Synopsis: Reader is a single mom who also suffers from a chronic autoimmune disease. This story really hit me in my heart. As someone who suffers from a couple of autoimmune conditions, this hit home.
Warnings: angst, death, illness, age gap (reader is 10 years older than Joe) **COUGARS REPRESENT!!**
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Middle of the workday. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. Your inbox open, half-finished email sitting on the screen while your brain tried to keep up with everything your body was already struggling to carry.
You almost let it go to voicemail.
“Hello?” you answered anyway, tucking the phone between your ear and shoulder.
Then a voice you hadn’t heard in years.
And somehow… still recognized immediately.
By the time the call ended, your screen had gone dark.
Your email still unfinished.
Your hands resting uselessly on the keyboard.
That was the strange part.
Because the man they were talking about—your father—had been gone long before he actually died.
“The service will be in New York. That’s where he wanted to be buried.”
Your chest tightened instantly.
That night, you sat on your couch in silence, your phone in your hand.
The house was quieter than usual. Your daughter was at a friend’s. Your son was in his room, music faintly bleeding through the walls.
You hadn’t told them yet.
You hadn’t told him yet either.
Your thumb hovered over his name.
For a second, you considered not saying anything.
It wasn’t part of the version of you he knew.
This was older. Heavier. Complicated in ways that didn’t translate easily through a screen.
But then your phone buzzed.
“Hey. I might have service for a bit if you’re around.”
Spotty signal. Random windows of connection.
And somehow… still there.
You swallowed and hit call before you could change your mind.
It rang longer than usual.
“Hey,” his voice came through, slightly distorted but unmistakably him.
You didn’t say anything right away.
“Hey,” he repeated, softer now. “You okay?”
The one thing no one else had asked.
Your breath caught slightly.
“…my dad died,” you said.
“I’m really sorry,” he said gently.
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too. I think.”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
The connection crackled for a second, his voice fading in and out before stabilizing again.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“He stopped being my dad a long time ago.”
The words came easier than you expected.
Maybe because you weren’t looking at him.
Maybe because he wasn’t interrupting.
Maybe because he never tried to fix things that weren’t fixable.
“My stepmom never wanted me around,” you continued. “And eventually… he just went along with it. Easier, I guess.”
Your throat tightened slightly.
“I wasn’t worth the fight.”
The silence on his end stretched just long enough to feel intentional.
“I know,” you said softly. “But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
Another crackle of static.
“I think it does,” he replied.
Because part of you… wanted to believe that.
Over the next few days, the question sat quietly in the back of your mind.
You avoided answering it.
Buried yourself in routine. Work. Your kids. Anything that didn’t involve digging up something you’d already learned to live without.
Until your daughter asked.
“Are you going to the funeral?”
You looked up from the kitchen counter, caught off guard.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
She studied you carefully.
“You probably should,” she said gently.
She shrugged slightly. “Closure, maybe? Or… just so you don’t wonder later.”
You stared at her for a moment.
And somehow wiser than you felt right now.
That night, you told him.
“I don’t know if I should go,” you admitted during a FaceTime call, your phone propped up against a pillow.
For a second, you forgot to be self-conscious.
That had been happening more lately.
Seeing his face had changed things.
Made him real in a way that texts never could.
Unfortunately… it also made you feel more real.
He leaned slightly closer to his screen, his expression focused.
“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked.
You let out a breath. “Because it’s not just a funeral. It’s… them.”
He didn’t need clarification.
“They didn’t treat you well,” he said.
“That’s putting it nicely.”
“And you’d be going alone?”
Your eyes flickered away from the screen.
The word felt heavier out loud.
The connection froze for half a second, then caught up again.
“You wouldn’t actually be alone,” he said.
Your gaze snapped back to him.
He hesitated, just briefly.
“I’ll be back in New York by then.”
“Oh,” you said, immediately guarded. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he cut in gently. “I want to.”
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Because this isn’t… this isn’t a casual thing, Joe. This is messy and uncomfortable and—”
“Then I want to be there even more.”
You shook your head, your defenses rising again.
“I’m not saying I’m going to insert myself into something you’re not ready for,” he interrupted softly. “I’m saying… if you go, you don’t have to feel like there’s no one in your corner.”
That hit harder than you expected.
Because that’s exactly what it would feel like.
A room full of people connected to your father…
And none of them connected to you.
“I don’t even know if I’m going yet,” you said.
“Okay,” he nodded. “Then figure that part out first.”
You didn’t decide right away.
But the thought stopped feeling impossible.
Then it started feeling… necessary.
The ticket sat in your email for almost a full day before you told anyone.
You stared at it like it might disappear if you looked too long.
Just a few days. In and out.
You had to be able to do that.
When you finally told your kids, your son just nodded.
“Want me to come with you?” he asked.
“I think I need to do this one alone,” you said gently.
Your daughter hugged you tighter than usual.
“I booked the flight,” you said quietly over the phone.
