Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You swallow your pride for the sake of a calm house, then an anniversary sparks pain and a breakthrough.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Thank you for all the love and kind words . Glad so many people are enjoying it đ„° I think Iâve caught everyone who wants to be tagged but if Iâve missed you, give me a shout.
As May moves relentlessly onwards, the Texas spring explodes in full, riotous bloom around you, a sea of vibrant colour as far as the eye can see before the brutal summer sun scorches it all away. The rolling hills are blanketed in thick patches of bluebonnets and fiery Indian paintbrushes, the air heavy with the sweet, damp scent of recent rain and blooming sweet olive. Itâs a landscape practically vibrating with life.
And with it, comes a slow, almost imperceptible thawing inside the walls of the Miller ranch. The tension that has choked the rooms since that night loses its sharpest edges, worn down by the sheer, relentless rhythm of daily survival.
You pour yourself entirely into Sarah.
If you canât be a wife in the dark, youâll be a mother in the light. You spend the long, golden afternoons at the kitchen table, guiding her small, clumsy fingers as she learns to push a needle through a scrap of calico. You teach her the alphabet using the slate, your voice patient and steady as she traces the chalk letters. When she scrapes her knee on the paddock fence, she doesnât run to the barn for Joel, she runs to the back porch, burying her tear-streaked face in your apron while you smooth her hair and murmur soft, soothing nonsense.
You love her fiercely, in a way you could never have imagined loving a child not born from your own body, and realise that, if you let it, your pride will be the one thing that keeps the house in a constant state of suffocation.
You donât want that for Sarah. If you did, you might as well stand back and allow the Reverend and his wife to take her. You want to live in a place where you can be content â or at least as content as each person can allow themselves to be in the situation in which you all find yourselves.
The agonising avoidance thatâs settled since your confrontation in the kitchen slowly morphs into a cautious, fragile domesticity. You talk to one another again and you see the relief in Joelâs eyes when you initiate pleasantries that he responds to. You know heâs trying, in his own broken, guarded way, to build a life with you that doesnât feel like a punishment and youâre determined not to be your own gaoler.
And you try to remember Mariaâs words on the porch. Give him time. You cannot force the flower to bloom by pulling on the stem.
You give him time and space, and you ask for absolutely nothing.
But in the deep, agonisingly quiet hours of the night, when the house is asleep and you lie alone beneath the quilt, the physical reality of your untouched marriage gnaws at you like a starving animal.
For your entire life, youâve accepted the sterile, quiet existence of the spinster sister. But youâre married now and you share a roof, a table, and a name with a man whose sheer, massive physical presence dominates every room he walks into, your imagination continuing to drive you slowly, quietly mad.
You watch him chop wood in the yard, his shirt pulling taut across the heavy, iron-like muscles of his back and shoulders. You watch the way his large hands handle the leather reins of a horse. You watch the grey at his temples gleam in the sun, and a deep, feral ache twists low and hot in your centre.
You donât need him to whisper poetry. You donât need him to declare that youâve replaced Tess in his soul. You just need the untouched cold of your bedroom to end.
If he will just touch me, you think, turning onto your side and clutching the pillow to your chest, your body flushing with a shameful, desperate heat. If he will just come to me in the dark and hold me because he wants to. Even if it's only ever physical.
At least â this is what you tell yourself.
****
The shift in Joel begins three days before the unexpected visit to town, though you donât immediately understand what it means.
Youâve accepted him as a quiet man. The silence he carries is usually a sturdy, working thing â the silence of a man who measures his words carefully and spends his energy on the physical labour of keeping the ranch alive. But this new quiet is different. Itâs heavy and suffocating, a leaden weight that seems to press the very air out of the rooms he occupies.
He stops offering small, polite observations at the table or in the parlour at night. He eats his meals or otherwise occupies his hands whilst staring blindly at whateverâs in front of him, his jaw locked, his eyes dark and completely unfocused. When he looks at you, itâs as if his mind is anchored thousands of miles away.
You donât know whatâs caused this regression, donât know if youâve done something to displease him, but you try to bridge the gap by baking the cornbread youâve come to know he likes best, mending his clothes with meticulous, tiny stitches, and keeping Sarahâs chatter bright and constant to fill the void. But nothing reaches him. Heâs a man slowly sinking under dark water and refusing to take the rope youâre throwing him.
So, when he says one Tuesday night, rather unexpectedly, that heâs going into town the following day, it takes you by surprise.
âI thought we might go on Saturday as planned,â you say quietly, turning from where youâre cleaning up the remains of supper and watching him at the table.
âNo, tomorrow,â he replies shortly. âIâm takinâ Sarah with me. Youâre welcome to join us, but if youâve got things here youâd rather set your mind to, I donât have an issue with that.â
His words make you pause and contemplate what the real meaning is behind them â whether he wants you with him or not. And threaded through that is a sliver of annoyance at the fact that youâve humbled yourself, agreed internally to let the events of that night pass to ensure the smooth running of the house, to give him the time Maria suggested, and now heâs seemingly making every effort to ruin all the progress.
As you machinate over what to say, he eventually lifts his gaze to meet yours. âYou could surprise your daddy, if you come.â
That settles it for you and when you come into the kitchen the following morning, wearing a dark blue dress with your hair pinned, you find him already standing by the door, his hat clutched in his hands.
"I got an errand to run. I'll take Sarah with me while you visit your daddy."
"You don't have to take her," you offer, stepping forward and straightening Sarahâs collar. "I can keep her with me at the mercantile. I know Pa would love to see her."
"No." The word is sharp, immediate and he flinches slightly, as if the harshness of his own tone has surprised him. He looks away, staring hard at the doorframe. "No, thank you. I want her with me today."
You pause, your hands stilling, and look at him â really look. The shadows under his eyes are the colour of bruised plums, the lines bracketing his mouth carved so deep they look like scars. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in a week.
"All right, Joel," you say softly, swallowing the hurt that flares in your throat. "If thatâs what you want."
The wagon ride into Sawyerâs Creek is an agonising exercise in endurance.
Thereâs a merciful breeze, sweeping across the dry, golden expanse of the flatlands, kicking up swirling devils of red dust. Joel sits beside you on the wooden bench, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his forearms resting on his knees as he holds the reins. He doesnât speak a single word for the entire journey, just stares at the horse in front of him, lost in a dark, impenetrable labyrinth of his own making.
You sit rigidly straight, your hands folded in your lap, the physical distance between you on the bench feeling wider than the ocean. You want to reach out, want to slide your hand over his forearm and ask him what terrible ghost is haunting him today, to offer him the comfort of a wife.
But you donât, because you canât bear the inevitable rejection.
When the wagon finally rattles down The Street, the noise of the town â the clatter of horseshoes, the shouts of men to one another and the ringing of Wilfred Wallaceâs hammer â feel entirely jarring after the silence of the ride.
Joel pulls up in front of the mercantile, sets the brake and steps down, moving with a stiff, heavy slowness. Then he comes around to your side and reaches up. You place your hands on his shoulders, and he grips your waist, lifting you down, but the moment your boots touch the ground, he lets go, stepping back instantly, putting a yard of space between you, as if the brief physical contact has burned him.
"I'll come back for you in two hours," he says, his eyes fixed firmly over your shoulder. Then he turns and lifts Sarah from the back of the wagon, settling her onto his hip where she wraps her arm around his neck and rests her head against his shoulder.
"Where will you be?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light, trying to pretend you donât feel the sting of his immediate withdrawal.
Joelâs jaw tightens. "Just... an errand. Iâll find you.â
He doesnât wait for your reply, rather simply turns and walks away, his long, heavy strides carrying him down the street, in the direction of the church.
You stand in the dust and watch him go until he disappears from view then, taking a slow, trembling breath, you smooth the front of your dress and turn toward the doors of the mercantile.
The bell chimes brightly as you step inside, your father automatically looking up from the counter, his eyes lighting up when he sees you.
âOh, my love!â He exclaims, putting down the box heâs holding and coming around the side, his face breaking into a warm, genuine smile. âI wasnât expecting you today! What a treat!â
âHello Pa,â you breathe as he pulls you into an embrace, burying your face in the familiar scent of bay rum and starched cotton. You hug him back tightly, clinging to him for just a second longer than necessary, drawing entirely on his steady, uncomplicated affection.
When he pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his eyes scanning your face.
Heâs spent years reading the faces of customers, predicting what they need before they even ask for it and heâs read you for thirty-four years with the same terrifying accuracy. You watch as he takes in the rigid set of your jaw, the forced brightness of your smile, and the deep, exhausted shadows beneath your eyes that powder canât not hide.
"You look tired," he says quietly, his smile fading into a look of deep, paternal concern.
"No more than usual, but Iâm perfectly well," you lie smoothly, stepping back. "The ranch is demanding work, as you know. How are you? Keeping busy?â
"Of course,â he says, gesturing towards the back room. "Come and sit with me. Tell me your news. Itâs been â what â three weeks since you last came to town? Iâve got a stack of newspapers waiting for you to take home with you. But I wasnât expecting you until Saturday at the earliest.â
âNo, I know. IâŠâ you hesitate. âJoel wanted to come into town today.â
"Where is Joel?" your father asks, his tone perfectly neutral, though his eyes miss nothing. "And Sarah? Iâve got some new candy I thought she might like to try.â
"He had an errand to run," you say, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor. "He took Sarah with him and said heâd return for me in two hours. So, if you need any assistance with the afternoon rushâŠ" You mean it as humour, but the moment the words leave your mouth you know they havenât translated that way.
Your father watches the tense, defensive line of your shoulders and the way your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles are white. "How are things between you?â
âFine.â
âAre you telling me the truth?â
âOf course, Pa,â you reply as brightly as you can, making sure to hold his gaze. You donât want to tell him that there are moments when you wish to simply be back at the mercantile, living in your old room, inhabiting your old life.
âDid he tell you what this errand was?" he asks softly.
"No. He just said he needed to take Sarah with him, though I offered to keep her here."
Your father lets out a slow, heavy sigh and leans forwards, reaching out to place his hands over yours. "Do you know what today's date is?"
You blink, looking up at him in confusion. "Itâs the twenty-seventh of May, why?"
A strange, terrible stillness settles over your father's face, and he looks at you with a mixture of profound pity and absolute heartbreak. "Oh, my dear girl," he whispers.
A cold prickle of dread begins to crawl up the back of your neck. "What is it? Whatâs wrong?â
âI suppose itâs unrealistic to expect everyone to remember â but I do, because Iâve seen so many births, deaths and marriages in this town as to be able to recite each and every one.â He exhales heavily. "Today is Tess's birthday."
The world tilts on its axis, the air in the room suddenly feeling stifling. You stare at your father, your mind racing backward, piecing together the agonising puzzle of the last three days, thinking on the heavy, impenetrable silence, the exhausted, bruised look in Joelâs eyes and the lack of congeniality. Then you think about the absolute, unyielding refusal to let you keep Sarah with you.
I want her with me today.
He hasnât been angry with you. He hasn't been retreating because of anything youâve done. Heâs been drowning in the rising tide of an anniversary he canât escape, dragging the crushing weight of his dead wife's memory through every agonising hour.
And you havenât realised.
A wave of absolute, sickening guilt washes over you, so intense it makes your stomach roll. Youâve spent the last three days silently cursing him for his distance. Youâve sat on the wagon bench feeling wounded and rejected, wrapped up in your own desperate, unfulfilled yearning, while the man sitting next to you is bleeding to death inside his own head for a woman you knew â a woman whose birthday you ought to have remembered.
"Oh, God," you whisper. Pa, IâŠI didnât realise, didnât remember. And Joel never said anythingâŠ"
"You canât be expected to remember," your father says reasonably. "And Joel is a closed book, we know that. He locks his grief away to survive, and he expects everyone else to simply step around the locked door."
"He took Sarah to the churchyard. Thatâs the errand. He took her to Tessâs grave."
âAs he does every time he comes to townâŠâ
You stand up so fast your chair scrapes loudly against the floorboards. âThis is different.â
"Wait," your father cautions. "Let him be. A man needs to mourn in his own way. He doesnât ask you to accompany him any other time and if he wanted you there today, he would have asked you."
"Iâm his wife, Pa, and he needs me. Sarah needs me. If for no other reason than as proof that I care, that I understand.â
You donât wait for your father to argue, turning on your heel and practically running toward the doors of the mercantile, the sound of your name dying in the air behind you. You ignore him and run, your skirts kicking up the dust as you turn toward the church.
The breeze whips at your face, tearing strands of hair from your pins, stinging your eyes with red dirt, but you donât slow down, or pay heed to anyone watching. Your heartâs hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs, fuelled by a terrible, urgent need to simply be there. You donât know what youâre going to do because you know he might reject you the moment you step onto the grass. But the thought of Joel kneeling alone in the dirt on his dead wife's birthday, believing that no one in the world cares about his agony, is something you absolutely canât bear.
You slow your pace as you reach the churchyard, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps and see them almost immediately near the back, beneath the sweeping, protective canopy of the largest oak tree.
Sarahâs wandering a few yards away from the grave, completely oblivious to the crushing weight of the day, her small hands busy gathering a bouquet of dandelions and mustard weed, her white pinafore stark against the grass.
Joel is on his knees directly in front of Tessâs modest headstone, his hat, tossed carelessly onto the ground beside him,
You stop twenty yards away, frozen in place by the sheer, devastating intimacy of the scene.
He isnât weeping. There are no dramatic, tearing sobs. Just the absolute, utter stillness of a man who has surrendered completely to the void. Heâs leaning forward, hands resting on the headstone, his forehead pressed just above the carved letters of her name, holding it the way a man holds the face of a dying lover.
You stand there, the breeze ruffling your skirts, and feel your own heart break into a thousand irreparable pieces.
Youâve told yourself you can accept a marriage without love. Youâve bargained with your pride in the dark, telling yourself that if heâll just touch you, if heâll just give you the physical warmth of his body, itâll be enough to sustain you.
But looking at him now â looking at the absolute, total devotion radiating from his frame, the way his soul is tethered to the woman buried beneath the dirt â you know youâve been lying to yourself.
Itâll never be enough. Youâll spend the rest of your life starving at a banquet, watching the man you love pour every ounce of his devotion into a ghost, while you survive on the meagre, guilty scraps of his duty.
Because you do love him, inasmuch as you understand what that means. Perhaps you always have. Perhaps the affection you always felt, the attraction you always felt, really has been more than what youâve credited it as.
You want him to tell you that he loves you, want him to look at you the way he once looked at Tess, want Mariaâs ancestors to describe your love the way she described theirs.
But how can that ever possibly happen, and how are you to possibly survive loving a man who can never love you back?
You canât help but feel, looking at him now, that this has all been a terrible mistake.
You want to turn around, walk back to the mercantile and pretend youâve never seen this. You want to protect whatever fragile, bruised pride you have left. But then Joel lets out a breath, a ragged, shuddering exhale that carries across the quiet churchyard, a sound so profoundly, unspeakably broken that it bypasses your pride entirely and strikes straight at the core of your humanity.
Heâs drowning, and you are his wife.
You force your feet to move, walking slowly across the grass. Sarah looks up as you draw near, her eyes widening in surprise. She opens her mouth to speak, holding up her fistful of flowers, but you quickly press a finger to your lips, giving her a gentle, reassuring smile. She blinks, then nods solemnly, turning her attention back to a passing beetle.
You step up behind Joel, who is entirely lost to the world, his eyes closed, his forehead still resting against the headstone, the tension in his back absolute. You see the slight, almost imperceptible tremor running through his massive frame, the physical manifestation of a grief so profound itâs literally shaking him apart.
You donât know what to say because there are no words in the English language that can bridge the gap between a second wife and a dead saint, you know you canât leave him kneeling in the dirt alone.
Taking a slow, trembling breath, you reach out and place your hand flat against his shoulder.
The reaction is instantaneous and violent. He flinches so hard his entire body jerks with a visceral, physical recoil, as if the touch of your hand has burned straight through his clothes and seared his flesh. He tears his forehead away from the headstone, gasping, his eyes panicked.
He scrambles backward, throwing his hand out to catch his balance, and then looks up, his chest heaving. For a split second, you realise that he doesnât know who you are, trapped somewhere between the ghost heâs been holding and the living woman standing over him.
Then, the wildness fades, replaced instantly by a look of absolute, sickening horror and he chokes out your name.
You let your hand fall back to your side and hold your ground. You look down at him and let him see the tears standing in your own eyes.
"I didn't realise," you whisper. "I didnât remember what today was, Joel. Pa reminded me.â
Joel stares at you, his breathing ragged and uneven, looks down at his own trembling hands, then back at the headstone. The carved letters â Tess Miller, Beloved wife, mother and daughter â seem to mock the fractured reality of the three of you standing there.
"You shouldn't be here," he rasps, as he drags the back of his wrist across his eyes, and slowly pushes himself up from the ground. "ThisâŠthis ainât your burden to carry."
"Iâm your wife, Joel," you say softly. "Your burdens are mine whether you want them to be or not."
He closes his eyes, a muscle leaping frantically in his jaw, but he doesnât argue. He just stands there, a man torn perfectly in half, bleeding out onto the Texas dirt.
"Pa," a small voice calls out and you both turn to see Sarah trotting toward you, holding her fistful of flowers. She stops in front of Joel, looking up at him with her grave, serious dark eyes and holds them up. "For Mama."
Joel lets out a sound thatâs half-sob, half-breath, drops to one knee and wraps his arms around his little girl, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He holds her so tightly her feet nearly left the ground, his shoulders shaking with the silent, tearing force of his tears.
You stand a few feet away, entirely separate from their circle of grief, watching, until Joel pulls back, dropping a kiss on Sarah's forehead, his hand trembling as he smooths her hair. Then he stands up, taking the flowers from her small hand, and lays them gently at the base of the headstone.
He picks up his hat from the grass and then turns to you, his face a mask of impenetrable, exhausted stone, the steel doors slammed firmly shut once more.
"We should head back," he says.
"Yes," you agree quietly. "We should."
Reaching down, he lifts Sarah onto his hip, but doesnât offer you his arm, doesnât try to bridge the terrible, aching distance between you. He simply turns and begins walking.
****
By the time you reach the ranch, you feel a profound, bone-deep exhaustion settle over you.
Joel helps you down and then proceeds to unharness the horse whilst you take Sarah inside and change both of you into fresh clothes. You realise, as you look out of the window of your bedroom at the vibrant, blooming wildflowers clinging to the edge of the paddock fence, that you could simply lock your bedroom door, and let the silence swallow you both whole, could spend the rest of your life tiptoeing around the massive, bleeding crater in the centre of Joelâs heart whilst trying to hold in your own.
But you canât fight a ghost or compete with a saint. If you try to force him to choose between the living and the dead, even on a purely physical level, youâll lose every single time. The only way to survive in this house â the only way to keep your own heart from turning to stone â is to stop fighting Tessâs memory and start making room for it.
If you do that, then perhaps everyone will be able to live more easily.
Give him time.
You take a slow, trembling breath, smooth the front of your skirt, and walk down the hallway, through the kitchen and outside into the warm evening air. Joelâs coming out of the barn, and you watch as he closes and padlocks the door, then turns back towards the house, his step faltering when he sees you.
"May we talk?" You ask.
He hesitates, then nods, stepping closer to you but maintaining a wide, careful distance. "I'm sorry," he says quickly, looking down at the ground. "Iâm sorry âbout what happened in the churchyard... âbout... flinchinâ. I didn't mean to insult you, I justâŠ"
"Stop," you say gently, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs.
Youâre about to step willingly into the very centre of his grief, and youâre terrified that heâll push you out again, that heâll tell you that youâve no right to speak her name.
"You don't need to apologise," you say. "I understand, truly. I was a fool to think I could impose on you thereâŠtouch you. This is her day."
Joel looks up, his eyes wide and wary, completely thrown by your lack of anger.
"Iâve been thinking about Sarah," you continue, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, to look past the defensive wall and see the broken, exhausted man beneath it. "Sheâs so young, Joel, and the most significant tragedy in all of this is that she won't remember much of her mother on her own. And the churchyard is a hard place for a child."
His jaw tightens. "It's where Tess is."
"I know, but it shouldn't be the only place Sarah has to remember her."
You take a step toward him and he doesnât retreat, though you see the muscles in his chest lock tight.
"The gardenâs doing well this spring," you say, voice dropping to a tentative, fragile whisper. "The soilâs good and I was thinking... if you would allow it... Iâd like to clear a patch near the back fence. Just a small square, where the morning sun hits."
He stares at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. "For vegetables?"
"No, for Tess and...â
Your throat tightens, because what youâre about to say has never crossed your lips before and may very well be the worst thing you can say.
âFor Tess and your son. I want to plant something for them. Maybe, a memorial garden. Something beautiful and living, right here at the house. A place where Sarah can go to pick flowers for her mother without having to ride all the way into town. A place whereâŠwhere we can talk about them. Where you can spend time with Tessâs memory without feeling as though you need toâŠ"
You stop and brace yourself, waiting for the anger, for the fierce, protective rage of a man who believes how he grieves his wifeâs memory is too sacred for your hands to touch. You wait for him to tell you that youâve no right to interfere and that youâre overstepping the boundaries of your practical arrangement.
But Joel doesnât move. He simply stands frozen, staring at you as if youâve spoken to him in a language he doesnât understand. For one agonising, suspended moment, you think youâve made a terrible mistake, pushed too far.
Then, the iron wall shatters.
His face cracks open, the mask of the grieving widower collapsing to reveal the sheer, naked devastation beneath, his breath hitching in a harsh, ragged sound.
"You...you would do that?"
"Of course I would," you whisper, the tears finally welling in your own eyes, blurring the sight of him. "She was your wife, Joel. She gave you Sarah and sheâs a part of this family, just as your son is. I knew her too, cared about herâŠI don't want to erase her. I just want to help you carry her."
He lets out a sob. a deep, guttural sound of absolute, overwhelming relief. Then he drops his head, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently with gratitude.
âI thoughtâŠâ he stutters. âI thought I couldnât...I didnât wanna be disrespectful to you, not any more than I know I have been alreadyâŠâ
âYou havenât been disrespectful.â
âI have,â he insists, raising his head again. âPuttinâ you in a position like I did that night and then suggestinâ you let me come to you againâŠbut Iâve tried so hard toâŠâ he stops and swallows. âI can only imagine what itâs like for you beinâ here, livinâ in her house and raisinâ her child with a man who canâtâŠI donât want to mention her âcause I donât wanna hurt you, donât want you to think that you donât belong, âcause Iâm so grateful that you agreed to come here.â
You donât hesitate this time. You move towards him, closing the distance between you, and reach out, wrapping your arms entirely around his waist and pressing your face against the solid, heavy wall of his chest.
This time, he doesnât flinch. He collapses against you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against him with a desperate, crushing strength. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his tears soaking into the collar of your dress, his heavy body trembling against yours.
He holds you like a drowning man who has finally been pulled to the surface.
"His name ainât even on the grave," he weeps the words muffled against your skin, his rough beard scraping your neck. âTodayâŠI was there and, even though itâs her day, his name ainât there and it should be. I shouldâveâŠâ
You hold him back just as fiercely, your hands pressing flat against the heavy muscles of his back, anchoring him, and you close your eyes, letting your own tears fall, feeling the heat of his body and the desperate, clinging strength of his arms.
It isnât a romantic embrace, but rather something infinitely more profound. Itâs the first true, honest bridge built across the chasm between you.
âWhat was his name?â you murmur.
He doesnât say anything for a long moment before breathing the answer. âBenjamin Henry. She picked it right before she died.â
You screw your eyes tightly closed. âItâs a good name.â
You stand together for a long time, letting the grief bleed out of him and when he finally pulls back, his face is wet, his eyes red-rimmed, but the suffocating, deadened look is gone. He looks at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, thumbs gently brushing the fabric of your dress, with a reverence that makes your breath catch.
"Larkspur," he says softly, his voice thick and wavering.
You look up at him, wiping a tear from your own cheek. "What?"
He swallows hard, a fragile, heartbroken smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Tess loved blue larkspur and yellow climbinâ roses."
"Then weâll plant larkspur," you promise, your voice steady and sure. "And yellow roses. Weâll start tomorrow and Sarah can help.â
He nods slowly, his hands tightening on your shoulders for one brief, grounding second before he lets you go.
He doesnât kiss you. He doesnât sweep you into his arms and carry you to the bedroom. But as he steps back, wiping his face with the back of his hand, the air feels different somehow.
âMay I ask something of you?â You ask, and he nods. âSpeak their names. I want you to feel as though you can talk about them, not that they need to be hidden.â
He swallows hard and nods again, âThank you, and Iâm sorry forâŠâ
âLetâs start afresh,â you say, reaching out and squeezing his hand. âTomorrow is a new day.â
âYes,â he agrees, the relief profound. âYes, it is.â
And right now, thatâs what you need to focus on.
Go here for Pedro Pascal, Harry Castillo and Javier Pena.
Iâll update the date here every time I update an individual work. If youâd like to be tagged here or in any particular work, let me know! Also open to requests đ„°
Updated: 24/04/26
Created: 28/10/25
COMPLETE
The Devilâs Smile - You and your children are rescued from a cult and go to stay with Joel. 18+only - complete (42 parts)
The Circle - Two years ago you lost your son and Joel lost his daughter. Neither of you are sure the support group you both attend helps, but here you are. 18+only - complete (5 parts)
Guardian - Joel doesnât want to leave you to go out on patrol. Not when you, and the baby inside you, are his whole world. 18+only - complete (2 parts)
When You Want It The Most - You and Joel had a deal - no kids. But nature finds a way to give and then take. 18+only - complete (2 parts)
Wake Me Up When September Ends - Itâs Joelâs birthday and the anniversary of Sarahâs death. Joel shows up at your door late at night. 18+only - complete (one-shot)
Mama Lovinâ - Joel gives you what you need post partum. 18+only - complete (2 parts)
Safe Harbour - Youâve had a terrible day and you just need Joel to fuck you. 18+only - complete (2 parts)
Wildfire - Heâs a rancher, youâre an environmentalist. You hate each other, except when you donât. 18+only - complete (one-shot)
The Christmas You Get You Deserve - Last Christmas, Joel lost you. Now heâs being forced into posing for a sexy Santa shoot and wondering if you might see it. 18+only - complete (one-shot)
Every Inch - When you get criticised for your weight, Joel shows you exactly why he loves you. 18+only - complete (one-shot)
WORKS IN PROGRESS
Where Our Shadows Meet - Joel loses his wife and child and asks you to marry him to prevent him losing his daughter. 18+only.
Hair Trigger - Youâre new in Jackson and rifle training is mandatory for all adults. You want to be useful, but itâs hard when Joel Millerâs your instructor. 18+only.
A Different Kind of Love - Your husbandâs been missing presumed dead for two years and youâre slowly falling in love with Joel. Then a face from the past returns. 18+only.
Sweet Poison - Youâve been infected and you need Joel to end it for you because you donât have the courage to do it yourself. 18+only.
Blossoming - Libby Miller is five going on fifteen and Joelâs not ready for his little girl to grow up. PG.
The Favour - You need a favour from Joel. 18+only.
You have to break up with Joel. It doesnât matter how hard youâve fallen for him, you can no longer ignore the simple truth. He does not love you back.
warnings: MDNI, 18+, a little angsty, hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, mentions of intimacy, reader is a words of affirmation type, open ended, not really revised, thought of both joels for this.
a/n: literally cried myself to sleep imagining this so now i have to write it. hope you enjoy<3 english is not my first language. constructive criticism helps me out :)) pictures from pinterest and the divider is by @/saradika-graphics
word count: 2.2k
You stand in front of your door with your heart in your throat and your hands anxiously fiddling with each other.
The idea of opening that door, and finally doing what you've thought over a thousand times, leaves you paralyzed in place. With your head going in circles and your temples beginning to warm up, you wish you could stay in the silence of your tiny studio apartment for one more minute, before you cross the point of no return.
The door bell rings again, followed by the sound of his knuckles on the hard wood.
"Baby, it's me," Joel calls from outside.
You picture him patiently waiting, with his hands back in his pockets and his posture relaxed. Surely expecting you to open up and greet him with open arms and an excited kiss, and for a moment, you think of doing just that instead. Of postponing this inevitable talk for one more day, one more week, but he deserves better, and so do you.
You've spent enough time thinking, enough nights crying yourself to sleep over the idea of the two of you parting ways. Always knowing the timing will never feel right, you just have to choose to be brave.
So you take a deep breath and remember why you've made this decision in the first place. For you, and for the man you very sincerely adore.
With that, and a shaky exhale, you finally reach for the door and turn the knob.
"Hi."
"Hey, baby," he says, a wide smile spreading on his face upon seeing you. That alone worsens the sting in your heart, and the guilt you can't help but carry. "How's my girl?"
"I've been good," you manage to get out, before he's walking in and pulling you closer by the waist. Immediately, you feel your resolve weakening. You desperately wish you could lean into him, press your chest to his, and go back to how you were.
Happy. You truly believe you were happy with Joel. At least, when you didn't think too much about your relationship you were. When you didn't consider all you two could be missing by staying together.
His soft kiss lands at the corner of your mouth, as you turn your head just in time, and his brows furrow just slightly, letting you know your avoidance did not go unnoticed.
"Everythin' alright?" Joel asks, in his husky voice that usually soothes any ache. "Thought you'd be missin' me more than that," he chuckles.
"I did," you say.
"Just not feelin' good yet?" he finishes for you. The excuse you've been giving him whenever he has asked if you're okay, if anything is wrong, and the excuse he hasn't had the guts to tell you he sees right through.
"How 'bout I order our food?" He says, wrapping his other arm around your waist to keep you secured in place. "And you get to pick any movie you want tonight."
Instinctively, your arms find their place over his shoulders, and it feels so right. To be in his arms, where you feel you belong. Even when you know, there's someone out there who he is meant to love, and someone out there who is meant to love you.
The knowledge of that would be comforting, if it wasn't downright cruel. Because you love Joel, in a way you are sure you'll never love again, and you're just going to have to live with that.
"UhâŠ" You wriggle in his embrace, needing to put some space. "I don'tâ I don't knowâŠ"
"If you ain't feelin' pizza we can switch it up, honey. Pizza party's don't always have pizza," he says, and leans in to give you a tender kiss on the cheek. "You can ask for anythin' ya' want."
"It's not that. I'mâŠI'm not tired of pizza," you say.
"What? You tired of me now?" Joel jokes, leading you further inside so he can close the door for you, giving you a little bit of room, but keeping one arm around your middle.
"No, Joel. I justâŠwant to talk."
You turn to free yourself from his touch, and take a few steps away from him. "I really need us to talk," you say.
Without waiting for his reaction, you make your way over to your couch, and take a seat near one end. When you look for Joel, he's right there with you. Taking a seat beside you, leaving one end of the couch completely vacant.
"You're scarin' me," he jokes lightheartedly. Though, internally, he's going over everything that could have gone wrong.
Not even a month ago, he'd taken you to his brother's birthday dinner and formally introduced you as his girlfriend. And just short from two weeks ago, he had given you the keys to his home for when you finished work before him, and you wanted to spend the night with together.
It seemed you two were finally doing what other serious relationships did, but now he worries he might've pushed too hard, too fast.
You place your hands over his on his lap, but think better of it and remove them just as quickly as you'd put them there. "I've been thinking," you say, straightening up when your voice begins to waver. "About our relationship."
"What about our relationship?" he says, leaning his forearms on his thighs.
You're not sure where to start, and the more you think about it, the more you want to cry. There are too many memories between you two for it to end like this. So simple, and quick, as if it wasn't as life changing as it was.
Your lower lip begins to wobble, and you press your finger tips to it in hopes of him not noticing.
"I think we should break up," you brokenly whisper. "That's what I think."
His brows furrow, even though he's sure he heard you wrong. Until he sees your eyes well up, and the trembling of your fingers on your lip. His mouth open and closes before he's made sense of what you said.
He saw you two days ago. He had come over, as usual, and you had cooked a simple dinner together, as always. You had had slow, sweaty sex on the couch as that night's movie played in the background, and then he'd carried your tired self to your bed, where you cuddled without even bothering getting under the blankets. The morning after, he had joined you in your shower, to shampoo your hair and scrub your body clean. You'd done the same for him.
You take his hands then, this time squeezing them to bring him back to himself. "Thisâ this will be good for us, Joel. I know it. It'll be hard at first, but we can get through it."
His ears begin to ring unbearably loud, and his head feels light it's spinning on his neck. He blinks it away and yanks his hands from yours, but only to hold them with his. Gently, despite his desperate need to squeeze, and make sure this is real.
"W-wâ Break up? Why in the hell would we break up?"
The question is enough to make you break, making the gathering tears in your eyes finally spill down your cheeks. Because it seems so obvious to you, and yet, you understand that to him it is not.
"Because⊠this will be better for both of us," you say.
He scoots closer to you on the couch. "No. Honey, what's goin' on?"
You try to keep a distance by shifting back, but he moves with you. "This-this is better, Joel." You turn your head to hide your tear-streaked cheeks, but his hands are faster. Leaving your lap to cup your cheeks.
"Talk to me, sweet girl. This ain't like you, c'mon," Joel murmurs as he wipes every tear away with his thumbs. Easily covering the whole expanse of your cheeks. "What could be better for me than bein' with you, huh?"
You sniffle hard, placing your hands on his wrist and attempting to move them away. Internally cursing yourself for being so weak in front of him, when you thought you'd gotten enough tears out by yourself.
"âŠYou don't love me."
Your voice is so small, and broken, you're not sure that he'll hear it. So you say it once more. This time gathering the courage to look up and into his eyes, even as yours continue to pour clear signs of your pain.
"You don't love me, Joel. And you're supposed to know at this point. I don't want to be with someone who's only with me because I love them. It's not fair. It's not fair at all. You could be with someone you truly-truly love."
His hands remain on your cheeks, but his caresses have stopped. He's only staring at you with a furrowed brow, and an expression you can't quite name. Perhaps finally seeing it like you do. Maybe now he understands.
"Iâ I want true love," you say, not caring how cliche it sounds. "I wanna find my personâŠthe one I'm meant to be with for the rest of my life. And I want that for you, too," you say, voice cracking at the thought of him with someone else. "I want that for both of us."
He's not sure what to do now, because the truth is, he loves you more than he ever imagined possible. Which is crazy to him considering every difference between you. From what you do for work, to how you look at life. He's not sure how it works so well, but it does. He'd just been too afraid to say it.
When you said you loved him only three weeks into your relationship, he felt sure of his decision to withhold his already strong feelings for you. But now, seven months in, he still hasn't been able to voice them.
When you'd send 'I love you's' over text, he'd respond with a simple heart emoji. When you'd moan it in his ear, he'd press you harder into the mattress, showing you passion in that way. And when you'd say it to him with a kiss in the mornings, the simple truth stayed stuck to the back of his tongue as he kissed you back.
Now, he sees you trying to hold yourself together, while shattered by his inability to tell you all that you mean, and he's forced to confess his truest feelings in a moment that's less than ideal.
"I do. I do love you, honey."
The moment those words leave his mouth, you go completely still.
There's a small part of you that lights up with his confession. That feels an immediate burst of joy in your heart from hearing those simple words you've been dreaming to hear. But just as quickly as those feelings came, they leave, making you face the merciless facts.
It is a scary thing to be alone. And most, will keep someone they like instead of risking it all to find someone they love.
That is not what you want for Joel.
"You don't have to do that," you say quietly and tilt your head down. "Sometimes you just can't force something that isn't there, you know?" You try to reassure him. "We really tried to make this work."
"I ain'tâHey, I ain't pretendin'."
"Joel," you look back up, with a different sadness in your eyes. Heartbroken, yes, but also incredibly hopeful of the future you two could find. "One day, you'll fall in love. For real. And you won't remember me anymore, you'll be happy with the person you were always meant to be with. I'll find that, too, someday. I'll fall in love again, with a man who really loves me back. We'll both be happy again, I promise."
You give him a sad smile, knowing in your heart that it is true, while also being painfully aware of how much you'll miss him.
The mere idea of a life without you is enough to make his breathing go shallow, and is enough to send a shiver down his spine. You're not changing your mind, but a reality without you is one he never wishes to go back to.
"No," he states matter-of-factly. "You're my baby," he says, and pulls you into his chest without budging. "I know IâfuckâI know I messed up, but I ainât losinâ you. I can't. I can't."
At first, you want to push him off, but when you feel his heartbeat so close to yours, you immediately feel yourself succumbing and melting into his arms, pressing your nose into his neck and breathing him in. Memorizing how much like home it feels to lay your head on his chest.
"I'm gonna miss this," you murmur against his skin, letting him hold you for the last time.
*SALT AIR:Â a joel miller x reader story (part one).
The trip was booked about a year before your relationship fell apart: Five days in a seaside town in Brasil, an unrefundable romantic getaway with all of the honeymoon perks that turns into a nightmare after six-months of not talking to each other: Your relationship ended quietly, and what was once heartbreak has since turned into resement. To you it's torture, spending those hot summer days next to the man who you once loved so dearly. To Joel, it's one last chance at winning you back.
series masterlist / main masterlist.
Your trip starts off on the wrong foot, and Joel makes a new friend.
chapter warnings:Â the basics (exes to lovers, reader is afab, age gap, etc.), little bit of angst, lots of mention of food/eating, jealous!reader, way too vivid descriptions of joel's cock, weed consumption, brief mention of possible somnophilia (doesn't happen).
word count:Â 7.1k.
fox says: hello friends, welcome to the first part of salt air! no smut yet, but i promise we'll get to it soon. the word count is going to be a little higher than usual for this because i am aiming for a smaller chapter count than my other series but hopefully it's not too much :) a huge thanks to @whitelics for beta'ing this for me, i love u more than u know. hope everyone enjoys this one and as always, please let me know how we're feeling!
if you want to be tagged whenever i update this pls just send me an ask, dm or comment on this post! <3
You knew your relationship with Joel Miller was over because of a chocolate bar. You have a favorite, a pricey artisanal chocolate bar from a candy shop on the other side of town; it was out of your way home from work, and it certainly was far away from Joelâs office but he never complained about the forty minutes it added to his commuteâ You didn't even notice him replacing it, the pantry always stocked with the expensive, luxury chocolate that you love so much.
One day, the space where your chocolate bar should be was empty; at first you thought he might've forgotten, he'd been busier than ever with work and the multiple jobs he had to take to cover some extra expenses, and the chocolate was on the pricier side. But then a week went by, and another, and work wasn't as busy anymore and you finally had to admit to the truth: Joel simply didn't see you anymore.
You left his house by the end of the month. Packed all of your belongings one afternoon while Sarah was away at her mother's house and Joel was over at Tommy's for some bullshit football game; you were gone by the time he came home and, while you'd met up with him once to formally end things, he hadn't seemed surprised over it.
The worst part was how easily Joel agreed with the split. He said he understood why you were leaving, that he should've seen it coming, and didn't fight for you. Didn't ask you to reconsider, or stay, or tell him how to changeâ He simply nodded, grabbed his beer tightly, and watched as you walked out of the busy bar with your heart shredded into pieces.
That was six months ago. Now, you sit by your flight gate with your purse and ticket in hand, hoping he won't show; hoping he forgot about the trip, or that he simply decides not to goâ You bought the plane tickets almost a year ago, right when things were starting to fall apart: A five days trip to BĂșzios, in Brazil, in a romantic Airbnb with all of the honeymoon perks. The plane tickets are nonrefundable, as is the Airbnbâ At the time it felt like a good way to save money and to ensure that the both of you would actually take the trip; Joel has always been more of a homebody, never wanting to leave town for longer than a weekend, let alone the country, and you knew that touching his pocket would be the only way to get him to agree to go.
Oh, how you wish you hadn't appealed to his frugal nature now.
Joel shows up just three and a half minutes before boarding starts, because of course he does. His house barely ran without you, with Joel always being too wrapped up with work to pay attention to dates and times; you had to be the one to set up the alarms, to mark special dates on the calendar by the fridge, to send him little texts as reminders of Sarah's soccer game or Tommy's birthday. You're surprised he showed up on the right day, really, when you stop to think about it.
It also means that the Miller household keeps on moving, keeps functioning somehow without you, and that only makes things worse.
âYou're late.â You tell him. It's the first time you're speaking with Joel since the night you ended things, and it doesn't feel like a good omen that your tone is so biting.
Six months apart have turned the sadness into bitterness, and you hate him just a little bit for how your relationship ended; you blame it all on him, even if you know you've been amiss as well. Too much time on your phone, not enough time talking to him; meals you shared in silence, each of you with your head somewhere else, nights where you pushed him away when he tried to touch you, always too wrung out to pay him any attention. He didn't fight for you at the end, but you'd been the one to let go of the relationship first.
And you know this, you know, but it still feels like it's all his fault.
âHello to you too.â Joel says, hovering awkwardly, unsure of himself. âAinât late. Boardinâ hasnât even started yet.â
âThis is an airport, Joel, not your kid's soccer practice. If you're not here two hours early, you're late.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou been sittin' here waitin' for me for two hours?â
âI was not waiting for you! I'm waiting to board my flight.â You bristle, and the knowing little smirk beneath his mustache only makes it worse. âThought you wouldn't even show up. Lord knows you never got any fucking dates right unless I was buzzing in your ear about it.â
âMaybe I liked when ya buzzed 'round me.â
The front gate calls for your flight, and you walk away without another word, something warm and unpleasant bubbling inside your chest.Â
The flight is hell. You're trapped in the corridor seat â Joel graciously took the middle seat, but that meant having his elbow jamming into your side every-so-often â for almost sixteen hours from Austin to Rio de Janeiro, the food is awful and there's a man on the other side of the corridor that keeps turning in your direction every time he needs to cough. If you'd been in a bad mood before boarding the flight, it only gets progressively worse by the time you land, and you feel just about ready to murder the idiot next to Joel that actually claps.
Unsurprisingly, the airport isn't much betterâ People are polite and welcoming, and thankfully you manage to pick up your luggage without any issues, but then you find yourself trapped inside a rental car with Joel for the four-hours drive to your Airbnb in Armação dos BĂșzios; it's a lovely car, an expensive-looking convertible that at the time you thought would be fun to drive by the beach with the top down and it makes Joel's face light up when he sees it. You sort of hate your past self for doing something nice for him, and you hate your current self even more for the fluttery in your stomach as he revs the engine with the giddiness of a little boy on Christmas morning.
The Airbnb â BangalĂŽ Verde, the owner called it â is small and rustic, a green stucco home with a gorgeous view of the ocean in the backyard; what had called you to it wasn't even the view or the huge windows in the bedroom but the wooden deck that hangs off the steep hill the house is on top of, surrounded by greenery and with a beautiful pool and a comfortable-looking hammock. There's a special fruit bowl in the kitchen, with a little note from the owners about the champagne in the fridge and a colorful bouquet of native flowers in the bedroomâ All things you'd paid out of pocket, away from the joint funds you shared with Joel, as a little surprise. The honeymoon package seems to mock you now, tangible proof of how much of yourself you poured into a relationship that, towards the end, felt like you were the only one paying attention.
âNice place.â Joel drops both of your luggage and his by the edge of the bed, already sweating from the summer heat, his usually neat gray curls pushed back haphazardly. His knuckles rasp awkwardly against the threshold that leads into the bedroomâ Thereâs no door, just an archway with handpainted flowers. âGood bones.âÂ
You laugh in spite of yourself. âAre you doing a full house inspection, Mr. Contractor?â
âThey got a bottle of cachaça in the living room.â He tells you with a small smile, hands on his hips. âWanna crack it open?â
âNo.â You shake your head, toeing off your shoes. âNot drinking on an empty stomach. I'll just take a shower and go out to eat something.â
âBy yourself?â He asks, hands raising in defeat when your head snaps towards him. âI meant the meal, not the shower.â
Joel speaks to you as if nothing's wrong, as if you haven't spent the last six months apart. As if you haven't cried yourself to sleep almost every single night since then; it gets your blood boilingâ Joelâs always kept his feelings close to his chest, but youâve learned how to read him well and heâs never been uncaring. Closed off, sure, but this sort of nonchalance only serves to make you wonder if the breakup was only miserable for you. If maybe heâd been glad you were the one to pull the plug. A friend had told you once that men donât end relationships, they simply stall it out until youâre brave enough to be the one to do it.Â
You never pegged Joel for the cowardly kind of man, but maybe you had read him wrong after all.
âYes, by myself. Listen, Joelâ We don't gotta do this, alright? It's bad enough that you came along, so just⊠Stay in your corner of the house, and I'll stay in mine.â
Joel looks around, making a point of how little space there was; what was supposed to be a cozy place feels stifling, his broad frame taking up too much space in the small room.Â
âAnd which corner's supposed to be mine, sweetheart?â
Your teeth clack audibly. âWhichever corner I'm not in.â
He nods, once. â'lright. I'll just fuck off, then.â
âThank you.â You quip, back turned to him as you refuse to see the look on his face, going through your luggage. âI'll shower fast, in case you want to shower too.â
You look over your shoulder when there's no response but Joel's already gone, toeing off his shoes in the courtyard. He strips slowly, piece by piece until he's fully nude and you don't even notice the small toiletries bag until he's already underneath the spray of the outdoor shower, pushing his hair away from his face.
