You just know those broad, sturdy shoulders feel so good supporting your legs while he holds you in place, allowing you to ride his tongue as he devours you
thinking about how joel sits and carves wooden animals to decorate his house with. how he probably carved ellie her horse and continued to carve her creatures even when she was avoiding him. how he’ll never finish his owl.
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
What am I supposed to do?
In a world that's missing you
Everything I loved gone with the winds
Where am I supposed to go?
Can't bear an empty home
Should've known that I'd end up all alone
How am I supposed to sleep?
When you are all I see
Everything reminds me of wounds so deep
How am I supposed to live?
If you're not living too
Everything is nothing without you
snowghoul
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
prguitarman
izzy806
dededos
janainaart