No pressure. No big reaction.
And somehow… that made it easier to breathe.
“I’ll be back in the city the night before,” he added.
Your chest tightened again.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said.
New York felt exactly how you expected.
Loud. Fast. Overwhelming.
And somehow… grounding in a way you couldn’t explain.
You kept your head down. Your focus narrow.
The morning of the service, your hands shook slightly as you adjusted your clothes in the mirror.
You didn’t look like the women he’d dated.
You didn’t look effortless.
You looked like someone who had fought to be here.
And maybe that had to be enough.
The funeral home felt colder than it should have.
Or maybe that was just you.
You stepped inside, immediately aware of the eyes that turned toward you.
Some… familiar in the worst way.
Your stepmother barely acknowledged you.
Your stepbrothers didn’t say a word.
You were exactly who you used to be in this space.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you moved further inside.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Maybe you shouldn’t have come.
The door behind you opened.
You barely noticed at first.
Just another person arriving.
Not through a voice call.
Standing a few feet away, dressed simply, like he was trying not to draw attention.
Not the filtered version.
For a split second, you froze.
Every fear you’d had rushed forward at once.
This is the moment he realizes—
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said quietly.
And something in your chest—
Something you’d been holding tight for years—
Not because everything was fixed.
Not because the past didn’t hurt.
But because, for the first time in a place that had always made you feel small—
You weren’t invisible anymore.
For a moment, everything else in the room faded.
The low murmur of voices. The soft shuffle of shoes against carpet. Even the weight in your chest that had been building since you stepped inside.
Joe Keery stood in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t just crossed distance, schedules, and everything complicated between your lives to show up in the one place you least wanted to be alone.
Your brain scrambled to catch up.
“You… actually came,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.
He gave a small, almost nervous smile. “Yeah. I did.”
And there it was again—that unexpected flicker of uncertainty in him. Not the polished version the world saw.
Your eyes flickered over him, searching—maybe even bracing—for something. Hesitation. Regret. That subtle shift that would confirm every fear you’d carried into this moment.
Instead, his gaze softened slightly.
The question landed differently here.
Because you weren’t okay.
And for once… you didn’t feel like you had to pretend.
You shook your head just slightly. “Not really.”
“Okay,” he said, just as quietly. “Then I’m here.”
Reality crept back in quickly.
Because you weren’t alone.
Your stepmother had noticed.
You could feel it before you saw it—that sharp, assessing stare from across the room. The kind that had always made you feel like you were being measured… and dismissed.
Your stepbrothers weren’t far behind.
Confusion. Recognition. A flicker of something else—something almost incredulous—as they glanced between you and him.
Of course they recognized him.
Of course this would become a thing.
You felt it instantly—that old instinct to shrink, to step away, to minimize yourself before someone else did it for you.
But before you could move, his voice cut in softly beside you.
“Do you want to stay in here, or step outside for a minute?”
You blinked, grounding yourself again.
“…outside,” you admitted.
He nodded once, not making it a big deal, and stepped slightly to the side—letting you lead, but staying close enough that you didn’t feel alone walking out.
The air outside was cooler.
You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath since you walked in.
“Sorry,” you muttered, rubbing your hands together. “This is already… a lot.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said.
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I kind of do. This isn’t exactly a normal first time seeing each other.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I don’t think anything about us has been normal.”
You glanced at him, despite yourself.
A small silence settled between you.
And then, because your brain couldn’t leave it alone any longer—
“You’re not… surprised?” you asked.
He frowned slightly. “About what?”
You gestured vaguely at yourself. “This. Me. In person.”
The fear you’d been carrying for months, finally spoken out loud in the one moment you couldn’t avoid it anymore.
He didn’t answer right away.
Not because he didn’t know what to say.
Because he was choosing how to say it.
“I’m not surprised,” he said finally.
Your stomach dropped slightly.
“Okay,” you said, bracing.
“But I think you are,” he added.
“I think you’re surprised I’m not reacting the way you expected,” he clarified gently.
You opened your mouth—then closed it again.
“I don’t know what I expected,” you admitted.
He studied you for a second, not in a way that made you feel judged—but seen.
“I see the same person I’ve been talking to this whole time,” he said.
“That’s not possible,” you said automatically.
“Because this is different,” you insisted. “This is real life. This is where people change their minds.”
He shook his head slightly.
“Or,” he said quietly, “this is where people find out they didn’t need to.”
That hit harder than anything else he’d said.
Because it left no room to hide behind your assumptions.
You looked away, your eyes stinging just slightly.
“This is a really bad place to have this conversation,” you muttered.
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah, probably.”
The door behind you opened again.
Your stepbrother stepped out, his eyes landing immediately on the two of you.
There was no subtlety in the way his expression shifted.
“…is that—?” he started, looking directly at Joe.
You felt your body tense instantly.
Old instincts kicking in.
Before you could respond, Joe spoke—calm, even.