While your relationship with Joel ended six months ago, it has been even longer since the last time you saw him naked. The sex ended about four months before the relationship, both of you always too busy or too tired to give each other any attention, and your memory doesn't do justice to the sight in front of you: Joel's a sturdy man, tall and broad, his muscles built from hard labor rather than pulling weights at the gym. His stomach is rounder than it had been when you first started dating, salt and pepper hair and scars scattered all over it, the feathered happy trail that you've always loved so much catching rivulets of water as it pour down his body.
As much as you tell yourself that you shouldn't look down, your eyes travel to his cock nonetheless. It's thick and long, somehow even bigger than you remember, half-hard underneath the shower water; your eyes snap up, and you stagger slightly backwards when your eyes meet Joel's. He's staring straight at you, his eyes dark and heavy, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. It's clear that he's doing it on purpose, shifting slightly to turn his back to you, running the small bar of soap over his shouldersâ Which once had been your favorite part of his body. You watch for a moment longer, his big hand running the travel-sized soap over his shoulder and bicep, bringing it up to the side of his neck, head tilted slightly back, the tendons straining against his tan skin. Â
You turn your back to him before you can say something you might regret, your skin feeling a little bit too tight for your own body as you mechanically move back into the house in desperate need of a long, cold shower.Â
Joel's is waiting in the living room by the time you finally exit the shower, sitting on the couch and browsing through his phone, wearing a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved button down that you know he didn't own before; Joel's entire wardrobe consists of Wrangler jeans and old cotton shirts and flannels, and you're sure you can count in one hand the amount of times you've seen him even remotely dressed up. He looks gorgeous, the deep green of the button down contrasting beautifully with the color of his skin, the shorts coming down just above his knee: Clothes that he certainly didn't buy for himself, and there's a small flare of anger in the pit of your stomach when you wonder whether someone else bought those clothes for him, or if he bought them to impress someone else.Â
It opens a whole can of worms on whether or not Joel had already started seeing other people, if he was dating again or, God forbid, if he's already found someone to settle down with. You've seen it happen far too often, men moving on from years-long relationships with the first person that shows up and, while you don't think Joel is that type of man, thinking of him having rebound sex with a stranger makes you nauseous.Â
âI found a restaurant just down the street.â He says without looking up from his phone. âDoesn't look like a tourist trap, all the reviews on Google are in Portuguese. Reckon we could go together. I know you're pissed at me but it'll ruin the damn trip if we don't even try to get along.â Joel looks up at you then, his eyes warm and inviting. âThink you can pretend that you don't hate me for the next five days?â
His words stingâ You donât hate him, could never hate him, and it hurts that he would assume you do but itâs probably best that way: If you can keep Joel at arms length then maybe, just maybe, youâll be able to survive the trip without shattering your heart even worse.Â
âFine. But you're paying.â
Joel's grin could light up a whole block. âAlways, sweetheart.â
The restaurant is just four blocks down the street, a corner store that looks more like a bodega than a restaurant, with a cluster of red plastic tables on the sidewalk and a dog sleeping on the ground next to the only costumer, a man in his sixties that sits alone in one of the tables demolishing a burger and a Skol beer. It's colder inside, the fan blowing loudly towards the woman by the counter. Joel's hand is a ghost on your lower back, guiding you to a table. The two of you study the menu for a long time, Googling the things you don't know, translating the others.
âI'll order for us.â He says, which you're thankful for: You don't speak a word of Portuguese, and you're not certain how well you'll fare with native speakers. Not that you think Joel will have a better grasp on the language but heâs always been far better at dealing with people than you areâ Which is saying something, considering the hermit that he is.
âGreat, I'll have theââ
âBurger with extra cheese and a side of the green mayo thing that you're dying to try but you might end up hating it. And also a side of the deep fried tapioca squares because you're embarrassed to be the tourist eating a cheeseburger.â Joel winks. âI know what you like, sweetheart.â
You're tempted to order something else just to spite him, but you simply sigh and cross your arms, ignoring the winning grin on Joel's face as he walks up to the counter. You don't catch the words, exactly, but whatever heâs saying doesnât sound English, the words are a little clunky as they tumble out of his lips but the woman is ready to help, leaning forward across the counter and examining the menu with him.Â
Joelâs not flirting, not really, but you can see the way he lays on the charm, his broad frame draping over the counter, a smirk on his lips that never came easy for him. You squint, anger flaring inside your chestâ You know you have no right to, though, so you swallow it down as best as you can. Joel isn't yours, not anymore. He can flirt if he wants to, can find some random woman or man to have fun with during your vacation but it still stings. It stings even worse because the woman, somewhere in her forties with a welcoming smile and warm eyes, is probably a better fit for him than you ever were. You were always too something: Too young, too naive, too inexperienced. Joel had never been the one to say it, had always defended his college student girlfriend with the sort of fierceness that made your heart warm and your pussy wet, but you knew other people said it. And no one would ever say it about someone like the woman at the counterâ A business woman with her restaurant, someone that seemed nurturing and loving and that nobody would blink twice if they saw her next to Joel.Â
By the time Joel comes back to the table, he has both of your plates and an easy smile. The woman comes behind him, bringing your drinks, welcoming you with a smile and a greeting that you need to force yourself to reciprocate.Â
âWhen the fuck did you learn Portuguese?â You ask him, your voice just a little bitter.
âSarah got me into Duolingo, and I thought it might be useful for the trip.â Joel shrugs, his face burning bright. âDon't know a lot, just enough to order food, figure out where the bathroom is and about seven different animals. The lady at the counter's just real good at figurinâ shit out with half a sentence.â
You try not to dwell on the fact that he's been learning a whole new language for your trip. The fact that he's probably been thinking about it â about you â for a lot longer than you thought he would.Â
âShe seems nice.â You mumble as Joel digs into his plate and you hate to admit how delicious everything isâ Even the cheeseburger is different from what youâre used to, from the bread to the burger itself, the green mayo pairing well with your food despite how fucking weird it looks. Itâs not fancy, but itâs not fast food either, something else entirely but just as comforting and familiar enough to put you at ease with a cuisine youâre unfamiliar with but curious to try out.
âHer name's MarĂlia, apparently her family owned the restaurant for generations.â He hums, washing down the deep fried tapioca square with his beer. âShe was tellin' me about this night market they have every Sunday, reckon you'd like it. Could buy one'a them mugs you collect.â
You chew slowly, nodding, trying to pretend that you're not surprised that Joel actually remembers the tiny mug collection youâre started halfway through your relationship: He has a knack for that, for noticing and remembering the small details, the things you always kept to yourself or that you thought was too insignificant to share with other people. Joel always sees, always remembers.
âNot sure MarĂlia wants you to bring your ex along for your little date.â You say and, while you try to make it sound like a joke, the words are more poisonous than you want them to be. Joel freezes for just a second before a grin slowly spreads over his lips. You know he's got you pinned, can tell he already figured out you're a little jealous from that sentence alone.
âHer wife's a local artist.â Joel speaks slowly, not bothering to hide his giddiness at your unwitting display of affection. âShe sells pottery at the market, and MarĂlia performs with a band there.â
You swallow it down, giving him a small nod, as noncommittal as you possibly canâ You're actually really excited for it, you've always been a lover of outdoor sales and flea markets, but it is too reminiscent of your first date with Joel: You'd dragged him and little Sarah to a garage sale one Sunday morning with the excuse of a new rug and you'd left the sale with the trunk of Joel's truck full of useless nick-knacks and the certainty that you would never meet another man that made you feel the way he did.
âSounds like a plan.â
The two of you end up by the beach after lunch. You're not in your bathing suit so you just sit on the white sand, staring at the oceanâ It's one of the things you missed the most since moving to Texas. Joel sits quietly by your side, sunglasses perched low on his nose; you can't remember the last time the two of you did anything like this, just sitting together enjoying each other's presence but it's peaceful and familiar in a way that borders on dangerous, Joel's shoulder shuffling closer to yours and you need to fight off the urge to rest your head against him. The ocean is calm, the sun shining down on the crystalline water almost blinding you.
âSarah would've loved here.â You say after a moment, unsure of where to go with the conversation. You had promised to one day take her to the beach, and it makes your chest ache with guilt that you never managed to keep your word.
âSarah would've given me a damn heart attack, runnin' off into the water.â Joel snorts, but his voice carries that warm fondness that is exclusive to Sarah. âProb'ly would'a tried to take that dog home, too.â
âThe dog at your little friend's restaurant?â It's sweet, how Sarah is constantly on his mind; you hadn't even thought of her when you walked past the sleeping dog and the thought of him looking at the animal and thinking of his daughter makes you smile.Â
âMy married, lesbian friend? Yeah.â He bumps his shoulder into yours. âYou ain't got nothin' to be jealous of, sweetheart.â
âI wasn't jealous.â The lie falls easily out of your mouth, but your entire face burns with shame. âYou're a single man, you can flirt with whomever you want. Unless you're not single anymore, then in that case your new partner has to be the most confident person in the world to let you travel with your ex like that. Not that it matters, of course, because nothingââ
âI'm not seeing anyone.â Joel cuts off your embarrassing rambling, and you're relieved not just for the small act of kindness but also because it answers the question you've been dying to ask. The two of you fall silent and you can see that he's giving you space to answer the same question but you don't, you just nod and turn your eyes back to the ocean. âYou?â
You bite your bottom lip, pleased that he couldn't stop himself from asking, and then you shrug. âNot really.â
âGood.â Joel's voice is low and heavy, gruff in that way he purposefully saved for the bedroom; it's like a Pavlovian response, your skin growing warmer and your pussy growing wetter from that single word. He must sense a line has been crossed because Joel stands up, brushing off sand from his ass. âImma grab us some coconut water.â
You watch as he trudges up the soft sand all the way to the stands by the boardwalk, chatting up with the young man with the cart full of bright green coconuts; they talk for a long time, and Joel doesn't seem to flirt this time though you're too far away to tellâ Not that you expect him to flirt with anyone anymore, not after the undercurrent of something in his voice at your admission to still being single. Joel is a protective man, yes, but he's never been possessive: You know he wouldn't have been angry if you had already moved on, but the fact that he is pleased that you haven't seems to only cement the notion that he still wants you, maybe just as much as you want him.Â
But you can't. You can't let yourself fall into bed with him, because if this is just a vacation fling for him it would break your heart past the point in which you could fix it, and if it wasn't just a fling and he truly wants you back⊠Well, that is a can of worms you don't want to open and run the chance of ruining the one trip you'll have in years. Your attention is back to the ocean by the time Joel plops back down next to you, both coconuts in hand.Â
âGot somethin' else too.â Joel says, an uncharacteristically boyish smile on his lips. He pulls out two pre-rolled joints from the breast pocket of his shirt. âCoconut guy gave me a two for one deal.â
Your hand snaps between the two of you, pushing Joel's hand closer to his chest.
âAre you insane?â You raise your head, wanting to make sure no one's seen the joints while Joel laughs at you. âWe've been here for three hours and you're already buying drugs off the street? What if that guy was an undercover cop?â
âIf he was a cop then that would've been entrapment.â
âAnd maybe entrapment is not illegal here, Joel.â You try to sound stern but you're laughing too, not really believing the situation. Joel shrugs, and then finally pockets the joints away. âIf you go to jail I am not bailing you out. I'll chill in that nice house by myself and I'm only calling Tommy when I get back to Austin.â
âWe can smoke it at home.â Joel concedes, bumping his shoulder into yours.Â
The silence after that is heavy, full of the sort of awkwardness that had never been there before. Joelâs always been the silent type, and youâre not much of a conversationalist either, but itâs always been comfortable. An understanding of sorts. This silence isnât that. Itâs pregnant with things unsaid, the weight of the six months apart and the slow decay of your relationship sitting between the two of you like a wall.
The two of you stay at the beach until well past sundownâ It's one of the most beautiful sunsets you've ever seen, the sand and the ocean and the sky all mingling in shades of orange and pink. The entire world feels ethereal, like you're somewhere that doesn't truly exist, sitting there basking in the golden light with Joel by his side; he takes off his shirt at some point, his tan skin bright with the shades of twilight.
You're exhausted when you finally make it to the Airbnb, but you don't really want the day to end. Joel looks happy, more carefree than you've seen him in a long time, and it doesn't seem like he's ready to go to bed either. The two of you wash off the sand with the outdoor shower and it burns you on the inside to think of earlier in the dayâ The night is cool but not cold, crickets and cicadas chirping somewhere in the wooded area that surrounds your place and the two of you find yourselves sharing the hammock, your feet by his ribs, his feet near your neck.
Joel lights up the joint, the ashtray balancing on his chest, taking a drag before he hands it over to you. You don't remember the last time the two of you smoked together, but it was something you used to do on the weekends, when Sarah was away at a friend's house or at Tommy's. Just the two of you, laying on the bed of his truck to keep the house smell-free, talking for hours and simply enjoying the moment with each other.
âHow's work?â Joel asks as you blow the smoke up in the air; it's filler conversation, but can only hope that Joel genuinely caresâ He's the one that helped you build your own nail design studio back when you were stuck with a half-finished college degree you hated and no happy future in sight. Joel's been the one to motivate you, to give you gas money back when you didn't have enough clients to afford both gas and food, the one who held you through the rough days and massaged your hands and back after a hard day of work.Â
All those things feel like a thousand years into the past now.Â
âIt's been good, I'm almost always fully booked.â You say, your throat burning from the smoke before handing him the joint. You fingers touch, his lingering for a beat too long. âWhat about you and Tommy?â
âThat's nice, I'm glad it's working out. You deserve it.â Joel smiles, and it's only then that you realize how he's never once taken credit for it. He could've, considering the only reason you have your studio is because of his help, but he's never done it, had gone as far as being offended when you offered to pay him back. âWork's flowin' well, Tommy is pickin' up more shifts and we managed to hire a couple of guys to help.â
âI'm glad Tommy's pulling his head out of his ass.â You snort, but the joke hides the truth: Joel has been carrying his brother's weight for a long, long time.Â
âI got a lot more free time now.â Joel smiles, takes a long drag of the joint and when his eyes settle on you they're carrying a heaviness you don't expect. Like he knows that was something that troubled you, like he's always known he had been neglecting you and had simply waited until you left to fix it.
âSarah must be happy.â You say, hating the way the quiver in your voice gives away your feelings. The smile on Joel's face crumbles just a little, clearly not expecting a bad reaction from you.Â
âShe is,â He agrees. âI haven't missed a soccer match in months.â
The goddamned Saturday morning soccer matches. She had one almost every week during the tournament months, and Joel more often than not either forgot about it at all or was too tired after a grueling week of work to get up at seven in the morningâ You went to every single of them, no matter how tired, how cold or how miserable you felt.
âGood to know that all you needed was for me to step away before you became half a decent parent.â
Joel recoils as if you've slapped him, and you figure that might've hurt less than your actual words. You move, trying to get out of the hammock with as much dignity as you can but Joel stops you, gripping your ankle; you freeze at the touch, your heart hammering so fast you can hear it in your ears.
âI'm sorry.â He says, his voice low and heavy with emotion. âI should've said it sooner. I'm sorry I put all that weight on you, wasn't fair. 'M tryin' to do better.â
You should've tried to do better while I was still around. The words are trapped in your throat, bubbling to come out but you swallow them down.
âBetter late than never.â It's what you settle for, and it pains you to shrug his hand off, climbing out of the hammock.Â
âI know it's late.â Joel says, taking a deep drag of the joint before he puts it out. âBut is it too late, sweetheart?â
The answer should've been yes. You told yourself time and time again in the past six months that you were done, that you didn't want Joel anymore and that you'd never take him back even if he begged you for it. And now, one afternoon with him, and your resolve is already wavering. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself.Â
âWhen did you know it was over?â You ask instead of an answer. It had always been on your mind, wondering when he gave up on your relationship exactly.Â
âAbout two months before you left.â Joel doesn't look at you, staring at the trees instead. âIt was the first time we were havin' sex in forever and you fell asleep halfway through it. Reckoned you were done with me by then.â
âFour.â You say. âWe didn't have sex for four months before we broke up.â
âNuh-huh, it was the weekend Sarah went away for camp. We had planned a bunch of stuff for the weekend, but you fell asleep while I was still inside you on Friday night and then we sorta just did our own thing until she came back.â
âDid youââ You swallow thickly. âDid you finish?â
âNo, of course not.â Joel shakes his head, and he sounds offended at the question. âI pulled out and got you dressed before I went to the bathroom to jerk off.â
You're so mortified by the whole thing that your brain doesn't even conjure the very tempting imagery of Joel touching himself. You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to contain the tears that threaten to spill.
âI don't remember that.â
âYou were tired.â Joel's soft, understanding tone somehow only makes things worse. âOverworked and stressed, and I was only makin' it worse.â
You want to ask why he didn't try. Want to ask him why he didn't fight for you, why he simply accepted the break up with a solemn nod. Why he gave up. But you don't, because you're afraid of his answerâ Whether the problem had been you, if he'd simply fallen out of love and gotten too comfortable with your relationship, or if he'd found someone more interesting, someone new.Â
âI'm going to bed.â You say, clearing your throat.Â
Joel nods, lips parted in hesitation. And then he sighs, his eyes falling on the couch behind your back. âLemme just grab a pillow first.â
âWe can share the bed. If you want.â The words come out of your mouth before you can think it through. âJust keep your morning wood to yourself.â
The look Joel gives you almost makes you backtrack, but he's climbing out of the hammock before you can say anything, a relieved smile on his face.
âI'll behave, I promise.â
You try to pretend you're not disappointed in that.
You don't wake up the next day with Joel's body pressed against yours as you had hoped, but you do wake up with him shaking you. You groan, trying to swat him away.
âG'way.â You mumbled, rolling to the other side of the bed. The sheets are cool, signaling just how long he's been gone.Â
âHoney, there's monkeys. C'mon, get up.â
You drag yourself out of bed at that, partially thinking that maybe Joel has finally lost his mind but, sure enough, there are two tiny monkeys in the backyard deck, perched on the wooden rail and sitting far too closely to the breakfast table that Joel has set upâ Coffee and juice, fruit cut up in little bowls and a basket of pĂŁo de queijo.Â
âIs that a marmoset?â You ask, voice low as you try not to scar the animals.
Joel has a huge smile on his lips, nodding as the two of you watch from the large sliding door, still inside the house. The bigger monkey â which can't be bigger than a chihuahua, you think â crawls to the table and grabs a slice of mango and then skitters back into the closest tree; the smaller one isn't as brave, eyeing you carefully from his position before jumping back into the protection of the trees.
âI think we should get the food inside before they steal some more.â You say, not really containing the grin on your face. âFuck, I should've picked up my camera.â
âThey'll be back.â Joel says, finally stepping away to open the door; you can still feel the faint scent of his soap, the warmth of his chest almost pressed to your back. âNow that they know we have food they'll come back everyday.â
The two of you move the breakfast spread into the dining table inside, just in case. You're touched that Joel went through all the trouble of setting up the food in the first place, half expecting him to be asleep by the time you got out of bed, but the coffee is perfectly brewed, the fruit all carefully sliced and the pĂŁo de queijo still warm from the oven; it reminds you of the early stages of your relationship, before life got in the way, when Joel would wake up early and cook breakfast for both you and Sarahâ Tommy too, sometimes, when he got too drunk to drive home the night before.
âWhy are you doing this?â You ask when Joel fills your glass with orange juice, the words slipping out of your mouth before you can stop yourself; you don't want to ruin the small peace the both of you agreed to, but you need to know. âThis⊠This is the sort of thing you did when you gave a shit, Joel. But I know what happens when you stop caring, so whatever this is⊠I'm not going to fall for it twice.â
Joel sighs, the sort of noise you know comes from resignation rather than irritation. He drops down on the seat adjacent to yours on the small square table, his knees creaking loudly.Â
âI told you last night⊠I want to do better. Wanna fix the mistakes I made with you.â Joel's eyes hold yours, his face open and honest. âYer the best damn thin' to ever happen to me after Sarah. I know I can't change the past, I ain't tryin' to erase you the pain I caused you and I know it'll take you some time to trust me again but I'm goin' to work hard everyday to prove to you just how much I still love you.â
You squint, trying to ignore the way your heart feels like it might jump out through your throat. âThat sounds like a rehearsed speech.â
Joel blushed, his face and ears going red as he finally takes his eyes off you.
âM'therapist helped. But I mean it, she just⊠helped with the words.â He looks down at the table, shoving a piece of melon into his mouth. âBut I'm workin' on it too. Bein' better at⊠Communicatin'.â
You're floored, breakfast forgotten as you stare at this man next to you that you're now uncertain if he is the same man he used to be. Joel's face flushes even harder, fidgeting under the weight of your gaze.Â
âThat's⊠That's good.â You swallow thickly. âYeah. I'm glad you're going to therapy.â
âIt's been a rough coupla' months, Sarah's teacher was the one to recommend it, actually. She started goin' first, and then I did.â
You know what he isn't saying: That it's been difficult because you left, to the point that Sarah had to go to therapy because you left without a word. It makes you sick to your stomach.Â
âI'm sorry.â You say, though you wish you could apologize to the little girl instead. âI should've dealt with everything better. Iâ I miss her, honestly, I just thought it would be worse if I tried to stay in touch with her.â
âShe misses you too. We all do.â Joel hesitates, taking a sip of his coffee with his eyes still glued to you, as if he's weighing his words and your reaction to them. âWe could do something together when we get back. Not a trip, 'cause Tommy's gon' wring my neck if I make him cover another shift of mine, but something nice. We never took her to the zoo.â
In the silence that follows, you have the urge to say something mean, to be rude or dismissive or to just tell him offâ Anything, anything to keep your heart from racing the way it does. Still, when you open your mouth, no venom comes out. Joel's looking at you with warm brown eyes, the same puppy-like quality that he has passed on to Sarah and, for a moment, you allow yourself to think of what that would be like. What it would feel to come back home to the life you thought you'd never have again.
âIt might be good for her.â You relent, toying with a slice of pineapple on your plate. âThat she learns we can be exes and still have a healthy relationship.â
You don't raise your head, trying to keep your voice as casual as you can, but you see from the corner of your eye the way Joel's head tilts to the side, his body going stiff at your words.Â
ââs that all you want, darlinâ? Because I'll respect your decision like I did when we broke up, but I'm going to hear you say it.â
âI don't know what I want.â You say, but that's not exactly the truth. You know what you want: You want him, all of him, next to you and inside of you and everywhere. You need him, need him as much as you need the air you breathe but you're terrified.Â
Because your story has already ended once, and you're not sure there is anything you can do to fix that.
âThat's all I need to know.â Joel gives you a small, crooked smile before he takes your hand in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles. âLet me show you that I still love you. And, if by the end of the week you still don't want me, then I won't bother you ever again.â
There's a million reasons why you should say no. Relationships need more than love, and whatever happens while on vacation isn't a representation of real life and there is no way you believe that things will get better once you go home or that your heart isn't going to end up breaking like it's done once before but, in that moment, with Joel's soft lips against your skin and his molten eyes boring into yours, your brain can't conjure up any of those reasons.Â
You love him. He loves you. You have an entire house to yourselves for the first time in months and not a single responsibility or to-do list. Just the two of you, the scorching sun and the bountiful nature around.Â
It doesn't matter if your heart is going to break at the end.Â
You want him anyway.Â
âOkay.â You nod, and then laugh when Joel offers you a boyish grin. âDon't make me regret it, Miller.â
Summary: Joel saves you from a creep at the bar. You repay him with how you see fit.
Word Count: 10.9k
Warnings: 18+. MDNI. P in V sex. Assplay. Age gap. Reader is in her 20s, Joelâs in his late 40s/50s. Reader is a teacher. Size difference. Slight dom/sub undertones. Dirty talk. Squirting. Panty sniffing. Choking. No Outbreak.
Banner: by @cursed-carmine
Authors Note: it has been a million and one years since Iâve written and i have never written for Joel before so be kind ! I would also love to practice writing drabbles bc this initially was supposed to be a drabble but I lost control lol. so send me and gnarly imagines you have about frank castle and joel miller (and fuck it even Arthur Morgan) and weâll have a ball <3
ao3 link [coming soon]
Tequila has never been your friend.
The ritual of licking the grainy salt, shooting the shitty well tequila, immediately following with a soggy lime wedge usually led to a terrible burn in your belly and immediate regretâ because once that tequila worked its magic, it usually led you and your burnt out group of teacher friends to order another round.
And then another, because fuck it you guys, we work with kids for a living! At least three of us here had a chair thrown at us this week!
And by the time the third round of that dark, shitty well tequila gets ordered, your brain is already becoming mush and you really donât mind that your group is being the loudest in the small dive bar. In fact, you really donât mindâ especially when it catches the attention of the regulars who love to buy a group of pretty young girls their next round. A free drink is a free drink, and typically the men that hit on you and your girls know there ainât a chance in hell any of you would give in to them. Sure, there are some that give it their allâ âcâmon, my wife donât got it any moreââ or âgive this olâ man a chance, babyâ â but typically with a bat of your lashes and the excuse of having a nonexistent boyfriend, they let up.
But that isnât the case tonight.
Mike, you think is his name, canât be younger than 50. He has a belly rounder than youâd ever seen and a nose as red as Rudolphâs. Surely, a sign of his drinking habits throughout the years. Heâs bought the latest rounds of drinks after approaching your table, words already slurred and breath so horrifying youâre afraid that if he lit up a cigarette, his breath would catch fire.
But a free drink is a free drink, and your girls werenât ready to tell him to kick rocks just yet.
You, however, were ready to tell him to fuck off.
It had been a long week. Between the usual troublemakers in your class and a surprise observation from your admin, your free time was being consumed by conference prep. Hours after school were being spent making copies, scheduling with parents, making sure the kids desks were neat⊠it was stressful.
And to top it all off, the fucker took it upon himself to plop his ass right next to you.
You know the type. He was probably on his third divorce, and spent a little too much time at the bar during his free time. It disgusts you to even think that this guy is probably thinking about what it would take to get you home.
With an arm slung around the back of your seat in the booth, heâs asking alllll about what itâs like to be a teacher these days. And much to your annoyance, your friends have begun not so secretly taking picturesâno doubt making it into the shared album by the morning.
âNow sweetheart,â Mike (or maybe Matt? You couldnât keep it straight.) slurs, and your nose crinkles at the smell of the cheap beer on his breath. âMâtellinâ you. If had a teacher like you growinâ upââ
God, there it was. Guys always think that line works, as if hearing it for the millionth time would finally land them on your roster.
ââWouldâve paid real close attention in class.â
Gag.
Your smile grows tight as you squirm towards the edge of the vinyl booth. âAlright!â You exclaim loudly. âWith that note, mâgonna go get a Diet Coke. Somethinâ to wash the tequila down.â
âBaby I can go with yaââ Mike groans as he moves towards you, but you smile as sweetly as you can and cut him off before he can inch any closer.
âJess, Iâm sure Mike would love to hear about how that kid told you to fuck off last week.â
Mike snorts. âNames not Mike. SâMatt.â
âMatt, sorry.â You arenât sorry. Youâre already halfway to the bar as you say that.
Jess, who is the main instigator of the night out, is a social butterfly who isnât scared of a damn thing. She can handle a few questions from Matt.
The Rusty Spur was usually packed tighter than a can of sardines, but tonight is bad. To your right is one bachelorette group cornered towards the end of the bar, sticking out like a sore thumb in their pink cowboy hats, multiple groups of guys dressed in business casual; shirtsleeves rolled up and collars unbuttonedâand to your left, at least a dozen frat boys hogging the pool tables, the scent of their cheap cologne making your lip curl in distaste.
And to your front, the line looks to be a million people deep. With a groan, you stretch to your tiptoes and attempt to look over the shoulders of the people in front of you. God, you just needed some Diet Coke to get rid of the taste of tequila out of your mouth and to clear your head. And to close out your tab, you supposeâyour iPad and shower were singing their siren song to you right about now.
Given that you were currently more than a few drinks deep and growing more and more irritated by the lengthy line of tall frat boys, you rise to your tippy toes once again and tilt yourself to the left, attempting to get a look to see if any progress is being made to get to the bar.
God dammit, everyone is so tall!
Leaning juuuuuust a bit further left, another tall body rams itself into your side; and suddenly your center of gravity is justâŠgone. Your wedges fail youâyou knew wedges were the wrong choiceâand your body is falling faster than you can process.
âSHIT!â
Not only is your head pounding, but now your tailbone is poundingâand soaked in god knows what kind of liquid. With reddened cheeks, and tears of embarrassment forming in your eyes, you look up to see what asshole shoved into you; only to meet the eyes of fucking Mike.
Before you can push yourself off of the bar floor and tell him exactly where he can shove it, you feel a pair of hands grab onto your shoulders, gently lifting you up and onto your feet
âHey, easy,â a voice says in your ear. Low, unbothered, with a slight drawl to his tone. Not slurred at allâunlike Mike who had been breathing down your neck for the last hour.
Slightly disoriented, you blink slowly; craning your neck to get a good look at the stranger, and your eyes lock on someone who is entirely unlike the other guys here. Not even close.
This boy⊠no⊠man⊠is tall. Broad, biceps being hugged perfectly by his t-shirt. Deep set wrinkles frame his eyes, but their deep chocolate shade is enough to momentarily make your tongue forget how to even form legible words. Youâre pretty sure if you even tried to talk, nothing would come out. As if his eyes werenât enough of a distraction, the scent of the bar was quickly replaced with a distinct aroma of wood pine and spearmint. Itâs clear by the calluses on his palms and the slightly paint-stained shirt that read MILLER CONSTRUCTION, whoever he is, is a man.
If you hadnât known any better, youâd think that your damn jaw was slack, drool pooling all around the two of you.
Heâs still holding onto your elbow, unsure whether youâll fall over again if he lets go of you. Youâre sure you must look like a mess, but the stranger has an unreadable expression as he finally steps back, releasing his grip on your arm.
âYou alright miss?â He reaches beside him to the bar, grabbing a napkin and politely handing it to you.
Texan, you think. Of fucking course.
âMostly,â You grumble, accepting the napkin to wipe your hands. âThis jackass wonât leave me and my friends alone. And now he justâŠâ
You gesture to him, and the stranger rolls his eyes and turns his attention to Mike, who seems blissfully unaware that he just body slammed you to the ground. The stranger, whose expression remains unreadable, glances over at the perpetrator, visibly eyeing him up and down. If you had to guess, the stranger was thinking of a way to get this man kicked out of the bar.
âMatt.â
Mike turns suddenly, beer spilling over the sides of his pint glassâadding to the mess you had just landed on. His face of stupor quickly turns to a toothless grin as he recognizes the stranger who just pulled you up from the mess.
âJoel!â He instantly steps towards Joel, both arms wrapping around Joel's shoulders. From the way Joel tenses up as Mike slaps his back with one hand, itâs clear that Joel does not like him. âSâbeen a few weeks since ya been out, buddy!â
Joel gently, but with a firm movement pries his arms off his shoulders and takes a step back. âHas been, friend. You knocked this lady over.â
He says it evenly. With authority. He says it in a way that shows you that his moral compass wouldnât allow this to happen on his watch, whether you were a stranger or not.
âPssssh,â Matt breathes, waving a hand. âThisâŠ.â He gestures to you, a look of disgust blooming in his eye, âbitch had it comin. Been buying her and her slutty friends drinks. Wonât even gimme a damn feel.â
As if things hadnât gotten enough out of hand when you landed in dive bar liquids on a dirty hardwood floor, youâre now frozen in disbelief as this complete degenerate decides to insult you. And to a complete strangerâJoelânow involved.
If you werenât red as a tomato before, youâre sure that now youâre going as red as a bad sunburn. If the fall hadnât embarrassed you enough, now this fucker is really going for the gold.
That moral compass of his leads Joel to the most obvious next step. You watch half in horror and half in awe, as he takes two decisive steps forwards and grabs Matt by the collar, yanking him towards the door. Matt nearly topples over his own boots as Joel grabs him, a grunt escaping his lips. The pair brush past you as Joel easily pushes Matt towards the door.
Maybe itâs the tequilaâbut watching Joel move around a huge dude like Mike like itâs nothingâitâs really fucking hot. Youâre moving with them before you even realize youâre walking.
âTime to go home, Matt.â Joel says evenly, giving him no other option but to follow. âWe ainât dealinâ with your shit for the rest of the night.â
Matt clearly isnât happy as Joel escorts him out. âThe FUCK, Miller?!â
Getting closer and closer to the door, the bouncer at the door sighs and stands when he notices the disruption. Clearly itâs not Matt's first rodeo with getting kicked out of a bar.
âFuckinâ disrespectful is what you are,â Joel says flatly, shoving him towards the bouncer. âMattâs at it again. Pushed the poor lady.â
âShit man, one more time and youâre gettinâ 86âd from the Spur,â the bouncer groans, grabbing Matt by the arm. âSwear to god.â
The cool night air hits your face as a second bouncer swings the door open, following the pair outside to ensure that itâs handled. As the door swings back shut, your lungs deflate with a breath you didnât notice you had been holding.
âSuch a damn idiot,â Joel murmurs to himself, finally turning to you. His eyes dart down and up at you quickly; no doubt thinking about what a wreck you probably look like at the moment. âYou okay?â
âBetter,ââ You reply, hiking your bag over your shoulder. âIâIâthank you. You didnât have to do that. Joel, right?â
He nods, holding his hand out for you to shake. Those calluses on his palms once again meet your skin, sending a momentary spark down your spine.
âYeah, Joel. And mâhappy to. Mattâs been pullinâ shit like this for years. Ainât funny nor cute.â He pulls his hand away, looking you over once again. The way he does it doesnât feel like heâs checking you out; more like heâs looking to see if youâre hurt. âMâsorry about your skirt. I wouldnât wanna know whatâs been spilled on these floors.â
Your hands swipe the back pockets of your skirt; face turning to a wince when you feel the damp spot on your ass.
âItâs a good thing I own a washer and dryer, I guess.â
He huffs out a chuckle, the lines in his face deepening as he does so. You werenât one to typically be enamored with someone older, but Joel is so⊠effortless. Soft, yet tough.
You introduce yourself, heart stopping for a moment as he repeats your name. Why does it sound so much better coming from him?
âI, uh, can I get you a beer?â You ask, thumb pointing to the bar. âYou really didnât have toââ
ââIâm okay, promise,â Joel interrupts, lip pulling into a small smile. âLike I said, Matt has been doinâ shit like that for a long time. Needs to learn his lesson.â
Just like Joel wouldnât bend his moral compass, even for strangers, you werenât going to back down now. Especially when the stranger who jumped in to defend you was hot.
âI donât think mâgonna take no for an answer tonight.â Youâre already taking out your card; feet moving you back towards the barâthe scene of the crime. âYou had a Coors banquet, yeah?â
Youâre half-expecting him to double down on his refusal and return to his seat at the bar, but to your surpriseâhe doesnât.
âI did.â Joel replies, clearly amused by your forwardness. He follows you to the line, hands in his pockets as he does. Respectful. God, thatâs such a turn on.
With the line beginning to thin out, you shift on your feet and look up at him. How did Joel know that asshole anyways? Asking him some questions wouldnât hurt, especially since thereâs still a line.
âHow do you know Mike anyways?â You ask, tilting your head out of curiosity.
âRe-did his kitchen a while back for him and his wife. Was a pain in the ass then, still a pain in the ass now.â
âWife, huh?â An amused laugh passes through your lips at the revelation. âDidnât see a ring, and he definitely didnât mention a wife.â
Stepping forward in tandem with you as the line moves, you note how he stands just close enough to hear you, but far enough to let you take the lead.
Joel shrugs nonchalantly. âAnd that doesnât shock me either. Yourself and your friends are pretty. Sucks that he had to go and be an asshole about it, though.â
Pretty.
Joel thinks youâre pretty.
âMost guys are.â Another step forward to the bar. Not too far, now. Your inner monologue tells you to keep the conversation going, dammit! âSo you do⊠residential construction?â
âMostly residential, but weâll take a few commercial gigs if it fits. My brother and I own the company together,â he explains easily. Youâre just thankful that this stranger has either not noticed your flushed face, or is too nice to say anything about it. âItâs a good gig. What do you do?
Another step. One more person in front of you.
Keep it going.
Fiddling with your card in your hand, you answer, âIâm a teacher. Elementary.â
âThat makes sense.â His brows raise with a smile, and he steps forward with you. âWhere at?â
âI donât tell people at bars,â You reply quickly, but mentally hitting yourself at the delivery. âI meanâI didnâtââ
ââNo, I get it,â Joel laughs, raising his hands in mock defense. âYou donât know me, I donât know you. Mâsure youâve had this conversation enough times to learn what to say, and what not to say. I donât take any offense.â
You raise a brow as if you donât believe him, and Joelâs small smile turns to a grin as he leans down a little, doubling down on his statement. Like he knew you needed the reassurance that he wasnât offended by your evasiveness.
âPromise.â
Thereâs that wood pine and spearmint smell again, taking over your senses. Is this what pheromones are? If so, theyâre working overtime to make sure you feel his presence.
The group in front of you at the bar leaves happily with their drinks, and youâre thankful for the quick respite to regain your bearings as you order Joel his Coors and your own Diet Coke. And to ensure that you donât drink further and make even more of a fool of yourself, you close out your tab.
Sliding the receipt and pen towards the bartender, you turn to Joel who surprisingly is still here with you in line, nursing the cold beer. Surely that means heâs not done with you just yetâbecause simply, you were too taken with him to be done yet, either.
With a quick glance over your shoulder, your group has already had their attention shift to the pool table; where Jess was currently getting a lesson from a kid with a backwards hat and no doubt a zyn in his lower lip.
Theyâd be fine without you for a few minutes,.
âMâgonna get some airââ You say casually, twirling your straw against the ice in your glass. Keep it cool.
âMaybe I should come with, âf you donât mind,â Joel responds coolly. âNeed a cigarette after that.â
Biting back a small smile, you lead the way through the crowd towards the back enteranceâtaking your phone out as you do, you tap Jessâs contact.
Going outside for some air, brb
It takes her less than a minute to answer.
Atta girl, donât worry about us. Weâre nearby
be safe <3
Tucking your phone into your purse, you hold the door open behind you for Joel; sighing as you feel the night air cool off your body from the bar. Breathing in a breath of air, you turn to see Joel claim a standing table, setting his beer down and digging in his back pocket for what he needs.
âAh, there we go,â He exclaims softly, lighter emerging from his pocket. âI know these are bad for me butâMattâs a real ass.â
Leaning against the table heâs chosen, you donât even notice the small smile youâre giving him as he strikes up the lighter, cigarette between his lips.
âWhatâre you smiling about?â He asks, but not in a teasing wayâitâs playful, making you flustered all the while.
âI justâŠI havenâtâŠâ You pause and think for a moment. Why were you smiling? You could blame the tequila. You could blame your friends for dragging you out. Or, you could admit to yourself that JoelâŠthis stranger, who is probably older than your dad, isâdoing it for you.
After all, he had called you pretty.
Surely that meant heâd want to feel⊠whatever this was out with you.
âIâm just floored, I guess. That you helped me. Lotta people these days wouldnât have even said a word.â
Joel lets the smoke spill from his lips smoothly as he listens to you. Heâs no stranger to helping othersâhis parents raised him rightâand normally, he would have just let you buy him a drink as a thank you and he would have returned to his seat after the exchange. No harm, no foul.
But Mike really was an ass. Shoving a pretty young thing like you, then to top it all off, mouthing off about being a bitchâhe felt bad for you. But he noticed right away the twinkle in your eye when he helped you up. It wasnât just thankfulness. It was something else.
Joel was 50. Back in his 20s, he knew how to talk to women. It felt like second natureâdo a late shift at the auto shop, hit the bars with his buddies after. But as Joel had grown into fatherhood and owning a business, his priorities shifted and he didnât go out as much.
Didnât date as much.
And definitely didnât check out women that could be his daughter.
Your lips closed around the straw and his eyes dart to the movement, watching how the gloss stains the rim of it. Part of him feelsâŠdirty, noticing the plumpness of your lips.
The other part of him wonders what it would feel like elsewhere.
âI guess Iâm floored, too.â Joel remarks, watching your reaction to his response. Joel isnât a creep. He knows what this could look like to you if you werenât into itâhe just wants to test the waters and gauge your interest. Your brow furrows.
âWhy?â
Bringing the cigarette back to his lips, his eyes donât leave yours as he thinks carefully about his answer.
âGuess mâfloored that your boyfriend didnât intervene before I could.â
In that moment, you feel something pass between the two of you. Curiosity mixed with lust, maybe. Joel's eyes are still locked with yours as the smoke clearsâso you can really look at him and he can really look at you.
It feels as if heâs staring straight into your soul.
âI donât have a boyfriend.â Itâs the truth, and he knows it too. You arenât dumb. You know why heâs asking. Your eyes flicker down to his left hand, and a feeling of relief and glee spreads throughout you when you notice he doesnât have a ring on his finger.
God. What have you come to? Checking for a manâs ring. And getting excited when he doesnât have one? Heâs old.
You reach out wordlessly to him. He chuckles and passes the cigarette to you and watches you intently as you inhale softly, flicking ash to the ground as you exhale.
âIâm shocked,â He answers finally, breaking the silence. âPretty, young, a great careerâŠâ A pause, as you hand back his cigarette. You donât miss the way his eyes flick to your mouth. âyouâre a catch.â
If this wasnât flirting, you had to be the dumbest girl on the planet.
Before you can think of a response to Joel, both of your attention goes to the door; where Jess and your group come bursting through, the pool table boys en suite. Jess is practically hanging off backwards hat boy, and the rest are no doubt ordering the uber back to their respective apartments.
As if the two of you were in sync, you both turn at the same time to look at each other; as if trying to convey that neither of you were ready for the night to end. And truth be toldâŠyou werenât.
Neither was Joel.
Jess pries herself off of the guy when she finally spots you, mischievous grin on her face as she looks at the scene before her.
âHeyâyou good?â She says brightly. Youâre thankful for Jess. She has a way of checking in that doesnât come off as rude. âWeâre all gettinâ ready to leaveâbut mâgoing home withâŠâ Her voice trails as she looks back at the guy she just walked out with, and Joel stifles a giggle as she attempts to recall his name. You smack her arm playfully and she laughs.
âWell I guess it doesnât matter. I uhââ She smiles with a laugh, looking at Joel, and then back at you. ââI donât mean to interrupt things. But Sammy needs a ride home. And Iâm assuming you do too?â
âYeah,â you answer, shaking your head; attempting to come back from reality. âI can uh-order an uber for Sammy and Iââ
Joel watches as you fumble with your words, and he decides that if the night isnât going to end hereâŠheâll just come to your rescue.
Again.
He has a feeling you wonât complain.
âIf everyoneâs okay with it, I can drive 'em home.â Joel offers with a shrug, flicking the cigarette to the ground. Jess eyes him with that fierce, older sister look she loves to give. To that, Joel pulls out his wallet and slips his ID out, handing it to her without hesitation. As if saying to Jess, test me. âGo ahead. Take a picture.â
Jessâs mouth hangs open momentarily, before shutting just as quickly as it came. She yanks her phone out and snaps a photo, handing it back to him.
âAlright Joel. If my girls donât report right back to me in the morningââ She starts, and you giggle as you cut in.
ââYouâll kill him yourself. We got it, Jess.â Gesturing to her toy for the evening, you add, âget back to your boy. We got Sammy. Promise.â
Jess hugs you tight, eyeing Joel over your shoulder. Heâs desperately trying not to laugh, and even you can tell that, and youâre not even looking at him.
âOkayâŠâ She says as she pulls back, taking one last look at the two of you. âBe safe.â
You all know sheâs not talking about the drive home.
Joel is wondering what heâs gotten himself into when Sammy gets in the car.
Sammy, a kindergarten teacher, as she slurred several timesâwas upset that she saw her ex at the bar with another girl. You, being the kind friend that you are, opt to sit in the back with her for the ten minute drive to her house, holding her hair back and wiping the tears off her cheeks; occasionally looking at the rear view mirror.
What draws you in about him is that he seems almost impossible to read. You canât tell if heâs amused, unimpressed, or just focusing on the road. Either way, your eyes always seem to find those brown eyes of his whenever you look for them.
Pulling into Sammyâs driveway, Joel steps out of the truck and immediately goes to Sammyâs side of the car; helping you get Sammy on her feet.
âI justâugh!â She whines, completely unaware that itâs taking two people to get her to the front door. âHeâs such a fuckingâjerk! I gave him EVERYTHING!â
âI know,â You reply empathetically, grunting under the weight. âBut heâs dumb and youâre so much hotter, Sam. Whereâre your keys?â
She pulls away from the two of you, swaying unevenly as she digs around in her purse. Looking back at Joel, you smile sympathetically and say âIâll get here insideâwonât be more than five minutes. I promise.â
He nods, holding back a small smile. Poor girl, he thinks to himself as he walks back to the truck. Reminds me of my friends back in the day.
