice still hesitant, but quietly hopeful. “I wasn’t sure if you’d think it was stupid or something.”
“Not stupid at all,” you assured gently, smiling warmly, placing the small wooden horse carefully onto the shelf by your bed—near the tiny knit hat Joel had brought earlier. Your growing collection of careful, gentle tokens now represented something deeper—a quiet circle of support slowly forming around you.
Ellie noticed immediately, eyes carefully fixed on the small knit hat. She nodded softly toward it, a quiet smile touching her lips. “Joel?”
You smiled gently, nodding quietly in answer. “Yeah.”
Ellie rolled her eyes playfully, carefully hiding the genuine warmth behind the gesture. “Of course. You two are gonna make me sick.”
You laughed softly, gently, feeling grateful for Ellie’s casual teasing. Beneath her words lay quiet acceptance, careful affection, and gentle understanding.
“Thanks, Ellie,” you murmured softly, your voice quiet and sincere, holding her gaze carefully, warmly. “Really. It means more than you know.”
Ellie shifted awkwardly again, clearly uncomfortable with open emotional vulnerability, but her eyes softened gently, her expression quietly earnest.
“You deserve nice things sometimes,” she said quietly, voice gentle and sincere despite the carefully casual shrug that accompanied her words. “And…you deserve people who care.”
You felt tears gently prick at your eyes again, her simple but powerful words landing quietly, deeply inside your chest. “So do you,” you said softly, sincerely, meaning it with quiet intensity.
Ellie smiled softly, nodding once in quiet acknowledgment. She glanced away, clearly embarrassed by the emotional moment but unwilling to completely hide her genuine affection.
“Alright,” she said gently, stepping carefully toward the door, clearly needing space to recover her casual bravado. “I’ll, uh—I’ll see you around.”
“See you, Ellie,” you said softly, gently, watching her step carefully back outside, leaving your cabin quietly warmer and softer in her wake.
As the door closed softly behind her, you turned again to the small wooden horse, fingers carefully tracing its gentle curves, your chest filled quietly with gratitude, affection, and a careful sense of belonging.
Tonight, Ellie’s quiet, awkward, beautiful gift felt like gentle proof that you truly weren’t alone—not anymore.
And for now, that quiet truth felt deeply comforting, quietly powerful, and gently enough.
Joel sat quietly beside the fire later that evening, watching the flames dance softly, casting gentle, flickering shadows against the cabin walls. Outside, snow fell quietly, muffling the sounds of Jackson into a comforting, soft stillness. Inside, the silence felt heavier—filled with thoughts and quiet feelings Joel usually worked hard to avoid.
He’d spent most of his life building careful walls—strong barriers designed to protect him from the kind of vulnerability that led only to pain. Those walls had always felt necessary, essential even, but tonight, Joel felt something quietly shifting within him, gently dismantling the careful defenses he’d maintained for so long.
He thought carefully about the afternoon spent with you, your soft laughter, gentle smile, the quiet intimacy of your fingers intertwined with his. Each quiet memory felt tender, warm, powerful in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The warmth of your quiet trust, your gentle vulnerability, lingered deeply within him, stirring something he'd long kept hidden, carefully pushed aside.
He couldn’t deny it any longer—not when the quiet truth of it burned softly, insistently in his chest. He cared deeply, quietly, more than he’d intended or thought possible. It wasn’t just protectiveness, not just obligation or careful responsibility. It was gentler, deeper, quieter—a genuine tenderness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a very long time.
Joel exhaled slowly, leaning forward and resting his elbows gently on his knees, head bowed carefully as he stared into the fire, absorbing this quiet realization.
It scared him deeply. He knew how vulnerable caring made him, knew the pain that always seemed to accompany genuine attachment. The memories of Sarah still lingered softly, quietly aching reminders of the cost of loving so deeply. But now, despite himself, despite every careful instinct screaming quietly to retreat, Joel found himself unwilling to push these gentle feelings away.
He remembered your quiet words from earlier, the soft touch of your hand, the careful reassurance in your eyes.
"I trust you, Joel."
Those quiet, simple words had echoed deeply within him, leaving gentle imprints he couldn’t shake. Trust meant vulnerability, meant openness—meant something more profound than careful distance and guarded hearts.
Joel leaned back slowly, staring up toward the ceiling, quietly allowing himself to fully acknowledge what he'd been carefully avoiding. His heart had opened gently, quietly toward you, and now there was no turning back.
He knew it was risky—loving, caring, hoping always was. But tonight, Joel realized softly that he didn’t want to hide behind careful walls anymore. Not from you. Not from whatever quiet, careful future might unfold between you.
Joel rubbed his hand gently across his jaw, feeling quietly overwhelmed yet carefully hopeful. He couldn’t promise you certainty, couldn’t promise everything would turn out perfectly. But he could offer something softer, quieter—something deeply honest.
He could offer himself. Quietly, gently, carefully, without expectation or demand.
The fire crackled softly, warming the quiet space around him. Joel closed his eyes gently, breathing deeply, letting the soft warmth of this quiet admission settle deeply within him. He was still cautious, still careful—he always would be—but tonight, that caution felt gentler, quieter, softened by genuine affection and quiet hope.
He was no longer staying close out of obligation or guilt or simple protectiveness. Now, he stayed close because he wanted to, because he cared deeply, because he saw something beautiful and gentle worth quietly fighting for, worth gently holding onto.