“Hey,” he said, extending a hand like this was any normal introduction. “I’m Joe.”
Your stepbrother stared at him for a second, clearly thrown off by how… normal he was being.
“Yeah, I— I know who you are,” he said slowly, shaking his hand.
Then his attention snapped back to you.
“What is this?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.
Old dynamics. Old judgments. Old expectations of having to explain yourself.
But before you could shrink back into that version of yourself—
Joe shifted slightly beside you.
And for the first time in this space—
You lifted your chin just slightly.
“He’s here with me,” you said simply.
Your stepbrother frowned. “Since when do you—?”
“Since it’s not really your business,” you cut in, your voice steady despite the nerves underneath.
A flicker of something crossed his face—annoyance, maybe—but he didn’t push further.
“Whatever,” he muttered, glancing between you one more time before heading back inside.
The door shut behind him.
But it felt different now.
You exhaled slowly, your hands still slightly shaky.
“…that went about as well as expected,” you said dryly.
Joe huffed a quiet laugh. “You handled that.”
You shook your head. “I survived it.”
You glanced at him again.
And for the first time since he arrived—
“You really didn’t have to come,” you said again, softer this time.
You studied him for a second.
He didn’t hesitate this time.
“Because you were going to be here,” he said.
Inside, the service was about to begin.
You could feel it in the shift of movement, the quieting voices.
You looked back at the door.
So did everything unresolved between your past and present.
There was something else there too.
And the quiet, steady presence of someone who had shown up when it mattered most.
When you walked back inside—
You didn’t feel like you were walking in alone.
The service blurred in the way emotional things often did afterward—too much feeling packed into too small a space, leaving everything slightly unreal once it was over.
You remembered standing. Sitting. The weight of people you didn’t fully belong to. The name of a man you used to know but no longer understood.
Not loud. Not performative.
A steady point in a room that felt like it kept tilting under your feet.
Now, outside, the air hit you differently. Cooler. Sharper. Like the world was reminding you it was still moving.
You exhaled slowly as you stepped off the curb.
“You okay?” Joe asked gently beside you.
You nodded automatically.
Then shook your head once.
“…I don’t know,” you admitted.
That earned a soft, understanding look from him. Not pity. Never pity.
A cab pulled up, yellow light cutting through the gray afternoon. You slid in first, grateful for something to sit on that didn’t feel like it was judging you.
Joe followed, ducking in behind you.
And suddenly—it was quiet in a different way.
You gave the driver your hotel address without thinking too hard about it, your voice a little hoarse from the day.
The city slid past the windows in blurred motion.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Not because there was nothing to say.
Because there was too much.
Halfway through the ride, Joe shifted slightly beside you.
“You held up better than you think you did,” he said quietly.
A tired laugh slipped out of you. “I feel like I was dissociating half the time.”
“That’s still holding up,” he said.
He was looking out the window, but his presence felt anchored beside you in a way that made your chest tighten again.
The thing you’d been pushing against all day—the thing you’d been refusing to fully look at—started pressing forward.
“I’m glad you were there,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His eyes shifted to you immediately.
Because saying it out loud made it real.
“I don’t think I would’ve made it through that the same way if you weren’t,” you added softer.
He didn’t respond right away.
But something in his expression changed—subtle, but unmistakable. Like he was hearing something he’d been hoping for, but not daring to assume.
“I’m glad I was there too,” he said finally.
Your hotel came into view.
Tall. Clean. Quietly expensive in a way that didn’t feel like you belonged there, even if you were technically staying there.
You suddenly became aware of everything again—your clothes, your exhaustion, the weight of the day still clinging to your skin.
You hesitated before moving.
“I—” you started, then stopped.
Because this was the part you usually didn’t let happen.
The part where people left.
Where you went back to your life and they went back to theirs.
Joe noticed your hesitation.
“You don’t have to rush,” he said gently.
That simple sentence unraveled something in you.
Because you were rushing.
Out of discomfort. Out of fear. Out of the belief that if you lingered too long, you’d become something inconvenient.
You nodded slightly and paid the driver with shaky hands.
The hotel lobby was too bright.
You led him through it in silence, aware of everything—your steps, your reflection in glass, the faint echo of your shoes on marble floors.
The elevator ride up felt heavier than it should have.
Like something unspoken was sitting between you, finally too big to ignore.
And suddenly you were inside your space again.
Soft lighting. Neutral tones. A quiet luxury that didn’t feel like yours, but temporarily belonged to you anyway.
You set your bag down carefully like your hands needed something to do.
Joe stepped in behind you, slower now.
And that’s when the silence changed.
Not the kind that protected you.
The kind that exposed things.
You turned around slowly.
He was standing a few feet away, hands loosely at his sides, looking at you like he wasn’t entirely sure what was allowed anymore—but also like he didn’t want to leave.
And that did something to you.
All the walls you’d been holding up—years of them, really—felt suddenly too heavy to keep pretending about.
Your voice came out softer than you expected.
“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up today.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