Sammy is nearly inconsolable when you finally unlock her door and get her inâbetween gentle words of advice and picking out pajamas, youâre itching to get back to Joel.
âCan you pleeeease call me in the morning?â Sammy sobs, pulling the sheets around her.
âOf course!â You promise, finally catching your breath as your hands go to your hips. All your mind is saying at the moment is JoelJoelJoelJoel. âI put water by your bed and ibuprofen next to it. Get some sleep, ok?â
Blubbering out, Sammy weakly sits up to add, âBut heâs suchââ
ââLOVE YOU!â
Locking her front door, you take a moment to breathe. Your back meets the door and your eyes flutter shut. Your skirt currently smells like shitty beer, your makeup is more than likely completely rubbed off, and you have an unbelievably attractive man waiting for you by his truck.
You can do this.
One foot in front of the other.
Wedges clacking against the pavement, you curve around to the truck where Joelâs waitingâback leaning against the passenger side door, hands in his pocket.
âIs she normally thatâmuch of a handful?â He asks, not moving from his spot by the door.
âSometimes,â you chuckle. âCanât really blame a girl. He was an asshole, after all.â
âNo you canât.â He lets out a low laugh and shrugs in agreement. âYou live around here?â
âYeah, just down the block. Not too far now.â
âGood,â He answers, slowly pulling himself off the truck. Your eyes donât leave his as he steps towards you, his hand ever so carefully reaching for yours; thumb swiping against the skin of your knuckles. âLetâs get you home.â
Game on.
Youâve never been more thankful that you live close by to Sammy than you are at this exact moment.
All it takes is exactly five minutes and Joelâs pulling into your drivewayâone hand on the wheel, his other in yours; toying with your fingers the entire way, enjoying the low hum of The Strokes.
Normally, you would have attempted to fill the silence with meaningless conversation; talking about anything and everything to calm your nerves about the potential of what was to comeâbut there is something easy about the silence with Joel. You donât feel the need to prove yourself, or pull out anyâŠstops.
Youâre just⊠you.
Not a caricature of a fetishized teacher, not a perverted version of a woman a frat guy always dreamed of. Itâs refreshing and almost freeing.
Joel kills the engine of the truck as he pulls in, the warmth of his hand leaving yours to do soâand momentarily, you catch yourself wanting to be selfish and reach back for him, chasing that safe and warm feeling heâs been unknowingly feeding you, since he lifted you up from the floor.
He doesnât say anything as he exits his side, making his way towards you. You feel as if you canât breathe as he opens up your door for youâfrozen with lust or fascination, youâre not really quite sure just yetâa small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he offers you his hand. All while not saying anything, yet conveying that he knows what youâre wanting, no, needing from him.
Your hand finds his and he helps you down, fingers lacing together seamlessly as you take the lead to your front door; the heavy steps of his boots following.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
You finally manage to make yourself break the silence as you climb the stairs to your door. He still hasnât let go of your hand.
âSâme.â You hold up your keys, the sound of them jangling softly through the silence thatâs been building between the two of you.
Joel doesnât miss the way you havenât even attempted to unlock the door. Just like at the bar, he isnât ready to walk away from this. The flickering porch light is practically illuminating your face; lips still partially glossed from earlier, eyes twinkling with something he canât quite placeâdesire? Curiosity?
Either way, Joel remains planted on the porch, thumb rubbing gently against your skin. The gears in his head are turning, and he thinks carefully before he finally speaks; those deep, brown eyes not leaving yours for a second.
âI uh, donât do thisââ He gestures between the two of you, and you feel the heat flush your cheeks. ââOften.â
âI donât either,â Your words come out more breathless than you intended them too, but you donât care; not now.
He grimaces slightly, shaking his head.
âI trust that. But youââ His hand leaves yours, but they move to brush down your bare arms, stopping at your elbows; electricity flowing in your skin as he does so. ââyou areâŠyouâreâŠâ
âIâmâŠwhat?â You will your voice not to shake, but your feeble attempts donât translate. Adrenaline seems to be pumping through you, your senses on overdrive as heâs still holding on to your elbows. His eyes still seem to be searching yours for something.
âYoung.â
A beat of silence passes as you process his internal warfareâyou hadnât put much consideration to your respective ages; you, by definition, are young in comparison to him.
But that doesnât mean that what heâs doing is bad.
By now your pulse is thrumming, and you force yourself to step forwardâbraving to be the one that makes the space between you smaller. You hear the way Joelâs breath hitches as you do so; your hands sliding up and over his forearms to his biceps.
âJoelâŠâ
Now how was he supposed to walk away from this? Saying his name in that gentle voice of yours. How could he, when he felt the constriction of his jeans growing by the second?
âIâI donât want you to go.â
Fuck.
Your hands keep travelling, the palms of your hands sliding to cup his cheeks in your hand. Even in wedges you could feel yourself leaning up on your tiptoes to try to be on his level; to make him really look at you. The rough scratch of his beard on your palms makes your breath quiver as his eyes donât move away from yours.
âIn fact,â you begin to say, letting your chest ever so gently press against his. âI want you to come inside.â
The audible breath that he lets out at your words tells you that heâs battling with his own self about your age; one half being the responsible part of himself, where he knows youâre better off with someone your own age, someone who could keep up with that libido every young person has.
The other half of him? The other half of him could only focus on how close your mouth was to his and how you could most definitely feel the hardness of his cock against your tummy.
You could tell that that half of him was close to winningâit just needs an extra nudge.
The hands that currently were cupping his cheeks brought them forward, ever so gently pressing his lips to his. Itâs as if time stops, and the world around you stills as you register that he actually is kissing you back.
It lasts all but two seconds as you pull back a hair of a centimeter away, nose brushing against his as you gauge his reaction. All that can be heard is the gentle sounds of your breaths, and the hum of the porch light.
Joelâs eyes are still shut. He doesnât say anything. Maybe you wildly misread his body language.
Just as thoughts of doubt begin to settle in and your body attempts to pull itself away from himâthose big hands that pulled you off of the bar floor made its way to your waist and gave your body a gentle shoveâyour back meeting with the front door of your house. You would be embarrassed by the erotic gasp you made, but itâs really hard to care when a man like Joel is looking at you like he already knows how heâs going to take you.
âMâan old man,â His voice grits out, breath fanning against your face. âI ainât exactly gentleânot when it comes to a pretty thing like you.â
âI donât need you to be gentle,â You reply breathlessly, fingers digging into his shoulders. âI just want you.â
A beat passes as Joel searches your face. For what? Youâre not entirely too sureâ could be a second guess on your end, or searching for hesitationâany excuse he can give himself to walk away.
Another beat passes, and his grip on you tightens. Like the decision is final.
Your hesitation doesnât come. And thatâs enough for Joel.
His mouth is on yours before you can even think, that muscle in his mouth sliding eagerly against yours as his knee slides between your thighs; finding the part of you that causes your body to lurch in pleasure as he presses himself against your panties. A moan attempts to release itself, but itâs quickly swallowed as his hands slide around your hips to grab at your ass below your skirt. His palms are large enough to hold the cheeks of your ass whole, and the thought of that alone is enough to thoroughly dampen the cotton of your panties.
âFuck,â The words barely come out as a gasp as you feebly attempt to dig your keys out of your jacket, mind becoming numb as Joel kneads the flesh in his palms. âCanât find my keysââ
Joel moves before you can even finish your sentence.
Wordlessly, he quickly pulls himself from your body, knee falling from its position between your legs as his hands grip your waist and spin your body towards the door. God, were you really out of breath? The man has only groped you and you feel as if youâve been edged for hours. His movements are quick and rough as he shoves his hand in your purse and quickly finds the keys, unlocking the door and pressing your body through the doorway. The wedges on your feet nearly cause you to become unbalanced as you spin back to look at the old man, and Joel is slamming the door shut, already making his way to you.
As if he was a predator going in for the kill.
âYouâre fast,â you sayâto him or yourself? Youâre not too sure. An almost disbelieving smirk is plastered on your face as you take a step back, heart beating as he strides to breath the distance between the two of you. âI like thatââ
Your words are swallowed by his mouth again, the stubble rubbing pleasantly against your skin as he groans into the kiss. Your hands wind themselves in his salt and pepper hair as his knees bend, lifting you with ease and encouraging your legs to wrap around his waist. An mmph escapes your throat as his teeth graze your lower lip, his biceps twitching as your nails dig into them.
âBedroom?â He asks, his teeth dragging down your bottom lip. The look in his eye tells you that the man needs an answer now or heâll take you on whatever flat surface is nearâand wonât stop until youâve both gotten your fill.
âDown the hall and to the left.â Your words come out more desperate than youâd have liked, but itâs hard to remain neutral when a man like Joelâs cock is hard against your core.
The heavy clump of his boots echo down the hallway as he strides in the direction you gave him, and luckily for you, you know for a fact youâre stocked on condoms.
With a swift kick of your door, Joel drops you on the bed without missing a beat of hesitation, watching you as you prop yourself up on your elbows; looking up at him through those long lashes of yours, as if saying, come on, olâ man.
Tongue darting out to lick his lower lip, Joel takes a moment to really look at you.
That little skirt that caught his eye at the bar is now currently hiked up and under your ass, and Joel can catch a faint glimpse at the pink patch of fabric hiding between your thighs. Your breasts are rising up and down at a quick pace, matching your breathâas if you were attempting to predict what his next move might be. God, the fact that he can render you breathless shouldnât turn him on⊠but it does. Oh, it does.
âJesus, girl,â He mutters, taking a quiet step towards the edge of the bed. âYou have no fuckinâ clue what youâre doinâ to me.â
Your thighs clench at his words, watching the way he sinks to his knees in front of you. His fingertips graze the skin of your calves and travel up past your knees, causing your stomach to tie itself in knots out of anticipation.
âYou should show me,â the words come out as barely an exhale, but you donât care. His fingertips cause a shiver to travel through your body as they reach your hips; pointer fingers digging into the band of your pantiesâpulling them downwards, ever so slightly. âTouch me, Joel, please.â
Instead of replying to your plea, Joel opts to press his lips against the crook of your knee, basking in the whimper you give him as he tugs the fabric down slowly. Joel might be an impatient man, but when it comes to giving, he could take hours if he so pleased. Letting his lips travel up and over your knee, your teeth dig into your lower lip as he carefully licks a line up the expanse of your inner thighâstopping where your panties were stretched around your thighs.
âLift up for me, baby.â
Really, itâs sick how quick you obey his command. Hips lifting, you nearly burst when he easily catches the fabric between his teeth and pulls.
When he tugs them down your legs and off your body, your eyes widen in awe at how he pulls them to his face, eyes fluttering shut as he brings them to his nose and inhales. Pulling them away from his face, he wads them in a ball and pockets themâas if it were a trophy.
Your hand runs through the soft curls of his hair as he does so, tilting his face up to look at you attempt to find the words capable of describing your arousalâbut nothing comes.
You donât need to say anything.
He knows what you want.
Joel leans forward, his right hand following the trail of his lips as his left slides up and over the arch of your body to grope one of your breasts firmly; allowing his lips to close around the bundle of nerves at your center.
He lets out a hum against your core, soaking up the way you let out a strangled gasp from low in your throat. Joel feels fucking high as he catches your pebbled nipple between his fingers, pinching ever so slightly as the tip of his tongue traces against your clit.
Sweeter than sin, he thinks to himself, finally allowing himself to pull his gaze away from you.
Flattening his tongue on your clit, his name falls from your lips like a prayer as he laps at youâletting the scruff of his facial hair scratch at the most sensitive parts of you.
âJoel,â You gasp sharply, back arching against his touch. His hand on your breast flattens and moves quickly to your lower stomach, pressing downâlike heâs telling you to stop your squirming. âFingers, please, God-â
He gives you a gruff mhmmm before sucking gently on your clit, letting his index and pointer fingers rub over the wet slick of your lipsâever so lightly letting them dip into you.
âYeah?â He responds lowly to your moan of desire. âYou wanna feel me inside of you, donât you?â
âPlease! Joelâplease,â your words are a desperate plea. âI want it. Please.â
He sinks his digits in juuust enough to breach you, and itâs just enough to numb your mind. Joelâs lips curl into a pleased smirk as he keeps them there, memorizing the way your head tilts back and your pulse ripples through your neck.
âI want you to ask me real nice nâ pretty, baby,â He asks, the Texan drawl making it all the more erotic. âCâmon, ask.â
Youâve already asked. Joel is well aware of your desperate pleas, but a deep part of his ego is fed when you beg for him.
Tightening your grip on his hair, you give a feeble attempt to even your breath as you reply, âI need to cum, Joel. Please.â
And thatâs good enough for him.
His digits sink fully into your sex as he envelops your sensitive clit, causing your already numb mind to completely shatter. The knot in your stomach that has been tied since the moment he kissed you has been pulled entirely too tight, body shaking and arching as his fingers move deftly against your walls. The soft squelch of your cunt around his digits are more than enough to make his dick fucking hurt in his jeans, and he knows that once you cum like thisâheâs going to bury himself in you.
Heâll make sure you wonât forget it.
Heâll make sure you donât forget him.
The tension in your body is too much, with every sensitive part of you being dominated by Joel. Your cunt, your body, your mind feels euphoric as you feel his fingers grow slicker with each thrustâand that knot thatâs been forming snaps.
Joel groans in pleasure as he feels your walls tighten and tighten, and a hoarse laugh escapes his throat as your arousal drips off his chin and his fingersâ a sign that heâs done his job. A sign that heâs done his job well.
Licking a line up your stomach, his rough hands are quick to yank your top off your body, mattress dipping under his heavy weight as his mouth finds yours. Joel groans into your mouth as you taste yourself on him, your shaking hands working to take his belt off. When the metal buckle hits the ground, Joel pulls back to yank his worn shirt off his body.
You canât remember the last time you actually felt yourself salivating over a man in your bedâbut itâs hard not to when a man like him is over you. You knew at the bar that he wasnât like your normal typeâno. Heâs solid muscle, yet soft in the middle with a healthy line of hair trailing down to his jeans.
Brown eyes not leaving yours, Joel yanks his jeans down along with his briefsâwatching your eyes trail from his to his cock.
âHoly shit,â you breathe softly, watching him stroke himself. âSânot gonna fit.â
Joel watches as your face cringes, realizing you hadnât meant to say it out loud. But you did, much to his amusement.
âWeâll make it fit,â He assures you, pulling you closer to him by your waist. You let out a breathless laugh as he guides the thick head of his cock between your folds. âYou got a condom?â
âYeah,â you reply, already reaching for your drawer. âJust gimme a secââ
Your words are cut off by a sharp inhale, feeling his tip press in, ever so slightly. Bracing himself against the headboard, a smug look is plastered all over his face as he watches your movements slowâalready overwhelmed by a small part of him.
âCâmon, sweetheart,â He taunts, his hips pulling away from youâgod, the man was a tease. âGet that condom.â
âMâworkinâ on it,â You reply with a breathless laugh. Grabbing the little tin packet, you rip it open with shaking hands as he mouths at your neck. âSâhard when I got you teasinâ me.â
âI ainât doinâ such a thing.â He answers, teeth grazing your pulse as you grip him in your hand. Rolling the condom on him, you feel your stomach flutter as you realize that to fully grip himâyou needed two fucking hands to fully accommodate his girth.
Itâs a good thing he worked you open with his fingers, and itâs even better that you have an unopened bottle of lube for emergencies.
With the condom fully on, Joel cups your cheek, thumb running over your plush lower lip. Eyes trailing over your face, itâs a stark contrast to his earlier, rushed movements. Itâs as if heâs memorizing you and this momentâand deep inside of you, you hope that maybeâŠjust maybe, this didnât have to be a one time thing.
As if he can see the gears in your head turning, Joel leans forward just enough to graze his lips against yours, watching as your eyes flutter shut.
âYou tell me if anythinâ hurts, sweetheart. You got that?â His words melt through you, and all you can muster up in a nod. You trust him.
And with those words, he doesnât let you adjustâhe sinks his cock into your needing cunt.
All nine inches of him.
If you thought his mouth was erotic, itâs nothing compared to what he had hiding in his jeans. Echoing his sentiment before he came inside of your house, Joel Miller isnât gentle, no. Especially not when heâs got you under him; one orgasm deep already.
He wastes no time driving himself into you, every moan and strangled gasp that you let out encouraging him to make you fucking take it. With every thrust thereâs a spot deep inside of you being hit, a place that makes you well aware that youâre gonna feel him the next morning.
âYeah?â He grits out, pulling your legs over his shoulders; effectively folding you in half. âYou like that, baby?â
âYes!â You gasp, the new position making you somehow even more sensitive. âJoel-yes!â
Joel moves his hand to close around your throat, and itâs not enough to fully choke you, but itâs more of a reminder that heâs in chargeâand that youâre gonna do what he says.
âLook at you, takinâ it like a fuckinâ champ,â he praises, reveling in your half lidded eyes. âNâhere you were, worried it wouldnât fit.â
The blatant teasing makes your stomach jump with a strangled laugh, and he lets out a hot moan at the feeling of you tightening. Joel knows that heâs got the staminaâbut with the way you feel? He might not make it as long as heâd like.
And heâd be damned if he didnât get to enjoy every angle of you.
âTurn the fuck over.â He grunts, but heâs already doing it for you as his hands find your hips and he manhandles you to your knees. Hands finding the flesh of your ass, you let out a squeal as he gives a sharp smack, leaving a handprint on the curve of the skin there.
What you expect is Joel to push his length into you again. What you donât expect?
You donât expect him to spread your asscheeks, leaning down to lick over your slick folds again. With your cheek smushed against the satin of your pillowcase, you bite back a moan as his tongue swirls around your clit; his hands sliding down the expanse of your back.
âCould eat this pussy for hours,â He says, catching his breath. Joel kisses the flesh of you ass as he lets his fingers rub against your folds, listening as you mutter a mess of a response. Leaning back down, he flattens his tongue against your lips one last time, before sitting back on his kneesâpulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail.
Neck arching back, it feels brand new as he pushes his dick in you, fucking you like heâs a man starved. The pain of your hair being pulled is welcome, and all it does is make your spend drip down the apex of your thighs as he commands you. Gripping the headboard in front of you with one hand, your other hand has a mind of itâs own as your digits move to rub at your selfâ which only turns him on even more.
The hair in his hand travels to your throat, tilting your head back so youâre forced to look at him.
âWhat a nasty fuckin girl,â He pants, his mouth ghosting yours. âYou gonna cum like that? Gonna cum on my cock?â
âMmph, youâreâyouâre huge, Joel!â You reply desperately, your movements quickening as you feel another orgasm building. âCan feel you everywhere.â
âEverywhere?â His words echo yours as an idea comes to himâone that heâs sure a pretty thing like you wouldnât object to.
Your breathless mhm makes him release his grip on your throat, watching as your face drops to the sheetsâand he makes his move.
Your whole body shivers as his hands spread your cheeks again, and a glob of his warm spit falls between the crack of your ass. Fisting the sheets in your hands, you know that if you said stopâhe would. But something deep within you knows that you donât want him to stop. Even furtherâyouâre welcoming it.
Sliding his cock back into you, he barely gives you time to adjust to his size once more before the pad of his thumb dips between your cheeks, sliding against the tight muscle as he continues fucking into you.
His thumb coats itself in the warm spit he left moments before, massaging the rim of your ass as he looks for any sign of discomfort. Looking over your shoulder, all he can see is your jaw slack in pleasure, eyelids fluttering shut as your body involuntarily presses backward to himâas if saying I want it.
And oh, you do.
Joel slows his hips, seating his cock inside of you to the fucking hiltâ the head of his cock kissing that spot deep in you. You know heâs trying to ease the inevitable stretch, and holy, does it relax your body. All you can think about is how fucking huge he is and how this will live in your spank bank foreverâ
Your mind goes up in flames when his thumb breaches the rim of your ass, thoughts coming to a complete and utter stall as he doesnât stop until his thumb is properly hooked in your ass.
Looking at the sight of you below him, Joel knows that heâs only a few fuckinâ pumps away from finishing.
A thin layer of sweat coats the both of you, and he canât quite peel his gaze from where the two of you are connectedâyour cunt hugs him just fuckinâ perfectly, and the damn needy thing is practically crying for him.
Your spend has already dampened the sheets below you, and drips down the apex of your thighs as his free hand squeezes the flesh of your assâand you tighten at the feeling of him everywhere.
âYou ok?â His voice is strained now, and you know that he has to be close. His thumb stays firmly inside of you, his cock pulsing in anticipation.
âYes,â You nod furiously against the sheets, not even caring that your precious satin pillowcases are covered in makeup. Itâs hard to care about much of anything when a man like Joel is splitting you open. âSâgood-feels amazing.â
âMâalmost there, baby,â Joel presses his chest to your back, lips finding your shoulder blade. âMakinâ me feel like a damn teenager.â
âMe too,â you reply, turning your cheek to try and chase his lips. âKeep goinâ, please.â
Pulling himself away from your skin, Joel catches his lower lip between his teeth as he settles on his kneesâgiving your ass one last squeeze of encouragement before pounding back into you.
Itâs as if his thumb inside of you lights your skin on fire. The sex was already fucking amazing just due to the size of him, but now? With his thick thumb seated inside of you?
You feel full.
The quick and sharp sounds of your flesh slapping against each other, and short breathy moans is enough cause your cunt to tighten one last timeâeffectively soaking your sheets as he talks you through it.
âOh,â He growls, feeling his thighs dampen. That certainly has never happened beforeâand he feels as if itâs a badge of honor. âLook at you, girl. Fuckinâ cominâ all over me. Dirty little thing likes havinâ her holes filled.â
His words barely register in your brain as you attempt to ground yourself on your sheets. Heâs still ruthlessly pounding into you still, but pulls his thumb out of you to fist your hair in fist once more.
âWhere do you want it?â Joel's words come out as a hiss, but itâs all he can manage now. The sight of you squirting on him was his one way ticket to finishing. âTell me you where you fuckin want it, baby.â
âMy tits,â The words spill out of your mouth faster than you can process it. âCum on my titsâpleaseââ
With one last brutal thrust, you feel your body be man handled to your chest as Joelâeyes dark with lustâclimbs your body, condom getting tossed to the side. Itâs a blur as you bat his hands away from his cock, taking him in your own fist. Bracing himself against your headboard, he lets out a deep groan as he spurts those thick, white ropes across the expanse of your breasts.
His breathing his ragged as his eyes flutter shut; reveling in the orgasm that just rocked his fucking world. He knows that heâs definitely going to wake up with his back thrown out the next morning, but he canât find it in him to care as he collapses beside you, finally turning his head to look over at you.
What a fucking sight you are.
Makeup messy, hair in knotted curls with his cum painted on you, Joel laughs softly to himself.
âWhat?â You say with a shy laugh, chest still rising and falling fast.
âMâa lucky guy.â Joel says it as if itâs obvious. The small but powerful compliment turns your cheeks even more red than they already are.
âDitto.â You reply, hiding your face in your hands as you bite back a smile.
Sitting with a groan, Joel looks back at you over his shoulder as he pulls on his jeans.
âLemme get you a washcloth. Whereâs your bathroom?â
Maybe itâs his age. Maybe itâs the guys youâre used to dating. But in your years of hookups and relationships, itâs few and far between to have aftercareâand it makes those butterflies flop in your stomach as you direct him to where it is.
When Joel returns, you clean yourself up as he locates his discarded clothes from earlier. Godâthe two of you had made a mess of the room. Youâd have to add wash sheets to your to-do list after heâd leave.
Tossing the damp cloth in your hamper, you grab your old robe off the back of your door and tie it loosely around your body as he slides on his worn-in work boots. For youâsmall talk as a guy leaves your house was always the dreaded part of a hookup. The silence was awkward, and there were always half assed lies about for sure callinâ ya tomorrow.
Spoilerâthey never did.
But the silence with Joel doesnât feel awkward. It feels comfortable, almost. You donât miss the way he gives you a genuine smile as he stands, leaning down to kiss your temple
âWalk me to the door?â He asks gently, his hand sliding down the satin of your robe. His brown eyes that were filled with lust not even ten minutes ago were now softer, more gentle.
âOf course.â You answer, leaning up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
You take the lead as you walk him down the hallway and to the front door, tucking your hair behind your ear as you reach your destination. Tugging on his flannel, Joel clears his throat as he looks down at you. Heâs not quite sure what youâre thinking, but he feels like youâre a strong womanâand that no matter what he says, or where he leaves thisâyou wonât object.
He canât tell if that intrigues him, or if it scares the hell out of him.
âI uhânever was really good at this type of thing,â Joel finally says, gesturing between the two of you.
âWhat, sex?â You quip, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. âCause I have a pretty solid statement against that.â
âNo,â his words come out as a laugh. âI meanâtalkinâ to women. Keeping relationships. All that stuff.â
Joel notices the visible confusion in your expression, and groans at himselfâonly proving his point to himself. He never was good at words.
âWhat Iâm tryinâ to say isâŠmâa pretty busy guy. I got a kid. Own my own business.â
Kid. Figures. Heâs definitely the age to have one.
âI canât promise a lot but⊠I uh, wouldnât be opposed to seeing you again.â
His hands find his jean pockets as he finishes his explanation, toying with his truck keys in his pockets as he braces himself for whatever you might sayâcould be a rejection. Could be a laugh. Whatever it will beâJoel braces himself for it.
To his shock, none of his made-up scenarios happens. In fact, your captivating smile never leaves your face.
âIâm not looking for a promise either, Joel,â You say, hugging yourself. âHereâgive me your phone. If you ever need company, just give me a text. No hard feelings if not.â
He obliges your request, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and handing it over. It doesnât take you long to type in the digits and hand it back to him that beautiful smile still on your face.
âDonât be a stranger, Joel.â
Leaning down to kiss your temple one last time, Joel pulls away and replies,
âIâll see you around, sweetheart.â
Three Weeks Later
You donât hear from Joel after that night.
And honestly? You had been too preoccupied to sit and cry about the fact that the best fuck youâve ever had never texted you.
You were deep into report card season, candy filled holidays, and planning upcoming parent-teacher conferences. You were lucky if you left work two hours after contract timeâyou knew if you brought home any work it wouldnât be done.
The great thing about teaching? Getting to celebrate and talk to parents about the growth their children have made so far, and how they can be supported at home. It was a feeling you lovedâyou loved seeing parents light up at their students work, and you loved hearing about what your student gets up to outside of school.
Especially when theyâre students like Sarah Miller.
Sarah is nothing below an outstanding student, and her bubbly personality makes her a great friend to others in the classroom. If you could have a class full of Sarah Millers, your life would be perfect.
And her Mom? Sheâs amazing.
Always bringing in treats for the class on holidays and volunteering when needed, her mom is a powerhouse. Which is exactly why youâre slightly disappointed when the office puts her call through to your classroomâten minutes before her time slot with Sarah.
âHello!â Her chipper voices sings from the other side of the line.
âI am so sorryâbut I canât make it in today with Sarah,â She explains, apologetic as all hell. âMy boyfriend just got rear ended in the town over, needs a lift.â
âNo worries at all!â You reply, fingers flipping through Sarahâs work portfolio. âDo we need to reschedule?â
âNot at all, actually! Sarahâs with her dad today, and he has no problem taking my place today. I just wanted to give you a heads up!â
Huh, you think to yourself. You always had assumed her boyfriend was Sarahâs biological dad, but maybe you missed the detail. Sarah, while an amazing student, is a chatterbox. She loves to chat your ear off when you have any spare second, so maybe the detail got lost in the myriad of stories she tells.
âThatâs perfectly fine,â You answer, jotting on a sticky note to make extra copies for mom. âI will send a copy of her folder with her next week!â
Hanging up the phone, you walk to your meeting space to straighten the stacks of work as you wait patiently for Sarah and her dad to arrive. Sheâs the last conference of the day, and because of her high grades and outstanding workâthere wouldnât be much to report.
As thoughts of what your Friday evening might look like after Sarahâs conference, the little girl sprints through the door with an excited squeal of your nameâenveloping you in a tight hug that she always gives you at the end of the day.
âHey kiddo!â You squeeze her back with a bright smile, pulling her back to steady her.
âYouâre with Dad today?â
âYes!â She exclaims excitedly. âHeâs lookinâ at the art we made last week in the hallway!â
âOh really?â You answer, putting your hands on your hips. âWell, Iâm sure your dad will be even more impressed when he sees some of your latest multiplication quizzes.â
Sarah giggles in excitement as you turn your back to her, grabbing her work portfolio off the table. Just as youâre about to look back at Sarah, a voice youâve been dreaming about for three weeks shatters your thoughts when he says,
âThis is quite a classroom you got, baby girl.â
Your body goes cold as you turn to look at him. Joel, who has his hands shoved in his pockets, and that same MILLER CONSTRUCTION shirt he had on that night you met at the barâthis time, a heavy carhartt jacket on his shoulders, boots replaced with Romeoâs.
The look on his face as your eyes meet is one met with first, shockâthen being shaken back to reality as Sarah tugs on his wrist to pull him closer to where her work is.
âDadâthis is my teacher! The one who always does art on fridays!â
Youâre a professional, you scold yourself, and Sarahâs smart! Donât look fuckinâ scared!
âYou must be Mr. Miller,â you say coolly, attempting to regain your dignity. Reaching out to offer your hand, you ignore the way his palm lights a fire in your veins as he shakes it firmly. âItâs nice to finally meet you.â
Joel lets his hand linger for a moment in yours, letting the shock wear off as his lip curls into a smile.
âItâs nice to meet you as well, Miss,â He answers gently. âSarahâs told me quite a bit about you throughout the last few months.â
âWellâI canât wait to share how much growth Sarah has made,â you manage to reply, letting your hands drop from one another. âShall we get started?â
âLetâs do it,â Joel gestures to the table. âAnd I uhâhave a few questions to ask you at the end, if thatâs alright.â
Returning the small smile on Joelâs lips, you have a feeling this wonât be the last time you see him.
In fact, you have a feeling this school year is about to get a whole lot more interesting.
pairing: bar owner!joel miller x musician!reader
ââ âą ă»âžâž
summary: You're a struggling musician who frequents a bar that hosts open mic every week. The gruff bar owner seems to catch your attention.
ââ âą ă»âžâž
tags: explicit sexual content, use of alcohol, mutual pining, age gap, rough sex, dom!joel, oral sex (m + f recieving), p in v sex, breeding kink, biting, marking, spanking, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, squirting, over stimulation, public-ish sex
ââ
w/c: 5k
You were already running late when the rain started. It came down in thin, slanted lines that blurred the streetlights and soaked through your jacket before you reached the barâs crooked awning. The Rusted String always looked like it was one hard wind away from collapsing, but inside it was warm and hummingâclinking glasses, low talk, and the familiar smell of cedar and beer.
Joel was behind the bar, wiping down the counter with that same rag heâd probably been using since the 90s. He glanced up when you walked in, one eyebrow raised.
âYouâre late.â
You set your guitar case on the stage and shot him a look.
âYou gonna dock my nonexistent pay?â
A ghost of a grin tugged at his mouth.
âAinât payinâ you enough for it to matter.â
You rolled your eyes and bent to tune your guitar, pretending not to notice how his voice carried easily over the noise. The low, worn-in drawl of it always seemed to settle under your skin, steady and sure, like a rhythm you didnât mean to follow.
By the time you hit the first chord, Joel had disappeared into the back room. The soundboard crackled, then your guitar came through clean, with just the right balance of low warmth and brightness. Heâd adjusted it, like he always did, without asking.
It wasnât a big crowd tonight. A handful of regulars at the pool table, a couple tucked into the booth by the jukebox. But Joel was there, behind the counter, polishing a glass he didnât need to.Â
The last note faded into the hum of the amp, soft and steady. You let it linger for a moment before setting your guitar aside and wrapping your fingers around the glass of water Joel had set on the stool beside you sometime during your set. You hadnât seen him do it, but youâd expected itâlike always.
âCrowdâs quiet tonight,â you said, hopping off the stage.
Joel looked up from where he was stacking glasses behind the counter. âAinât payday yet,â he replied. âWait âtil Friday.â
You smiled, leaning against the bar. âYou sure theyâre not stayinâ quiet âcause of my singing?â
That earned you a short, low chuckle, one of those sounds that barely made it past his chest. âYou sound fine.â
âFine?â you teased. âThat the best you got for me, Miller?â
He raised a brow. âYou want me to lie?â
You scoffed, but the heat that crept up your neck gave you away. He noticed, of course he didâbut he didnât call you on it. Joel never said more than he needed to, but somehow it always felt like heâd said too much.
He handed you a clean towel when you reached for your guitar, and your fingers brushed. Just a second, enough to spark something in your chest that you tried to ignore.
âYouâre gettinâ better,â he said, quieter this time, like it wasnât meant for anyone else to hear.
 You looked at him, a little caught off guard. âYou actually listen?â
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. âI hear things.â
âLike what?â
He wiped his hands on a rag and leaned one elbow on the counter, eyes on you. âYou play differently when youâre mad. Quicker. Donât look at the crowd as much. When youâre happy, you draw it out. Let folks breathe with you.â
You blinked, surprised at how closely heâd paid attention. âThat⊠sounds like a man whoâs been spying on me.â
âMaybe,â Joel said, voice low. âBut Iâm the one that runs the soundboard, so I guess thatâs my job.â
You laughed, soft and nervous. âGuess so.â
The bar had emptied out while you talked, the clatter and chatter replaced by the quiet creak of the old ceiling fan. Joel went back to wiping down the counter, but you caught the edge of something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âIâm not lying.â He said.
You looked up, âAboutâŠ?â
Joel huffed and looked up at you, his gaze soft. âWhen I said youâre getting better. âThink youâll make it big one day.â
âYeah, right.â You scoffed, looking down at the scuffed wooden floor.Â
âIâm serious.â He grunted.
You let out a laugh. âYouâre serious about everything, Joel.â
He tilted his head, squinting at you like he was weighing whether to argue. âNot everything.â
âOh really?â you prodded, leaning a little closer, feeling the quiet tension that always seemed to hum between you. âThen what arenât you serious about?â
Joel didnât answer immediately. He just looked at you, that hard, steady gaze that somehow made your stomach twist. The music from earlier still lingered faintly in the air, warm and echoing, and it felt like the two of you were the only people left in the bar.
Finally, he grunted again. âYou.â
You blinked. âMe?â
He nodded, almost imperceptibly. âYou donât stop bothering me⊠and somehow, I donât mind.â
You felt your chest tighten and a laugh bubbled out, half-nervous, half-embarrassed. âYouâre impossible, Joel Miller.â
âYeah, well⊠you like it.â
â
You practically threw yourself onto the barstool, startling Joel and the remaining patron at the bar.Â
âThe hellâs wrong with you?â Joel asked as he handed a glass of whiskey to a customer.
âNeed a drinkâŠâ You murmured, crossing your arms and resting your head down against the bar.
Joel leaned against the counter across from you, watching quietly for a beat, the corner of his mouth tugging in that subtle, almost-hidden smirk he reserved for when he knew you were trying not to show how frazzled you were.Â
âLong night?â he asked.
âYou could say that,â you muttered, letting out a frustrated sigh. âEverythingâs⊠just a mess right now.â
He grunted softly, tilting his head, and for a moment the bar felt quieter, like it had folded around just the two of you. Joel didnât rush to fix it, didnât offer empty words. He just stayed, giving you the space to vent, letting the hum of the neon and the low music fill the rest of the world.
âYou donât gotta handle it all yourself,â he said finally, voice rough but calm.
You blinked, letting yourself relax against the bar. There was something in the way he said it steady, grounded, like he really meant it that made the weight in your chest feel a little lighter.
âWhereâs your guitar?â Joel asked, finally realizing how empty-handed you were. âNot playing tonight? Thatâs unusual.â
You shook your head, rubbing your temples. âDonât feel like it.â
âNot feeling it, huh?â He pulled out a chair and sat down across from you. âWant to talk about it?â
You sighed, your fingers tracing the rim of your beer glass. âItâs just... I donât know. I feel like my music isnât good enough anymore. Like Iâm just going through the motions. And the customers... theyâre getting rowdier lately. Itâs hard to focus.â
Joel listened intently, his expression softening with understanding. âI get it. Sometimes it feels like everythingâs falling apart. But you know what? Thatâs when you need to hold on tighter. Your music is a part of you, and itâs worth fighting for.â
As you talked, the bar began to empty. The patrons, sensing the impending storm, hurried out into the night. The sky outside darkened, and the first drops of rain pattered against the windows. Joel glanced out, his brow furrowing.
âLooks like weâre in for a storm,â he said, turning back to you. âYou should probably head home before it gets worse.â
You nodded, standing up and grabbing your jacket. âYeah, youâre right. I should get going.â
But as you reached the door, a sudden crack of thunder shook the building, followed by a torrent of rain. The street outside was a blur of water, and the wind howled through the trees.
âWoah,â Joel said, joining you at the door. âThatâs not good. You canât go out in this.â
You turned to him, a mix of frustration and relief in your eyes. âWhat do we do now?â
Joel thought for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. âI guess since weâre stuck here⊠Iâve got some whiskey in the back. We can have a drink, and you can tell me more about whatâs been on your mind.â
You hesitated for a second, then nodded. âAlright. Letâs do it.â
Joel led you to a small table in the corner, away from the windows. He returned with two glasses and a bottle of amber liquid. He poured you a generous serving and raised his glass to cheer you.
You clinked your glass against his, taking a sip of the smooth, warm whiskey. It burned pleasantly in your throat, and you felt a wave of relaxation wash over you.
âYou know,â Joel said, leaning back in his chair, âsometimes the best inspiration comes from the most unexpected places. Like being stuck in a bar during a thunderstorm.â
You nodded, swirling the whiskey in your glass as the thunder rumbled outside, shaking the windows of the dimly lit bar. The rain pounded relentlessly against the roof, turning the world beyond into a blurry haze. It was just the two of you now, the last patrons long gone before the storm hit full force, leaving Joel's place feeling intimate, almost secluded.
"Yeah, unexpected places," you replied, your voice soft amid the storm's roar. You set the glass down, your fingers lingering on the cool surface.Â
Joel watched you with those dark, steady eyes, his broad shoulders relaxed against the chair. He was older than most guys you knew, with a rugged edge from years behind the bar: salt-and-pepper stubble and calloused hands that spoke of hard work. Something was commanding about him, the way he moved with quiet authority, like he owned more than just this place.
"What's got you stuck?" he asked, pouring himself another measure. His voice was low and gravelly, cutting through the patter of rain.Â
You hesitated, surprised he remembered. It had been a few weeks since your last open mic night. "Just... writer's block, I guess. Everything sounds the same. Like I'm forcing it." You took another sip, the warmth spreading through your chest, loosening the knot of frustration.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze locking onto yours. "Forcing it never works. You gotta let it come to you. Like this stormâit's wild, but it clears the air after." His lips curved into a half-smile, and for a moment, you caught yourself staring at the way his shirt stretched across his chest, the faint outline of muscle beneath.
The conversation flowed more easily than you'd expected. Joel shared stories from his early days running the bar, nights when he'd sling drinks until dawn, dodging bar fights and heartbreak. You opened up about your gigs, the thrill of a crowd hanging on your every chord, and the loneliness that crept in when the music dried up.
As the bottle emptied, the air between you thickened. Joel's knee brushed yours under the table, accidental at first, but neither of you pulled away. You felt a flush creep up your neck, not just from the alcohol. His presence was magnetic, pulling you in with every shared glance. When thunder cracked loud enough to make you jump, his hand steadied your armâfirm, warm, lingering a beat too long.
"You alright?" he murmured, his thumb grazing your skin before he let go. But his eyes didn't leave yours, dark and intent, like he was seeing you for the first time.
Your heart pounded, matching the rain's rhythm. "Yeah... just the storm." But it wasn't the storm. It was himâthe way his voice wrapped around you, the subtle scent of whiskey and woodsmoke on his skin. You shifted in your seat, aware of the heat building low in your belly.
Joel stood, clearing the glasses, but instead of heading to the bar, he moved closer, towering over you. "Storm's not letting up anytime soon." He grabbed the chair and inched closer to you.
Sitting side by side, the space between you shrank. His arm draped casually over your seat, his, fingers inches from your shoulder. You turned to say somethingâŠanythingâbut words died as you met his gaze. Hunger flickered there, raw and unspoken.
"You've been on my mind since the other night," he admitted, his voice rougher now. "The way you pour yourself into it... makes a man wonder what else you're holding back."
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn't look away. "And you? Running this place, always in control... ever let go?"
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Not often. But tonight?" His hand slid to your shoulder, turning you toward him. The touch was electric, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone. You leaned in, breath catching as his lips hovered near yours.
The kiss started slow, testing, his mouth firm against yours, tasting of whiskey and restraint. But Joel didn't stay gentle. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you deeper, tongue sweeping in to claim you. You melted into it, hands fisting his shirt, the storm forgotten as desire ignited.
He broke away first, eyes blazing. "Tell me you want this," he growled, dominant edge sharpening his tone.
"I do," you whispered, pulse racing.
With a nod, he guided you down, lifting you up and placing you on the table, his control absolute. Joel's hands worked your shirt open, buttons popping free as he exposed your skin to the cool air. His mouth followed, lips and teeth grazing your neck and collarbone down to your breasts. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, hard and insistent, tongue flicking until you arched against him, a moan escaping.
"That's it," he murmured against your skin, voice commanding. "Let me hear you."
His fingers deftly unfastened your jeans, sliding them down with your panties in one smooth motion. You were bare before him, vulnerable, but his gaze devoured you like you were his. He pushed you back onto the table, kneeling between your legs, broad shoulders parting your thighs.
Joel's mouth descended without warning, hot and demanding. His tongue licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy, tasting you fully. You gasped, hips bucking as he pinned you down with one strong hand on your hip. He lapped at your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure, then sucking it between his lips. The sensation was overwhelmingâwet, insistent, building that ache into a fire.
He didn't rush, but his dominance showed in every movement: the way he held you open, fingers digging into your thigh as his tongue plunged inside you, fucking you with it before returning to your clit. You threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling, but he growled, nipping your inner thigh in warning.
 "Stay still," he ordered, voice muffled against your slick heat. "Let me take what's mine."
Pleasure coiled tight, your body trembling as he worked you relentlessly. His beard scraped your sensitive skin, adding friction that pushed you closer. When he slid two thick fingers into your pussy, curling them against that spot inside, you cried out, the orgasm crashing over you in waves. He didn't stop, licking you through it, drawing out every shudder until you were limp, panting.
Joel rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, satisfaction in his eyes. He unbuckled his belt, the sound sharp in the quiet bar. His cock sprang free, thick, hard, with veins prominent along the length. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, and he stroked himself once, watching you.
"Your turn," he said, voice like gravel. He sat back, legs spread, pulling you toward him by the hairâgentle but firm, guiding you to kneel between his thighs.
You wrapped your hand around his base, feeling the heat, the girth. Leaning in, you licked the underside from balls to tip, tasting the salt of him. Joel groaned, hand tightening in your hair.Â
"Open up. Take it deep."
Obeying, you sucked the head into your mouth, tongue swirling around the ridge. He was big, stretching your lips as you slid down, inch by inch. His hips twitched, but he held back, letting you set the pace at first. You bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks, one hand stroking what you couldn't fit. Saliva dripped down his shaft, making it slick as you worked him.
"Fuck, yeah," he rasped, guiding your movements now, fucking your mouth with shallow thrusts. His free hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your stretched lips. "Look at me while you suck my cock."
You met his gaze, eyes watering as he pushed deeper, hitting the back of your throat. The dominance thrilled you, the way he used your mouth, grunting with each slide. His balls tightened, breath coming ragged, but he pulled you off before he finished, cock glistening with your spit.
Your eyes flicked up to meet his, the intensity in Joel's gaze pinning you in place as surely as his grip on your hair. The dim light of the bar cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw clenched in pleasure, the veins standing out on his neck as he held back from slamming deeper. You hollowed your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside of his shaft with each bob of your head, tasting the salty pre-cum that leaked steadily from the slit. His cock throbbed against your palate, thick and unyielding, filling your mouth to the brink.
"That's it, take it deeper," he commanded, his voice gravelly, hips rocking forward to push past your gag reflex.Â
You relaxed your throat, letting him slide in further, the head bumping the back of your mouth. Saliva dribbled down your chin, mixing with the mess already smeared across your lips from earlier. Joel's thumb traced the outline of his dick through your cheek, a possessive gesture that made your core clench with fresh need. "Filthy girl, drooling all over my cock like you can't get enough."
You hummed around him, the vibration drawing a hiss from his lips. Your hands gripped his thighs, nails digging into the hard muscle as you sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks to create that tight suction he craved. He fucked your face with controlled thrusts, not rough enough to hurt but insistent, claiming your mouth as his. The wet, slurping sounds echoed in the quiet bar, drowned only by the relentless patter of rain against the windows. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the sweat glistening on his chest and the way his abs flexed with each push.
"Gonna make you choke on it," he growled, tightening his hold on your hair and angling your head back slightly. He thrust deeper, holding there for a beat, your nose brushing the coarse hair at his base.