Joel opened his eyes slowly, gazing thoughtfully into the gentle glow of the flames. He knew he wasn’t ready to voice these quiet feelings aloud—not yet—but simply acknowledging them privately felt powerful, important.
Quietly, gently, he accepted that he’d grown to deeply care for you, and that quiet realization was both terrifying and deeply comforting.
He exhaled softly, feeling quietly at peace despite lingering uncertainty. Joel allowed himself a small, gentle smile—rare, genuine, and deeply felt—as he quietly admitted to himself, clearly and carefully, what he’d known in his heart all along:
He was no longer just your protector.
He was quietly, genuinely yours—in whatever gentle, careful way you wanted him to be.
You lay quietly in bed, the gentle stillness of the cabin wrapped softly around you, illuminated faintly by the moonlight filtering carefully through the curtains. Tonight, your heart felt different—quietly softer, cautiously hopeful, more peaceful than you'd felt in a long time.
Your thoughts moved gently back over the day, reflecting softly on the quiet, careful intimacy you'd shared with Joel—the gentle comfort of your morning together, the careful warmth of his hand brushing yours, the tender honesty quietly woven into each small interaction.
You felt your chest tighten gently, softly, at the memory of Ellie’s careful gift—the small, rough carving of Dusty resting quietly on your shelf, its thoughtful presence a gentle reminder of the careful connections you'd begun forming here. Ellie’s quiet awkwardness, her gentle sincerity, had touched you deeply, warmly, quietly affirming your growing sense of belonging.
You rolled gently onto your side, gaze falling quietly onto the small wooden horse again. Beside it sat Joel’s knit hat, the quiet tokens now representing something more profound—gentle reminders of the people who cared, quiet evidence of the support softly growing around you.
Slowly, carefully, you reached out, fingertips brushing gently over each small item, feeling the quiet warmth they held. These small gifts, these gentle gestures—they meant more than you’d allowed yourself to fully acknowledge until now. They felt like quiet proof of the gentle, careful relationships you'd begun to form—quiet connections that made you feel less alone, more steady, gently hopeful.
Your hand settled softly onto your belly again, a gesture becoming more familiar now, gentle rather than fearful. Tonight, your touch felt quietly tender, cautiously affectionate—no longer merely curious, but gently accepting. You didn't feel completely certain yet, didn't feel fully ready, but tonight, that uncertainty felt gentler, quieter, more manageable.
Your breath came softly, steady and calm, the gentle quiet of your cabin wrapping comfortingly around you. For once, your thoughts weren't filled with fear or sharp anxiety—instead, quiet possibility lingered softly, warmly in your mind, gently encouraging you to imagine something hopeful.
You imagined quietly, gently, the first movements you'd soon feel—soft flutters beneath your careful fingertips, small but deeply meaningful. You imagined holding gently onto small, fragile hands, gazing softly into eyes filled with quiet wonder. You imagined Joel’s quiet presence beside you, steady, careful, supportive, quietly sharing in these gentle moments of fragile intimacy.
Each quiet image felt softly hopeful, gently powerful. You weren’t certain yet if they would truly come, if you’d fully allow yourself to embrace them—but tonight, imagining felt safe, gentle, allowed.
Quietly, carefully, you let yourself explore these gentle dreams, softly feeling the quiet shift toward acceptance, toward hope, toward cautious anticipation. You weren’t running from these gentle possibilities anymore—not hiding, not pushing away.
Tonight, you allowed yourself quiet permission—to gently want, to softly imagine, to carefully begin to believe in the quiet possibility of a future worth staying for.
You breathed deeply, feeling your body gently relax further into the quiet, steady warmth surrounding you. Sleep came softly, easily, peacefully tonight, wrapping you in gentle dreams filled not with fear or anxiety, but with soft moments of quiet intimacy and tender warmth.
In your dreams, you saw soft snow falling quietly, felt Joel’s gentle presence close beside you, saw Ellie’s playful smile, felt Maria’s steady, reassuring touch. Each gentle image brought quiet comfort, softly reaffirming your cautious hope, gently strengthening your quiet acceptance.
When you stirred gently, briefly, later that night, the quiet warmth still lingered softly within your chest, filling you with a sense of gentle peace. You turned slightly, eyes drifting softly toward the small tokens beside you again—the gentle reminders of the quiet bonds you’d formed, the careful intimacy you'd begun to trust.
Tonight, you finally felt it clearly, quietly—a gentle, quiet certainty beneath lingering uncertainty, carefully acknowledging that even though you didn’t have all the answers yet, you were safe, steady, and gently supported.
Quietly, you whispered softly into the gentle darkness, your words careful, tender, genuine:
“I think I can do this.”
Your quiet voice, gentle but certain, lingered softly in the stillness, the gentle truth of your words settling quietly within your heart. You believed it—carefully, gently, cautiously—but truly.
AN: Hey loves! Thanks for cozying up with another chapter full of gentle feels, quiet yearning, and Ellie’s adorable awkwardness (I love her, okay?). I had so much fun carefully tiptoeing around Joel’s grumpy heart and watching him soften like butter—because who doesn’t love seeing that man melt just a little? Your support is everything, and hearing your thoughts makes my entire week. So drop a comment, say hi, or just leave me a little heart if you liked it! Until next time, keep warm and stay wonderful. 🥰✨