 You fought the urge to pull back, eyes watering as you swallowed around him, throat constricting in rhythmic pulses that milked his length. Joel's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with lust. "Fuck, your throat's squeezing me so good. Bet your pussy's dripping just from this."
He wasn't wrongâheat pooled between your legs, your thighs slick with arousal as you knelt before him. You reached down instinctively, fingers slipping through your folds to rub your clit, but Joel noticed immediately.
"Hands off that cunt," he snapped, pulling out of your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening cock.
 He hauled you up by your arms, spinning you around to face the table. "Bend over. Spread those legs."
Your heart pounded as you complied, palms flat on the scarred wood, ass pushed out toward him. The cool air hit your exposed skin, making you shiver, but Joel's hands were there in an instant, rough palms sliding up your thighs to part them wider. He kicked your feet apart with his boot, the dominance in the gesture sending a thrill straight to your core.
"Look at this pretty pussy," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. One thick finger traced your slit, gathering your wetness before plunging inside without warning. You gasped, arching back as he curled it, stroking that sensitive spot deep within.
"So fucking wet for me." He added a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you, the squelch of your arousal obscene in the charged silence. His thumb circled your clit, firm and unrelenting, building the pressure until your knees buckled.Â
You braced harder on the table, pushing back onto his hand, desperate for more. "Please, Joel⊠fuck me. I need your cock inside me."
He chuckled darkly, withdrawing his fingers to slap your ass hard, the sting blooming into heat that made you moan. "Begging already? Greedy little slut." He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, teasing by rubbing it up and down your folds. The heat of him scorched you, promising the stretch you'd been craving. With one brutal thrust, he sank into you, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke. You cried out, the fullness overwhelming, his girth splitting you open, walls fluttering around the invasion.
"So tightâŠ" he groaned, hands gripping your hips to hold you still as he adjusted. He didn't give you time to catch your breath, pulling back almost all the way before slamming in again, setting a punishing rhythm. Each thrust jolted you forward against the table, your breasts scraping the edge, nipples hardening from the friction.
 The bar shook slightly with the force, bottles rattling on the shelves behind you. Joel's hips snapped against your ass, skin slapping skin in a filthy cadence that matched the thunder rumbling outside.
"Feel that? My cock owning this pussy," he rasped, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair again, yanking your head back to expose your neck. He leaned over you, teeth grazing your shoulder before biting down, marking you as his. The pain mixed with pleasure, your inner muscles clenching around him in response, drawing a curse from his lips. "Yeah, squeeze me like that. Milk my dick with that hot cunt."
You pushed back to meet his thrusts, grinding your ass against him, the angle letting him hit deeper, brushing your cervix with every plunge. Sweat slicked your bodies, his chest pressing against your back as he rutted into you like an animal. His free hand snaked around to your front, fingers finding your clit and pinching it sharply, making you yelp. "Come on, rub that swollen nub for me. Show me how much you love getting fucked like this."
Your hand joined his, fingers working in tandem to circle the aching bundle of nerves. The dual assault, his cock pounding relentlessly, the rough stimulation on your clit, pushed you toward the edge fast.
 "JoelâŠoh god, it's too much," you whimpered, vision blurring as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.
"Not enough," he countered, slowing his pace to long, grinding rolls that stirred you from the inside out. He pulled out halfway, watching as your pussy clung to him, lips gripping his shaft unwillingly.Â
"Look how desperate this hole is for my cock. Dripping all over me, making such a mess." He thrust back in hard, bottoming out, his balls slapping against your clit. The impact sent sparks up your spine, your body trembling.
He straightened up, both hands now on your ass, spreading your cheeks wide to watch himself disappear inside you. "Fucking beautifulâŠtaking every inch like you were made for it." His thumbs brushed your rear entrance teasingly, adding a new layer of sensation that made you gasp. He didn't push further, just the hint of pressure as he resumed his brutal pace, hips pistoning faster now. The wood dug into your hips, a delicious ache that grounded you amid the haze of lust.
Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, walls convulsing around his cock in powerful spasms. You cried out, your body seizing as waves of ecstasy ripped through you, juices squirting out around his thrusting length.Â
Joel growled, feeling you tighten, but he didn't stopâfucking you through the climax, prolonging it until tears pricked your eyes from the overstimulation. "That's it, come all over my dick. Soak me, you dirty girl."
He pulled out abruptly, spinning you around to face him. Your legs wobbled, but he caught you, lifting you onto the table with ease. Bottles clattered to the side as he stepped between your thighs, hooking your legs over his elbows to fold you open.
"Not done yet. Gonna fuck you face to face, watch your tits bounce while I fuck this pussy." His cock, slick with your release, nudged your entrance again, sliding in effortlessly now, the glide smooth and deep.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he started thrusting up into you. The new position let him grind against your clit with every roll of his hips, the friction building another fire low in your gut. His mouth descended on your breast, latching onto the nipple and sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. "These titsâŠperfect for fucking," he muttered, releasing it with a pop before switching to the other, lavishing it with the same rough attention.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as you rode the waves of his thrusts. The table was cold against your ass, a stark contrast to the heat where you joined. Joel's pace was unyielding, cock dragging along your walls, hitting that spot that made you see stars.Â
"Harderâfuck me harder," you demanded, nipping at his earlobe.
He obliged, slamming into you with renewed force, the bar echoing with the wet sounds of your coupling. His hand slipped between you, fingers pinching your clit again, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.
"Gonna make you squirt again. Flood my cock with that sweet cum." The dirty promise pushed you higher, your body coiling tight once more.
But Joel had other ideas. He slowed, pulling out to flip you onto your side on the table, one leg draped over his shoulder as he re-entered from the side. The angle was exquisite, his cock curving just right to stroke your g-spot with every thrust. "Feel that? Right thereâŠyour pussy's weeping for it." He reached down, fingers spreading your lips wider to expose your clit, flicking it rapidly as he fucked you steadily.
You writhed, the position leaving you vulnerable, every nerve alight. "Joelâplease, I need to come," you begged, voice hoarse from moaning.
"Not yet. Hold it for me." He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue mimicking the thrust of his hips. Saliva and sweat mingled, the taste of him, whiskey and salt, intoxicating. His free hand roamed your body, pinching nipples, slapping your thigh lightly, heightening every sensation.
The build was torturous, pleasure edging toward pain as he denied you release. Finally, when your pleas turned to sobs, he relented. "Now, come on my cock, squeeze every drop out of me." His thrusts turned erratic, deeper, harder, chasing his own end.
You shattered again, pussy clamping down like a fist, milking him as your orgasm tore through you. Joel followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a roar, hot jets of cum flooding your depths. He ground against you, ensuring it stayed inside, his cock pulsing with aftershocks.
But even as you both panted, spent for the moment, Joel wasn't finished. He pulled out, a trickle of his seed leaking from you, and scooped it up with his fingers, pushing it back in.
"Can't waste that. Gonna fuck it deeper." He lifted you off the table, carrying you to the couch in the back
This time, he entered you slowly, missionary style, your legs wrapped around his waist. His thrusts were languid at first, savoring the slick heat, the way your combined fluids made everything so messy and perfect.
"Look at you, full of my cum already. Pussy's so sloppy now." He kissed you tenderly, contrasting the filth of his words, before picking up speed.
You met him thrust for thrust, nails raking his back, urging him on. The couch creaked under you, the storm outside now a soft drizzle, but the one inside raged on. Joel's hand wrapped around your throat lightly, thumb stroking your pulse as he fucked you with purpose. "Gonna breed this cunt properly. Fill you until you're leaking for days."
The possessiveness in his voice ignited you, another climax building from the dirty talk alone. He sensed it, angling his hips to hit your clit with each drive. "Come with meâmilk my load right out." You did, clenching around him as he spilled again, the warmth pushing you over the edge into bliss.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest, both of you sticky and sated. The bar was silent now, save for your slowing breaths. Joel's fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, a quiet promise of more to come when the storm and your night truly ended.
Yet, as the adrenaline faded, desire flickered back to life. Joel's cock twitched against your thigh, hardening once more. "One more," he murmured, rolling you onto your stomach and lifting your hips. He slid in from behind, the position allowing him to go slow and deep, drawing out every sensation.
You pushed back, savoring the fullness, the way his balls dragged against your clit. His hands roamed, one cupping your breast, the other rubbing your ass. "This pussy's mine now, gonna fuck it whenever I want." He spanked you lightly, the slap punctuating his thrusts.
The rhythm built gradually, turning fervent as he chased another release.
You reached under, fingers finding your clit, circling frantically. "Yes, use that hand, make yourself come on my dick." His voice was strained, hips snapping harder.
Orgasm hit you both simultaneously, a shared explosion of pleasure that left you trembling. Joel pulled out at the last second, stroking himself to paint your ass with the last ropes of cum, marking you thoroughly.
Finally, utterly spent, you curled together on the couch, the storm passed, but the heat between you lingered like an unspoken vow.
MOHA (à€źà„à€č) | GENERAL MARCUS ACACIUS
PART III of SITA UNTOLD
MOHA: DELUSION, ATTACHMENT, SENTIMENTS THAT CLOUD JUDGEMENT.
-> READ MASTERLIST HERE AND LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST HERE.
SUM -> Sita continues to build her insurgency, and the twin emperors teach her a lesson. Acaciusâ nights grow lonelier, and he takes a trip to Lotus Hall.
W.C -> 6k+
C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, third-person POV (as historic retelling), Sanjay-Leela-Bhansali-esque, polyamory, court politics, misogyny, miscarriage.
Within the chronicles, nowhere is it recorded that Acacius sired a child upon Sita. The generalâs contempt for her, so the scribes claim, ran deeper than flesh. The Maharaja had unabashedly offered his daughter as a broodmareâto tether bloodlines, to sow legitimacyâbut Acacius, though tempted by the prospect of legacy, would not bow. He would not see Lucilla face the sting of betrayal, nor endure the whispers that he loved another more dearly. So, he let Sitaâs womb lie barren till her last breath... or so men said.
The truth was less austere. Upon the onset of the third year of her arrival in Rome, Sita Devi bled heavily, the chambermaids whispering of helpless cries that echoed long into the night. By dawn, Lotus Hall was stained red, and the beloved princess had lost a child.
That she miscarried cannot be denied; all accounts agree. But whose seed she carried was never determined, and therein lies the rift.
Some whispered it was Emperor Caracallaâsâhe who rejoiced in strange beasts and odd rarities plucked from across the empire. To him, Sitaâs dark beauty, sharp tongue and sovereign bearing were a prize no less than an ivory idol stolen from Kushan temples. He was fatuous, yes, but not blind to power. To bed her was to claim her, and all the forces she reckoned.
Others laid the suspicion upon Emperor Geta, colder and more calculating than his brother, who had long sought to unman Acacius by seizing what was his. To make the generalâs wife his whore was not merely lust, but a stroke of strategy: the theft of Acaciusâ pride, his household, his administration.
Still others whispered a more scandalous taleâthat the child was sired by none of Romeâs mighty, but by a poet, or a musician, or some wandering playwright whom Sita had patronised within her halls. These murmurs, however, were likely obloquies released by her enemies years later, framed to reduce the princess to a courtesan in the annals of history.
The miscarriage, true or false in its lineage, marked a turning point. For scarcely four months after she arrived in Rome, after her continuous refusal of invites to the palace, the twin emperors came in person to Lotus Hall.
It was a spectacle of unparalleled significanceâRomeâs rulers striding into the estate of the Indian princess whose presence troubled Senate and court alike. Sita did not emerge to greet them. No garlands, no incense, no gifts, no bow from the princess whose insubordination was already legend. Instead, the emperors were met at the threshold by her Kushan guardâtall, dark-skinned men in lamellar armour, with talwars bared and their Hindi blunt to Latin ears.
âRajkumari Sitaji abhi bhi sadhana mein leen hain. Kripya unhein baadhit na karein,â the guards told them off, their spears crossed. (Princess Sita is still in her prayers. She is not to be disturbed.)
The affront was explicit following the translation. Getaâs jaw set like marble, and Caracallaâs eyes glittered with unspent rage. And behind them, a disgrace rippled through their classes. A womanâalien, heathen, feralâhad denied Romeâs rulers their due.
Whether that was consciously done or Sita Devi had truly been in prayer was a mystery, because within a few moments of the command being uttered, a handmaiden came rushing out to usher them in.
Legend tells that what transpired within those walls was as much theatre as sacrilege. The emperors of Rome, accustomed to thrones of ivory and gold, were seated upon plain wooden chairs in her sunny, lush garden, while the princess swayed idly upon her teakwood swing. The balance of power seemed reversed: two rulers enthroned like children, while she reclined at the centre of her empire.
âHow do you find Lotus Hall?â Sita asked, whilst she fanned herself with peacock feathers. âI plan to host big gatherings here soon. You must come. Romeâs emperors ought to hear what real thought sounds like.â
Caracallaâs knuckles shook against the rim of his teacup. He had been likened to a beast before, and at that moment, the resemblance showed.
âYou style yourself a queen, then? At no oneâs behest?â he mocked. âYou who were granted a court only at my generalâs indulgence?â
Her lips curved the faintest. âMight I remind you that a court is built. Mine is already firm and filled, where yours stands, hm... with the echoes of lauders.â
Geta, ever the colder of the pair, observed her curiously. âMight I remind you that Rome has ways of humbling the impudent.â
Sita laughed lightly, dismissively, swinging higher. âIf it is impudent to clothe orphans, to better your legions, to feed your indigentsâthen perhaps Rome could do with a little more of it.â
Her handmaiden brought forth halwas and ripened amber dates, offering them as if to common guests.
âTaste,â she gave warmly. âPlease.â
For a time, the emperors accepted or said nothing.
Caracallaâs leg jiggled with restless ire when he muttered, âYou think yourself untouchable.â
Sita leaned forward, her swing stilling, and her gaze fell sharp upon them both. âUnbowed.â She let the word hang for a moment. âI only crossed seas for my husband. If you wished for docile brides, you should have sought one among your noblewomen.â
It is said that Geta bit so hard into his fruit that blood-red juice stained his chin, but neither rose nor struck her down. For though she was foreign, though she was a woman, though she was brash, there was, in her bearing, regale, tenacityâthat it stayed even the emperorsâ hands.
But they had subtler ways to break the princessâs defiance.
âHave you seen the games yet, princess?â Caracalla asked.
So it was decreed that Sita Devi would attend her first gladiatorial spectacle in the Colosseum, a grand banquet of blood to mark the twin emperorsâ birthday. From all corners of the city, citizens poured into the expansive stone mawânoblemen scented in lilac, merchants jingling with coin, paupers barefoot but keen to taste the theatre of death. Gladiators were paraded as sacrificial beasts, flocks of them driven in chains past the cages, as wheat and roses rained upon their scarred shoulders. The crowd cried their names in one breath and mourned them in the next, for in this city, adoration was the preamble to a bloodbath.
Sita ascended the marble steps toward the imperial gallery in the company of the emperors, of Macrinus, of General Acaciusâand to her utmost disdain, of Lucilla. The roar of the crowd gushed in enthusiasm, but at the entryway, the Praetorian guard crossed their spears before her.
Acacius, intuiting beforehand, stepped forward at once, granite-faced, his hand resting on the shoulder of one guard in silent warning.
âThe princess is a guest,â he announced. âLet her through.â
But the guardâs sneer betrayed command from higher. âThese quarters are exclusive to Roman royals.â
And from within, Getaâs voice rang out: âLet her go, Generalâshe may as well sit among her precious paupers and orphans!â
Insult met defiance with sharper insult still. Sita did not allow her shoulders to slump; she only watched as her husband stared, his hands tied.
What was intended as mockery, Sita Devi received as a blessing. She turned without a flinch, her silks trailing, her face a veil of serenity, and descended into the lower galleries with her two Kushan guards and her handmaiden in her train.
There, amid the press of sweat and dust and eager bodies, the common folk parted as if to receive a divinity. They took her hands and arms, callused palms closing warmly around her, and carefully ushered her as though she were kin. They seated her in the shade of the arches, matrons pressing cool water into her grasp, placing olives in her lap from their morningâs harvest. It seemed her goodwill to the Roman folk had finally borne literal fruits.
âTaste some, princess,â urged an old woman, her back bent, and she emptied her bag of cranberries into her palm. âMy husband freshly plucked them today.â
So she did, slipping a few fruits past her lips, and drank deeply from the chipped cup of water passed to her. And though she sat without a throne or golden laurels, surrounded by the poor and the exploited, it is said that she never felt more unassailable in her life.
Above, the emperors sat cloaked in purple and scorn, gazing down upon the arena as lions paced and men bled. Below, among those whom Rome deemed expendable, Sita Devi sat adored, their queen in all but name.
General Acacius beheld the scene on the side: his wife, a bright red fleck in her lehenga, and people bowing their heads in reverence as if she were their sovereign already. It was loyalty, freely provided. If he had not already succumbed to Sitaâs relentless spell, this might as well have undone him. For his heart tugged to her side, her henna-painted hands, yet his face remained chiselled in stone, betraying nothing.
âShe is a vision,â Lucilla admitted at his side. âBeautiful, gracious.â
Acacius, unable to deny the truth, answered in kind. âHow swiftly loyalty changes hands.â
âThe people are easily won,â Lucilla observed. âThey will easily forget.â
She twisted her fingers into his, her loudest claim.
Across the span of sand and air, Sitaâs gaze knowingly found Acacius. Though distance parted them, no span could diminish the heartache in her eyes. She saw Lucillaâs hand in his, and the fracture in her deepenedâquietly, fatally. She was loved by Romeâs multitudes, still she remained a prisoner to her own fate: sworn in name to a man who would never be hers, damned to a devotion that must remain unanswered.
Not even then, they say, did her smile falter. She expelled the olive pit between her fingers and set it aside, speaking gently to the matrons who nestled close. But those who looked closely swore her heart was devastating behind her eyes.
Acacius, too, turned from her gaze at last, as though the magnitude of her might undo him before all of Rome.
The first crevice was etchedâbetween sovereign and soldier, wife and rival, heart and duty. A crack so fine it could have been overlooked, but history is made of such fractures, and this one, too, would unfurl.
Her torment did not end thereâmerely sharpened into a spectacle. Sita Devi had not been brought to the Colosseum only to watch blood sport, but to be reminded of her place, cut down to a rank befitting a foreign bride in Romeâs hierarchy.
The games had been modified. When the first gladiators had fallen, and the sands turned crimson, the next to emerge were not slaves, nor criminals, nor condemned rebels.
They were Kushans. Sitaâs Kushan soldiers.
The commander of her expensive auxiliaries, his second-in-command, and a handful of men who had once stood sentinel at Lotus Hall. Now they were stripped of dignity, driven into the arena like cattle, their lamellar marked with the lion-sigil of their people, so all might know whom Rome meant to butcher.
At first, the crowd roared in confusion; then in ecstasy. They always did.
From the common stands, the princess rose to her feet. Her skirts swept behind her, her anklets clattered frantically, her lips trembled, though her face remained composed. She ploughed forward until her hands caught the wooden barricade, breaths so shallow, as if she were drowning in the blood of her men who were brutally hacked to pieces.
Acacius moved likewise in his royal gallery, his rigid hand on the stone balustrade, eyes fixed upon her. He had seen men die a thousand waysâby arrow, sword, flameâbut never had he seen Sita Devi shatter. When her will cracked beneath the hammer, he knew then what this was: a retribution, crafted by the emperors themselves, to humble her.
It was merciless. The Kushans fought as lions, but lions surrounded by pecking vultures. Gladiators swarmed them, cut them down, blade into gut, sword across throat, entrails slopping. When one still stood, a lion was released once more, tearing his shoulder to ribbons before the sand swallowed him whole. The sigils on their proud breastplates bled into rust.
The people always cheered, and Sita Devi turned. Slowly, terribly, she angled her gaze upon the twin emperors; no tears streaking her face, nor a sob escaping her lips. Only her eyes talkedâtwo embers catching alight, black coals within which fire smouldered.
Caracalla smirked, his teeth bared. Geta lifted a goblet of wine, as if toasting the ruin.
Thus did Rome teach its lesson, and Sita Devi bore it, unbowed, though a piece of her soul had been ripped and chucked into the bloody sand.
Acacius did not sleep a wink that night, though Lucilla, beside him, slumbered with the abandon of gods, untouched by his mortal torment. His mind ran restless, tethered to the image of Sita breakingâonce in the Colosseum when her loyal men bled out, and again in her eyes when she had met his forlorn gaze across the galleries. No draught of wine soothed him; even his own breathing seemed too loud, counting out the seconds that weighed upon his chest.
He wondered if she had eaten, if she were grieving alone in her empty home, if she had lost herself in prayers, if she wished for home, if she wished for Acacius. And it unsettled himâno, it enraged himâhow each possibility cut deeper into his armour.
When the tumult within became agonising, Acacius waked, pulling his cloak about his shoulders. He mounted his steed and stormed through Romeâs midnight avenues, gravel crunching beneath hooves, the villa shrinking behind him. The whisper in his mindâthat this was disloyalty, treason of the heart against Lucillaâwas strangled in its crib, smothered with the excuse of duty.
Sita had no one else. No father, no mother, no brothers, no allies. Only Acacius.
However, that was not entirely true. He had seen her, embraced by the common folk, raised in their arms as if she were born among them. She belonged, and yet she was so punishingly alone.
The gates of Lotus Hall opened without question when his hood fell back, and he dismounted at the fountain, footfalls tolling on clean marble. He followed no map, only instinct, until it brought him to her.
In a shadowed alcove, she knelt, her little mandir aglow. A golden bell above swayed gently on its chain, launching shadows into the watchful eyes across the wall. Before the murti of Krishna, she bent low, her shoulders bare beneath the thin choli, her spine's grooves as if cut from stone, long hair plaited down her back, a blooming rose tucked at her nape. A single diya flickered, daubing her in quivering gold.
Upon his loud footfalls, Sita hissed without turning. âMaine kaha tha ki mujhe akela chhod do.â (I said to leave me alone.)
Acacius did not understand her tongue, but he knew the venom there. Leave me. The words lived in her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the tremor of her breath.
âYou are angry,â he rasped.
At his voice, she shrank inward, her knees drawn up into her chest, head bowing until her braid tumbled forward. Her skirts fanned about her, a marigold halo desecrated by sorrow.
âPrincess,â he supplicated.
Her voice was muffled. âLeave. Your aversions of me can wait.â
He drew closer, feet crunching over the gravel, and each step felt forbidden. She did not rise, did not turn. âI understand that grief strangles you.â
âYour men were slaughtered,â she finally whispered. âGood men who followed you, who left their families in my fatherâs court for you. And youââ She turned then, her eyes black flame. âYou sat idle as those mad beasts scored their throats.â
A blade to his chest wouldâve been kinder. Acacius swallowed. âYou think me glad of it?â
âI think you did nothing to stop it simply because you detest me,â she spat.
Silence swelled between them, too vast, too harsh. In truth, Sita was right to accuse him as the emperors staged their cruelty, bound by oaths, by station, by the iron fetters of Rome. And in that moment, he hated himself more than he hated them.
He wished, then, that he could kneel beside herânot as a husband bound to another, but as her own, and share the burden tormenting her. He wished he could tell her that the sight of her sorrow haunted him, will haunt him.
But he was Acacius, bound, and so he only rasped, âI do not detest you. And you are never alone while I still draw breath.â
âDo not feed me your lies,â she scoffed bitterly, her head bowing once more. âYou came to me only when the scent of my grief came to your door. Go back to her, Generalâshe who has your vows.â
Her words struck like pinpricks, but Acacius did not retreat. A prickle ran through him, for though bound to Lucilla, his days, his nights, his very breaths had recently narrowed to a single name: Sita, Sita, Sita.
And so, with a soldierâs answer to pain, Acacius unsheathed his sword. The scabbard clattered to the stones.
âRaise your steel,â he demanded.
She turned, peeking at him from the crook of her elbow, bafflement shading her dark gaze.
âOr has your father lied to me,â he goaded, âwhen he gloated that his daughter was seasoned with the blade?â
âI said I am in no mood,â she murmured, fatigued, so much like the young girl she still was.
His blade sliced the air in a hiss. âIf you are anything that I believe you are, princess, you would resist. Lift your sword and fightâor I will drag you to your feet myself.â
Never one to concede or be disparaged, the embers in Sitaâs eyes flared to life. Fury stood her upright where sorrow had crushed her down; she snapped her fingers, calling sharply for her talwar. A servant darted forth, laying the hilt of the curved steel into her palm.
Within moments, she had torn her veil from her shoulders and cast it aside. The cloth crumpled, leaving her strong midriff bared, eyes gleaming beneath the golden bell of the alcove. She lifted her sword to meet his, and irritationâchallengeâsmouldered in those infamous eyes.
âNow, fight me,â Acacius urged, both in command and desire.
Let it be written that Sita Devi should be remembered in the annals of history not solely for her intellect, audacity, or benevolence, but also for her steel. Only noblewomen of the Kushan dynasty were reared in the art of war, and fewer still in the subtler, deadlier dance of the talwar. But Sita was among those chosen fewâquick as flame, lithe as the serpent, and as merciless as either when cornered.
What passed between them that night, no chronicler can claim to know in whole. Yet fragments of the tale survived: how, beneath the flicker of oil lamps and the shadows that draped the marble colonnades, gladius met talwar in the cover of darkness.
First came the fury of steelâa flurry of strikes, blocks, and circling thrusts. Sita spun, skirts hindering her steps, yet her body moved with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a warrior. With every whirl, strands of her dark hair freed from tight pins, sweat catching on her brow. He was brute force, she was swift ire, and between them bloomed a pounding rhythm so near to seduction.
Then came the levity. The generalâs steel cut through the knot of her beaded blouse when he parried, fraying the threads until the fabric slipped loose from her shoulder. She gasped, halting for a heartbeat, one hand darting to clutch at her bodice. His blade thrust near her throat, and his breath was on her bare skin, inhaling her sweet fragrance.
âI am yet your husband, princess,â he rumbled, testing her. âYou think to slay me in your sacred halls?â
âBefore my blade,â she replied, âyou are no husband of mine.â
âThen best this enemy,â he promised, teeth flashing in the light, âand he will wait for daylight with you.â
Their blades locked, sliding together until cross-guards kissed. Face to face, their breaths mingled, her eyes searching hisâsubmission, longing, or perhaps love.
âYou would stay the night?â she asked.
âWould I?â he needled.
Sita clashed harder, fighting with a ferocity born of cruel desire. Acacius parried with a soldierâs calm, limber, his lips nearly curved with affection. This was no contest of brute strength, but of wills, and hers was indomitable. Through it, conflict, and through that, intimacy.
By cunning, she found her victory. A twist of her wrist, a sweep of her blade, and the generalâs sword clattered to the ground, disarmed. And in that moment, instead of triumph, she tiptoed and leanedâclaiming his mouth with hers, sealing their duel with a kiss.
Acacius, prisoner to nothing but her, caught her by the bare waist even as her talwar clattered against the gravel. She grasped him with the same hunger she had wielded in combat, her lips crushing into his, fierce, uncompromising, her arms a sharp vice about his neck as though she might bind him there forever.
For once, the general did not resist. He surrenderedâto the fevered fondness of a girl, too helpless to the haze of her lips, too blinded by the rush of battle that transfigured to appetite.
His hands rose into her loosened hair, seizing her closer by her hip and lower, deepening the kiss, relinquishing all else.
In that breath, all that had forged himâhis iron discipline, his granite pride, his very soul that had marched beneath Romeâs bannersâwas abandoned. Dignity and life itself became offerings laid at her feet, as though she were his goddess and he, her trembling supplicant.
And then it came, a blade sliding beneath armourâher breathless whisper against his lips: âI love you.â
His eyes flew open. In that instant, clarity struck like lightning; he tore himself from her, shoving her back, fleeing her body and words.
Sita stumbled, her anklets chiming in cruel mockery of bells, her arms falling uselessly to her sides.
âNo, you do not,â he said, though his voice betrayed him.
Her slashed heart shattered once more, unleashing more shards, yet she did not yield. Instead, she affirmed to him fiercelyâ
âI am yours, Acacius, in this life and the next. You are my very breath, my wrath, my reason, my ruin.â
Honeyed words that he willed to believe were venom. He looked upon her then, willing indeed, eager to dismiss her with insult, to call her infantile, a foolish girl intoxicated with her own defiance. Yet what he saw undid him: not the infatuation of a girl, but the torment of a woman who had given him everything, and asked for nothing but to be claimed in return.
He would notâcould not. To love her was a betrayal of his vows, of his honour, of Lucilla, of the very stone that made him who he was. And ultimately⊠the general never truly freed himself from the chains of the princess he could neither master nor forsake.
âI wish you wouldââ Sita pleaded, moving to seize his arm.
He shook her off her flaming touch, silencing her, and strode out.
In another life, perhaps he would have remained. In another life, maybe he would not have told himself her devotion was mere girlish fancy. Possibly, in another life, he would have been fearless enough to speak the truthâthat he loved her, utterly, ruinously, and always.
But in this life, he fastened back his cloak, mounted his horse, and rode away beneath the cold Roman stars. And as he glanced once over his shoulder, he saw herâSita Deviâstanding in the courtyard of Lotus Hall, her dark eyes glowing with despair, too broken to call after him, too proud to beg, too hurt not to follow.
So ends that night in the famed rosters of Rome: a kiss turned affliction, a vow of love spurned, and a man riding from the only woman who ever conquered him.
word count: 6.9k, sorry this got out of hand WAYY too much | requests are open | about me + masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....| a joel miller x single mom! reader if anyoneâs interested here.
reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :)
summary: it's simple really, jack daniels is alive, and lives a boring life. exiled from statesman's intelligence operations, he works in the financial department of the distillery. he has a merger to go to, but the first class seat falls through on a mixup, and his window seat given to him as a concession is taken by a girl with bright eyes, and her exasperated mother too :)
warnings: no warnings....FLUFF. SO MUCH. TOOTH ROTTING. FLUFF. SO MUCH FLUFF OH MY GOD. actually well yes warning of death, jack's high school sweetheart and your husband died too. i think i use y/n once.
authors note: HI HOW IS EVERYONE DOING!!! is the agent whiskey fandom alive and well....i love him i love him so dearly i wanted him to be my husband when i first watched the film <3 i just want him to have a happy ending!! im back on my bullshit with another single mom fic!!! out of the several single mom fics i have sitting in my drafts!!!! ohh my god i am NOT WELL I AM NOT WELL THINKING ABOUT AGENT WHISKEY and how he should have had like. life. he deserved love. i started wiritng this in mid august n then life got in the way. god everything is EVIL but here...a single mom fic for all the enjoyers <3 this is a stream of conciousness fic, i got posessed and started writing it like whilst i'm running a fever....live laugh love again. i should start wearing a coat to places, summer is OVER. WHISKEY IS A GIRLDAD. TO ME. i know he is...also he met his match with a four year old child and her exasperated mom. ALSO! the little fake family moments are going to make me SICK!!! i loved going in the cockpit when i was younger btw!! pilots just do let you do that sometimes!!! OK ITS 2AM. which means...as per usuall....im posted fic!! and then im immediately PASSING OUT!!!!! goodNIGHT!
flying comes with its own can of worms, heâs convinced. the plane is a little too tiny for him, economy seat boxing him in just a little bit. he's not the frequent flier type. not anymore, after the incident with kingsman, heâs taken a grounded role in the business side of statesman. one that doesnât have him flying around the world on a private jet with lethal weapons on him. heâs usually in the dallas office, pushing papers, but today heâs flying up to chicago for a merger. itâs mostly champ or tequila who deal with the out of state stuff, but champ has to take it easy after his surgery, and tequilaâs sister had him as a groomsman for her wedding, and heâd said he was willing to help set up her flower arrangements.Â
when he got to the gate, heâd been told it had been overbooked. his first class seat somehow given to the other person. heâs given a choice to stay and wait for the next plane out of dallas the next morning, or sit in the economy seat instead.
and so here he is now, settling into the economy seat the lady at the counter told him heâd be sitting in, no reason to overextend statesman resources and time after another year of being in the black, the distillery not doing as well this year. 32A. heâll be fine, he tries to calm himself, itâs just six odd hours from dallas to chicago, and this plane is much safer than half of the ones he flew back in his agent days. he can handle sitting in an economy seat for those four hours, read a book, scroll on his phone. the usual.
32A is a window seat, and heâs one of the first few onto the plane. ginger always told him heâs got a classic case of âairport dadâ, where heâs getting to the gate an hour before boarding even starts. that memory always makes him smile. itâs nice that she still stuck with him, even in the after. his small suitcase is locked away overhead, and he keeps his laptop bag in front of him, not that heâll use it anyway.Â
as the plane fills up, he notices that the seats next to him are suspiciously empty, and he puts the laptop bag in the middle seat (propping his stetson up on it). happy that thereâs nobody sitting next to him for the next few hours.Â
he straps into his seat, and mentally plans to lie down lengthways to get over how cramped it is in here. cabin crew call out for final boarding, and heâs putting on his headphones, listening to some johnny cash before the plane sets off.
a small hand taps on his shoulder all of a sudden, and he blinks open his eyes to see a small girl of about four, big glasses perched on her nose, with her hair tied in two bunches.Â
âhi!â she says, all too bright for a flight at 6:20am, behind her glasses are some wide brown eyes, âyouâre in my seat!â
she gives a small grin, and he can see one of her teeth are missing from the front. a stumble from behind her, but he looks at the boarding pass in his hands. 32A is a window seat.
âcharlie!â you chastise behind her, and he sees the same hair as that of the girl beside him, tied into a low bun, escaping the scrunchie. you look just like her, obviously her mother, all frazzled and sleep deprived. dark circles under your eyes, the yellow summer dress you wear hangs by your ankles. too bright and sunny to match how tired you look.Â
the girl pouts and sits back down on her seat with an angry huff. he sees you try to stuff the backpack up in the overhead compartment (it slips down and falls on you twice) before giving up and just putting it in the seat in front of your aisle one
âiâm so sorry sir,â you scrub your hands over your face with a sigh, hair coming loose from the bun it was held in, âcharlotte knows better than to lie, doesnât she?â
thereâs still that smile on her face as she peers past him through the window, the plane hasnât left the airport yet, hasnât even started to move and yet all she wants to see is outside.Â
âno itâs fine sugar.â he says after a moment, his voice is all gravelly and rough, and he tries to be as gentle as possible, but you look embarrassed, face pale, the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease. he used to call pretty women sugar all the time, back when he was an agent.Â
âit was funny darlinâ, really.â he waves a hand away, opening his phone to text ginger that his plane was leaving on time. the window seat is cramped, and the girl keeps scrambling on his arms to try and lean over him to look outside, pushing her face against his shoulder to push her glasses back up.Â
and it is funny, really. he was a secret agent once, deadly with a gun and electric whips. and here he is now, worried that this tiny child would muddy his stetson that had fallen to the floor. how times have changed.
âcharlie!â you pull her back, hands gripping her shoulders firmly. he doesnât know much about kids, never had the chance to have a kid of his own.Â
his son would have been in his teens now, he thinks, if heâd ended up surviving.
he doesnât think about it, tries to put the grief behind. heâd been drowning in it for years before the incident, like a wound that healed wrong. the scar on the side of his head prickles, the one that heâd got after being shot. hidden by his curls, nobody else can see it, but he can feel it. in moments like these, when he remembers. at least he got help in the nebulous after, hours where he sat in the hospital room, with physical and emotional therapists.Â
he doesnât have any kids, but he knows how they are at this age. all questions with no patience to listen to the answer. he canât help but laugh when he sees you try and wrestle your daughter into her seat, having to put her seatbelt in. it distracts him from the past.Â
heâd never been on a plane at this age, but he guesses he would be as annoying as this kid, probably even worse.Â
the cabin crew turn on the seatbelt sign, and the captain makes an announcement that theyâll be taking off soon.Â
âplease can we swap seats?â your daughter frowns, giving him the saddest brown eyes heâs ever seen in his life. all wide and big and teary, with her bottom lip wobbling. âpleaaaaseee?â
âwhy?â he asks, eyes flicking to her and then you, busy unpacking the bag full of food for her. fruit snacks, dried mango that actually looked good this early in the morning. you look like you arenât listening, too exhausted to pay attention, he can see your fringe curling over your forehead, framing your face.Â
she frowns, biting her lip nervously, âjusâ like looking at the clouds.â her voice is all high pitched and sweet, all too excited for 6:30 in the mornings, âi like the colours.â she adds, âlike candy-floss and stuff.âÂ
it seems so mundane, âlike candy-floss and stuffâ. whatever that means. her glasses are the same colour of purple that the sky is. she doesnât have any baggage to carry, no past weighing her down. just clouds that look like candy-floss.
âoh,â he manages a smile, heâs barely spoken to kids after his wife and son died. there wasnât a reason to, it hurt too much, like he would carry the guilt of not interacting in them. carry the guilt that he lived and they didnât. but it doesnât feel guilty here, speaking to your daughter, charlie, he reminds himself. âremind me never tâ play poker with you little birdie.â he laughs, and your ears burn with shame and embarrassment for your kid talking a mile a minute, and also at his laugh.
his laugh sounds nice. good natured enough to humour your daughter instead of putting on the headphones he had placed on his knee.Â
charlotte frowns, and then digs her shoes into the back of the seats, you can almost see the cogs in her brain move âbut i get sick in the middle seat, if i donât look outside.â
âcharlotte.â you say, sharply, hand stilling her knee. being sick or not, the window isnât her seat, you canât have her ousting the (admittedly very handsome) guy out of his seat.Â
âi get very sick.â she says, oh so matter-of-factly, legs swinging on her seat and the guy seems to be listening, and throwing glances to the laptop bag and the cowboy hat on the floor.
he shoots a look at you, and you give a small smile, apologetic, but damn does your daughter run a good hustle.Â
âshe doesnât.â you mouth, placing a stilling hand on your daughterâs shoulder again. âcharlotte, please let that man just sit in the window seat in peace.â
she tries again, with her huge eyes, and he grimaces.Â
âyeah kid, those puppy eyes are workinâ â he sighs, and then unbuckles his seat, âwe swappinâ seats or what ?â his voice is smooth, as it always is. he was a secret agent for the lordâs sake, and yetâŠ.youâre pretty.Â
with your tired eyes and the homemade sandwiches youâve packed for your daughter sitting in the bag on your lap. youâre not the bombshells he used to chase when he was an agent, pretty in the way that seemed real. which makes him a little flustered. âthis window seat is a little too small for me anyway.â
âi didnât want to say it, but itâs true.â charlie nods solemnly, and you see the man put the hand over his heart, wounded. Â
then his brown eyes meet yours again, and he jerks thumb to the side, âswapping okay?âÂ
you frown, and then realise he means the two of you, have your daughter move to the window seat, you move into the middle, and he has to do the awkward shuffle of going all the way to the aisle.Â
before you can even process his words, your daughter is already clapping her hands and nodding. âyes! thank you mister!!!â
sheâs already standing up on her seat and he stands up so heâs in the tiny space between the seat and the one in front of him. charlotte more or less just leaps into the seat, and you just stare at her with raised eyebrows.
âiâm so sorry sir, she isnât like this usually.â you stifle a laugh, and then notice that heâs standing in front of you. tight jeans, a white tshirt that looks like itâs been ironed before he got here. the person in front of him pushes their seat back, and heâs pushed forwards with an âoofâ, strong arm holding him upright, hand pressed against your seatâs headrest.
your faces are incredibly close, thereâs no space on an aeroplane anyway. and he pulls back as soon as the person pulls their goddamn seat back. but itâs too late, heâs already seen the specks of gold in your eyes, felt your breath on his face. you smell of fresh flowers, you smell good.Â
âthatâs dandy.â he says, as nonchalantly as possible, he almost introduces himself as whiskey, all flashing grins and charm. he bends down to pick up the stetson off the ground, and places it in your lap as he hurriedly shuffles over to the aisle seat. âthe nameâs jack.âÂ
heâs pretty sure he got the window seat because the airline felt bad for messing up his first class ticket, but that kid looks so happy that he doesnât bother bringing it up.
ânow, want me to handle that for ya?â he picks your bag up from the aisle seat, and dangles it above you. you nod as you watch him put it up. embarrassed still but youâre. well. youâre. itâs. itâs a handsome stranger on a plane, a cliche and youâve fallen right for it. with his tight white shirt that you could see his muscles flex through as he put the bag overhead.
âoh, my name is (y/n).â you hold out your hand for his, âand that one there is charlie. squirtâs four and acting up like this all her life.â
he takes it, his hand so much bigger than yours, warmer too, âgood to know darlinâ.â he grins, all teeth, youâre quite frankly overwhelmed by how flashy the smile is, âkidâs a spitfire alright.â
âshe loves planes.â you say gently, a hand stroking her back as she keeps looking out of the plane, âalways wanted to go on one, last time she was on one of these she was a toddler.
âpeach wouldnât remember a thing then, would she?â he tilts his head to see her, the seatbelt sign is back on again, and he sees her fumble with the belt before you stop to click it in.Â
âshe doesnâtâ you turn back to him, with a sigh, âthatâs why sheâs super excited to fly this timeâŠand wanted the window seat.â
âhustled me out of prime real estate that one.â he huffs, but his words arenât sharp. not by the way thereâs a smile tugging at his handsome lips, that your eyes keep being drawn to.
âyeah, she hustled a real life cowboy.â your eyes linger on the hat, the engines of the plane start growling, and your jaw tenses. itâs slight, but heâs a spy â was a spy. had been taught how to read people. your daughter may be at home on this flight, but you were decidedly not.Â
your hands grip the bag of food you have in your hands, knuckles clenching. he has half a mind to offer you his hand to squeeze, but he isnât a secret agent charming ladies at the bar anymore.Â
the plane takes off with a jolt, and you squeeze your eyes shut. your daughterâs face is plastered against the window, hands on both sides. he hears you muttering a little prayer, and youâre both thrown backwards in your seats when the plane leaves the ground.
you let out a sigh, and the relief softens your frame. âthanks again,â you rub your eyes, âshe would have actually made the flight a living hell otherwise.â
âfair trade.â he gives you a small smile, âthis way everyoneâs happy, she gets the window, ya get some peace and quiet and i get a chance to stretch these legs before they cramp up.â
his voice is charming, you decide. all sweet, like honey. and heâs so kind, moving from his window seat that youâre sure he paid extra for. you blush, scrunching up your eyes, hiding your smile before your hands. the tote bag full of food is heavy on your lap, and you put your hand inside, bringing out a pack of dried mango.Â
âhere,â you pass the small pack to him, and he can smell sugary goodness in there, âa thank you.â
itâs strange, he thinks. heâs eaten at restaurants with michelin stars, and heâs eaten freeze dried rations and yet being handed this tiny bag shocks him. youâre too kind for him, he thinks, with the weight of the past that he carries. with the sparkles in your eyes, and the softness of your smile as you pass a bag of dried mango fruit snacks for him. obviously packed for your daughter.Â
âyou sure?â he asks, but you shrug and tilt your head to your daughter, stil staring at the clouds with that look on her face.
âshe doesnât even like mango, and i overpacked so much stuff, just in case.â you laugh, face flushed with embarrassment, âplease take this as a thank you, i donât think iâll be able to tear her away from the window.â
you settle into a rhythm, feeding your daughter pieces of dried fruit when she finally pulls away from the window. you idly scroll through the books app on your phone, ill-prepared for this flight. saving money on subscriptions had you on a flight with nothing to do.Â
except maybe look at the man next to you, same white t-shirt, stetson jacket over it, and the cowboy hat at his feet⊠and maybe laugh at the absurdity of it all. a handsome cowboy, wearing a $600 jacket, sitting next to you of all people.Â
as the plane starts to rise, your daughter tugs your collar, and her mother â you â turn around, your eyes sparkling with the same softness, your phone is forgotten on your lap. heâs a spy (was a spy), heâs been taught to observe, and he observes the way you sit with your daughter, talking to her about all the things she can see down below. the large green fields, little cities with little buildings. the world looks like a miniature model below, and both your faces look with bright eyes and smiles.Â
the warmth. the warmth that seeps through the little bubble, through to him. there is some warmth left to spare. and you pick up your phone again after a few minutes, when the green fields and red farmhouses turn into white fluffy clouds. your daughter is content in staring outside, out into the blue of the sky and the grey of the clouds.
he unlocks his phone too, not to scroll through some downloaded book like what youâre going through, heâs looking at distillery profits and losses, which drinks did what. flicking through powerpoint slides that people in his department made for the quarterly budget. finance things, stuff heâs been resigned to after champ gave him a second chance at life. heâs got glasses on his face, not the statesman ones heâs been used to for the past two decades, with cameras and microphones and the ability to join meetings, just normal ones with the same wire frame, helping him read better.
your eyes flick to his on your right, and you think he looks rather good, with his glasses. less of the cowboy, with what the hat thatâs under his feet, and more of the charming man who her daughter convinced to let him swap seats with.
clearly there is a point in the fifteen minutes where your daughter stops caring about the outside, turning away from the window with a dramatic sigh, and back to you on your phone and him on his.
âare you a real life cowboy?â she asks, all inquisitive big brown eyes, her foot pressing against the seat in front of her, âi mean, because you got your boots and your hat?â
you look up from your book at that, and turn to him, and he can see two pairs of matching faces looking up to him, your daughter with curiosity, and you with a small smile on your face, as if you can feel him getting flustered by your gaze.Â
heâs been a real life cowboy, several times. wore a stetson, boots with spurs, and heâs charmed a thousand women with his twang. lassoes and whips and the secret service. he had been a cowboy and lived a whole life before now.
the question throws him off kilter, so point blank itâs almost funny. âuh, iâm as real as a cowboy can be.â
charlie squints at him, as if she doesnât believe him, but you judge her with an elbow, âweâre flying out of texas charlie, weâre bound to see a cowboy or two.â
âbut whaâs the point of a cowboy.â she says it, all as one word, blending all the vowels together, and you pick up the bag by your feet to pull out a juice box for her, âwe got the cars.â
you look at him from under your hair, strands falling over your face, âshe makes a good point, cowboy jack,â the nickname makes him laugh, huffed out from behind his hand, âwe do got the cars, no need to ride horses.â
âyeah,â they do have guns, but he still used electric lassoes, they do have shoes but he still wore cowboy boots, âthis is just how we do it in kentucky, got more horses than cars.â
âmm.â she hums, in that sharp, pitched way, like she still doesnât believe him but sheâs got no counter arguments, then sheâs looking outside the window again, at the way the soft morning light hits the clouds, making it a rainbow.
âmom, can i have the phone?â she holds out a hand, and you double tap on the camera app before handing it to her. he was a spy, he canât help but see what you were reading, and itâs a page from pride and prejudice.Â
âhope she didnât put you on the spot.â you sigh, watching her try and take a photo of the clouds, âsheâs always a bit too chatty.â
âsheâs fine, darlin.â he says the nickname before his brain realises, and you give another laugh, itâs rough from how early it is in the morning and so unlike the high pitched laughs heâd been hearing in bars all his life.Â
âyou really do have the southern charm,â you sigh again, before turning back to him, he can see your eyes with sleep still hanging in them, how frazzled you are from the way your makeup is fading and your hair is coming loose from the bun, âwhatâs a gentleman like you doing in economy?â
youâd noticed the jacket, and the hat, both stetsons.
âlast minute mixup,i work in the financials of a local distillery, but mixup means iâm flying coach on this red eye.â keep it vague, he thinks, she doesnât need to know about your past, he thinks.Â
he tips an imaginary hat, like heâs used to doing it âand now this cowboy is at your service.â
you nod back at him, and before you can make a witty quip with the handsome man, your daughter pipes up from her seat, without even looking, âi want juice.âÂ
âbubs, i just gave you juice.â you sigh, pushing the unopened juice box at her on the tray table.
âthatâs apple juice, i hate apples.â she says, not even sparing you two a glance. you look at the juice box, and sigh.
âhow can you hate apples? theyâre such a normal fruit.â jack drawls, from the aisle seat, shocking you. that makes charlie turn around, and frown.
âjusâ dontlike âem.â she scrunched up her face, âonly like orange juice.â
âi havenât packed-â you start, feeling your daughterâs tantrum coming along, but heâs already unbuckling his seatbelt, âiâll get us some orange juice, three cups, unless you want something else?â
oh. your heart stutters, and your daughter gives a thumbs up, a stranger with a cowboy hat who moved for your daughter is now getting the three of you orange juice from the planeâs galley.Â
you unbuckle your seatbelt too, desperate for a little walk around the plane, and your daughter hastily jumps out of her seat too.Â
âcharlie, you donât have to walk if you donât want to.â you bend down, murmuring in her ear with those soft tones, he doesnât know how long you two have been walking for, 6am flights, two boarding passes stuffed into your passport holders. she holds up her hands for you, and you sweep her up easily, she curls around your neck, fitting on your hip.
âokay, letâs go bubs.â he leads the way to the galley, and you follow, your daughter who canât be any more than four chatters away, talking about the clouds and the sky.
ârainbows, they happen when a ray of sunlight goes through a prim-sm,â she babbles, tiredly âor raindrops, thatâs why we canât see any? because weâre above the clouds right now.â
itâs a small space, the small corridor where the two of you stand, with your daughter hanging off you. you can see him much better, heâs taller than you, but his eyes are so rich and brown itâs hard to tear yourself away.Â
and you. you look like a woman heâd never think about. with a child, so much and yet so little like what he lost. a woman he wouldnât dare to look at, reminding him of the son and the wife that never came back.
and then he remembers, nor did he.
âcould i have three orange juices please maâam?â he looks away from you, talking to the flight attendant, the blonde with wide blue eyes, her emerald ring sparkling on her finger, matching her earrings. a part of him pangs, asking you where your ring is, your finger bare and your ears with small purple butterfly studs in them, matching the flowers in your daughterâs ears.
âuh-â you hold out your arm, âcan I get a tea instead, orange juice is a bit too acidic for the mornings.âÂ
something so plain, so ridiculously, hopelessly, stupidly normal. no orange juice in the early mornings because of acid reflux, and the life you lead is so much less complicated than the one he had lived.
âtea for the lady then, maâam.â he says, all southern charm and manners, and soon you have two cups of orange juice and a steaming cup of tea with a shot of milk for you.Â
you start to put your daughter down, but she curls into your neck, âi donât wanna get down.â her face is in a tiny frown, and jack hates to see that. he doesnât have any kids (had, had one. almost had one.) but he isnât cruel.Â
âhere, let me.â he offers his own hands, and if it wasnât this early in the morning, youâd never let charlie out of your sight. but itâs 6:40am, youâre swaying on your feet, and with narrowed eyes, you hand your daughter to the cowboy in front of you.
you hold the three cups in your hands, and watch him walk to the seats, before gently placing your daughter into her seat with barely a snuffle. then he steps aside for you, and you open the tray tables for the cups.Â
âcanât believe she asked for the juice and she fell asleep in thâfirst place.â he drawls, but you canât stop replaying the wat he gently placed your daughter in her seat. so gentle.Â
âhave you done that before?â you blurt out, and he can say a thousand things. he can say the thing heâs told fifty women before you, at a bar.Â
he tells the truth.Â
âseventeen years ago, i was twenty, lived in the bad part of austin with my wife. painted the nursery blue and everything, practiced holding a baby fâ months. but then she stepped out for some things, eggs, i dunno. and the next thing i got was a phone call to identify the body.â
he keeps it short, clean. as if he didnât suffer fifteen years of revenge and hatred after it. as if he didnât die and kill for peace.
you frown, not a spy, not a woman at a fancy bar. your hair in a low bun, falling over your face as you try and brush it away from your eyes. soâŠnot those women heâs seen, so much like the woman he saw eighteen years ago. when they were both twenty.Â
you are frazzled, and harried, and not as polished as a spy would be. no facade to hide behind, you just look at him with sympathetic eyes, and a hand on his broad shoulder.
âiâm sorry.â you offer, swallowing thickly, you look at him with such clarity in your eyes. itâs almost laughable, how easy you are to see through, in another life he would have called you a bad asset. but in this one, he lets your hand linger on his shoulder.
âher dad too,â you close your eyes, leaning against the headrest, âhe. it was a hit and run, he never saw it coming.â you shake your head, âi always said he was selfish for leaving me seven months pregnant with her.â
you blink your eyes open, like youâve begged with fate to not tell this story a hundred times, and still you still told it to him. your loss cuts sharp, couldnât be any more than five years old. he had fifteen years to stew, but you had four years of a daughter to raise.
â âs life isnât it, darlin?â he says, lazily, hiding behind bravado, but you take it anyway, wiping away the tears from your eyes with soft fingers.
âcourse, course, cowboy jack,â you sip your tea, and he takes a sip out of his orange juice, âyou got a last name or will i have to call you that every time?â
thereâll be more times? the part of his brain thatâs as eager as a dog almost wags its tail. but of course she doesnât want someone as damaged as you, his rational mind supplies. a traitor.Â
âdaniels.â he musters.
âjackâŠdaniels?â you frown, almost choking on your tea, âyouâre a goddamn cowboy, from the south, called jack daniels?!â
âi can show you my id if you want,â and he pulls out his god honest drivers license. the one he never shows women at bars or at festivals or dates. this is him, without a cover. this is jack daniels not agent whiskey.
he wonât tell you about the agent whiskey thing either, that would just scare you off. but he knows youâd laugh, and he takes that imagined laugh, and keeps it close to his heart.
âhuhâŠyou werenât lying.â you shake your head, âyour parents werenât joking when they named you?â
âno maâamâ he mock salutes, âdaniels family for years, just liked the name jack, thought i looked like a bean.â that gets a laugh out of you, the simplicity of this moment not lost on you.Â
âgoinâ somewhere far?â he asks, and you can tell itâs probably because of the dark bags under your eyes.Â
âuh yeah, seattle to sacramento, sacramento to dallas and then finally, dallas to chicago.â you sigh, scrubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, âlong travel journey.â
he knows itâs to cut costs, he doesnât say it though.
âiâm travellinâ on business, not pleasure -â he blurts out, and you smile at that.
âwhen did i say you were?â
âiâm just sayin maâam, travelling for business.â he nods.
âwell, uh-â you smile again, âthanks for letting me know.â and it completely short circuits him, like youâre filing the information away for later, heâs desperate to see your smile again, over and over again. you wouldnât have to do three flights to get from one place to another, if he spoiled you, he had a house in the suburbs that was too empty for him alone.Â
after a few hours, the lights have dimmed, window shutters closed. the sun is up in the sky but half the people on the aircraft are exhausted, himself included. your daughter, charlie, charlotte, has exhausted herself from the window, from your phone, from talking to you and annoying him. sheâs fast asleep by the window, small enough to curl up on the seat comfortably. her little toy bear is in her hands, clutched tight, he remembers she still grumbled for it before you pulled it out of your bag.Â
she places her legs along her mothers lap, your lap. your hands stroke over her ankles with gentleness. still holding onto her, even as you sleep.
because youâve fallen asleep too. somewhere over the second hour youâve fallen fast asleep, eyes closing as you kept holding onto your daughter. you rested your head on the headrest, but your daughter kept squirming and you werenât tall enough for the absurdly high headrest.Â
he sees your head tip, and then feels your cheek press against his shoulder. itâs soft, youâre light against him, but he knows if he stays like this youâll get a crick in your neck. heâs done this far too many times â and so he adjusts himself, pushes himself a little further down so that you can rest on his shoulder better.
he thinks you look nice like this, in your sleep, the lines on your face smooth out and he can see what your face would look like in peace. all soft, like his entire heart depends on it.
youâre out like a light, but all he can think of is you. jasmine shampoo in your hair, your cheek against his shoulder, you resting on his stetson jacket. itâs too much, it makes his fingers tingle in a way nothing quite has for seventeen years, as if youâre forcing life from you to him.Â
the plane rocks gently, through some mild turbulence. not enough to wake you, but enough to shake you against him, and he holds out a steady arm to catch you if you fall.
you donât, but you do list sideways, and he keeps you upright. itâs this sort of softness he hasnât allowed himself to feel in years, doesnât feel like he deserved to feel it in years.Â
he doesnât even hear the flight attendant walks up to your seats, the same one that the two of you met in the galley, with the green stone in her ring and in her earrings.
she looks down at jack, and then at the empty cups, âiâll take them.â and jack nods, finishing off charlieâs untouched juice that had turned lukewarm in the hours since. all three cups go in the trash, and then she turns to the three of them.
âwould you like anything this morning?â she asks, all polite and proper, and he hums, âyeah, could I get some coffee?âÂ
she pulls out the coffee thermos, and pours into a cup, and hands it to him, âand anything for your wife and daughter?â she says, like it means nothing.
his breath catches against his chest, it doesnât mean nothing. it means everything, like a life he didnât believe heâd have. he should just correct the attendant, this is not my wife and thatâs not my daughter, but then the attendant smiles all so sweet and adds, âshe has your curls you know?âÂ
âoh iâŠâ he doesnât know how to continue, freezes in his seat. thatâs the life he could have had, and his life feels like these two are what fills the holes in his heart. suddenly it does look like charlieâs curls are a bit like his, suddenly it does look terribly domestic with your head on his shoulder.
he doesnât know what else to say, so he just says, âthank you.â and then swallows, âiâll take a muffin for the kid if you have it.â
she passes him a sealed packet of a muffin, worse than what he gets in first class usually, and worse than the fruit snacks he knows that are in your bag, but still he takes it and places it on the tray table in front of you.Â
he doesnât know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up as soon as you stir on his shoulders. you pull your head away, and he sleepily blinks his eyes, clearly letting you have you space.Â
âoh god, iâm so sorryâŠâ you mumble, yawning, stretching your shoulders, âi didnât realise-â you yawn again.
âdonât worry,â he brushes down his hair, âthings happen.â
let them happen. a small voice in his head says. let them happen.Â
your daughter gasps next to you, as she grabs the muffin in the packet. âmom, they had muffins when we were asleep?â
âsay thank you to mr daniels, okay?â you nudge your daughter, and she nods at him solemnly, before taking a huge bite out of the muffin.Â
âmâku mâth âaniels.â she sprays crumbs everywhere when she talks, but it makes him laugh, and it makes you flush.Â
âcharlotte, close your mouth when you eat.â you close her jaw with your hand, and then shake your head, as if to say children, am i right.
and jack would agree with you with whatever, he doesnât have any children of his own. but your words are like gospel to him, and heâll listen to anything youâll say.Â
the plane lands smoothly, and heâd say heâs lying if his brain wasnât filled with you and charlie, munching away at a muffin. chicago is big and full of people. charlie looks at him like he hangs the moon and the stars, all so bright, with her brown eyes staring at him, talks to him like heâs a wonder. heâs given her his window seat, talked to her about being a cowboy, even told her if she asks nicely, him and you can go take her to see the pilot.
âcan we really?!â she asks, wide eyed, grabbing onto your arms as she kicks her feet, âsee where they drive the plane from!â
âitâs called a cockpit,â you softly correct her, sheâs easily excitable, âbut i have no idea youâre going to ask the cowboy here.â
he rolls his eyes, âitâs just jack, sugar.â and then whispers to your daughter â âbut donât you worry about that peach, weâll show you the cockpit real soon, okay?â
the three of you wait until the plane is empty, and then she shrieks as she runs towards the front of the plane. jackâs pulled down your bag from the overhead cabin, as well as his little suitcase, and heâs dragging it down the aisle, trying to keep up with you two.
itâs terribly domestic, he thinks, but he doesnât think heâd get much more than this. not in this life.
the co-pilot is in there, and he grins as charlie starts asking a hundred questions, like âwhat button makes the plane fly (that one) can you make the plane do a loop? (no) can i flick that switch (waitâŠyes okay, thatâs the light switch.)
you blush behind your hands, your daughter too loud for a four year old. always has a head in a book about planes, and the pilot strolls into the cockpit, seeing the scene. jack, holding onto your daughterâs hand as he talks to the copilot, your daughter, yammering away about something planes do, and you, watching this all with a hand on jackâs suitcase and your backpack on your back and a little tote bag on your arm.Â
âoh, how did you know we let the kids in the cockpit, barely anyone knows we do this.â he says.
âyeah um, jack said usually pilots did this, so we just came and tried our luck.â you almost stumble over the words.Â
âlovely family you have there,â he mentions, offhandedly to you, and you freeze, inadvertently in the same position jack was two hours ago, âgood to know your husband looks out for your daughter, she loves planes.â
and she did love planes. that wasnât the point. but that was the point, because charlie loved planes and jack showed her the cockpit, instead of just glaring at her for ruining his day with her mouth than ran a mile a minute.
you bite your lip. âthanksâŠcâmon peanut, we gotta start walking now.âÂ
chicago is a big city, he worries about you getting lost in the crowd, worried about everything really. and so as you step off the plane, he holds out his hand for charlie to step over the steps easily, and to stomp onto the airbridge.
âcharlie,â you gently say, kneeling down to her level, âpeanut, weâre going to have to say goodbye to mr daniels now, okay? we need to get our bags and meet aunty ria, okay?â
her hands grip his tightly, and she pouts her lip, âbut i want to stay with cowboy, he shows me planes!âÂ
âcharlie-bee,â you say softly again, trying to untangle her hand from his, âwe gotta go, aunty ria made you that cake, remember? coconut just like you like?â
a pause, and his heart thuds in his chest. there is nobody quite like you, is this his last chance for redemption?
âare you still in chicago thursday evening?â he blurts out, far too loud for his own good. but you pause, and frown.
ââŠyeah, why?â you frown, ânot free though, i got charlie with me.â
âi was wondering if you wanted to grab someâŠcoffee.â he frowns at his own words, heâs never sounded this keen before.Â
heâs a older than you, not your usual type, with his crows feet and his greying hair, his soft arms and the cowboy tshirt. but have you even had a type every since your husband passed away?Â
âcoffee would be nice, okay.â you smile, âdo you want my number?â
âiâllâŠiâll write mine down sweetheartââ he says it earnestly, looking for a pen or a napkin to scrawl his number onto. very old fashioned, perhaps a decade older than you, but you just laugh as as you tap your phone with his to get your contacts to be shared between each other.
âthat was quicker, wasnât it?â
âfull of tricks.â he grins, and itâs true, you have bewitched him. and he smiles as he waves at both you and your daughter, and walks out to chicago, finally feeling like a new man.Â
taglist! for people who were interested...sorry this is 1 month and 3 days late...i blame [ gestures vaguely at everything but specifically the grandparents visit with no wifi and a 9 hour road trip and then a pile of undone physics worksheets ] i hope this taglist works. yayyyyy :
MADHA (à€źà€Š) | GENERAL MARCUS ACACIUS
PART II of SITA UNTOLD
MADHA: PRIDE, ARROGANCE, EGO, VANITY.
-> READ MASTERLIST HERE AND LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST HERE.
SUM -> Sita Devi's Roman welcome goes awry, and a scheme for usurpation takes root in her home.
W.C -> 8k+
C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, third-person POV (as historic retelling), Sanjay-Leela-Bhansali-esque, polyamory, court politics, misogyny.
Lotus Hall and its jewelled corridors fell into darkness after Sitaâs startling demise. Once, they had glistened with unceasing splendour: perfumed by garlands of marigolds and champa, lit end to end with diyas and bursts of chandeliers whose prisms scattered rainbows across polished marble. Children had played on its thresholds; the laughter of guests carried from its pavilions; and Romeâs rarest birds, plucked from distant provinces, had once nested in its courtyards before they were carted away to Acaciusâs estate.
The estate itself had been a wonder: sandstone towers draped in ivy, marble columns inlaid with emerald around a majestic pavilion, mosaic floors tiled in rivers and stars. Its courtyard housed a luxuriant garden seeded with redolent flowers unfamiliar even to Rome, a pool vast enough to drown twenty soldiers where Sita was said to bathe every day at dawn, and in a quiet alcove stood a murti of Krishna, before which the princess had sung her mantras, her melodious voice rising with lavender incense to gods who had no altar in Rome.
At first, the Roman mobs frowned upon such indulgence. The Senate muttered, the subjects sneered, the emperors grew inquisitive. What foreign ruler erected her own court rather than dwell beneath the Capitolineâs shadow?
Still, Sita opened her doors freely. She received merchants, matrons, poets, princes and paupers alike, for in her country it was custom never to refuse a guest at the doorstep. To the Roman people, this unnatural courtesy soon became a charm; they called her magnanimous, gentle, divine. In their mouths, âalienâ slowly became âbeloved.â
Yet she bore no love for Rome in return. It was whispered that in her first days, she never once set foot in the Imperial palace. A great scandal flared when she refused the idolising entry itself.
The day her ship docked at Ostia, the Senate and the twin emperorsâGeta and Caracallaâassembled with all Romeâs pomp to welcome the conquering general and his spoils home. Trumpets blared, oraria was waved, and the triumphal chariot was yoked, awaiting the slow procession down the Via Sacra. But when Acacius disembarked, surrounded by the patrician elite and his commanders, stern and laurelled, Sita Devi did not follow, cloistered in the chariot.
âDo not test me, princess,â Acacius warned, his voice a low growl. âOr would you shame us both before the emperors?â
âI have endured a long and bitter voyage,â she replied coolly, eyes lifted to the sky as rosy petals drifted down to his strong shoulders. âThe earth still reels beneath my feet. I must rest before I parade.â
âThe court would want a glimpse of my new wife,â he demanded, jaw taut.
âThen tell them that she is still brand new,â she said, drawing her veil low over her face, âand will present herself in her own time.â
âI will not allow thisââ
She caught the latch of the door, eyes narrowed to slits. âDo not mistake me, General. The Severans may command your sword, but my presence stays mine to giveâor to withhold.â
So it was that the chariot wheeled through Rome, veiled and unyielding, rolling past cheers that faltered into murmurs. The bride, hidden from sight, became the cityâs riddle: was she proud, was she ill, or was she scornful of her husband's empire? Some accounts say Acacius burned with humiliation; others whisper he was quietly relieved.
Infallibly, one can say, from the very first moment, Sita Devi refused to bow to Romeâs splendour.
And when Acacius alone ascended the palace steps, bending the knee before the twin emperors, their calculating gaze was not on him but on the retreating chariot, vanishing down the quieted street.
âInsolence,â said Geta, his crown of oak leaves lowering upon his brow, the second laurel wreath still unclaimed upon its cushion.
âThe princess lies indisposed,â Acacius replied, his voice an irritated thrum.
âTo Rome?â Caracalla scoffed, laughing. The chimp on his shoulder screeched in kind, baring its teeth to mock him.
âFrom her voyage,â Acacius amended. He rose and turned to the masses, his hand aloft, drawing a roar of acclamation. âShe has never left her homeland, never crossed the sea.â
âI suppose,â said Geta with idle cruelty, âshe hastens to pay respects to Lucilla.â
Acaciusâ granite jaw worked as he chose his words with care. âThe princess will reside in her own estate... not far from the palace.â
At that, silence overcame them.
âShe would have her own hall?â Geta murmured, incredulous.
âShe is sovereign,â Caracalla interjected, a sly grin slanting across his face. âAnd sovereigns keep their own courts.â
Getaâs eyes narrowed. âI would lay eyes upon this audacious jewel you have taken to wife.â
âI have heard tell of her magnificence,â remarked Caracalla.
Geta leaned forward, studying Acacius with suspicion. âYou do not mean to hide this beauty from us, General?â
âSoon, she will be in your presence,â Acacius promised, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt, or perhaps anticipation. He truly loathed the very sight of them.
The truth will likely never be known, but chroniclers write that Acaciusâs chariot lingered before Lotus Hall, idle in the moonlight, before rolling on toward Lucillaâs villa. Some claim he lingered to see if the princess would enter safely; others whisper he simply tarried, gathering his strength before returning to the first wife he had so long cherished. It remains beyond dispute that her defiance had left him agitated and not altogether displeased.
Lucilla, for her part, did not demur when told of her husbandâs new bride... or so the records say. What passed within her villa was hard to discern: her house was always patrolled by Praetorian guards, its gates locked from without, unlocked only to Acacius. The trials of being Marcus Aureliusâs last surviving successor, whilst another emperor stays on the throne.
Still, hearsay endures.
Marcus Acacius had never been known to lavish words, but even his stern face softened in Lucillaâs presence. After two decades, she remained statuesque, fair-haired, her beauty smoothed by time. She was Rome itselfâtall, golden, willful.
That night, the archives whisper, his mind strayed eastward. His soul, long anchored to Lucillaâs calm seas, felt the tides tugging toward Lotus Hall. There waited another beauty, whittled in obsidianâdusky, flame-eyed, scented in marigolds, a symphony in her stride, and hazardous as a stormy ocean. If Lucilla was Rome in her grandeur, Sita was the Ganges in flood: dark, tempestuous, irresistible. She had flouted him, tempted him, and already haunted the edges of his thoughts.
As Lucilla undid his armour plate by plate, she was said to have spoken softly to her occupied husband, her voice enduring.
âYou seem healthy. Strong.â A pause and a small smile. âAnd so too, I trust, the princess Sita?â
âI cannot flee this constant refrain of Sita,â Acacius muttered darkly. âSita in the palace, Sita in the streets, Sita in my own home. Always some quarrel, some defiance. She would not sail on a Roman ship, she would not partake of Roman fare, she would not walk in the triumph. A mere girlâstubborn, contemptuous.â
Lucillaâs hands lingered at his shoulders, her lips close to his ear. âAnd how old is this girl, that she so torments Romeâs fiercest general?â
âOld enough to know better,â he growled. A silence followed, then, more softlyââYoung enough still to learn.â
âShe must be wretchedly alone,â Lucilla murmured, âand so far from home. A bride in a strange land, surrounded by wolves.â
But Lucilla did not knowâas Acacius did not knowâthat Sita Devi had been bred alone, among wolves, from her cradle. Jackals for brothers, and a court that saw daughters as bargaining chips, her survival had always been amidst fangs and claws.
âIf she feels so,â Acacius sighed, âshe hides it well. And the more she flaunts her strength, the more peril she courts. The emperors are not patient men.â
Lucilla laughed a brittle one. âThen perhaps the princess ought to remind them where their leash ends.â
He pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. âThis marriage was a necessity, Lucilla. A shield, no more. Without it, no peace could be bartered between the nations without bloodshed.â
âYou have broken kings greater than hers,â Lucilla retorted. âI have seen you. If you wished, you might have forced their hand without binding yourself to anotherâs daughter. UnlessâŠâ She tilted her chin, eyes searching his face. âUnless you did not wish to.â
Acacius turned to her then, his eyes grave. âSpeak plain to me.â
Lucilla moved around to face him, taking his cheek in her hand as she had done countless times before. For a heartbeat, she looked as though she meant to scorn him, pity him, strike him with jealousyâbut her voice softened.
âYou feel bound to her, more than duty. Responsibility.â
âI must,â he said simply, as though that truth alone sustained him. âShe has no one else here.â
âYou care for her,â she whispered.
âShe is excruciating,â he said, silencing her.
Lucilla studied him, and though her tongue withheld the words, she knew it true: she cared for Sita, too. If not for the girl herself, then for the shadow she cast across Acaciusâs heart. She had stirred in him something Lucilla had not seen in yearsâresentment, vexation, the fire of opposition.
And that fire was perilously close to desire.
Which may well have been true for Acacius, but Sita Devi paid no heed to heart and sentiment. Alone she stood in Rome, bereft of kin, her household diminished to a scattering of loyal attendants brought from India pressed into her service. She did not flee into despair, nor did she languish in silence.
Her first acts were not of conquest. She took care, over fear. The mansion she had claimed, which she herself dubbed Lotus Hall, or Kamala Mahal in her native tongue, stood beside an orphanage founded by a pair of childless patricians now long in their graves. Where others had overlooked the hostel for years, Sita began to pour bags of gold coins into it, ensuring the children were dressed, fed, and educated. Soon enough, the voices of little Roman urchins rang in the courtyards of her estate, their laughter mingling with her waking Sanskrit melodies.
She schooled an interested handful in the art of swordsmanship, the talwar. Her teachings carried a deeper understanding of lifeâs balanceâthe dance of power and mercy, force and restraint. With every strike of their little wooden practice blades, the little ones grew eager for her affection and approval, and she grew her power as a nurturer, a mother.
Though her patronage did not end with the children. She gave to poets and philosophers, to playwrights and musicians. In time, the streets gossiped of her benefaction, of General Marcus Acaciusâs new blessing and wife, who sponsored verse and song as gladly as she did sword and temple.
Some called it conceit, others of her overreach, and soon the question was raised in the forum: if such benevolence marked her as a sincere patron...
How would it mark her as an empress?
Seeing that Rome had long admired its noblewomen for virtue and fertilityâbut Sita Devi suggested a far more dangerous belief: the image of a queen in her own right.
Hardly had two months passed when Marcus Acacius first darkened the threshold of Lotus Hall.
What he found astounded even him. The mansion he had endowed his new brideâbarren, mum, unwantedânow thrived and thrummed. Gone were the watchful militia who once patrolled its gates. In their place sprawled a celebration made permanent: toddlers darting around its columns; matrons and widows gossiping along the path; vendors hawking from their carts; musicians plucking strings in shaded alcoves. What he had meant as a residence, Sita had transformed into a community.
âLook, the general!â exclaimed one boy, as he skipped toward Acacius. Another clutched his cloak. âAcacius! Acacius!â
They swarmed him without fearâforeign soldiersâ offspring and gutter orphans alike, tugging at his armour, peppering him with questions. He could not resist a smile.
âHave you come to see Sita?â a girl asked.
âShe never stops speaking of you,â another confided, all giggles and secrets.
âThe general went here, the general did that,â a boy imitated her, giggling along.
His jaw tightened. Most surprising, indeed. What did she say of him? What could she know?
âWhere is she at this hour?â he demanded at last.
âInside, inside! Come!â cried a boy, and before he could resist, a clutch of eager hands seized his gauntlets and dragged him across the mosaic floor, past the fountain where doves drank, through corridors perfumed with gulaab incense.
Acacius did not come to Lotus Hall for pleasantries, but purpose. Rumours had reached himâdisquieting whispers carried by his own informants.
Sita Devi had begun to finance an auxiliary force, a host now eight thousand strong: mercenaries, adventurers, and her own six thousand Indian warriors, supplied with provisions and arms, trained and paid in coin from vast coffers.
What did she intend with such a host? A girl so young, so newly wed, could barely think to overthrow a dynasty, could she? And yet, powerâAcacius knewâwas not always wielded with armies, but with the illusion of them.
He found her where the children claimed she would be: in the great communal bath she had restored for her quarters. The chamber was cavernous, its walls tessellated in blue-gold lapis, steam spiralling through shafts of light.
Three children shoved the doors with all their might, and they clanged shut behind him, leaving the general alone with his bride.
Sita sat obliquely in his line of sight, as though her body itself were an act of impudence. Dusky skin gleamed, her head tipped against the marble wall, eyes closed in repose. The curve of her aquiline nose, the arc of her lips, the sweep of her collarbones where the thread of mangalya sutra rested, the neat braids piled high above her crownâevery inch the sculpted image of Venus. She was wholly nude beneath, adorned only by the maroon, enduring whorls of henna etched upon her palms and feet. The water shimmered with floating petals and stalksâtuberose, sandalwood, tulasiâits fragrance ambrosian, exotic, intoxicating.
âYouâre not going to merely gape at me, are you?â called Sita, inviting laughter spilling easily from her lips. âCome join, if you are so inclined.â
Acacius cleared his throat, betrayed by his own restraint. She raised a cupped handful of water to her face, droplets coursing down her cheekbones.
âThere are latches upon these doors,â he said eventually. âWhat if some stray fool were to wander in?â
âLotus Hall allows equal admission, stray fools alike,â she replied blithely, eyes snapping open, black and glinting.
âLotus Hall,â he scoffed, as if the name itself were a jest. âI have neverââ
She moved, gliding through the steaming pool with a grace half-serpentine, half-regal. The murky water barely broke against her shoulders as she drifted to the ledge. Propping her chin upon crossed arms, she gazed up at him from her lashes with a radiant grin.
âNever what?â
More troubling to him than her words was the silence of his own mind. General Acacius had known queens, courtesans, even emperorsâ daughters, yet none had ever rendered him so utterly undone. His discipline, his Roman steelâwavered before the insolence of an unfamiliar girl who treated him as quarry.
And sure enough, he bent the knee, lowering himself until his face was level with hers. Tuberose bouquet enfeebled his tongue.
âWhat are your intentions here, princess?â he asked, every syllable hard against his teeth.
She puckered her lips, then broke into that wicked grin again. âIn a bath? Why, to wash myself, of course. And perhapsââ her eyes sparkled, amused, âto make you watch.â
He gave a short, startled cough, morphing the sound into a grumble. âI meant with what youâve been about. The soldiers. The gold. The auxiliaries you raise in my city.â
Her head tilted, lashes lowering in make-believe thought. âAh, that,â she said softly, as though the matter were of little weight. âThey are merely men who hunger to serve, who you have left passive in the streets of your empire. I gave them purpose.â
Acaciusâs voice dropped into a growl. âYou raise six thousand of your own countrymen, two thousand in mine, arm them with my steel, provision them from my coffersââ
âYour steel and coffers?â she interrupted, slipping into a soft laugh. âYou mean mine.â
âYours?â he echoed.
âFrom the dowries your emperors so eagerly counted. Maharaja Devanshâs wealth, spent as his daughter must spend it.â The water rippled as she leaned forward. âWould you rather they squander their loyalty upon foes, General? Or that they spend it here, beneath my roof, their swords sworn to us?â
He probed her, scepticism sharpened by fascination. His campaigns had taught him to crush rebellion in its crib, and yet here, in this aromatic bath, rebellion wore the face of a young, unreasonable girlâand he found his hand stayed.
âYou play a treacherous game, princess,â he murmured. âMy country does not suffer foreign queens who rally troops.â
âAnd yet your country crowns foreign wives who bear sons,â she returned swiftly. âTell meâam I to be less than them because I am clever?â
His gaze swept over her, taking in the sheen of her skin, the defiance in her eyes, the unflinching curve of her mouth.
At last, Acacius exhaled through his nose. âSo this is your foolish pursuit,â he said lowly, âto carve power from the shadows, to crown yourself as a queen.â
âNot I.â
The bathwater sloshed as she shifted nearer, one hand rising, warmer from the water, to cup the hard line of his jaw. Her fingers traced the bristle of his beard, her thumb sliding upward, lingering along the temple where warâs years had graven their claim.
âYou,â she whispered. âI want you to rule Rome.â
The silence that followed was a suspension of time itself. Acacius, breaker of men, veteran of endless wars, felt in that moment the scale of what she wasâa strength his legions could not encircle and Rome itself had never accounted for. It would later be said that the course of an empire bowed in that chamber, though not a single scribe set quill to parchment this event.
His sneer was the last armour he possessed. He caught her wrist, though without force. âYou would attempt to sow seeds of mutiny in me?â
âYou said it yourself,â she countered, the sly gleam of mischief in her eyes. âRome does not suffer foreign queens. Better you take the throne, and I bear your children to wear it after you.â
It was temptation spoken aloud, as compelling as it was difficult. For any lesser man, such a promise would have been the end.
âI would ratherââ he began, a growl rising in his throat.
But she palmed his mouth, silencing him with a sudden intimacy. âSsh.â
The scent of henna clung to her skin, earthy, pungent. Words died against her palm, his disregard strangled by touch. He could have wrested free, barked heresy to scour her boldness away. But instead, he let go of her wrist, let her claim his silence, let her hands wander.
âDo not curse in my home,â she murmured, her eyes fastened on the lips she covered.
She reached with her other hand, threading damp fingers into his silver-threaded curls, arranging them back behind his ear, as though he were hers to adorn.
âI wish you would stay here with me,â she whispered, a shard of yearning slicing through the armour of pride. âSleep beside me. Simply be here, in my arms.â
His eyes closed. His jaw tensed beneath her palm, and Acacius managed, âYouâd have a body, with no soul to hold.â
âWhy would you say something that awful?â she asked, eyes going dim, heavy as a dirge.
When at last he opened his eyes, they blazed. âBecause I am bound by vows and duty that I cannot forsake, that mock me.â
âI made vows, too,â she whispered, touching the mangalsutra at her collar. âI have tied myself to you for seven lifetimes. I would rather be damned than be parted from you.â
His breath caught, his chest rising like a man straining against invisible bonds. For a beat, he almost yieldedâbent to her, let himself sink into the abyss she tore with her words. But he wrenched himself back with all the might that had carried him through twenty campaigns and a thousand battlefields.
âThen live damned and alone,â he muttered.
It occurred finallyâthe rupture. The smallest tremor in her face, as though glass struck by an unseen pebble. For all her bravado, all her guile, sadness flickered through, painfully human, the anguish of one who offers everything and receives absence in return.
When he abruptly rose from his knees, her hands falling from his skin, he did not command her to disband her forces. He merely cautioned her.
âShould you fall, princess, you will do so on your own.â
To which Sita answered, unsparing: âI shall not fall.â
Casually, she extended one slender arm, motioning to the armoire near the door. âMy robes, please.â
It might have been the smallest act of service, yet in the telling, it lingered. Marcus Acacius crossed the room at her bidding, lifted the silken garment, but instead of passing it across the distance, he unfurled it and held it out, waiting, now attendant to his wife.
He turned his head aside as she stepped from the bath, water cascading from her, heady with of tulasi and tuberose. No matter how fiercely he averted his eyes, her warmth brushed against him, her scent enveloped him. She bound the robes across her chest, the simplest veil of modesty.
It was then, perhaps seeking to cut the cord of tension, that he asked her, âHave you found another who holds your interest? Someone to anchor these oaths you adore so much?â
Her answer was fringed in mirth and a sniffle. âHe stands before me now, slivering my heart.â
A cruel mercy, those words. They slew deeper than any blade, for Acacius felt a different war within him. To see her so young, her affections given so wholly, and yet so unrequitedâit pierced him with a misery he would never name. For what should have been wild and free in her heart was only tethered to futility.
Then came the creak of the door and a gentle rap. A handmaiden slipped inside, her eyes darting between the two, reading the mood in the chamber.
âDevi?â she asked, hesitant.
âJi, aaiye, Aisha,â Sita allowed, stepping back from Acacius. A warmth gone, leaving behind only the cold place where he had stood. (Yes, come in, Aisha.)
âThe handmaiden crept in, head bowed, veil drawn low, bearing a folded letter with both hands for her. âRajkumari, aapke liye ek aur patra hai.â (Princess, there is another letter for you.)
Before she could scurry away, Sita asked sharply. âKiska patra? Phir se mahal?â (From who? Again, the palace?)
The girl dipped her chin. âJi⊠mahal se hai.â (Yes, from the palace.)
A hissing breath escaped Sitaâs lips. âHow frustrating.â
She snapped open the seal with unceremonious fingers, her eyes skimming the page. Beside her, Acacius leaned in uninvited, catching sight of the imperial summons. A commandâan order for her presence at the palace.
Before Acacius could speak, before he could demand why she had delayed this long, Sita, with willful calm, folded the parchment once more and pushed it beneath the surface of the bath. The ink bled, words dissolving into a black smear across the clear waters of tuberose.
The handmaiden gasped, horrified. Acacius stared, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of shock. Few men had dared defy the twin emperors so openly. None had done it with so little care.
âYour audacity will cost you dearly, princess,â he murmured
Sita only watched the letter as it sank until the waters swallowed it whole. Then she looked at him, eyes like tempered onyx.
âWhat is Rome that I must bow to it?â she asked. âI crossed seas for you alone, General. If these keen emperors wish to see me, let them step into my hall.â
LOBHA (à€Čà„à€) | GENERAL MARCUS ACACIUS
PART I of SITA UNTOLD
LOBHA: GREED, AVARICE, MATERIAL DESIRE, HOARDING.
-> READ MASTERLIST HERE AND LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST HERE.
SUM -> The Kushan dynasty of India is under threat from Rome's formidable general.
W.C -> 7K+
C.W -> 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, third-person POV (as historic retelling), Sanjay-Leela-Bhansali-esque, polyamory, court politics, misogyny.
PROLOGUE
The tragic tale of the battle-scarred Roman general and his especially younger, foreign-born bride was never meant to be written into history. The scrolls do not speak of her, save in rumour of the ignorant. Some often say Marcus Acacius never once laid his gaze upon the Indian princess who came to him, abhorred the so-called vicious viper and her nest, and kept faith only with his first wife, Lucilla. Others whisper that she enchanted him, and that it was for her sake he raised the gleaming sanctuary of Lotus Hall, a glory of marble and gilt, shrouded in Romeâs shadow. What is certain is this: the princess perished within two years, by her own hand, swallowing a vial of datura, thornapple. Of what passed between themâfar from our eyes, within the fragrant halls where history leaves no inkânone can say.
The chronicles end here. Yet to informally speak of Acacius and Sita, one must return to the day their fates first crossed.
It was the tenth night of Navratri, the festival of triumph, the swell of Dusshera. As with every corner of the kingdom, the Kushan court was irradiated with vermilion rangoli and garlands of champa, jasmine and marigold; the floor resounded with the clash of dandiya sticks, the swirl of red-and-gold lehengas in a spin of garba dance, the thunder of dhol, shehnai and nagadas.
The young Rajkumari was seen dancing with the visiting prince of the Pandiyan dynasty, her dresses and jewellery jangling as she circled with him, her laughter gilding the air. The prince seemed to be taken by her, but who would not? If all went well, they would be wedded by the end of the month.
In the midst of this sacred revel, with gods invoked and demons conquered in dance, Rome came.
General Marcus Justus Acacius laid siege to the capital at dusk, astride his bloody stallion, his iron phalanx and river of steel surging through the gates. Women screamed, men drew their swords in like, priests scattered with their conches dropped mid-blast, drums whistled, and great horses tracked gore across floors, their hooves crushing offerings. Smoke ribboned where torches were flung, eating through the banners and jasmines, and the arrows struck.
At the threshold of the court, the Rome incarnate, Acacius, raised his sword and levelled its point at the Kushan Maharaja. A hush fell, broken only by the distant wails of frightened children.
âSo falls India,â the chroniclers say he declared. âAnd so begins Rome.â
His soldiers spread in a circle, shields braced, blades gnashing, spears glinting. The kingâs courtiers shrank into shades, but one figure stood her ground.
Sita Devi, her anklets chiming as she faltered back into the arms of the rushing Pandiyan prince, eyes unflinching though her skirt quavered in the rising wind. The generalâs horse whinnied at her presence, and in that pause, timber met fire: their gazes locked, and a juncture unspokenârecognition, defianceâpassed between them.
Acacius turned to the court, his voice carrying, merciless. âTerms were offered...â he said. His gaze returned to Sita, lingering upon her with the faintest curl of interest, as though the gods themselves had marked her out. â...and refused. I have twenty thousand men at my helm; I claim this city for the glory of Rome.â
To her alone, he murmured, âWoe to the conquered.â Then, raising his voice to echo against stone and banners alike, he hollered, âVae victis!â
And thus the Navratri of victory ended in destruction, and the story of Acacius and Sita began, with no vows or coronation, whereas with blood on the temple steps.
No man was more feared within Swarna Mahal, stronghold of the Kushans, than Marcus Acacius during his three-day sojourn. The Roman general walked the golden mirror halls because they did belong to him now, and the courtiers whispered that even the marble floors seemed to quiver beneath his tread.
And no king was more imperilled than Maharaja Devansh, king of the Kushan throne, who sat between his three sons in his council chamberâeach ravenous in his own way.
It was past midnight when the sons of the throne gathered in the kingâs quarters, voices hushed. There, with the sound of foxes keening in the distance, they debated the matter of Rome and its effects.
Prince Mahveer, the eldest, spoke first, iron-voiced, if not wise. He poured from a pitcher of wine. âBetter that we send one of our own to watch them, study their ways. Our Raju has been taught the Dharmasastra and Jyotisha since boyhood. Rome respects augury; let him serve, and thus serve us.â
Dharmasastra, which was the study of law, order, duty and restraint, and Jyotisha, sacred astrology, the study of stars and their alignments. Roman elites were famously obsessed with omens and celestial signs, and the oldest prince saw this as an opportunity.
Prince Rajveer, the second son, leaned forward, eager, uncertain. He took the offered cup of wine from Mahveer. âIf Rome holds me close, they hold Kushan close as well. To bend the fate of Rome is to bend the world.â
âThen bind them with counsel,â Mahveer hissed.
The youngest, Prince Ranveer, laughed bitterly, who would rather serve as a master than a servant. âBind them? Bhai, you would rather bend the knee. Better a prisoner here than a prince in their cage.â
The king said nothing, simply stroking his beard as his thoughts were cloaked in silent judgment.
Yet in another chamber, at another hour, within the Antahpura, the princessâs quarters, his young daughter had already seen further than her tedious brothers. At rising dawn, Sita Devi knelt before her father, her head on his lap, her voice soft.
âYou would send a son to Rome, pitaji?â
âI see no other path to our reprieve,â murmured the Maharaja, stroking her hair with a heavy hand. âHaving a Kushan prince so close to the Senate...â
âA son in their court is no diplomat,â she said. âA prince bowing his head is dishonour. Yeh adharma he.â (This is an injustice.)
The king sighed, burdened. âYour brothers will not hear tell anymore. And I am too exhausted to row with them.â
âThey speak of dharma,â she spurred on, âbut that is not sealed by words, nor are the stars strong enough to sway the emperors. What Rome respectsâwhat Rome obeysâis blood.â (Justice.)
âBlood?â he echoed, frowning. âWe answer with war?â
âMarriage,â Sita whispered.
The kingâs voice grew sharp. âBas, Sita. Tum mere aradhyon ka apman karoge?â (Enough, Sita. You would disgrace my revered gods this way?)
âPitaji, sunhiye. Shaanth raho,â she gently urged. (Father, listen to me. Please be calm.)
He continued to bluster. âYeh kaise ho saktha hai, ammu? An Indian princess, my daughter, sent to a faithless land, to a man such as that, as old and boundââ (How can this be, darling?)
âIs still sanctified,â she cut across him, her eyes unflinching.
âMeri jaan,â he said, his voice faltering, his hand cupping her cheek as if to hold her still, âI cannot part with you this way, nor will your mother. Such rare a jewel should not be cast upon foreign crowns. You will summon generous kings in time, ammuâmen of power who would keep you protected, cherished, exalted.â (My life.)
But she only leaned closer, her anklets whispering over marble. âA daughter binds what sons cannot. Houses. Faith. Empires. If you would make peace, do not send a son to serve.â
âBeti,â he tried.
She rose to her feet, towering over her father in his seat. âOffer a princess, Maharaj, and let Rome see our sovereignty. That is dharma.â
The Maharaja looked upon her then, a daughter speaking out of turn, as daughters often did, but his gaze wavered too long, as though he glimpsed, for the first time, not a child but a sovereign in waitingâa jewel, yes, but one honed to a spear.
And so, where the sons spoke of treaties and service, the daughter spoke of dominion. History remembers which counsel the king heeded, and the princes did not take it kindly.
âThat cunning bitch has poured her honey into Pitajiâs ears!â Mahveer spat as he stormed from the council chamber, his sandals striking the stone.
Acacius passed them at that very moment, cloak sweeping, his cold gaze grazing the prince. The doors groaned shut behind him, locking in the silence of the Maharajaâs court.
Ranveer caught up to his oldest brother, glancing at the council doors, hot on his heels. âSita? What has she done?â
Mahveer was heard to condemn her; his words were softened in later retellings.
âWhat whores will always do best,â he said, lips curling. âOpen her legs and snare the general in her royal cunt.â
Ranveer blinked, half-relieved. âThen at least she is removed from us, bhai. We are finally rid of that snake.â
âMoodh!â Mahveer spat, eyes blazing, turning on him. âOne step beneath the emperor is all she needs. Weâve handed her the knife and pointed her to the throne, now count the days till she buries it in our backs.â (Fool.)
Rajveer, the gentler of the three, more affectionate toward their sister, sought to soothe them. âSita is but a child. She cannot know the price of being chosen. This reeks of Acaciusâ scheme, not hers.â
âWhy,â Mahveer snapped, âwould a Roman general, husband to Marcus Aureliusâ daughter, sully himself with a foreign princess?â
Rajveer sighed. âBecause she is our sister. And her title is of advantage to the general if he vies for the throne.â
Ranveer groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. âHai Ram⊠will we never be free of her mischiefs? Even now, she plots to rise higher!â
âDonât we all,â Rajveer muttered to himself.
And so the princes quarrelled, each fearing her in his own wayâMahveer with hatred, Rajveer with doubt, Ranveer with weary dread. Yet all three knew the truth rumoured in the halls of Swarna Mahal: their sister had spoken, and the king had followed suit.
Thus it was that Maharaja Devansh reached out to General Acacius, offering his only daughter in marriage, with the lands that stretched along the sacred Ganges and tributaries as her dowry, and with it, the promise of Kushan autonomy. When this proved too meagre for Romeâs appetite, he added every precious jewel in his treasury, a host of six thousand, each handpicked for valour and skill, the gift of secure trade routes and iron weapons forged in his own foundries for as long as his line persists.
But the Roman remained unmoved.
âI have a wife, your grace,â Acacius said in bored disdain. âI have no need of a second. And as for this one so...â
His gaze turned to the princess, veiled by her dupatta at her fatherâs side. Though her head was bowed, her eyes strayed to himâcurious, watchful, bold.
âCallow,â he said at last, testing the word.
The Maharaja lifted his chin. âCallow she may be, but unwise she is not. My Sita commands seven tongues, including Latin. She has been schooled by the greatest of my sages, versed in the laws of kings, skilled with sword and stratagem. She is most adored by her people for her poetryââ
Acaciusâ mouth quirked in biting amusement. âA rare yield indeed.â
âShe is also untouched,â the king amended, with pointed gravity.
At that, the general gave a deep, rough laugh, a sound more mocking than mirthful. âDo you mean to bestow her upon me as a broodmare?â
âI seek to grant you a legacy,â the Maharaja replied firmly. âWhat good is power, if it dies with its bearer?â
Acaciusâ granite jaw tightened. âPower alone keeps my hand steady.â
âBut strong seeds cast on barren soil do not take root, General,â His eyes gleamed with cruel mirth. âYou need a greener earthâand I offer you fertile ground.â
At his side, Sitaâs hand curled into her skirts, her composure shaken. The generalâs gaze flicked toward her and lingeredâfor he had seen it, the disquiet flashing across that otherwise tranquil face.
It is to be noted that accounts vary on what happened next. Some record that Sita Devi herself requested a private audience with the General not long after the Maharajaâs discussion, though what transpired within those walls belonged to none but the two.
Allegedly, she held her tongue in the beginning, while Acacius rose from his seat, the iron of his armour creaking like a beast roused from slumber. He stood before herâtall, weathered, striking, handsome, toweringâattempting, as was his way, to cow her into submission.
âThe kingâs dowries persuade me, though you ought to understand,â he said, âthat even if I agree to wed you, it shall be in name only. My heart lies with Lucilla.â
Sita lifted her dupatta, arranging it over her brow, and aimed a dazzling smile. âYour heart is of no consequence to me, General.â
The sight of her face arrested him; her familiarity unsettled him. âThen what is it you want?â he asked.
âI want you.â
âWant me from afar. That is all Iâll allow.â
She ignored him, alight with conviction. âAnd yet, one day you will admit differently. That sweet wife of yours will wither in time, but Iââ she raised her eyesââI am evergreen.â
Acacius studied her, torn between amusement and ire. âYour silver tongue begs taming...â
His hand rose to her chin, tilting it upwards, as if needing to see her entirely.
âO, mira res,â he breathed, eyes drinking her in. (Oh, you marvellous thing.)
By now, it must be apprehended that Sita Devi was as much an enigma to her own people as she would prove to the daunting Roman. She bore every hallmark of a high-born princess of the Kushans: dusky skin, long hair black as polished obsidian, eyes darkened with kohl until they gleamed onyx. Hers was a beauty that seared, harsh and fierce, that people feared to look upon her too long. Yet beauty was not her only inheritance; those who knew her best claimed she was pious to her gods, as constant in prayer as she was bold in argument. She delighted in small amusements, a clutch of bangles or a stray rabbit, laughed easily, and, in secret, composed verses that were said to rival the courtly poets. There was in her a strange marriage of gravity and mirth, austerity and indulgence, as though the goddess and courtesan dwelt in one body.
Whilst no one had ever questioned her virginity, the whispers were invariable, and some swear she kept close a young Persian scholar, a man of quick wit and soft features, and that she pleasured him often in her chambers. This claim has been dismissed in the later scrolls as a fallacy.
Thus was Sita Devi: devout and a dilemma, a princess who could be sung as saint or damned as sorceress, depending on whose quill told the tale.
âThis untamed tongue,â Sita answered him, resolute, âhas conditions for you before I am yours.â
The general arched his brows. âBy all means, princess. Enlighten me.â
âFirst,â she said, âI will not abandon my gods. Rome shall have my service, but I shall keep my faith, carry my murti and worship as I have been taught.â
Acacius tilted his head, amused. âA saintly bride. I can tolerate as much.â
âSecond,â she prompted, âI will not be quartered with your Lucilla. I will not be your concubine in all but name. I am to be your wife, and you will treat me as such. Give me my own hall, my own court, far from hers. Do not shame me, nor her, before your people.â
He laughed darkly. âWe Romans mind little enough whose bed a man keeps, or how many halls his wives possess.â
âBut I will mind,â Sita cut across, âand I will not stand for it.â
Here, too, the accounts diverge. Some say Acacius laughed outright, struck by her audacity; others whisper that he only stared, his jaw flexing, as though she had named aloud the terms of a war. A reckless girl, perhaps, or the fire of a queen.
âAll this, only for you to take a lover later?â he asked, mocking her.
Her eyes flared, enraged. âBy my gods, I will bind myself to one man, and one alone, until death takes me.â
His large thumb rose to her mouth, pushing lightly against her lower lip, tracing the softness as though mapping forbidden terrain. He would if he could chart continents thereâoceans in the curves, valleys in the dimples, an empire in the arc.
âThen these sweet breaths,â he murmured, his quiet exhale grazing her cheek, âthey belong to me now? To take, to tame, to taste?â
Her gaze flickered, drawn inexorably to his mouth. âYours.â
Silence fell, taut as a drawn bowstring, neither daring to loose it first.
âAnd if I desire nothing of you?â he asked.
The corner of her lips curved beneath his touch. âYou will, General. In time, you will.â
He studied her a moment longer as one might study a worthy opponent. He let out a soft huff, equal parts laugh and exhale.
âSo this is the famed Indian prideâsharp-tongued and unyielding.â His fingers lingered at her jaw. âExquisite. You wear it well.â
Her lashes lowered as she leaned into his touch. âYou accept my terms, then?â
âIâve taken many kingdoms by force.â His eyes held hers. âThis I will take with pleasure.â
No words of the Maharajâs sons could salve the wound their sisterâs hasty nuptials carved into Kushan pride. The lords of the dynasty, devout and indignant, condemned the union and spoke forthrightly of the princess, styling her âAcaciusâs whoreââthough later scribes would soften the epithet into âmistress.â
Yet Sita Devi stood unwavering. When the high priest refused to preside, she summoned her cousinâyoung shishya, pliant, and piousâto invoke the Saptapadi. Thus, on the third day following Dusshera, while the embers of victory processions yet cooled, she and the Roman general circled the sacred fire seven times, binding themselves for seven lifetimes. The gods were called to witness the Agniyajna, a promise upon flames, alongside her brooding brothers, her weeping parents, and a court divided between outrage and awe.
Saptasaptaya visnuh, they promised, unwittingly or otherwise, a sacred invocation to be united under the witness of Vishnu, the Protector, affirmingâI bind my life to yours, in this world and the next.
Around her neck was looped the mangalya sutra, a thread holier and heavier than all the emeralds and sapphires that adorned her that day. Draped in silks, crimson and gold, she bore the poundage of a noose disguised as an ornament.
For his part, Acacius seemed content to abide by these exotic rites. The tilak was smeared upon her widowâs peak, her hands reached down to her parentsâ feet for their aashirvaadh, and though the customs clashed and the tongues faltered, neither bride nor groom voiced objection. Some say both had long anticipated the moment; others rumour it was the inevitability of politics that chained them together, not choice.
On their wedding night, the marriage lay unconsummated. Acacius withdrew to solitude, while Sitaâs mother, Maharani Ruhi Devi, kept vigil at her daughterâs side. Together, in silence broken only by muffled sobs, they gathered what could be borne across an ocean: her Krishna murti, a handful of treasured silks, her swords, her books, her poetry, her quill, her dowry gemstones bulky as grief itself. Even her favourite sweetmeats and spiced confections were packed to last the cruel voyage to Ostia.
Thus was the princess prepared, one last timeâas a bride embarking upon exile under the pall of Rome.
âMeri jaan,â she had quietly sobbed into her daughter's shoulder, âwhy must it come to this? Why must my light cross the sea?â
âMa,â Sita soothed, stroking her back. âI will come visit you soon. I am merely an ocean away.â
âNahin,â she sniffled, and wiped her eyes. âI would sooner have you here, beside me, than see you sail away with him. Let the General rot with his old wife in his courtâwhy must you bear this exile?â (No.)
ââTis not exile,â she whispered.
The Maharani gripped her hand tight. âYour brothers are plotting, my child. Do you not see? They will not forgive this slight.â
She giggled through a thin sheen of tears. âAjeeb hai, ma. I always thought brothers were meant to be guardians of their sisters.â (This is strange.)
Her motherâs face hardened through grief. âThey fear you; that is why they wound you. A daughter who shines brighter than sons is a curse to weak men.â
It was not hatred she had earned, but burned colder. Her father had schooled her as he had her brothersâtutored her in statecraft, stratagem, and the bladeâand she had risen as high as any of them. Higher, perhaps.
They had answered not with rivalry, but rejection. When she came of age, maidenhood became her; they ceased to treat her as an equal and cast her aside. To them, she was no longer a sister, but a pawn. A mere political headache, which they would tolerate till it was time to deliver her to another lineage. Not much had deviated from their predictions.
âWrite to me,â her mother urged. âAs often as you can. May the gods grant you peace of mind, wherever you are sent.â
Sita nodded, though her throat had closed.
The Maharani hesitated, her voice lowering to a whisper sharp with fear. âAnd if he violates your virtueâŠâ
Sita stiffened, concealing the tremor in her breath. âThat will not happen.â
But her mother pressed a cold object into her palmâa vial wrought of gold, small enough to vanish in her fist. Within, the deadly extract of datura, thorn-apple, bitter as gall and quicker than any sword. The one poison Sita was yet to build an immunity against.
âIf that Roman, or anyone, takes from you what is not theirs,â the Maharani insisted in a whisper, tears glistening on her lashes, âremember what I taught you.â
Sita sobbed aloud now, âDeath is swifter than dishonour.â
It was said that Sita wept then, clinging to her mother as a child would, knowing this would be the last she would ever get to do this, while chroniclers swear she merely closed her hand around the vial and bowed her head, accepting the gift as one queen to another: a weapon and a reprieve, ultimately foreshadowing the legend of her death.
Nigh on a month later, Acacius and Sita descended upon Rome with their fleetsâironclad warships and timbered longboats, sails billowing as wings of carrion birds. Twenty-six thousand soldiers in total, scarred from desert, most born of Kushan forces, returned across the wine-dark sea. And with them came one princess, swathed in foreign silks, as if to mock the Roman eagle itself.
So they hove to in the azure waters of Ostia, the salt spray kissing their prows, the mouth of the Tiber stretched, leading to the beating heart of the empire.
Rome was calling.
And it called with two voices: one of conquest, another of fear.
For the Roman crowds lined the banks not only to welcome their general but to gape at the dusky princess by his side. To some, she was his trophy, to others, his curse. Whispers ran through the crowdâbut none could deny the spectacle.
Acacius had gone east as Romeâs hammer and returned with a bride who was no Roman, no Greek, not even of the provinces. An Indian princess, blooded in unorthodox rites, crowned beneath gods Rome did not worship, and bringing with her unions bound by fire.
The Senate bristled. The Emperors Geta and Caracalla seethed. The lords of Rome muttered that Acacius returned as sovereign in his own right, his army too loyal, his bride too dangerous, his glory too great. And dutiful Lucilla, his first wife, was nowhere to be found.
As for Sita Devi, the scrolls divide, though often it is documented that she walked on, chin raised, grin wide, her kohl-dark eyes glittering, as though she had come to Rome to claim it as her dowry.
The city certainly trembled upon their arrival. Rome had braved Parthian princes, Numidian queens, and barbarian chieftainsâbut never before an Indian princess, arm-in-arm with a general who commanded both her hand and now thirty thousand swords.
Thus began what some call the marriage of empires, and others the sowing of Romeâs undoing.
Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader
Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Chapter Summary: He stood in this exact spot the night before he diedâor nearly died. Before you brought him back. His honesty brought Ellie back into his life; now itâs time for him to be honest with you.
Chapter Warnings: joel miller realizing feelings (yay!), tommy miller best brother award, fear, anxiety, guns, infected, beans, peach pie, flowers, smut, joel miller eating pussy, a beatles song (but in my head it's Kurt Cobain's cover)
Words: 6,850
A/N: Well folks, you should thank my TERRIBLE editing skills. There was supposed to be a day between the last chapter and this chapter, but I forgot to change "tomorrow" to two days as I was mapping out the chapter (like literally in my head it was two days I actually missed it during EVERY EDIT) and then everyone got nervous! I'm so sorry, but because I felt so bad I dedicated most of yesterday to writing this chapter. This one is huge and I know I said the last chapter was my favorite, but now it's this one. A lot of Healed has been leading up to this chapter.
Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3
Masterlist
Previous Chapter
â-
Joel can't sleep. He squints at the alarm clock ticking on your bedside table, able to make out that itâs almost 3 AM. Youâre next to him, sleeping peacefully, but heâs wide awake. His mind canât stop racing about his feelings for you, as well as your upcoming trip outside of the tall, shielding walls that help keep you safe. He looks over at the little wooden cat figure sitting next to the clock. His future, carved by him, now sits amongst your things.
The mattress creaks beneath him when he moves, and you groan. He freezes and holds his breath until he knows youâre fully asleep again. Heâs thinking too loudly in his brain, his body is restless, and heâs going to wake you if he stays here.
He carefully moves the sheets and gets out of bed, before he grabs his pajama pants and shirt from the hook by the door. He dresses in the hallway as quietly as he can before heading downstairs, avoiding the creaky step near the bottom.
Itâs quiet when he steps onto the porch. Jackson is asleep, porch lights bright and windows dark.
Since heâs moved into this house, the porch has always been his thinking spot. He swears his brain works better when heâs outside sitting in his rocking chair with his guitar in his hands.
He plucks a quiet melody on the guitar, a tune he hardly remembers, but it slowly comes back to him as he lets the music try to clear his mind. Youâve become too important to him that he can barely remember what it felt like before. Sure, he was happy; he got through each day and got done what needed to be done. After Ellie pulled away, heâd resigned himself to living half a life. Half a life was better than no life.
And then, you came along and saved him. Breathed life back into his lungs and the parts of his life he thought were gone.
He's here because of you, and only you. Still alive, still living.
He was so close to seeing his Sarah again. The watch on his wrist feels heavier. She would have loved you. His daughter, forever frozen at twelve years old, would have looked at you with her bright, curious eyes and immediately decided you belonged with them. The thought doesn't hurt as much as it might have once.
He closes his eyes and imagines a futureâsomething he hasn't done in over twenty years.
Two rocking chairs on this porch. You with gray in your hair, knitting needles moving in your hands as you rock back and forth. Him beside you, his hair mostly white, strumming this same guitar. Matching bands on your fingers.
He can see it so clearly that he doesn't hear the front door open. Doesnât hear the first time you say his name quietly. Doesnât notice you standing in front of him, half-lit by the porch light, wrapped in his robe.
You only get his attention when you say his name louder.
"Joel?"
He stands quickly, almost dropping the guitar in his surprise. The sight of you wearing his robe, standing on his porch, makes his heart thud heavily.
"Hey," he says.
âWhy are you out here?"
"Couldn't sleep. Didn't wanna wake ya."
"Mm. You okay?"
Itâs a simple question, but the meaning he feels behind it makes him think about just how safe he feels with you. How right his life feels with you in it. How he finds himself smiling at simple things just because you're there to share them. How you've made everything better, brighter, and worth fighting for.
"I am,â he answers.
You stand at the porch railing and rest your hands on it. He moves to stand beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you against him.
He stood in this exact spot the night before he diedâor nearly died. Before you brought him back. His honesty brought Ellie back into his life; now itâs time for him to be honest with you.
"When you come back from your trip," he starts, the words almost stopping in his throat. "I-I don't want you to leave."
You look up at him. "Joel, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving Jackson."
"I know that, but..." He swallows hard. "I want you to stay here, in my house, with me. Not just because you saved my life and I owe you everything for it, but becauseâ" a tear escapes, tracing a path down his cheek, he breathes in heavily, an almost sob escaping his throat, "I love you."
"Joel," you say softly, tears beginning to well in your eyes. Then a smile lifts your lips. "I love you too."
It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to cradle your face as he kisses you, soft, gentle, loving. You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your smile matching his own.
"I love you," you say again.
"Repeat it," he whispers.
"I love you."
He rests his forehead against yours. "I love you too."
You reach for his hand and squeeze it. "Come on," you say. "Come back to bed with me."
â-
As Joel leads you up the steps, your hand in his, your mind reels with everything that's led you to this momentâthis house, this man, this life you never thought possible in the apocalypse.
You think about the journey that brought you here. The outbreak, your failed settlement, the journey to find a new home, the first sight of the people who brought you to Jackson, now your fellow residents. The hope that lit in your heart at the first sight of the large, protective walls.Â
You learned in the cruelty of the world you live in now that hope was dangerous. Hope got people killed. But you were a doctor, you healed people and gave others hope.Â
And the gates had opened. Maria had interviewed you, her eyes widening when you mentioned your medical background. "We always need more doctors," she'd said, and just like that, you had a town.
Then, not even a day later, the attack. The screams, the gunshots, the chaos. Maria grabbing your arm, her face grim as she led you through the death and destruction of Main Street.
Joel, his blood-soaked and gray face, his body covered in wounds, some catastrophic. You spent hours, stitching and cleaning and hoping. Hope gets people killed, but this time, hope made Joel Miller live.
Weeks of quiet and loneliness while you kept Joel alive. Teaching him to walk again, one painful step at a time. His gruff frustration warring with his quiet determination. The moment you realized you were looking forward to seeing him each day. The realization that you were falling in love with him.
And now here you are in his bedroom, which now feels like yours.
When you untie Joelâs robe and hang it on the hook, you can feel his eyes on you. He gets undressed and slides under the covers, holding them open for you.
Youâre barely fully in bed when he pulls you close and kisses your lips. Your hands find his chest, running them up and down his broad, warm body.
Joel pulls away, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. âNow, go back to sleep. You must be well-rested for tomorrow, baby.â
You donât listen, instead, you climb on top of him before he can stop you, straddling his hips with your thighs.
You love him. Words aren't enough tonight. You need to feel him, all of him.
"Baby, you gotta sleep," he protests, though his hands settle on your waist. "I need you rested tomorrow."
"No," you whisper, grinding down on top of him. "I'll be fine."
He grunts a noise between pleasure and concern. You bend down, your lips brushing against his ear before you whisper, "I want to make love."
Joel groans, his hands tighten on your waist, then slide up your back. "I love you," he whispers.
You moan at the feel of him pressing against you, the sound of his deep voice telling you, and only you, heâs in love with you. You rock against him, bringing your hand down to curl around his length, rubbing the wet tip of him against your clit before you line him up and slowly sink down on him. His hands tighten on your hips, his neck straining as he grits your name out.
Itâs always so desperate and needy for each other. You both can no longer silence the want and need for one another. Youâre allowed to take now, to want. Youâre in love.
Heâs panting, trembling underneath you, his arms band around you, tightening and holding you impossibly close. Your lips find his, breaths panting against each other, swallowing each other's moans and declarations of love.
Your body knows his rhythm, your cunt slowly rising and lowering on top of his wide, solid cock. The thick pressure of him pulsing against your walls.
Your hands rest against his cheeks, feeling the sweet prickle of his beard against your palms, your thumb brushing against the heart-shaped patch of hair missing from his jawline.
You make love slowly, savoring each sensation, your lips against his, your voices incanting your love for one another as you reach the peak with him, taking and losing your breath with each roll of your hips.
âGoddamn,â he pants, âyou feel so good.â
His eyes shine up at you in the near-darkness. He runs his hands down your back, palms splayed wide and hot, searing you with his touch as you pick up the pace, your breath coming faster as you grind down on him, your cunt clutching him so deep inside. He meets you, his hips bucking up to fill you, to make you feel as one. You drag your lips across his jaw, along the hot skin of his throat, tasting the slight salt of Joel. Youâre obsessed with feeling the beat of his pulse against your lips, the thud thud thud of life coursing through him. The life you gave back to him, the life you want to live with him.
His grunts vibrate against your tongue as you lick your way back to his lips, tasting his needy sounds. He leans up, his tongue tangling with yours, your foreheads pressed against each other, softly knocking against one anotherâs as you ride him.
Itâs slow, itâs vital. Like the first time he was awake, the first steps he took, the first kiss you sharedâfull of hope and desperation for each other.
Joelâs shaking under you, the tension he holds in him radiating out, one hand clutched against the back of your neck, one against your hip.
Youâre boundless by everything Joel has given you; you see it so clearly now.
Itâs real. Itâs true. Itâs love.
Youâre overwhelmed by it, by how close you are, by how tight he holds you. Tears begin to fall from your eyes, Joel sees, kissing every drop he can that sheds from you before his lips capture yours, his tongue licking into your mouth, his desperate sounds for you leaving him and dissipating inside you.
And then, you shatter, from Joel Millerâs love for you, from the gruff way he grunts your name, from the feel of the pressure of his big cock pulsing inside you, from the way he clutches on to you like youâre the only person in the world.
Your eyes flutter shut, leftover tears trailing down your cheeks, Joelâs name repeated out of your lips. He presses you down against his chest, his heart against your ear as he fucks into you fast and hard, his skin slapping against yours, moving faster and faster as he heavily breathes the sound of your name over and over into the night. He cums inside you, with a cry of your name, his arms gluing you to him as he quakes underneath you.
"You cling to each other, gasping for air. You raise your head and look at him, his eyes are still clouded in pleasure. He looks at you, a smile lifting his lips. He strokes your back with a reverent gentleness.
âI love you,â he says. âI love you so much.â
You look into his eyes, brown and deep, holding all the love for you. âI love you too.â
The words come out so easily, before you roll off him and nuzzle close.
â-
The alarm blares at 7:40 AM. Joel grunts as he opens his eyes. You slap the clock to shush it with a groan.
"Morning,â he greets.
You smile back, that sleepy smile that he loves so much. He leans over and kisses you; it feels more sacred to him now.
He wraps his arms around you, and your head rests against his chest. You always fit so perfectly. Your hand traces lazy circles around the plush of his stomach.
"Big day ahead for you," he says, trying to sound more excited for you but losing to the undercurrent of concern in his voice.
"It is.â
Neither of you makes any move to get up. He just lies there, holding you, savoring the feel of having you in his arms, safe and warm, knowing you love him.
He glances at the clock, hating that ten minutes have already passed. âYou need to get ready,â he says reluctantly. âTommy will be here in an hour. Iâll go make breakfast.â
"No," you say, placing a hand on his chest to keep him in place. "I'll just grab some granola. I'd rather stay in bed with you."
He chuckles. "How long do we have?" he asks, his hand sliding down your back.
"I need to start getting ready in half an hour."
"Good.â
He flips you onto your back, kissing you before he trails his lips down your naked body. He licks your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, all the way down until he settles between your legs.
He looks up at you before he focuses on your pussy, a possessive furrow in his brows as he watches himself slide a finger through your folds. Your slick already covers his finger pads when he parts you slowly, reverently. He draws shapes over your clit, grinning at the little gasping noises you make for him. His finger drags lower, before he lines it up and pushes it inside, crooking his finger up and watching you squirm.
You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, his eyes settle onto yours before he leans forward and drags his tongue up your slit, circling your clit and lapping up the taste of you.
He flattens his tongue, fucking you with it, nose pressed against your clit. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping them and pulling them farther apart so he can press himself closer into you. He trails his tongue up, flicking your clit, so slow it makes you whimper his name out.Â
You sound and taste so good to him, he begins rutting his hips into the mattress, trying to give himself relief. He canât stop himself from humming against your cunt, itâs obscene how much he loves youâhow much of his every waking thought is dedicated to wanting you happy and full and safe.
âJoel,â you moan as your arms give out, your head thudding against the mattress. You grab for his hair, he smiles against your pussy when you clutch at his waves, pulling him even closer to your cunt until youâre cumming for him, grinding your pussy against his mouth as you shudder and arch. You scream his name out into the early morning air as your orgasm rolls through you.
His cock is hard and leaking, pressed to the sheet, but he waits. This is for you, always you. He drinks every drop you give him down, tracing his tongue up and down your pussy, collecting all your spilled slick.
When he pulls away, he leaves a kiss against each thigh before he crawls up beside you, his leg slightly protesting. Youâre so beautiful like this, a lazy smile across your face, your eyes are still under a haze of pleasure, but bright with love.
"Let me take care of you," you say, your hands already reaching for him.
Joel catches them gently, bringing them to his lips. "When you get back.â
You pout slightly, but he can see the understanding in your eyes. You need to get ready, you need to leave, you need to come back home to him.
The timeâs now 8:20 AM. Tommy will be here in only thirty minutes.
â-
Joelâs eyes have stayed on you, watching your every move since you got out of bed.
âI want you to have something,â he says, as he walks out of his closet with a faded olive green flannel shirt and a small box. "It's going to get cold up there, just... stick this in your backpack fâme."
You take the flannel from him, the fabric is soft from its many washes. You put it on over your t-shirt, bunching up the sleeves until they sit just below your elbows. The shirt smells like him, and you resist the urge to bury your nose in the collar of it.
"Better yet, I'll just wear it," you say, smoothing your hands down the front.
Joel freezes, his eyes darkening as he stares possessively at you. He doesnât say a thing, he just stands there, until you glance down at the box, and he follows your eyes.
"What's in there?" you ask.
âOh, uh, right.â He opens the box carefully, revealing a black revolver nestled in faded cloth.
He stares down at the gun before he speaks. "I, uh, want you to take this," he says, lifting it from the box. "You know how to shoot one, right?"
"I do.â
"Lemme see your form," Joel says, handing you the revolver.
The gun is heavy in your hand. You stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, aiming at the bedroom wall. Joel moves behind you, his chest meeting your back as his arms come around to adjust your stance.
"Elbow a little higher," he murmurs, as he gently repositions your arm. "That's it."
His hands slide down to your waist and steadies you to perfect your position.
"Now, remember to squeeze the trigger like you love it," he whispers.
Your heart beats rapidly, your breath catching when you feel his hands press harder into your skin. You close an eye, imagining you taking a shot, Joelâs presence behind you makes you feel strong.
"You feel good? Feel confident?" he asks, his lips close enough to brush against your ear.
You nod.
"Good girl," he says.Â
You swallow at his praise, at the way he grits âgirlâ out.
He steps back, allowing you to lower the gun. "I know they'll have guns," he says, "but I want you to keep this on you just in case. And if there's anything at allâanythingâyou call me on the radio and I will do everything I can to come get you, okay?"
Your heart drops when you see the serious look in his eyes and hear the protective tone in his voice.
"Okay," you nod, carefully placing the gun inside your backpack.
You glance at the clock on the bedside table. Only fifteen minutes until Tommy will be here.
â-
Joel holds you silently in the living room, both of you swaying slightly in each other's arms. Your backpack sits ready by the front door. He breathes you in, trying to commit you to his memory as much as he can.
Thereâs a quick set of knocks before you both can pull away, the front door swings open, and Tommy steps inside. You jump apart, but it's too late, heâs already seen you in each other's arms. Tommyâs eyes widen, then a wide smile spreads across his face. "Well, good mornin,g love birds."
Both of you donât say a word, Joel canât even roll his eyes.
Tommy holds up two radios, mercifully changing the subject. "One for you, and one for you. Chuck says he's trusting you two."
Joel takes the radios, his only way of knowing you're safe. He hands one to you. "Check in with me when you can. Okay?" he says, unable to keep the note of concern from his voice.
You nod, looking up at him with understanding in your eyes. "I will."
His eyes stay on yours, both of you trying to silently communicate just how much youâll miss each other.
Tommy clears his throat. "We need to get going 'n meet everyone else. I'll just be on the porch."
Once the door shuts, you hug Joel tightly.
"I'll be safe," you say against his chest. "I'll come back to you. I promise."
"I know you will.â
He kisses you, his hands moving to cradle your face. When he pulls away, he stares into your eyes, trying to tell you everything he feels without words.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too," you respond.
He gives you one last squeeze before he reluctantly lets you go.
He picks up your backpack by the door and lifts it, holding it for you while you slip your arms through the straps. He adjusts it on your shoulders, making sure it sits comfortably.
"You have everything?" he asks.
"I do," you respond, reaching into the chest pocket of his flannel and pulling out the carved wooden Jefferson figure. He smiles at the sight of it before you place it back in your pocket.
Joel follows you onto the porch where Tommy waits, trying not to think about how empty the house will feel without you in it.
"Ready?" Tommy asks, a knowing smile on his face.
âYep,â you respond.Â
Heâs so proud of you, he tries to remind himself that, even if the pit in his stomach digs deeper as you get closer and closer to leaving.
You turn and hug Joel once more, your arms wrapping around his waist. He closes his eyes and presses his lips against your forehead. When he opens them, he catches Tommy watching, a knowing smile on his brother's face, before he looks away.
Joel angles his head down and kisses you. "I love you," he whispers against your lips. âCheck in with me and come home to me.â
"I love you too. Iâll be back soon,â you say before pulling away.
"I'll take care of her," Tommy says. "Like I said⊠as if sheâs my own."
Joel nods. âThanks, Tommy."
He stays on the porch as you and Tommy head down the path toward the gate, where the rest of the expedition team will be gathering. Before you turn the corner, you turn back, looking over your shoulder at him still standing there.
He mouths âI love you,â and you smile back with a nod, and then, you turn the corner, disappearing from his view.
A fear he hasn't allowed himself to fully think about begins to overtake his heart. He's letting you, someone he loves, walk into danger, and he's not there to protect you.
â-
Green. So much green. Verdant, lush, and beautiful. The last time you were outside these walls, you were starving, traveling with a small group of almost-strangers, exhausted and freezing. Now, youâre strong, warm, comfortable, and in love.
Your horse is friendly and easy to control. You smiled when Tommy introduced you to her. âThis is Hope, sheâs real good with strangers.â
The pace is slow, Tommy and Sean lead while Jesse tails you. Tommy holds binoculars the whole way, scanning and being ready for anything.
Of course, youâre nervous and youâre alert, but youâre also overwhelmed by how it feels out here. Tall trees, wildflowers growing tall and bright, fresh, crisp air filling your lungs. Your heart sinks when you think about not experiencing this for the first time with Joel. You almost feel guilty. You reach into the pocket of Joelâs flannel and touch the wooden cat to ground yourself back to him and the big, white house you just canât wait to see at the end of the day.
Your first stop happens near the creek. Steven collects mint as you search near the creek beds. Tommy stays glued to you, following closely behind, his gun at the ready. You spot a group of purple flowers in the distance. Anise hyssop, perfect for treating respiratory issues and inflammation.
You trod through the soft earth near the waterâs edge and kneel down. Tommyâs right behind you, standing closer than a shadow. When he told Joel heâd protect you, he really meant it.
The flowers are perfect, you pull out your collection knife to harvest the stems at the base, being extra gentle as you deposit them into the collection box. You wish Joel were here so badly, you wish it were him protecting you and not his brother.
When you get back onto your horses and head farther north, you wonder how Joel is fairing without you.
â-
He stares at the walkie-talkie. Itâs all he can focus on. Itâs only been a few hours since you left the house. He knows the trail like the back of his hand; it crosses Cache Creek, the safest route that patrol takes. He told himself he wouldnât contact you, that he needs to let you work, but every second feels like an hour.
He canât read, he canât carve, he canât take a walk, he just sits in his rocking chair on the porch with his guitar, his eyes switching between staring at the walkie-talkie and the spot where he told you he loved you.
He remembers a song from his past, his fingers try to find the familiar chords, the same chords he tried to get right last night. Now, when he thinks about you and your sweet voice telling him you love him, he can remember it perfectly. His voice comes out slower than the songâs actual beat. He softly sings to himselfâŠ
âShe gives me everything,And tenderly,The kiss my lover brings,She brings to me,And I love herâ
He sees your pretty face as he sings. How bright your eyes can shine for him, how beautiful your smile is, how heâll never get tired of looking at you.
What if Maria had asked someone else? What if you were a day late arriving? Would he still be alive? Would he be in love? Would he be sitting on this porch, wondering where you are now?
In a much crueler time, he would have called himself a failure for not being able to be there for you, but your love wonât let him do that to himself now. Heâll just stay here, on the porch, waiting for you not-so-patiently, with pride in his heart that youâre helping the town thatâs given him so much, like a future with you.
â-
The next stop is a smaller meadow, just beyond the trail. You hit the jackpot, Arnica montana blooms brightly.
âThis is amazing,â you tell Steven, looking up at him as he takes a drink of water from his canteen.
âIsnât it?â he asks. He looks down, his eyes stay on you, watching as you collect the bright yellow flowers. The way heâs watching makes you miss Joelâs dark brown eyes on you.
âWeâll stay here for a break, let the horses rest ân feed. If you want to check in,â Tommy says.
âCheck in?â Steven asks.
âYeah, uhââ you begin.
âSheâs checking in with Joel,â Tommy says matter-of-factly.
âOh, yes, right,â Steven says, giving you a weak smile. âIâll finish collecting so you can go⊠check in.â
You nod, getting up and moving to a line of trees. Tommy stays nearby as your heart beats quicker when you realize youâll get to hear Joelâs voice.
You press down the button. âJoel?â
His response is immediate, his voice saying your name through the slight static instantly makes you smile. âYou good?â
âYeah,â you say with a smile. You want to tell him how badly you miss him, but youâre mindful of Tommyâs presence.
âHow is it?â
âGood, nice. Weâve already got a nice collection of plants, and we havenât even gotten to the meadow.â
âThatâs good,â you can hear the smile in his voice. âIâm proud of you.â
You canât fight the tears that begin to swell in your eyes or the honesty of your emotions, you donât care who could be listening. âI miss you. I know itâs ridiculous because it hasnât even been that longââ
âSânot ridiculous, I miss you too.â
Your heart aches at his voice. âIâll be home soon.â
âI know you will.â
âI love you.â
A low hum of happiness leaves the speaker. âLove you too. Be safe, okay?â
âI will, Iâll check in again.â
âIâll be waiting.â
You clip the radio back to your belt. Tommy gives you a smile when you turn to face him and rejoin the group.
You go back to collecting the flowers, knowing that the Arnica will be used to make a salve that will help Joelâs aches and pains.
When Tommy helps you back on your horse after your break, he pats your knee. âWeâll get you back to him. Donât worry.â
âI know,â you say with a smile before you head to the meadow, your final stop of the day.
â-
Joelâs moved from the porch to the kitchen table, sorting the jar of dried beans youâve been meaning to get to for days. He feels ridiculous, trying to find any excuse to make the day pass quicker. It reminds him of when you first started at the clinic, how much heâd miss you during the day when you were working. Now, youâre an established resident of Jackson, known for your healing ways and your gentle demeanor⊠those same healing hands that brought him back from death now care for his fellow residents.
He looks at the radio sitting on the table. His only connection to knowing youâre safe. He knows Tommy will take care of you, but he knows something could still go wrong. Heâs lost too much to trust that good things can stay good.
He tries to quiet the dark thoughts. What if raiders find you? What if infected have wandered close? What if there were more than the fifteen that Katâs group killed? What if he loses you?
 The beans fall out of his hand, scattering across the table. His chest tightens at the thought. He wills himself to breathe in and out, to make a damned square like you told him with his breaths.
In. Youâll be okay.
Out. Youâre going to return to him.
In. Youâre capable and brave.
Out. Youâre his miracle.
He settles himself and goes back to sorting beans.
Thereâs a knock at the door when thereâs only a couple handfuls left in the jar.
He grabs his cane and walks to the front door. He opens the door, and Dina greets him with a wide smile.
âHey kiddo,â he greets.
âHey! Special delivery as requested by you,â she says, holding up a pie pan. âOne peach pie.â
âGreat,â he says, taking it from her hands.
âWhatâs the special occasion?â she asks.
âJust, uh, something for the expedition,â he responds, trying to think of an excuse other than that he wanted to do something sweet for you, and only you.Â
âOh,â one of her eyebrows shoots up. âFor everyone âŠorrrr, maybe just a certain pretty doctor?â
Joel canât help the heat that fills his cheeks. âThe latter.â
Dinaâs smile somehow grows wider and brighter. âWell, enjoy man. Maybe save me ân Ellie a slice?â
âIâll see what I can do,â he responds.
âI have more deliveries. Iâm glad you have someone to share⊠pie with,â she says.
He smiles as Dina leaves, placing the pie on the kitchen counter. He now has to refinish most of the Tipsy Bison barstools, but at least heâll have something sweet waiting for you when you get home.
â-
Itâs been a quiet ride, the patrollers are too busy paying attention to any small noise or movement to chit chat, and Steven has been quiet since you left to talk to Joel. You take the time to imagine Joel behind you, his broad body protecting you and holding you close as you travel through the woods. You imagine what heâs like on patrol. Impossibly serious, laser-focused, and no-nonsense. You can see the furrow of his brow as he uses his binoculars so clearly in your head.
When you reach the meadow, itâs just as beautiful as you could imagine. Tall trees surround a large patch of land covered in flowers. Yarrow, valerian, echinacea, red clover, all of it sways in the wind like an ocean of healing. Itâs almost magical.
You and Steven split up, working in quadrants, collecting all that you can but still leaving enough for the bees and animals to pollinate. Tommy stays close to you, his hands never leaving his gun.
Youâre focused on cutting the stem of a flower when Jesse moves forward.Â
âMovement in the treeline. North side.â His voice comes out sharp and urgent. Your hands freeze as Tommy whips around, his rifle raised.
âHow many?â Tommy asks.
âI donât know,â Jesse responds, his binoculars focused on the trees.
âWell, find out,â Tommy grits. Stephen reaches down to his holster and grabs his gun. You take the hint and reach into your backpack and pull out Joelâs gun. Your heart pulses in your chest as you stay low.
âFour,â Jesse says. âI see at least four... but I think thereâs more.â
âYou ân Sean try to get closer, check if thereâs anything worse. Iâll stay here with âem,â Tommy instructs.
Jesse and Sean nod, slowly approaching the tree line as quietly as they can.
âOn your horse,â Tommy tells you. You nod, picking up the flowers. âLeave âem, getting you safe is more important.â
He grabs your arm, hauling you up and quickly guiding you to Hope. You climb onto the horse, finding all of this ridiculous until you see the slight look of fear in Tommyâs eyes when he hands you your backpack.
âSteven, on your horse, too.â
A gunshot, and then another gunshot
âFuck!â Tommy shouts. âYou stay HERE, at the first sign of anything, ANYTHING, you both head back to Jackson. You know the path?â
Steven nods, wide-eyed.
Your breathing comes out more labored, and the panic is setting in. If thereâs infected that way, they could be anywhere. They said patrol was just out here and cleared fifteen. There could always be more. Thereâs always more.Â
God, you want Joel. You reach into the pocket of his flannel, grabbing the little carved figure of Jefferson. You press your nose into the shirt, trying to catch even the slightest whiff of Joelâs scent. His gun in one hand, Jefferson in the other, his shirt on your back.
More gunshots happen. Youâre shaking in fear; this isnât the same type of fear youâve had before with infected. Thereâs a deep pool of fear and anxiety that youâll never see Joel, that youâve only told him you loved him a few times, when you owe him millions more.
You can hear shouting in the distance, the horses begin to fidget, some of them stomping their hooves.
Then, a crack of a branch breaking. An infected stumbles out. You panic, the Jefferson figure drops out of your hand as you grip the gun with both hands, aiming towards it. Steven is frozen in fear next to you, his gun pointed, but he makes no movement to shoot. You aim, remembering the feel of Joelâs fingertips against your stomach.
âNow, squeeze the trigger like you love it.â
You squeeze and fire. The shot goes wide, splintering the bark of the tree next to the infected. You aim again, if it doesnât work this time, you run home to Joel on top of Hope; Hope will bring you back to him.
You squeeze and fire again, remembering to position your elbow a bit higher like he told you this morning. The bullet lands in the infected, but it still stumbles towards you, until a quick succession of bullets takes it down. Tommy stands at the edge of the trees, his rifle smoking.
âYou okay?â he calls, jogging toward you while still scanning the treeline. Your hands shake as you lower Joelâs gun, the adrenaline overwhelming you.
âIâm fine,â you manage to respond.
âSteven?â Tommy asks.
Steven only nods.
Jesse and Sean emerge from the trees looking grim and exhausted. âEight,â Jesse reports. âThere might be more in the area.â
Tommyâs jaw tightens. âWeâre heading back. Now. Steven, go help Jesse and Sean.â
Steven obeys, getting off his horse, jogging towards the meadow.
âMy cat,â you say, realizing you dropped your Jefferson carving.
âWhat? Your cat?â Tommy asks as he hooks a bag to his saddle.
You jump off your horse, leading her away before you kneel and search frantically through the tall grass.
Tommy kneels next to you. âWhat do you mean, your cat?â he repeats.
âJoel⊠he-he carved me a cat,â you answer, your voice panicked. âAnd I⊠when the gun⊠IâŠâ
âItâs okay, itâs okay, weâll find it.â
Your hands are shaking as you search through the grass, combing through the blades. Tommy helps you search, moving much more slowly and methodically than you do, while Jesse and Sean quickly pack up the horses.
Steven kneels down next to you. âWhat are we looking for?â
âA small wooden cat figure,â Tommy answers.
Steven looks around before he reaches near your foot, picking up the carved cat. He looks down at it before he shows it to you with a resigned smile.
âOh,â you gasp.
Steven places the cat in your palm. You close your hands around Jefferson, breathing out a thank you that he answers with a soft nod.
âWe need to go. You can call Joel on the ride home,â Tommy softly tells you, offering his hand and helping you on your horse.
âThe trip should be about two hours. Weâre not stopping,â Jesse says as you all get into formation and head toward the trail back to Jackson.
Once youâre on the trail, you press the button on your walkie-talkie and contact Joel.
â-
âJoel?â
Your voice. He almost drops the radio when he reaches for it. The relief that floods through his body overwhelms him. âHey, you okay?â
âWeâre headed back now. There were, there were, infected.â
He jumps to his feet, his whole body tensing at the word, his hand squeezes the radio tight.
âBaby,â he whispers. âYou alright?â
âIâm fine,â you respond. âTommy just doesnât want to take any chances.â
Your voice is so shaky, it makes his heart ache. He reminds himself that he owes Tommy so much now. He knew heâd keep his word; he knew heâd do everything to keep you safe.
âHow long?â he asks.
âTwo hours, maybe less. Weâre moving a lot faster going home than when we left.â
âOkay, baby, okay,â he says. âYouâre gonna get home to me and youâre gonna be okay, alright?â
âAlright,â you say. Your voice sounds so fragile, and yet he knows you brave you are.
âIâll see you soon,â he says. âI love you.â
âI love you too.â
The radio clicks. All Joel can think about is holding you in his arms, making you feel better, and telling you how brave you are.
He paces across the floor, trying to expel the nervous energy out of him. Staying in this house isnât going to work. He grabs his cane and heads towards the front door.
â-
The sun is just starting to dip behind the mountains when you get your first glimpse of the gates of Jackson. The sky is lit in purples, pinks, and oranges. Your heart begins to race with each step Hope takes toward Jackson. Tommy waves the flag for the watchtower, the gate begins to open, and you fight the will to tap your heels against Hope to make her gallop faster.
So much has changed since your arrival over seven months ago. Now, youâre no longer just surviving, youâre thriving with a beautiful home and someone you love.
Once you get close enough, you spot Joel, standing near the entrance, leaning on his cane, his dark eyes finding yours. Even from your far distance, you can see the relief wash over him.
When you cross the threshold of the gate, you pull Hope to a stop, Joelâs by your side, before you can even dismount Hope. You practically hop off the horse into his arms, and he holds you impossibly tight, breathing in the scent of you. There are onlookers, but he doesnât seem to mind at all.
âYouâre home,â he whispers against your hair.
âIâm home,â you smile against his chest.Â
â-
A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!
My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon
word count: 11,000 +
warnings: literally all fluff. like painful, smothering fluff. Choking, blubbering, fitful angst. Sorry, not sorry. See you on the other side, everyone, hope you enjoyed 'Falling'!
The following is a series of artefacts belonging to JACKSON RESIDENTS recovered from their homes.
J. MILLER LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT - JACKSON, WY
If youâre reading this, or find this, Iâm probably dead.
Iâm okay with that. Wouldâve preferred to go out oldâgrey-bearded, asleep on my porch swing in the summer, maybe a hundred and twenty with bad knees. Quietly. Got my fingers crossed, hoping that I do.
Because that ainât how men like me go. Iâve lived hard. Killed more than I ever want to count. Broke things I couldnât fix. And loved people I didnât deserve. Thatâs the whole truth of it.
And now, sitting here writing this, I keep thinking about what the hell Iâm really leaving behind. What is my legacy, anyway? Some folks leave behind land. Leela is going to leave behind her math and her inventions. Yâallâs names are clean enough to go on school buildings.
I live in a house that isnât mine. My moneyâs long gone. And my name is a goddamn graveyard. So why am I doing this?
Look... I need you someone to know I tried.
I tried to be better. To build instead of destroy. To try love without losing control. I used to think all I was good for was surviving. Guarding. Holding the line until it all gave out. And yeah, maybe that was true once for a long time.
But then came my Ellie. Then came my Leela and my Maya.
I raised two three girls. THREE goddamn girls. More beautiful than me (thank god for that), more hardass-er than me, more stubborn than me, and thatâs saying something. Ellie is the fire. Sarah was the storm, and Maya is the spring that comes after. I didnât make themâbut I kept them alive. Loved them the best way I knew how. Think I did a pretty good job.
Thatâs my legacy.
You can burn the rest of it. The guns, the patrol records, the guilt. Let it rot. The only thing worth anything now is what I loved.
Tommy. Maria. Brother, we never did things the easy way, did we? We fought like hell, and still came back. I know you two gave me a hard time some days, but you were the people I always knew had my sixâwhether I deserved it or not. Guess that's what siblings do. So donât go getting all soft now. Just keep doing what you do best: being affectionate assholes and occasionally dumb as a pile of rocks. (Kidding. Mostly.)
Leela⊠darling, you had loved saved me. Over and over. By staying, letting me in, looking at me like I wasnât the monster I saw in the mirror. You are my quiet, my reason, my damn backbone some days. I didnât know it could be like that with someone. I didnât ask you to forgive me, but you did it anyway, every time I came home to you a little more broken. Iâm sorry for the parts of me I couldnât fix. I know I said that too muchâor not enough. Alsoâand I mean this with all the love in my tired bonesâtake your time, but donât forget Iâm waiting on those insane koftas over here. So when you finally get your fine ass to me⊠bring me some baharat (and those strappy little tops of yours because they really drive me wild.)
Ellie (hoping the above didn't throw you off, sorry). Here it is. I saved my world that day in the hospital. Yours. You. Iâm not gonna pretend it was easy or righteous. It wasnât. But I did it so youâd have more time with meâmore chances to grow with me, laugh with me, hate me. I wanted that for you more than I ever wanted it for myself. I am sor I'd do it all over again. You might never have needed a father, but you got one anyway. You got me. And Iâm proud of you, kiddo. Proud as one of your own. I LOVE YOU. There. I said it. I love you, Ellie.
And. Maya. Baby girl. If youâre reading this somedayâwell, shit, first off: did you get glasses? How else are you reading this with all that squinting? Eyes open, sweetheart. Ha, got you.
I want you to know it plain and simple: you are my everything. My girl. I loved you the moment you opened your eyes to me that night. Youâre mine in every way that counts. Grow slow. Thereâs no prize for getting older, other than back pain. Be goodâbut not too good. Break some rules. No one likes a smartass. Donât run too fast. Tie your shoes. Wear your damn socks, I MEAN IT. Donât be scared of the world, even when it earns it. And take care of everyone, even when it hurts. And when you miss me (if you do), go sit with my guitar (be nice and share with Ellie). Sing to me. Hum. Cry. Talk out loud like Iâm listening, because I swear I am.
I never had much. Still donât. Got a couple of guitars, ammo, boots, a few busted knuckles, and a face that looks worse every year.
What I do haveâwhatâs worth a damnâis all of you.
I was always the buffer. I thought that was the job. Keep everyone breathing, keep the world out. I donât regret that. But it took me a long damn time to learn why I was doing it. It was never for survival.
It was for you. Always for you.
Signed,
Joel Miller.
X
L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG â VIDEO FILE #1
TIMESTAMP: 19:48 | Reed Residence, Living room
SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 2 years, 5 months
CAMERA: Tripod, static, handheld. Low lighting. Floor lamp turned on.
NOTES: Observational recording for cognitive development + emotional awareness + language formulation.
[CAMERA CLICKS ON. The video begins with a slightly tilted angle. The couch sits behind them, a soft quilt thrown over the edge. A toy horse lies abandoned on the floor. The room is warmly lit. LEELA adjusts the lens, sitting cross-legged, her voice focused but affectionate. JOEL is off-screen, behind the camera. Both their voices carry the sleepiness of a late evening.]
LEELA (softly, almost to herself): Okay... steady. This is important. (adjusts the lens) This is the first video entry in Mayaâs development logâ
JOEL (from off-screen, dry): Which is entirely unnecessary, 'cause sheâs got a brain like a bear trap.
LEELA (half smiling): This is to test her cognitive flexibility, emotional regulation, and social interactionâ
JOEL: Câmon, sweetheart. Listen to yourself. Sheâs fine.
LEELA: (glances at him behind the camera) I need to know sheâs normal, Joel. Not just sweet or clever. Normal brain functioning.
JOEL (pauses, then gentler): Sheâs a goddamn miracle, Leela. Beat me at cards yesterday. Straight face the whole time. You think I let her win? (mimics a girlish voice) âGo fish, Daddy.â Sheâs hustlinâ me already.
[LEELA exhales, lips twitching, and nods. She angles the camera a little to the left. The frame shifts. MAYA is now sitting on the rug beside her mother, wearing denim dungarees over a cotton shirt with a stitched grasshopper. She waves at the camera like sheâs greeting a friend.]
MAYA: (sends a flying kiss.) Hi.
JOEL (laughs): Hi, baby.
LEELA (gently): Alright, there we go. Baby, what's your name?
MAYA: (pointing) Daddy, video.
LEELA: Yeah, he is. Can you say your name for the video?
MAYA (taps her chest): Maya. Maya, Maa-yaa.
LEELA (laughs): Okay. Hi, Maya. And whatâs your full name?
MAYA (mumbles): Maya⊠Miller.
LEELA: Thatâs right. Good girl. Nowâcan you please look at Mama for a second while we talk?
[MAYA is fully occupied with the brass buckle on her dungaree strap. She keeps flipping it open, then closing it, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.]
MAYA (without looking up): I fix this first.
LEELA (gently redirecting): Hmm. But if Mama wants to talk to you first, what would the polite thing be?
MAYA (quietly): âŠWude.
[She lets go of the buckle and looks up, her knees drawn close.]
MAYA: Okay. I listen now.
LEELA: Thank you, baby. Ready?
MAYA: Yup.
LEELA: How old are you, Maya?
[MAYA holds up two fingers. Then she thinks, frowns, and adds a third finger halfway. Then reconsiders and puts it down.]
LEELA: Thatâs right. Two, almost three. And whatâs Daddyâs name?
MAYA (giggles): Ha-wd-ass.
LEELA (gasps): No!
JOEL: Gonna kill that little shit Tommy.
MAYA (with her fist in her mouth, grinning): Joel.
LEELA: Joel, right. Maya⊠can you tell me: have you ever been angry at Daddy before?
MAYA (quickly): No.
LEELA (tilts her head): Never ever?
MAYA (frowning): ...mm, he took me home from park. Heâhe said... no. (points to the door) We go home now.
JOEL (off-screen, defensive): Hey nowâit was a hundred degrees. I didnât want you melting out there.
LEELA (clears her throat): Alright. And what did you say when he said that we have to go home?
MAYA (matter-of-fact): I said âNO! Not going home.â Then Daddy pick me up. We go home.
LEELA: And then?
MAYA: Then I... cried.
JOEL (mutters): Meltdown.
LEELA (to Maya): And when you get upset like that... what helps you feel better, Maya? Do you want to run away, orâdo you need to yell? Maybe throw something?
JOEL (warning tone): Leela.
LEELA (ignoring him, soft but intent): Or maybe⊠do you just need a hug? Do you want someone to hold you?
[MAYA pauses. Her fingers fidget. Her chin tucks slightly, and her voice is very small.]
MAYA: I need hugs.
[LEELA looks up at the camera now. Her expression is softer, more tired. Her hand rests on Mayaâs back.]
LEELA (to camera): Soâweâre observing that when Maya experiences emotional dysregulation, she doesnât act out violently or retreat, but reaches for physical reassurance. (pause, voice softening) Which is⊠significantly better than what I feared.
[MAYA turns and throws herself into Leelaâs lap.]
MAYA: I love hugging Daddy.
JOEL (gravel-voiced, warm): Right back at ya, baby girl.
[MAYA now leans sideways into Leelaâs lap, visibly drowsier but still engaged. A thread from Leelaâs jeans has caught her attention, and she tugs it gently. LEELA hums quietly, drawing her back into the moment.]
LEELA (sing-song): Maya⊠now, were you really angry at Daddy that time?
MAYA (shakes her head, thumb brushing her lip): No. I just⊠donât wanna go home.
LEELA (empathetic): Oh, well, I understand that. If I were having fun and someone told me it was time to go? Iâd be mad too.
MAYA (nodding): Yeah. I wanna play more.
LEELA: So, do you have a lot of friends? Is that why you don't like leaving?
[MAYA looks up for a second, big, brown eyes shining, then shakes her head.]
MAYA: No.
LEELA (gently): Then why do you want playtime?
MAYA: I like big sandbox. Ellie helps me on the slide.
LEELA: What about the other kids?
MAYA: Only me, mama.
[LEELA hums again, stroking her hair slowly. The thread is forgotten now. MAYA leans closer.]
JOEL: Now, she ainât alone. Ellieâs there, Iâm there. The other kids... they're just older. And there are no other kids like her in town.
LEELA (shoots him a look): Joelâyou're confusing her.
JOEL (scoffs): Fine. Shuttinâ up.
LEELA (focuses on Maya again): And how does it make you feel, baby girl? When you're alone? Are you scared? Or angry?
[MAYAâs brows furrow. She picks at her sock this time, quieter.]
MAYA: Sad.
LEELA (slight shift in posture, softer): You feel sad? Do you feel sad a lot?
MAYA (tiny nod, small voice): Yeah. I cry.
LEELA (quietly, not alarmed, just listening): You cry a lot when you're sad? When Mama isnât around?
MAYA (sniffles): Mhm. I donât like alone.
LEELA: Oh, my love.
[MAYA's face twists, and she rubs at her eye. A pause. JOELâs voice is low and irritated from behind the camera at the sight of her hurting.]
JOEL: Okay, stop. Youâre upsettinâ her.
LEELA (shaking her head, gently): No, weâre understanding. (She turns back to Maya, her hand brushing through tangled curls.) Sheâs not upset. Sheâs being brave. Arenât you, baby?
[MAYAâs eyes flick to LEELAâs. She nods faintly.]
MAYA: I wanna be brave. Like Daddy.
LEELA: And you are. Angry and sad make you brave and real. Real people feel things. And they cry. Even big people. Even Daddy... (stage-whispers) in the shower.
[MAYA lets out a little giggle through her tears.]
LEELA (tucking a strand of hair behind Mayaâs ear): Baby, you know⊠if you ever feel like it got dark around you, you can tell us. If youâre mad, you can stomp your feet. If youâre sad, you can cry in my lap. You donât have to hide it or hold it in your belly, okay?
[MAYA shakes her head firmly this time, her lip wobbling just slightly.]
MAYA: I donât wanna be mad, Mama. Donât like it.
LEELA: No, honey. Itâs okay to be mad. I get mad. Daddy gets mad all the time.
[A brief, audible scoff from JOEL.]
JOEL: Yeah, alright.
LEELA (grinning): All the time. And when he does, what do we do?
MAYA (perking up): Time-out!
LEELA: Right. And do we yell at him?
MAYA (giggling): You hug him.
JOEL (mock indignation): It's brutal.
[LEELA laughs softly, then leans forward again, face almost fully in frame now. Her voice drops to that warm, instructional tone again.]
LEELA: So next time, baby, when you feel mad or sad... what do you do?
[MAYAâs brow knits as she thinks. Then her eyes brighten.]
MAYA (low to loud): I say, 'Mama, I'm sad.'
LEELA (laughing): Very good. And then what happens?
MAYA (repeating back): You hug me.
JOEL (quietly): Every single time.
[Thereâs a long, peaceful pause now. MAYA rests fully in Leelaâs lap, three fingers in her mouth, eyelids fluttering closed. JOEL finally appears in frame again, crouching beside them. He presses a hand gently to Mayaâs back and gives Leela a tired, fond look.]
JOEL (murmuring): We should probably stop here. Sheâs running on fumes.
LEELA (sighs): Yeah, okay. That concludes entry oneâemotional processing and response. Maya is responsive to guided questioning, able to self-identify emotions, strong associative memory.
JOEL (grins at Maya): Translation: sheâs a little miracle.
LEELA: Sheâs Maya.
[JOEL leans in, kisses the top of Leelaâs head.]
JOEL: Youâre doinâ real good, mama.
[LEELA swallows and nods, visibly emotional. She lifts her hand to turn off the camera.]
[CAMERA CLICKS OFF]
X
E. WILLIAMS TRAVEL LOG #2
(The camera jolts to life with a brief blur of sunlight. A rhythmic thud-thud-thud of hooves on dry dirt is heard beneath the image. The view steadies to show Ellie, sweat glinting on her brow, holding the camera at armâs length. She squints at the screen, then grins.)
(Ellie, to camera) âOkay, weâre rolling. This is Travel Log number twoâbecause apparently Leela thinks weâre NatGeo now.â
(She wipes sweat off her nose with the back of her arm, then flips the camera around. It bounces before settling on the riders behind her.)
(Ellie, off-screen) âMaya, say hi!â
(The camera catches a horse trotting beside Dinaâs. Joel rides a little behind, Maya seated snugly in front of him on the saddle. Maya is grinning so wide it looks like her face might split open.)
âHai!â
(Ellie laughing) âAnd how the hell are you outside of Jackson, missy?â
ââCause Daddy let me. And now weâre gonna catch fish!â
âOh yeah? Wanna tell everybody how old you are?â
(Maya proudly holds up three chubby fingers, but two of them are smushed together.) âIâm th-wee.â
(The camera pans shakily to Dina, who rides up alongside, squinting against the light. Her hair is pulled back to that familiar topknot, sweat matting her face.)
âAnd thereâs my gorgeous girlfriend. Babe, say hi.â
(Dina groans, ducking her head.) âI look like shit.â
âYeah, but likeâhot shit.â
(Dina flips her off. Ellie cackles. The camera swerves toward Joel, who is too focused on keeping Maya safe and the horse steady.)
(Ellie snorts.) âCould be worse. Look at this dumbass.â
(Joel, gruffly) âYou better get that thing outta my face.â
âNo can do. Iâm under strict orders. Your wife told me to document everything. Iâm just being a good citizen.â
âChrist. Just watch your step, kiddo.â
(Ellie, to camera now) âSo, for the record: Weâre taking baby girl on a late fishing trip for her birthday, which was all the way back on Christmas. Andâthis is the troop.â
(The camera zooms in briefly on Maya, who is now humming some nonsense song and patting the saddle horn. Joel looks down at her, and for a second, the camera catches him smiling.)
(Ellie, softer) âNot bad, right?â
(Static crackle as the image shakes again. Ellie flips the camera back to herself.)
âAlright, letâs go catch some fuckin' fish.â
â
(The footage stutters into motion with a high-pitched whine of static. The screen shakes wildly for a momentâjust flashes of sky, pine, and bootâand then jolts into focus. A rough hand fumbles across the lens. Joel grumbles.)
âHow the hell do youâ? Goddamnit.â
(He shifts the camera. The image stabilises. Now itâs looking out over a sunlit rocky ledge above a wide, glittering creek. Ellie, Dina, and Maya are perched in a row on the flat of a sun-warmed boulder. Three rods poke into the air, lines drifting lazily into the current. The only sound is birdsong, water, and distant giggling.)
âEllie, keep your arms around her. Sheâs jumpy as a damn frog.â
(Ellie snickers.) âRelax, old man. Iâve got her.â (Then to Maya:) âYouâre good, gremlin. Just hold it still and wait.â
(Maya squeals, standing up.) âI saw a fish! I saw one!â
(Dina teases.) âYouâve said that like ten times.â
âThis time it smiled at me!â
âLiar!â
(The camera zooms slightly. Joelâs breathing is close in the mic, still focused on the trio. Maya suddenly gasps and yanks her tiny rod.)
âMine's moving! DINA, I GOT ONE! Iâ!â
(Her footing slips. She screams with a quick splashâthen chaos.)
âMaya, no!â
(The camera jerks wildlyâJoelâs dropped it. It lands half-sideways in the dirt, still rolling. We catch fractured glimpses: Dina throwing off her jacket, Ellie lunging forward, Joel already in motion, boots thundering past the lens.)
(Ellie hisses.) âShitâMaya!â
(A splash. Then another. Then silence but for the rush of water and muffled voices underwater, distant and panicked. Joel's frantic voice is the loudest.)
âMaya! Maya, can you hear me?â
(No answer. Just the hiss of the creek and thrashing limbs. The lens catches the churn of boots and panicked motion, but no child. Ellie surfaces empty-handed, wiping water from her face. Dina calls out, chest-deep and scanning rocks.)
âAnything?â
âNothingâbabe, she was right here, she was right hereââ
(The lens catches motion as Joel barrels downstream. The camera misses his face, but his actions are sharp, driven. He throws himself into the current, shoving aside reeds, slipping on wet stone. He shouts again.)
âMaya, just come up, baby! Listen to my voice!â
(Nothing. Just the creek roaring louder. Ellie glances toward the far bank, silent now. Dina exhales hard, treading water. Itâs been a full minute now. Then two. AndâJoel stops.)
(He bucklesâdoubles over with both hands on his knees, soaked to the chest, breathing too fast. For a second, heâs motionless, like this short-circuited inside him. He grips his thigh, grounding himself. Then, barely audibleâ)
âGod, please⊠please.â
(Dina turns toward him, voice gentler now but firm, trying to cut through the spiral.)
âHeyâhey, Joel. Listen to me. Itâs gonna be okay. Weâll split up. Iâll head up the rocks, Ellieâll sweep back toward the reeds. You keep to the bend. Okay? Weâll find her.â
(Joel doesnât respond. His hands twitch at his sides, clenched and unclenched. Heâs not hearing her. Or he is, but itâs bouncing off armour.)
âI shouldâveâfuck, I shouldâveâI looked away, just, just one secondââ
(Ellie moving closer.) âJoel. Joel. Look at me. It's fine.â
(Sheâs within armâs reach now. His jaw is set, neck tight, eyes scanning but not seeing. Ellie softens.)
âShe can't have gotten far. We find her. You with me?â
(He blinks hardâonce, twice. His hand comes to his mouth like heâs trying to hold something in. Then hoarselyâ)
âNot again. Not her. NotâŠâ
(He trails off. He doesnât finish the sentence. Ellieâs eyes flicker, understanding more than he says. Behind them, Dina is waist-deep and staring at the far downstream bend. Her hand goes up slowly, pointing.)
âWait. Waitâdo youâ?â
(A faint, distant voice echoes from downstreamâbright and bubbly.)
âDaddy, Dina! I got it! I got the fish!â
(Joel doesnât move at first. His head lifts slowly, like heâs afraid to believe it. Then Ellie breaks into motion and he followsâtrudging through water, stumbling once but not stopping. The camera is still skewed, but it catches a tiny shape emerging from the trees further downstream, waterlogged and barefoot, holding something overhead in both hands.)
âIt was hiding! I chase it!â
(Joelâs breath catches. His arms drop slack, then heâs moving faster, boots pounding the muddy bank, sloshing up toward her.)
âMaya. C'mere, baby.â
(He drops to his knees in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders and then crushes her into a hug, flapping fish and all. Maya giggles, not understanding the terror that had settled in his chest just moments ago.)
âYou scared the hell outta me. Thought I lost you.â
âBut I got it!â
(Joel clutches her closer, water dripping down his faceâunclear if itâs from the river or his eyes. His voice is barely a breath now.)
âDonât ever do that again. You hear me? Donât everâŠâ
(He cuts himself off. Kisses the top of her head, pushing the wet hair off her cheeks and neck. Behind him, Dina rubs her face and exhales, laughing through leftover adrenaline. Ellie just drops backwards into the creek with a splash, limbs splayed like a starfish.)
(Ellie sighs and looks up to the sky.) âI'm never fuckin' babysitting this little demon again. Not without a goddamn leash.â
(Maya beams.) âI was tracking! It went under the rocks, so I had to go up the side like Dina said!â
(Joel shakes his head.) âNot without tellinâ me, you donât.â
(Ellie picks up the cameraâmud-smeared and dripping, but still running. She holds it at a crooked angle as the group sloshes back to shore, all soaked, all laughing in that shaky, post-crisis way. Joelâs doesnât come yetâbut heâs still holding Maya.)
âUpdate: Joel has aged twenty years. Maya met a fish. And none of us are allowed to breathe ever again.â
(Maya, off-camera, all chipper.) âI wanna swim!â
(All three, in perfect unisonâ)
âNope.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âNever happening.â
(The camera catches one last frame of Maya proudly cradling the flopping fish, her curls plastered to her forehead, Joelâs arm around her protectively. Ellieâs laughter trails off as the screen fades into soft static. Cut to black.)
X
J. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3
(Video begins mid-jostle. The camera is unsteady, jiggling as Joel tries to lift it above the crowd. Boots thump on the wooden floors, fiddle music screeches with jubilance. String lights swing in the rafters, and thereâs distant whooping over the bandâs tempo.)
(Joelâs voice mutters, amused.) âCanât see nothinâ in this damn barnâŠâ
(Camera finds its focus, finally sweeping over the packed dance floor, shakily pushing through arms, backs, and half-finished pints. Then the camera locks in on Maya, spinning into dizziness in the middle of the floor. Sheâs in denim overalls, her sleeves rolled, curly hair bouncing, boots two sizes too big. People are giving her space, clapping in rhythm.)
(Tommy, off-camera, hoots.) âLook at her go!â
(Maria coos, off to the side.) âShit, I wanna bite her little face off.â
(Camera zooms and shakes slightly. Joel laughs.)
âGo on, baby girl!â
(Maya notices the camera. She gasps, hands on her cheeks like a cartoon character. Then waves with both hands.)
âHaiiii!â
(She dashes forward, expertly weaving between dancers, laughing the whole time. Camera wobbles as she leaps at Joel, arms flung wide.)
âLet me hold it! I wanna be the camera girl!â
âYou got butterfingers. This thingâs older than Ellie.â
(Maya whines, bouncing in protest. Joel tips the camera up and away as she tries to jump for it. A waitress sidesteps her, chuckling. Joel lowers the lens, steadies it again.)
âCâmon, help me find your mama. She better not beââ
(Sudden distant yell.)
âWOOOOOO!â
(Camera swings wildly againâsearching. Finally, it lands: Leela, up near the band. Her cowboy hat's tipped too far back, one boot missing, one boot on. Sheâs shimmying with total abandon to the beat, singing along loud and off-key to a song she clearly doesnât know.)
(Tommy cackles.) â'S happened again.â
(Joel groans. The camera jolts down, then upwardânow Tommy is holding it, laughing breathlessly.)
âGrab it. I gotta go fix this.â
(Tommy lifts the camera to zoom in as Joel pushes through the crowd. Ellie briefly appears beside Tommy, leaning in to whisper.)
âIs that one boot on, one boot off? Iconic.â
(Maria snorts.) âShe drinking out of her boot?â
(Camera zooms inâLeela indeed holds a boot like a goblet, sloshing something suspiciously dark and fizzy inside. She twirlsâand nearly slips.)
(Joel reaches her just in time. He grabs her arm with both hands. Leela gasps, delighted.)
âThere he is! Husbaaaaand.â
(Joel is clearly trying not to laugh.) âYou stink.â
(Leela puts on a fake cowboy accent.) âThatâs called love, darlinâ.â
(Her arms loop around his neck, hat slipping to one side, planting a kiss on his mouth. Joelâhalf laughing, half exasperatedâobliges, but only briefly before pulling back.)
âYouâre gonna break your neck out here.â
(She sways her hips in an invitation.) âDance with me, Daddy.â
(Ellie groans from off-camera.) âEw, what the fuck?â
(Joel groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. Crowd laughter builds in the background.)
âJesus, donât call me that in public. Youâre gonna confuse the hell outta people.â
(She uses a finger to beckon him.) âCâmon.â
(He plants both hands gently on her waist to steady her.) âYou gotta sober up, sweetheart. You already lost a boot.â
(She pouts. He sighs. Then offers his hand.)
âJust one.â
(The music softens into a slower tuneâharmonica over strings. Leela leans into Joel, wrapping her arms around his neck like a sleepy kid. They sway awkwardly. One-booted. Out of time. Joel mutters something we canât hear. Leela giggles like itâs the funniest thing in the world.)
(Camera pans down: her bare foot rests on his boot. He just lets her lean.)
(Ellie whispers nearby.) âStop filming. Theyâre so gross.â
(Tommy snickers.) âTheyâre happy.â
(In the far right of the frame, Maya appears again, now holding Ellieâs hand and tugging hard.)
âDance with me, Ellie, c'mon!â
(Leela turns mid-dance and waves dramatically at Maya, then does a very poor spin that nearly sends her into a table. Joel catches her mid-fall and dips her, exaggerated, one arm around her waist. She shrieks with laughter.)
(Camera pulls back. The saloon lights flicker overhead. Everyone around them is dancing, drunk, or both. Itâs messy and warm and joyfulâa pause in the noise of survival.)
(Frame lingers on Joel and Leela, pressed close. He murmurs something into her hair. She closes her eyes. The song fades to the final noteâviolin and steel guitar.)
X
TELEPHONE RECORDING #1
DATE: SEP. 26TH | TIME: 04:03 A.M.
LINE: INTERNAL, JACKSON, WY
PARTICIPANTS: J. MILLER, L. MILLER, M. MILLER
[Distant, metallic click. Faint static hum. A long pause. Thenâa shrill ring, not the synthetic tone of modern cellphones, but an old, analogue bell. Faint rustling. Something thuds lightly against woodâmaybe a hand fumbling in the dark.]
J.M. (groggy, disoriented): âŠthe hellâŠ?
[Rustling sheets. A creak of the bedframe. He fumbles for something in the dark.]
J.M: âŠNo way.
[Another ring. Then a hesitant click as he answers. Silence.]
L.M. (warm, amused): Hi, can I speak with the birthday boy, please?
[Long silence. A faint creak.]
J.M. (cautious, stunned): Leela?
L.M. (giggles): Joel. Can you hear me?
J.M: Iâm not dead, am I? Itâs four in the damn morning⊠and the phone thatâs sounds like a death knell just rang.
L.M. (sing-song): Surprise!
[A beat. Then, Joel exhales a sharp, stunned laugh. Fabric shifts as he sits up.]
J.M: Holy shit. Leela. Darlinâ⊠Holy shit. This is real.
L.M. (whispers): Happy birthday.
J.M (laughs again): IâI canât even wrap my head around this. Youâre on the phone. Like actual⊠static and everything. How the hellâd you pull this off?
L.M: Well... I rewired the internal comms grid. Boosted a small solar cell relay through the southern outpost lines. Then I cross-fed it into the restored switchboard. Et voila, eight months later, it works just in time.
J.M: âŠY'know, I only caught about two words of that, right?
L.M. (smiling through): I said I missed your voice.
J.M: Goddamn. All that for a call to me?
L.M. (gently teasing): Youâre not that hard to miss. But yeah⊠first working phone in Jackson. Figured it should go to the man who hates birthdays and attention. Two birds.
J.M. (grinning now): You gonna make the whole town use this thing?
L.M: Eventually. For now, I serve as both operator and technician. Thought Iâd test the system on someone who doesnât mind me, er.... rambling.
J.M: That right? Hell, Iâd listen to you read out the damn dictionary, baby. You always made even the hard shit sound soft.
L.M.: Donât go sweet-talking me now. Itâs your birthday. I should be the one getting all the mushy.
J.M. (lower, softer): You already gave me everything I wanted.
[A faint click in the backgroundâa loose wire, or a shift in signal. Then Joel clears his throat, as if trying to recover.]
J.M: So tell meânow that Iâve got you on the line⊠You reckon this thing could handle what the kids used to call phone sex?
L.M. (incredulous laugh): Joel!
J.M.: Come on, darlinâ. Iâm just sayinââvoice like yours in my ear? Might short out the tower.
L.M.: Stop. Iâm recording this call for research.
J.M.: Whatever. Iâm the birthday boy. I get one pass.
[They both laugh. Then, a faint stirring. A tiny yawn. The faintest whimper.]
M.M. (sleepy): Daddy�
J.M.: Hold on. Troubleâs wakinâ up.
[He shifts. The mattress creaks. A soft scritch of his beard brushing her cheek. A kiss to her forehead.]
J.M. (instantly gentle): Hi, baby girl. Youâre okay. Itâs just the phone.
M.M.: Phone?
[Joel adjustsâthe rustle of movement, soft fabric, a creaking mattress. Then, the faint sound of a small body being shifted, carefully.]
J.M.: Here. I want you to listen to someone special.
L.M. (chuckling): Sort of. The box can carry voices through the wires and air.
M.M. (gasps): Itâs a magic box!
J.M.: Damn right it is. First call of the new world, and it went to you.
M.M.: Mama⊠where are you?
L.M.: Still right here, baby. Just downstairs, in the hall. But this box lets me kiss you goodnight without moving.
M.M. (soft giggle): It is magic.
[A tiny yawn. Then the gentle shuffling of her curling into Joelâs chest. The receiver shifts again.]
J.M. (hushed): Sheâs driftinâ. You still there?
L.M. (sniffles): Always. Did you like your surprise?
J.M. (low chuckle): No phone sex? Hardly a surprise.
L.M.: Your daughter is literally five inches from your face.
J.M. (snickers): And youâre missinâ five inches in yours.
L.M. (shocked gasp): Joel, what is wrong withâ
J.M. (grinning): You made it too easy. Alright, I love you. Now hang up⊠and come over here.
L.M. (quiet smile in her voice): You hang up.
J.M.: Mm-mm. Not playinâ this game, darlinâ. Been dead for twenty years, I intend to keep it that way.
[Silence lingers. Thenâ]
L.M. (whispered): Good night, birthday boy. See you in a minute.
J.M. (just above a murmur): Night, baby.
[Click. The line goes dead. Faint hum fades out.]
X
E. WILLIAMS HOME VIDEO #16
(The footage opens with a bit of bounceâsomeone's adjusting the handheld camera. There is a gentle sound of cards shuffling. Ellie is clearly behind the camera. Her steps are slow as she moves into view of the dining table, where Tommy sits across from Maya, elbows on the table, scattered with half-finished custard, eyes narrowed in concentration.)
(Ellie, off-camera, voice playful) âAlright, itâs dead silent in here. Whatâs goinâ on? Poker night?â
(Tommy, gruffly, not looking up) âItâs war.â
âWith a three-year-old?â
âSheâs up four hands and counting. I ainât here to play. Iâm here to win back my dignity.â
(The camera pans to Maya, sitting squarely in Leelaâs lap, her tiny brows furrowed, lips pursed. The cards look enormous in her little hands, but sheâs manoeuvring them with sharp, deliberate movements. Leelaâs not helpingâjust holding her arms up as Maya goes through them.)
(Maya, serious, without looking up) âYour turn, Uncle Tommy.â
âI know, kid. I know. Just thinkinâ.â
âDonât think too long. Thatâs how Daddy lost.â
(A beat. Then a snort of laughter from Ellie.) âOh my god. Joel lost to Maya. Comedy gold.â
(The camera zooms in a little as Tommy lays down his cardâthen, slowly, Maya lays hers. A moment passes. Tommy exhales through his nose.)
(Maya is still triumphant.) âI said bigger. Not a bad word, mama.â
(Ellie, laughing) âI dunno, Tommy. You sure youâre not lettinâ her win?â
(Tommy holds up both hands.) âYou see me foldinâ? Hell no. Sheâs counting cards. I ainât got a chance.â
(Maya, too gleeful) âThatâs âcause I remeh-mber them.â
(The camera wobbles as Ellie doubles over laughing. Tommy just leans back in his chair, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.)
âLeela, honey, what are you feedinâ your child? We all get the same goddamn rations.â
(Leela with a small smile) âBooks. Puzzles. Joel.â
(Ellie heaves a breath.) âWell, that explains the poker face.â
(The camera zooms once more on Maya, who now holds up her cards dramatically toward the lens, fanned outâwrong side forward.)
(She stage-whispers to the camera.) âNo one can sh-top me.â
(Tommy shakes his head.) âI gotta start cheating.â
âThatâs against the ruuuuules.â
(Leela giggles.) âTommy, she will never let you live it down.â
(The camera lingers on Mayaâs proud little face, cheeks puffed out as she shuffles her cards againâbadly, sloppily, adorably. Leela helps guide her fingers, whispering numbers, which Maya repeats under her breath. Across the table, Tommy looks both defeated and weirdly proud.)
(A beat. Then, off-camera, Joelâs voice cuts inâgentle, curious.)
âYou wanna be like your mama when you grow up, baby?â
(Maya pauses mid-shuffle. The cards slip out of her hands and scatter. Her eyes go wideâand then she lets out a shy giggle, immediately burying her face in Leelaâs chest.)
âMmmâŠâ
(Leela laughs softly and brushes back Mayaâs curls.) âWhat? What is it?â
(She kisses the top of Mayaâs head. Just thenâsharp, tinny brrrring! cuts through the momentâthe patched-up rotary phone on the wall rings. Everyone in the room glances over, startled.)
(Maya gasps, squealing) âAaaah! I got it! I got it, I got it!â
(She scrambles to her feet, almost tripping on her feet, and makes a beeline for the phone. Joel chuckles and reaches out instinctively to steady her as she races past.)
âEasy, trouble.â
(She hops up on the table by the wall, lifting the receiver with both hands like itâs treasure. Maya speaks in a serious tone, copying someone she has seen.)
âJackson outpost. Maya speakinâ.â
(Leela hides a laugh behind her hand. Ellie is already zooming the camera in as Tommy leans forward, amused.)
âAw hellâsheâs got a job now?â
(Maya, now pressing the receiver to her ear, trying to sound official)
âOkay. Uh-huh. You got it. I tell Uncle Tommy. Stand by!â
(She covers the receiver with her hand and turns to Tommy with wide eyes.)
âUncle Tommy, they sayin' the lookout spotted smoke near the ridge. You check it now.â
(Tommy is laughing but impressed.) âWell damn. Alright, little ranger. Iâll suit up. Thanks for the heads up.â
(Maya beams proudly and puts the phone down, then turns back to the group, chest puffed a little.)
(Ellie, mock-serious) âThatâs it. Sheâs taking my side gig. Iâm retiring.â
(Joel grins at Ellie behind the camera.) âGotta get her her own call sign. Radio girlâs gonna run Jackson by ten.â
(Leela pulls Maya back into her lap.) âWhereâd you learn to talk like that, huh?â
âI listen when you think Iâm sleepinâ.â
(Joel snorts.) â'Course she does.â
(Tommy raises his glass.) âTo the youngest scout we got.â
âMaya Miller: card shark, signal scout, future queen of the airwaves.â
(Laughter ripples through the room. The camera catches Maya grinning bashfully, resettled between Leelaâs arms, stacking her scattered cards again. A brief static flickers as the camera feed fades to black.)
X
M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #48
[The broadcast crackles inâa gentle hum of wind in the background, maybe the faint clatter of boots on wood outside. Maya, aged TEN, runs the radio station in the mornings. A little jingleâprobably something she made herself with Ellieâs helpâplays, made up of a few clunky guitar notes and a whistle.]
M.M. (bright, chipper): âGoooood morning, Jackson! It's 7 a.m., the sun is shining, the wind is definitely tryna blow the roof off the stables, and you're tuned in to our very own radio station with your friendly neighbourhood deejay, Maya Miller, keeping you company as we ride out another day in paradise.â
[Short laughâa little dry, but charming.]
M.M: âOkay, okayâmaybe not paradise. But hey, itâs home. And here in Jackson, weâve got chickens that lay, fences that hold, and people that don't give two shits about my radio station. Thatâs more than most.â
[A page rustles. She taps her bookâmaybe a list.]
M.M: âWeâre keepinâ it light today, folks. A couple of songs, a couple of stories, maybe one or two terrible jokes if you're lucky, thanks to Ellie. And if you're tuning in from the outer fields, the boiler room, or the patrol towerâthis one's for you.â
[Pauseâher tone quiets, like remembering a note.]
M.M: âOh! Big shout-out to Kenan at the forge. They just finished another batch of those wicked-sharp hatchets. If you scored one before the morning shift, buy 'em a cider at the Tipsy Bison. OrâI mean, at least carry their woodpile for a week.â
[She laughs, a little sheepish now.]
M.M: âAnd... yeah, I know itâs been a little rough out there lately. More sightings than usual. One of the patrols spotted a runner near the Gulchâagain. But lookâweâre still here. Still standing. Still singinâ.â
[A breath, then her voice perks back up.]
MAYA: âAlright, alright, no more of that serious stuff. Thatâs not what you tuned in for. Letâs play something for Bill, who requested âMr. Sandmanââsays it reminds him of âbefore.â I donât know if thatâs sweet or depressing, but Iâm rollinâ with it.â
[âMr. Sandmanâ begins to play softly underneath.]
MAYA: âThis oneâs for you, Bill. And for anyone else out there, remembering a time when the world made a little more sense. Youâre not alone. And hey, if anybody wants to drop in and say 'hi', I'm right by the main hall, and it's a pretty sweet setup. I don't bite. Anymore. I promise.â
[Music fades back, plays for a few moments, then cuts softly as the mic picks up again.]
MAYA (a little mischievous): âAlright, folks, youâre in for a treat. Weâve got a very special guest in the booth today. Resident genius and best mom in the world. Wanna say hi?â
LEELA (dryly): âYou forgot your lunch bag. Again.â
MAYA: âI was... on the air. Yâknow. Broadcasting to the entire colony. Essential work.â
LEELA: âMhm. Well, now your sandwich is cold. Again. Good luck with that.â
MAYA (laughing): âWait! Wait. Sit down. Just one question. Itâs a good one.â
LEELA (sighs): âMaya, Iâve got to look at the turbines at the dam todayââ
MAYA: âPlease. Please-please-please! Câmon. For the people.â
LEELA (defeated): âFine.â
MAYA (suddenly mock-serious): âOkay, Jackson, hereâs todayâs philosophical corner: If you could say one thing to someone or something youâve lostâwhat would it be?â
[Silence for a second. Then, deadpan:]
MAYA (hisses): âMama, you have to answer.â
LEELA (after a pause, dryly): âTo someone Iâve lost? âŠIâd probably have a word or two with my patience. Wherever it went. Please come back.â
[MAYA snorts with laughter.]
LEELA (murmuring): âAnd now I really do have to go.â
MAYA: âYouâre the worst.â
[A kiss lands audiblyâLeela kisses the top of Mayaâs head, just off-mic.]
LEELA (softly, already stepping away): âHave a great day. I love you, baby.â
[The door clicks. Faint sounds of her leaving â boots on wood, the wind again. Then silence. Maya exhales like sheâs trying not to smile.]
MAYA (quietly, into the mic): âShe says that every time, like she doesnât mean it. But she does. Every single word.â
[She clears her throat.]
MAYA: âOkay, back to the music before I start cryin' on air. This next oneâs for y'all weirdos with too many feelings. Stay safe, stay sharp, and stay with me.â
[The song fades in.]
X
L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG â AUDIO FILE #12
TIMESTAMP: 11:03 | Reed Residence, Dining room
SUBJECT: Maya Miller, aged 3 years, 8 months
NOTES: Observational recording for emotional awareness _ identity formation.
(Soft rustle. The recorder clicks on. Leela's voice enters soft, tired, but affectionate, as though sheâs easing into the moment.)
âDevelopment log twelve. Maya, aged three years and nine months. Today I want to check in on Mayaâs social-emotional patternsâhow she plays, how she relates to other kids. Observation notes: Today, she built a ârocket ship fortâ with our laundry basket. Declared herself commander. Declared Ellie the alien. She delegated roles. Pretty assertively.â
(Thereâs a quiet chuckle from Leela, followed by a long exhale.)
âItâs been... remarkable, watching her become her own person. Sheâs started giving things names. Stories. Feelings. People. I just want to see where her headâs at.â
(She sets something down, the soft clatter of a ceramic mug. Then gentlyâ)
âHey, baby girl. You wanna come sit with Mama for a second?â
(Thereâs the sound of soft running feet on hardwood, followed by a tiny huff of breath as Maya sits down. Fabric rustles. Mayaâs voice is sweet and happy.)
âI was building a big zoo for you, mama.â
âA zoo? Wow. What animals did you put in it?â
âThree horses, one tiger, two bunnies, and a T-Rex.â
(Leela laughs.) âNow thatâs a very inclusive zoo.â
(A pause. Then, casually but purposefulâ) âMaya, can you tell me about your friends? Who do you play with the most?â
(Maya, without missing a beat) âCarter.â
âOh, he's a nice boy. Remind me, who's Carter?â
âSilly.â (She hums.) âHe lives next door!â
âMhm. And whatâs Carter like?â
âHeâs funny. He let me use his green crayon even though it's his favourite. And he pushed me on the swing so high I almost touched the sun!â
(Leela, gently teasing) âYou have a lot of fun together?â
(Maya giggles.) âHeâs my boyfwen.â
(Thereâs a beat of silence. A soft click as Leela sets down her pen.)
(Leela sounds more careful than amused.) âHe's your boyfriend?â
âUh-huh. He shared. And I kissed him on the cheek. So now weâre... boyfwen and girlfwen.â
(Leelaâs quiet laugh slips outâsurprised, warm.) âAnd how did he feel about that?â
(Maya, cheerfully) âHe said I smelled like apples.â
âThatâs a pretty sweet thing to say.â
(Then her tone shiftsâslower now. She softens it without losing the thread, like a hand on Mayaâs back.)
âBaby, can we talk about something important?â
â'Kay.â
âYou know how hugs and kisses and holding hands can feel really nice, right?â
âYeah. I go like thisâmwah!â
(There's a small pause.) âBut you always get to choose. Nobody gets to touch you unless you want them to.â
âMhm.â
âAnd if someone ever tries, and it makes your tummy feel funny, like a scared feeling, or like you want to get awayâyou tell Mama. Or Daddy. Or anyone in your family.â
(Maya, quietly) âEven if theyâre nice?â
âEven if theyâre really nice. If you donât feel good about it, thatâs enough. Your body is yours.â
(Thereâs a pause, like Maya is working it out in her head. Something taps gentlyâMayaâs fingers on the table, maybe. Then her voice returns, brighter again.)
âBut I wanted to give him kiss, mama.â
âThatâs okay. Itâs good when you want to. Thatâs how we know something feels right. But you should know itâs always okay to say no, too. Even to kisses. Even to Carter.â
(Maya hums, a beat later) âWhat if I change my mind?â
âExactly. Then you say, âNo, thank you.â And he has to listen. And if he doesnât, you come straight to me, alright?â
âI think he listens.â
âThen heâs being a good friend. Thatâs what matters most. Being safe and kind.â
(Silence. Thenâ)
âMama?â
âYeah, baby.â
(Her voice is shy.) âCan I kiss you?â
(Leela laughs, breath catching a littleâcaught off guard.) âOf course you can. Gimme a big one.â
(A pause. A kiss landsâa loud little mwah. Then giggles.)
âYou smell like Daddy.â
âAnd you smell like apples. Go on now, go build your big zoo.â
(Tiny footsteps patter away. The door creaks faintly. The room settles. The faint hiss of the windchime and the occasional tick of the cooling kettle fill the space. Thenâsoft, almost absent-mindedâLeela begins speaking again.)
âUm, well... Maya shows increasing um, verbal complexity in social interactions. She uses ownership languageââmy boyfriend,â âmy zooââwhich aligns with expected identity formation at her... stage. Shows initiative in emotional reciprocityâphysical affection, shared play, verbal acknowledgement of care...â
(She takes a quiet breath, then shifts.)
âOmigod... what happens when those interactions arenât safe? When someone nice isnât good?â
(Another breath. This one is shakier.)
âI donât know how to teach my daughter the difference between fear and instinct without giving her...â (A soft gulp.) â...my history. I donât want her carrying mine. I want her to know the world. But how do you prepare someone for what you survived, without letting that become the shadow they grow up under?
(A long pause.)
âMy baby, sheâs so soft. And thatâs a miracle. I didnât know softness could survive me. I didnât know I could still hold it, let alone raise it.â
(Her voice lowers again, almost as if sheâs talking only to herself.)
âI watch her love so freely, and it's starting to terrify me again. Because thereâs always this part of me that thinks: someone's going to take it. But another part, the one that clings to Joel, assures me that she's safe. Maya knows how her father is and how a person should be.â
(Silence. Then, quietly, with that same gentle steadiness she gives to Mayaâ)
âShe knows she can say no, and that she can run home to me. Thatâs⊠a start.â
(Click.)
X
M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #49
[Mid-broadcastâmusic fades out. The soft hum of the station returns.]
MAYA (into the mic, mock-serious): âAnd that was Fleetwood Mac for the third time this week because apparently we are a town of heartbreakers. Thanks for the request, Estebanâerm, next time, maybe something that doesnât make me want to bash my head against the wall for two hours.â
[She shuffles a cassette case, clicks it shut.]
[The studio door creaks open. Footsteps, then a long, familiar sigh as someone flops down onto a chair.]
ELLIE (off-mic, relaxed): âDamn, itâs cosy up in here. Look at this! Did you get new pillows? Wait, that one's mine.â
MAYA (groans): âOh no. No, no, no. Ellieâyouâre not cleared for entrance. You gotta go.â
ELLIE (snorts): âRelax. Iâm just hanginâ out. You got snacks? You always got snacks. Leela's fuckin' sinful pretzels.â
MAYA: âThis is a professional environment. You canât justââ
ELLIE (into the mic, sing-song): âPsh, you're like ten. Did your professional environment know youâve got a boyfriend whoââ
MAYA (shrieks, cuts her off): âNOPE. Nope. Donât you dare! You always do this! Get out!â
ELLIE (cackling): âWhat! I didnât even sayâCarter!âCome andâow, hey!â
MAYA (wrestling for the mic): âGet! Out!â
[Thereâs a scuffle, laughter, the sound of a chair scraping back. Ellieâs voice is fading as sheâs being half-dragged.]
ELLIE (calling out): âHe sees her through his window, Joelâs gonnaâ!â
MAYA: âOH MY GOD!â
[Just as Ellie is shoved out the doorâ]
MARIA (stern, from the hall): âGirls. Too loud.â
[She takes a second. Then clears her throat and speaks calmly into the mic again, regaining her radio persona like nothing happened.]
MAYA: âApologies for the brief turbulence. We now return you to your regularly scheduled programme. Hereâs one for anyone with nosy sisters and no locks on their doors. This is âDonât Stand So Close to Me.ââ
[Music kicks inâThe Police.]
X
MILLER HOME VIDEO #16
(The footage starts mid-motionâjostled slightly as someone fumbles with the handstraps. A soft clatter in the background, tools on wood. The screen settles, coming into focus on Joel at his workbench, his head bowed, the muscles in his forearm taut as he files the edge of a half-finished guitar body. Sunlight spills across his shoulders. Thereâs a quiet hum in the room: dust in the air, the faint buzz of wind outside, the rasp of wood shaving down.)
(Leela, off-camera, dryly amused) âYou done pretending Iâm not here?â
(Joel doesnât look up. His voice is slow, roughened with focus.) âIf youâre filminâ me again, Iâm charginâ a fee.â
âMm. That so? Well, I've got money to spare.â (A pause as she zooms slightly, catching the flex of his hand as he turns the wood. She goes into a deep voice.) âJoel Miller. Documented in the wild. In his natural habitat. Look at the precision. The grace. The muscle.â
(Joel snorts. Still doesnât look up.) âFor real?â
(She laughs quietly behind the camera.) âI wish I were more artistic.â
(He finally lifts his gaze, catches her through the lens, then returns to his work with a little shake of his head.)
âYou are. You just get mad when it ainât perfect.â (A beat. Then he sets the file down, reaching up to flick the collar of his flannel toward the camera.) âLike this. Tell me this ainât art.â
(The camera zooms in. There, stitched along the collarâs edge in slightly uneven thread, is a pair of deer antlersâwobbly, charming, clearly handmade.)
(Leela laughs.) âThat was not for public display!â
âToo late. Itâs on record now.â (He grins, clearly enjoying himself, and lifts his palm nextâdark ink visible along the base of his thumb.) âAnd this?â
(Camera focuses on his outstretched palm. A swirl of dark brown ink stains the skinârust-colored henna, slightly cracked with drying. The design isnât excellent, but in the centre are the small, careful initials: L & J. The camera dips just as quick.)
âUgh, you're proving my point. It looks terrible.â
(Joel studies it for a moment.) âLooks perfect to me. Show me yours.â
(The shot wobbles as Joel takes the camera gently. A moment of black, then the image refocusesânow itâs Leela in frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor, light pooling behind her in the corner of the woodshop. She gives a reluctant grin, her hands resting in her lap, then slowly lifts them.)
âHappy?â
âLook at that. Real pretty. Like you.â
(Camera zooms. Her palms are detailed with dark hennaâdelicate vines, tiny dots like stars, and soft spirals, uneven in some places but clearly done with care. Her ring sits amid it, gleaming bright against her skin.)
(Joelâs voice is soft behind the lens.) âWhatâs this called again?â
âHenna.â
âRight, henna. And you did this because...?â
(She gives him a pointed look.) âBecause I got married.â
âThat you did.â (A pause, then:) âPoor bastard.â
(Leela laughs and throws a scrap of fabric at the camera.)
(Joel lowers the camera a bit, just enough to see more of herânot posing, just being.) âAnd in two days. I get to see all this goodness in a pretty white dress.â
âIf you shave a little.â
âIâll consider it.â
âAnd wear a tux.â
âNow thatâs pushinâ it.â
(She tilts her head, lips pushed to a frown.)
(Joel clucks his tongue.) âWeâre not even having a real ceremony, baby. Just some pictures. No oneâs wearinâ a damn tux.â
(She narrows her eyes playfully.) âThen why should I wear a dress?â
(Joel pauses.) âDonât, then. Even better.â
(Leela looks away, but her mouth curves.) âPut the camera away, Joel.â
(A beat. Joel mumbles something inaudible to catch.)
(She gasps.) âTurn it off! You can't just say that whileââ
(She exhales a quiet laugh, then reaches toward the lensâfingers outstretched. The footage shudders as the camera is lowered, turned. Just before the image cuts out, thereâs a blurred shot of Joelâs boots stepping toward her.)
â
(The footage flickers back on. The camera shifts wildly at firstâthen it steadies, slightly tilted, capturing a low, intimate view of the workshop floor. The frame settles on Leela.)
(Sheâs sitting with her back against the wood-panelled wall, knees drawn up, a guitar resting haphazardly in her lap. Her hair is tousled, her nightdress clinging loosely with two buttons undone and one sleeve halfway off her shoulder. Thereâs a lazy satisfaction in her posture, it's obviousâshe is freshly fucked. Sheâs grinning, biting her kiss-bitten bottom lip as she awkwardly tries to strum.)
(She nods to the camera.) âNice, you turned it on. Say it again for me.â
(Joel, off-camera, voice sheepish) âYou wish. I turned it on because future historians are gonna know what beautiful means.â
âUh-uh. You have to say it. For the record.â
âThere ainât gonna be a record. This thingâll get eaten by squirrels or somethinâ.â
âYou just saidââ
âChanged my mind.â
(She laughs, eyes flicking up toward the lens, fingers still plucking uncertainly at the strings.)
âSo, Joel saidâand I quoteââIf I die, you have my blessing to move on, but not to someone with bad grammar or a weak chin.ââ
âI was jokinâ.â
âNo, no. This is legal documentation now. Youâre on record.â
âFine. You got it on tape. But itâs a one-way deal. No replacements. I die, you mourn forever. Become a ghost widow or some shit.â
(Leela snorts. She strums a wrong chord and winces.) âYou really think Iâd let you die?â
âYou plan on goinâ first?â
âSomeoneâs got to make you dinner in the afterlife.â
(Joel sighs.) âHate it when you talk like that.â
(She softens then, gaze dropping back to the strings. Her voice stays light, but there's something underneath itâlike the edge of a sigh.)
âYouâre not gonna die anytime soon, Joel. Remember your guarantee?â
(He grumbles.) âHundred-and-twenty years. No refunds.â
âPrecisely. Youâre only halfway through.â
âStill got time to pick up bad habits.â
(Leela flashes him a smile.) âYou already did. Me.â
(Thereâs a beat of silence. You can hear Joel shift off-camera, maybe leaning closer. When he speaks, itâs warm, almost shy.)
âAt least I get a cute girl outta the deal. And then some.â
âAnd I havenât even started greying yet.â
âYou wonât. Not for another decade. Still a damn teenybopper.â
âRight, right. Iâm seventeen, Maya doesnât exist, and I met you at my high school prom.â
âThatâd explain the dress this weekend.â
âIt has stars on it. Maya drew it.â
âLook, Iâm livinâ long enough to see that girl bring home some cocky little bastard, and when they knock on our door, Iâm gonna be sittinâ there with this guitar, cleaninâ it like itâs a shotgun.â
(Leela breaks into quiet, delighted laughter, leaning her head back against the wall. Her fingers fall still on the strings. She looks up at the camera and lifts one brow.)
âWill you at least put on your shirt first?â
âHell no. Ruins my intimidation tactic.â
(She groans, mock-horrified. The camera tilts just slightly as Joel chuckles, and the screen catches a blurry glimpse of his knee before the feed goes shaky.)
âAlright, movie star. Gimme that thing before I start filming your bald spot.â
âSuch a littleââ
(A blurry shot of her smirk as he dodges a playful swipe. Thenâblack.)
X
M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #50
[The last notes of a mellow track fade outâSimon & Garfunkelâs 'The Only Living Boy in New York.' The needle lifts. A breath of quiet static. Then, Mayaâs voice, soft and clear through the mic.]
MAYA (into the mic, thoughtful): âGoing along with our question for the day... I always wonder what the old world felt like. It's something I lost. Yâknow, the one before the fences and the patrol schedules and the rules about not going past the orchard without a grown-up.â
âMy dad and momâthey tell me stories. Sometimes funny ones. Like the time Daddy got stuck in this thing called an elevator and thought he was gonna spend the rest of his life in there.â [laughs quietly]
âAnd sometimes they tell me the coolest stuff. Likeâdid you know Leela Miller was supposed to inherit a jet? One of those fast-flying things that important people used to ride in. A private jet, she said. With soft chairs and teeny-tiny pretzels. You shouldâve seen Daddyâs face when she told me. He just went real quiet and blinked a bunch.â
[Her voice quietens.] âSometimes the stories are sad, though. Ellie told me once about the stars and how people used to ride rockets into space. She said if she had the chance, sheâd go straight to the moon and never look back. I didnât even know the moon was close enough to touch.â
[A soft pause. You can hear her thumb tap the desk, just once.]
âAnd every Thursday, I help my ma make dinner. Itâs, like, our thing. She says people used to do thatâpass down recipes and stories while peeling potatoes or whatever. Last week, we made these round stuffed cookie sandwiches called Oreos. Black and white. Sounded fancy. Tasted like⊠chalk? Ugh.â (giggles) âI donât know why people were obsessed with them. Daddy ate five just to prove he liked them. Then he made this face like heâd swallowed his boot.â
âAnd then there were the M&Ms. Uncle Tommy found this old sealed jar when he was out on patrol. Tiny little colours, all shiny like beads. I thought theyâd taste like cardboard. But⊠they didnât. They melted in my mouth. Like, hmm⊠I donât know. Crunchy happiness? I didnât even care if they were a hundred years old. I wanted three more jars.â
[Her voice quiets. More space between words now.]
âSometimes⊠I think Iâm never gonna know what that world felt like. The one with school buses, and oh! These ice cream trucks that played music? With movie theatres and cereal aisles that go on forever. Where you could drive a car just because you felt like it. And move to a whole continent in a few hours.â
âI live in a world of rationed rice. And fences. And watchtowers. A world where you grow what you eat. And you donât go out unless you have to...â
âBut itâs not all bad.â
[She inhales, like sheâs grounding herself in the now.]
âItâs actually kinda nice here. I wake up and check the berry bushes with Mama. I get to see the horses every day with Ellie. I help Daddy in the shopâhe lets me sand the soft wood and shows me how to oil the hinges so they donât squeak. When we walk through town, people wave. They know my name. The Miller kid.â
[A beat. Then she smiles, almost audibly.]
âMaybe the old worldâs gone. But this oneâs still growing, right?â
[She hesitates. Then leans a little closer to the mic. Her voice goes smallâsincere.]
âIf I ever had to pick between all the shiny stuff, the Oreos and M&Ms, the old world⊠or having this, my family, the lake, and my town?â
âIâd pick this. Every time.â
[Thereâs a quiet momentâjust the hum of the equipment and a flick of a switch.]
MAYA (soft): âThis next one goes out to anyone who's building something new in a world thatâs still figuring itself out. Hang in there. Hereâs âHere Comes the Sunâ by The Beatles. Stay warm, Jackson.â
[Music begins.]
X
T. MILLER HOME VIDEO #3
(The frame opens with a slow zoom onto Joel, standing in front of a small bedroom mirror, tryingâand failingâto get his cufflinks to sit right. The golden sun highlights the pressed lines of Joel's jacket. Tommy's teasing voice comes from behind the camera.)
âLook at that. Goddamn. Joel Miller in a tux. I never thought Iâd live to see the day.â
(Joel doesnât look up. Just mutters a curse under his breath and keeps wrestling with the cuff.) âTerrible timing.â
âOh, câmon. Give us a spin, would ya?â
(Joel doesn't even glance over.) âFuck off.â
(Tommy chuckles behind the camera. The lens zooms inâjust slightly too closeâas Joel adjusts his tie. The suit fits better than expected: crisp, black with a subtle grey lining. He looks good, clean, handsome, and uncomfortable. Someone has ironed the outlaw right off him. He finally gets the tie straight, eyes narrowing at his own reflection like it just insulted him.)
(Tommy, drawling, mock-formal) âBig brotherâs gettinâ married today. Real event of the year.â
(Joel continued centring his tie.) âIt ainât a wedding. Itâs pictures.â
(Tommy ignores him.) âThereâs a bride. Thereâs a groom. Sheâs in white. Youâre in a tux. There are rings involved.â
(Joel snorts. He fiddles with the small boutonniere Maria had pinned to the lapel earlier. Itâs a single thistle and a white wildflower. Subtle.)
âAinât about the pictures or the suit. I⊠wanted a day that Maya could remember. So thatâs what weâre doinâ.â
âThatâs a wedding, dumbass.â
(Joel gives him a look. The kind that wouldâve stopped most people from speaking again. Tommy is not most people.)
âIf you fuck this up for me, I am puttinâ your head through a goddamn wall.â
(The camera pans awkwardly to the bed, where Maya, three years old, is sitting cross-legged in a blue dress with a sash, hugging her stuffed bear. Her hair is braided in two neat ropes on her shoulders. Sheâs watching Joel with the kind of reverence only little kids have for their dads.)
âHey, squirt. You seen your mama?â
(Maya beams at the camera.) âYeah, she looks like a pin-cess. She got tattoo on her hands, and flowers in her hair...â
(She falls back onto the bed, kicking her feet in glee. Joel turns at the sound, a smile creeping over his face.)
âWell, now I gotta see her.â
(From off-frame, a calm voice answers, warm and amusedâ)
âLook no further.â
(The camera swings again, a little too fast, before it steadiesâcatching Leela standing in the doorway. Sheâs radiant in a simple flared white dress, tea-length with delicate lace sleeves. Her long braid is swept over one shoulder, tucked with tiny wildflowers. A string of pearls graces her neck, and white heels click softly on the floorboards as she steps in. Sheâs not done up like a fairy taleâsheâs real, alive, smiling, glowing like one.)
(She smooths a hand down her stomach.) âIs it fine?â
(Joel doesnât say anything at first. He just stares. His brow softens. One hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, the way he does when words fail him.)
âYou look...â (He exhales a short breath through his nose, still watching her like sheâs walked out of a dream.) âYeah, darlin'. Yeah, you look... more than fine.â
(Then he snaps his fingers at Tommy without breaking eye contact.)
âOut. Take baby girl with you.â
(Tommy groans.) âAw, câmon, Joel. Get a grip.â
âGet. Out.â
(Maya squeals as Tommy dutifully scoops her up. The camera jostles a little. A final glimpse of Joel reaching for Leelaâs hand before the door begins to close.)
(Just before the recording cuts, thereâs a quiet momentâLeela stepping close, Joelâs hand brushing along her waist, his head dipping against hers, and the soft click of the door behind them.)
X
M. MILLER RADIO RECORDING #51
[The tape clicks onâthere's a fuzzy hum of silence, then the creak of a stool. Maya exhales. Sheâs clearly resting her chin in her hand, voice small and low.]
M.M (quietly): ...you're tuned in with me, Maya, where the stars are out and everyone else is asleep. Except me. And maybe that one rooster that doesnât understand how time works.
[A pause. The chair creaks again. She exhales, this time longer. Her voice grows softerâalmost like sheâs talking to herself now.]
M.M: No one came down here tonight. Not even... Carter. And he said he would. Boys are so dumb. (Then quickly:) Also, he's not my boyfriend! I hate his stupid guts!
[A long silence. Just the faint sound of a wire humming. Then, her voice, low and a little sadâ]
I guess... if anyoneâs still listening⊠thank you. [Her voice tightens. Sheâs holding something back. Thenâ] Okay. Thatâs enough sadness. Up next is the sound of me flipping through my songbook until I find something good.
[Just as she starts to rustle the pages, thereâs a knock. Soft, deliberate. Her head lifts slightly. Another knock. Then Joelâs voiceâ]
J.M. (off-mic, gentle): Hey.
M.M (muffled, burying her face in her arms): Hi.
J.M.: How'd it go today?
M.M: Super. No one came. Or called.
J.M.: I came.
MAYA: You donât count.
[A beat. The floor creaks as he steps inside, sits beside her. A long silence between themâcompanionable. Thenâ]
J.M: Well. You sure do like talkinâ, huh?
[Maya mock gaspsâlike heâs insulted her most grievously.]
MAYA: Dad. Talking is important.
J.M. (teasing): Didnât say it wasnât. Just wonderinâ... you ever run outta words?
MAYA (proudly): Nope. Never. Not even once.
[Joel lets out a low chuckle.]
J.M: Alright. But why the radio? What is it, your diary?
[Pause. Her tone pivotsâstill Maya, still full of sunshine, but now thereâs a thoughtfulness underneath. Like sheâs been waiting for someone to ask.]
MAYA: No. Because itâs... magic. You talk... and the words go somewhere. You donât know where or whoâs listeninâ. But itâs out there.
[Beat. The chair creaks as she swings her feet.]
Mama said sound keeps goinâ even after we stop hearinâ it. Maybe it bounces off the sky or floats forever in space.
[She lowers her voice nowâa hush, like telling a secret.]
So what if someoneâs out there in our town, and what if theyâre sad and alone... and then poof, they hear my voice. They know Iâm real.
[Joel doesnât answer for a second. You can hear the emotion get caught somewhere between silence and breath.]
J.M. (soft): Thatâs a mighty big heart you got.
MAYA (shrugs): Itâs just talking.
J.M: Nah... âS more than that.
[A rustleâJoel moves closer, maybe rests a hand on her head. His voice lowers.]
J.M.: Why donât I answer your question tonight?
[A soft shuffleâmaybe sheâs lifting her head just slightly.]
MAYA: You will?
J.M: Shoot.
MAYA (a little more awake): Um... today it was: if you could say one thing to someone or something you lost⊠what would you say?
[Joel doesnât answer right away. The mic hums gently. When he speaks, itâs softâlike heâs not sure she should hear it, but says it anyway.]
J.M: Iâd say⊠Iâm still here. Still tryinâ. Doinâ better. And Iâd say I love you very much. Took me a while to come back. (A pause.) Thatâs all.
MAYA (humming): Was it⊠a person? Or your guitar?
J.M (snorts softly): Ainât the guitar.
MAYA (after a beat): Then I think I know who she is.
[He doesnât deny it.]
J.M.: You got a song picked out?
MAYA: Not really.
J.M. (with a little smile): Well, you know mine.
MAYA (grinning): Future Days?
J.M: Mind if I play it?
MAYA: Well, no one's listening to put up with your singing anyway. Go ahead.
J.M: Smartass.
[He reaches for the old guitar case he brought with himâthe latch clicks faintly. The strings hum as he tunes without thinking, hands practised, voice low.]
J.M. (gravel-voiced, playful): âThis next oneâs for the late-night crew. All one and a half of you.â
MAYA (giggles): Hey!
[He starts to play. A few soft, familiar chords. The mic catches it, carries it. Maya leans into his side. You can hear the soft brush of her hair against his jacket. Her voice, sleepy now.]
MAYA: Thanks for coming down here, Daddy.
J.M (quietly): Always will, darlinâ.
[The song fades in.]
X
PHOTO LOG â SPRING | âUnweddingâ
Filed: L. MILLER, personal archive
Roll #03, camera serial A-081
[TRIPOD RECORDING â VIDEO & STILL INTERVAL]
CAMERA: ACTIVE
Frame 001
JOEL & LEELA, centre frame.
Theyâre standing side by side in front of the big white house. Leela holds a handful of clipped sunflowers from her garden, stems wet and crooked. Sheâs smiling widely, the grin still growing. Joel gives the camera a suspicious look, then manages a half-smile, awkward, slightly off-centre.
ELLIE (offscreen, yelling): Joel, your face looks like you just stepped on a nail. Try smiling like you love her!
JOEL (grumbling): I do love her.
ELLIE: Then tell your dumb mouth.
Frame 002
JOEL & LEELA, closer.
Joelâs arm slips around her waist, tugging her toward him. She stumbles into him, laughing, and the sunflowers drag a streak of yellow pollen down the front of his jacket. He scowls. She looks up at him, still laughing.
LEELA (cowboy accent): Guess I done marked you there, partner.
JOEL: Been doinâ that since day one.
Frame 003
JOEL, LEELA, & ELLIE.
Ellie jumps into the frame, arms around their shoulders. Sheâs in a wrinkled black suit with a bright red tie, hair slicked back in a ponytail. Leela clutches Ellieâs hand with a smile that softens her whole face. Joelâs attention has shiftedâheâs not looking at the camera anymore, just at Ellie, and there's something proud and bone-deep in the way heâs smiling down at her.
Frame 004
JOEL, TOMMY, LEELA, & MARIA.
Theyâre bunched close, like theyâre about to break into a group prayer or a brawl. Maria has her arm around Leelaâs waist. Joel stands slightly behind, one hand on Tommyâs shoulder. Tommyâs got his eyes closed like heâs already regretting whatever Joelâs about to say.
JOEL (murmured): Donât you dare put your scaly ass lips near my wife again.
TOMMY (winking at Leela): I got one more kiss left in me.
LEELA (laughs): Me, too.
JOEL: Don't encourage him, honey.
MARIA: Shut the fuck up and smile.
Frame 005
MAYA.
She stands in the front lawn by her swingset, a sunflower tucked behind her ear, grinning so wide her cheeks nearly touch her eyes. She frames her chin with her little hands, posing like someoneâs taught her pageantry. Her gaze is angled upâsomeone tall, probably Joel, is just off-frame.
Frame 006
JOEL & TOMMY.
They're in a mild standoff, both half-turned toward each other and toward the camera, bickering with their eyebrows.
TOMMY: You go left. I go right.
JOEL: You ainât ever been right.
Frame 007
MARIA & TOMMY.
Mariaâs head is thrown back in a real laugh, eyes crinkling. Tommyâs kissed her cheek mid-frame, smug. His tieâs crooked. Her blouse is wrinkled. They look like the only people who didnât try and still somehow got it right.
Frame 008
TOMMY & MAYA.
He crouches beside her, both of them duck-pouting for the camera. Maya quickly throws up bunny ears behind his head just as the shutter clicks.
TOMMY (growls): Little nightmare. C'mere, I'll yank your nose out. Can't have one good photo.
[MAYA squeals, running off.]
Frame 009
ELLIE & MAYA.
Ellie lifts Maya up at the waist, both laughing like theyâve just shared a secret. Mayaâs braid is lopsided now. Ellie's hair is blown upward by the wind. They donât care; they erupt into laughter.
Frame 010
JOEL, LEELA, & MAYA.
The final frame lingers. Joel holds Maya in his arms, her small hands looped loosely around his neck, her cheek tucked against his shoulder. His other arm is around Leela, drawing her in without hesitation. She leans into him, one hand resting gently over his heart, holding it there, the wood-and-gold ring twinkling in the sun. Joel doesnât smile often, but he does here. Itâs lopsided and big. It took a long road to arrive at this moment.
X
L. MILLER MAYA DEVELOPMENT LOG â AUDIO FILE #117
October 3rd, 10:12 P.M.
(Soft click. A breath. Fabric rustles. Distant sound of wind chimes, maybe a creaky chair.)
âOkay. Six years, four months.â
âMaya asked me today if the sky always looked this old. And I didnât know what to tell her.â (She laughs.) âI am still thinking about it. She is absolutely incredible. Now I know how my parents felt.â
âSheâs... sharp lately. Surpasses me in all ways. Picks up on patterns faster than I can redirect her. Her brain is restlessâit wants to devour everything. Maps. Fire. Roots. Words sheâs not ready for. Words I wasnât ready to hear her say.â
âTranscend. Refract. Exquisite. And, ugh, gross. Which she gets from Ellie.â
âShe is Joelâs mirror. Her eye-roll, the little tilt of her head, the way she leans. She wears his old shirts, tucked into her jeans, sleeves all rolled up. She still bolts out the front door at exactly four every afternoon, barefoot if I donât catch her, just to meet him halfway, and grabs his bag like itâs hers to carry. She sings with him now, plays guitar with him, little fingers on the frets. She even talks with that same Texas drawl of his.â
âSheâs started naming weather. Not just clouds, but moodsââgrump-storm,â âwhisper rain,â âsun thatâs pretending.â I think itâs how she handles the chaos. Which makes sense. Itâs how I handled mine.â
(A beat passes.)
âI have decided that this is the last one. The last log. Not because sheâs finishedâwell, sheâs just getting startedâbut because I think sheâs moving beyond me. And thatâs the point, isnât it?â
âMy brilliant baby girl doesnât need me to define her anymore. Sheâs learning what kind of person she wants to be. All I ever wanted was to get her this far. Alive. Unbroken. Curious. Aspiring. And so damn beautiful.â
âI think⊠I think I did that.â
(A brief rustling, a soft clink of glassâmaybe a whiskey. Quite out of character for Leela.)
âAs for me...â (She clears her throat. A chair creaks as she leans back.)
âIâm still working. I finished my notes on the zeta convergence problem last weekâwell, finished for now. Thereâs a ceiling I keep hitting, but Iâm trying to trick myself into thinking itâs just another kind of symmetry.â
âI never thought Iâd leave anything behind of mine own that mattered. But lately, Iâve been helping Jackson map our winter gridâenergy storage with the lightning battery, food supply routes, even water rationing patterns. Weâre building a resilience plan that doesnât rely on luck anymore. A bunch of futurists here.â
(She exhales.) âI drew up the townâs first curriculum guidelines last monthâbasic logic, analytic equations, geometry... Maria says weâre going to turn the old sawmill into a school next year. Joel says if I make him teach fractions, heâll fake his own death.â
(A small laugh. She lets it fade.)
âBut I think heâs proud. Quietly. Of me.â
(And hereâshe gets a little softer, thoughtful, speaking more to herself now.)
âI donât know if any of this will last. The world still breaks more than it builds. But maybe we leave behind, um... enough blueprints. Enough questions. Enough people who believe something good is possible.â
(Silence, just the faint hum of wind outside. Thenâ)
âI keep the hard math separate from the home stuff. Thanks to my handy chore chart. Usually. But sometimesâlike todayâI sit at the window with my pen, and I think about proof, and beauty, and entropy, and how somehow we still made this little family work. Even after everything.â
(Beat. She takes a sip. The glass touches the table again.)
âI mean, I still get the nightmares. Can't stop it. Not every night, but some. Sometimes I wake up with the scream still stuck in my chest. Sometimes I canât get near my daughter's room without remembering what was done to me. What I survived.â
âBut Iâm doing better than I ever was. I donât flinch as often when Joel touches me. I like taking walks around Jackson with Maria. I like to listen to people talk. Sometimes I visit Joel at the contracting yard, just to wake him up a little. I still freeze when I smell bleach, but I tell myself Iâm safe, Maya is safe, and sometimes it even works. And when it doesnât... he holds me through it. No questions or pushing. Just waits for me to fall asleep, and is awake before I am to reassure me that I didn't disappear.â
(Her voice softens hereâfull, held together like something precious she doesn't want to break just by saying it aloud.)
âBeing with Joel is... loving a faultline. It is too silent, too deep, and it waits there. Ancient. Worn. Presence over promise. Thereâs something in him that bends toward my grief without being afraid of it. He just knows itâs there.â
(A soft breath, like sheâs amazed by her own truth.)
âI think I love him more now because I know heâs seen the worst of me. And somehow he still leaves coffee by my nightstand every morning and kisses me like Iâm his gift.â
(A faint, amused exhaleâalmost a laugh. She sniffles.)
âGod, I sound so corny. Heâd tease the hell out of me for this.â
âI never thought Iâd have this. But then Joel knocked on my door one night, and everything began again. Iâm... still learning how to let myself have that. Which is the hardest goddamn part. Belonging.â
(She sighs.) âAnyway... thatâs the... my everything for now.â
âJoelâs downstairsâhinge number six. Mayaâs his shadow, as always. Iâll go to them in a minute.â
âIf I never say anything elseâlet this be the one that stays. I'm still here. Iâll hold onto this as long as the world lets me.â
I think it took me a really long time to post this because I had to say goodbye. To everyone who made it this far, thank you. What a wild journey this has been! Round two starts here -> FALLING masterlist
Or if you're interested in something else, it's here -> DAMS main masterlist
Summary: Youâve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You donât know. Why does he look so fucking good? You donât know, either.
W.C: ~6.2k
TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: donât fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).
Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)
Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading
One-third. A married coupleâs least favourite fraction.Â
It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, youâbeing the lucky duck you wereâfound yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.
You and Joel had agreed that youâd be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.
All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.
Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.
In fact, tonight you had a date.
A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you havenât shaved in a long time.
The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that heâd pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.
After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.
Then, you heard it.
A faint gurgling.Â
You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.
The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?
You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened.Â
You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.
âShit.â You breathed.
The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.
You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldnât be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.
A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipeâthe mains. Which you didnât know how to do.Â
So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.
OrâŠ
Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing.Â
He answered on the third ring.
âHeyâeverything okay?â Joelâs concerned voice filtered through your phone.
âNo.â You inhaled.Â
âNo?â Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.
When nothing came, he cleared his throat.
Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, âThis is the part where you tell me whatâs wrong.âÂ
âUm, my sinkâs busted.â
âYour sink⊠is busted?â
âYeah. Faucet wonât turn off. It-Itâs a lot of water.â You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. âI didnât know who else to call.â
A moment of silence, then:
âYou need me to fix it?âÂ
Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasnât exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight oâclock on a Friday evening.
âYou know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother youââ
âIâm on my way.â
Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face.Â
Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.
You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.
It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he wasâstill at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen.Â
But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.
âHi,â You said breathlessly.
Upon seeing you, Joelâs brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.
âHi.â He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. âAm I⊠interruptinâ something?â
You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.
âI have a date inâŠâ You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. âFive minutes ago.â
âA date.â He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. âWell, Iâll try to make this quick, then.â
You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.
He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking.Â
But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the name written in the recipient line.
âMrs Miller?â Joel read aloud.
âWhat?â Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.
Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.
âOh.â You cringed inwardly. âYeah.â
âDidnât, uh, realise that you were keepinâ the name.â He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.
âIâm not. I justâŠâ You ran a hand through your hair. âPaperwork isnât final.â
For the divorce.
Joelâs eyebrows pinched together. âI sent you my signed copies, ifââÂ
âI know you did. I just havenât sent the papers to my lawyer yet.â You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. âJust got a lot on my plate, recently.â
That was very unconvincing.
Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.
âWellâŠâ He huffed sheepishly. âYou know I always liked my name on you.â
You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?
âCâmon. The problem is upstairs.â
The faucet, to your dismay, hadnât stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.
You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.
Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.
âYou fixed it.â You blinked.
âFar from it,â He muttered, frowning. âThe cartridgeâs shot. And the valve stemâs stripped. Who installed this?â
Without missing a beat, âYou did.â
ââŠRight.â
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. âSo?â
âSo, this isnât a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nutââ He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended himââyouâve probably had a leak back here for a while.â
You blinked. âAnd you didnât notice that when you lived here?â
Joel turned to shoot you a look. âI was your husband, not your handyman.â
âReally? I couldâve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.â
âAnd here I thought it was âcause of my radiant personality.â
âDefinitely not that.â You huffed out a laugh.
Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.
You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.
âYou can go on your date,â Joel added, not looking at you. âIâll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But⊠if you feel like gettinâ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.â
Right, your date.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.
Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.
âIâm staying with you.â
Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. âNo, you ainât. Iâll take too long.â
âWell, I canât leave you to fix my problems while Iâm out eating overpriced ravioli.â You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. âYouâre not a plumber, youâre a⊠youâre myâŠâ
Ex-husband.
You cleared your throat, then emphasised, âYouâre not a plumber.â
Joel let out a slow exhale. âDo whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gonâ be as fun as your date.â
âIâve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.â You tilted your head. âWe can make it fun.â
Joelâs eyebrows shot up.
âNotânot in that way.â You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.
To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.
His voice was soft when he responded.Â
âGo on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.â
Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.
Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying aroundâhow very unprepared of you.
The bad news was that you werenât going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Markâs profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good olâ days.
âAll Iâm sayinâ,â Joel continued through a laugh. âIs that she did it on purpose.â
âMy mom has always been bad with names!â
âBad enough to still call me âGeorgeâ after a year of us datinâ?â He scoffed.
You stifled a giggle. âIn her defence, itâs a very similarââ
âLike hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.â Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. âHow is he?â
âFine. Just called him yesterday, actually.â
âHe still callinâ meâ?â
âHe still calls you âporn stacheâ, yes.â
Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.
You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.
His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was beforeâlow and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.
You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.
And, you didnât mean to stare. But you did.Â
God, you missed this.
âI think I prefer George.â Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.
You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.
âSarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.â You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. âSheâs with my parents in the lake house.â
âThe lake house?â Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. âStill disappointed I didnât get that in the settlement.â
You snorted, amused. âYou donât even like lakes.â
âNo, I donât like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.â Joel corrected you, pointedly. âBut, I donât know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.â
You felt yourself smile. âYeah. Yeah, there were.â
A beat.
âHey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.â You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.
A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadnât seen in a very long time.
âYeah, well⊠there were more important things I couldnât keep.â
The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversationâeverything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.
And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.
âJoelâŠâ You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.
But you couldnât form any semblance of a sentence. How could you?Â
There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. âMissedâ was an understatement.Â
Sometimes youâd roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimesâno, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.
No matter how hard you tried, you just couldnât let go of the man you spent so many years loving.Â
Joelâs eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.
He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.
âI think about it,â He said softly. âMore than I should.â
âThink about what?â
A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
âHow things used to be.â
âOh,â
A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.
And then, âDo you ever miss us?â Joel asked.
You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldnât bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.
Joel didnât need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.
All the time.
Instead, you asked, âDo you? Miss us, that is.â
âOf course, I do.â He said softly. âMore than you can imagine.â
You held your breath.
Joel heaved a sigh.
âI think about calling,â He added, voice low. âJust to hear your voice.â
âIâd answer,â You said, barely above a whisper.
He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.
And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.
This was dangerous. You shouldâve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you shouldâve left yourself and gone on your date.
But you couldnât bring yourself to pull away.
âCan I ask you something stupid?â You whispered.
Joel whispered back, âAlways.â
âDo youâŠâ You trailed off, biting your lip.
âDo I what?â
âDo youâdoes even a part of you⊠want what we had back?âÂ
You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.
And you did.
âYes,â He admitted earnestly.
You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.
Your eyes widened. âWe fought a lot.â
âWe did.â
âAnd we probably said some shit.â You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.
His voice came softly, sadly, âWe did.â
Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.
Joelâs knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see himâreally see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.
Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first.Â
He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something heâd spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldnât.
You held your breath.
Joelâs voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.
âI know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.â He breathed. âI miss us. I miss you.â
Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.
âI miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudginâ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that weâd fall asleep to halfway.â
His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.
âYeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, Iâd give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.â
His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.
âBecause, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,â He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. âI love you.â
He loves you.
Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.
âYou love me?â You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.
Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.
Joel nodded.
âI never stopped.â He whispered.
Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like heâd been holding a breath in for years.Â
He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lipsâlonging, relief, desire.
You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.
Shit. Was this even a good idea?
You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.
âWait,â You panted.
His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.
âWhat?â Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.
âThisâŠâ You breathed. âI donât want this to be a one-time thing. I donât want it to mean nothing.â
Joel smiled softly at your words.
âMeans a whole lot to me, sweetheart.â His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. âWe can talk about what this means, if you wââ
âOkay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.â
âAfter?â His eyebrows rose.
âAfter you fuck me.â
A breathy âJesus Christâ slipped from his throat, but Joel didnât spend a second refusing your bold assumption.
With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.
His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.
âJoel.â You mumbled urgently into his lips.
âMmm?â He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second.Â
âMight break the sink again.â
âDonât care. Iâll fuckinâ fix it again, then. Just⊠need you,â Joel groaned. âLook too fuckinâ good,â
And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemlineâdipping under just slightly.
âToo fuckinâ good,â He snarled.
You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask ifâ
âHow much was this dress?â
Sighing amusedly, âIt wasnât cheap.â
âHow attached are you to it?â He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.
âA moderate amouââ
âCan I rip it off you?â
There it was.
In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, youâd likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.
You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face.Â
âNo.â You smiled. âBecause Iâd like to wear it again.â
Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. âNext time.â
And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.
His eyes darkened.
You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadnât had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.
You certainly didnât expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.
âThis for him?â Joelâs lip twitched.
Heat rose in your cheeks. âWell, Iââ
âYeah, these donât get a pass.â
With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.
âJoel!â
âI know, I know,â Joel grunted. âIâll buy you a new set⊠buy you all the fuckinâ sets.â
You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.
He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.
âJoel.â You gritted your teeth.
âYeah, baby?â
âDonât fucking tease me.âÂ
And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie.Â
He was practically salivating, now.Â
âIâll try not to, maâam.âÂ
Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.
Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had.Â
Fuck, you were gorgeous.
âTell me,â Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. âThis for him or me?â
âYou.â You breathed without a second thought.
âLouder, sweetheart. My ears ainât what they used to be.â
âYou.â
Smirking wider, âDamn fucking right.â
Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.
His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldnât get another chance.Â
Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you wholeâ
âFuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckinâ sweet.â Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. âShe missed me, too, huh? Just drippinâ for meâŠâ
He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.
You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.
After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.
âShitâsorry.â You panted, breathing heavily.
He barely pulled away to look at you.
âDonât fuckinâ be. I can handle it, you know I can.â Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.
He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.
Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.
âJoel,â You called urgently, attempting to warn him.
He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.
His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, âyâgonna come? Go on, baby, all over my faceâthaaatâs it.â
A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldnât help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.
Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.
And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.
A good look on him, if youâd say so yourself.
He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk.Â
âThat good for you, sweetheart?â He mused.
âYou, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.â You smiled back.
Pride bloomed across his face. âGladly, sweets.âÂ
And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.
He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.
Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.
âNeed somethinâ, baby?â
âWanna return the favour,â You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.
âMm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckinâ pussy.â Joel mumbled against your pulse point.
âMunch.â You couldnât help but giggle.
âYeah, yeah.â Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers.Â
You heard yourself swallow.
Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.
He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.
âSpread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,â He breathed lowly.
And you very willingly obliged.
âThereâs my girl,â Joel hummed.
With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.
Sighing, âDeep breath, baby.â
And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.
You gasped some variant of a plea.
Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.
âTakinâ me so well. Thatâs it, baby, let me in.â He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside.Â
Deeper, deeper, deeperâŠ
He winced. âShitâthere you go.â
When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.
Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.
âFuck, missed this.â Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours.Â
You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.
Joel got the message, though.
Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.
âHowâs that feel, baby?â He mumbled, voice airy.
âGood. Feels so good.â
And, fuck, he did.Â
He felt amazing.
His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.
âTell me,â Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. âWhoâs fuckinâ you so good, huh?â
An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.
âWho, baby?â Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. âSure as hell ainât fuckinâ Mark.â
Dumbly, you shook your head.
âYou, Joel.â
Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.
âLouder.â He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. âNeighbours canât hear you yet, câmon.â
âYou, Joel!â
Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.
You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.
Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.
âJoel, Joel, IâmâŠâ You babbled.
âClose? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.â
With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.
Joel, being the overachiever he was, didnât stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.
And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.
âYou okay?â He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.
âYeah.â You exhaled.Â
He smiled against your lips.
âGood. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and youâre gonna give me one more, howâs that sound?â
You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.
He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.
âTurn âround for me, sweetheart.âÂ
You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.
Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.
A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy âfuckâ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.
He didnât wait long after that. He couldnât. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.
Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.
He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.
âOh, look at you.â Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.
You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.
Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.
Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.
You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.
âEyes up here.â Joel sighed. âKeep âem open. Gotta watch how well you take me.â
Joel was even more of a sight.Â
The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.
Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, âDonât we look good, baby?â
You could only respond in broken syllables.
âYeah,â He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, âwe do.â
He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.
âBeautiful.â He whispered, jaw tight.
If your brain hadnât been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you wouldâve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.
You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.
As if reading your mind, Joelâs hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.
âYou gonna give me one more?â He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.
You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.
His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.
Again. And again.Â
âCome for me, sweetheart. Iâll catch you.â He whispered gently.
Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.
âThere you go. Shit⊠so good for me.â Joel groaned. And then, urgently, âWhereâwhere do you want me toâ?â
Not even a full second later, âInside.âÂ
âYou sure?â He panted, starstruck.Â
âI have an IUD, justâplease.â
He didnât reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed.Â
And then he resumed his earlier pace.
He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.
After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldnât give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.
His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.
Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.
âFuck,â He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.
And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.
âThat was great, George.â You panted.
Joel snorted tiredly. âJust couldnât help yourself, huh?â
âNope.â
He huffed out a chuckle.
Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach. You couldnât help the smile that stretched across your face.
A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.
Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.
âWhat?â You replied, breaking free from your trance.
âI said,â He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. âDonât send the papers. Please.â
He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.
You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.
Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.
âI wonât.â
And you meant it.
thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)
