About me: I’m Bells 🏳️🌈 (she/her), from LATAM. I’m 29 and pretty new to this whole writing thing or at least to posting.
I usually write for myself and mostly in Spanish, since it’s my native language. I’ll write mostly for Pedro Pascal characters, specially Joel but maybe with time we can develop a multi fandom who knows.
I love comments and feedback, that fuels my creativity and inspire me to do it better so don’t be shy I’m always up to a little chit chat. 🫶🏻✨
I’m also on A03.
This is a +18 space MDNI🔞
Series:
Because of her. (Hiatus)
After everything you lost, Jackson was meant to be your fresh start. With Tommy and Maria by your side, starting over finally seemed possible. And for a while, it was — until Joel Miller stepped into your life, haunted by his own demons. You never expected him to understand you, but just as you start to see that you might have more in common than you ever thought, the past you tried to bury comes back to tear it all apart.
The cost of mercy (hiatus)
What if against all reason, grief, and everything she swore , Abby fell in love with the only man she shouldn’t? She hated him long before she saw his face. But when Joel Miller, the man who murdered her father — saves her life, revenge becomes complicated.
One Shots:
Believing again (completed)
A little story told from reader’s POV, where one Christmas Eve changes everything for her and maybe for Joel too. Jackson becomes an unexpected lesson in warmth, family, and a kind of confort she never saw coming.
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: It’s time for Joel to head back to jail, but the day of reckoning is fast approaching.
Warnings: 18+only.
A/N: Finally managed to get back to this one! I’m going to try and manage expectations (and my sanity) a bit more by saying I’ll aim to post at least every other Friday. If I can post once a week, then I will 🥰
Masterlist
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Monday evening rolls around before it feels as though you’ve had time to process anything.
These last few days have felt like a whole marriage lived in miniature. The togetherness, the conversations, the love-making…a moment in time of the whole life you might have had unspooling all at once, bright and desperate and doomed, because on Monday evening your time’s up and Joel has to ride back into town and give himself up to the sheriff's office to await the outcome of the trial.
You’ve known it was coming – of course you have. But when Joel had helped you up into James’s brougham for the ride home, you’d pushed the thought from your mind, consumed only with the true purpose of the stolen hours you’d been granted. And now…now reality looms like a harbinger of death over what has become so sacred.
It sits on the ranch like a shadow the whole day long. Joel had risen before dawn and done more work than three men – mended the pasture fence, reshod a mare, split a winter's worth of wood and stacked it under the lean-to against the day you might need it and he might not be there to swing the axe. You had watched him from the kitchen window through the long bright morning, stripped to the waist in the heat, driving himself at the work like a man trying to leave his hands' labour behind him in the very grain of the place, and you had understood that this was how he was saying goodbye to it.
To the ranch. To the life. To the small chance that he might not come back to any of it, despite how positive you’ve both allowed yourself to feel in the cocoon of one another’s embrace.
The afternoon comes too fast.
He comes in at four o'clock, washes, and puts on one of his good shirts. Then he comes into the kitchen where you’re stood at the table not doing anything at all, only standing with your hands flat on the warm scrubbed pine, and he stops in the doorway, looks at you, and neither of you say a word.
"Please,” you whisper, your voice coming out cracked. "Don't say it's time yet, Joel. Not yet."
He crosses the kitchen in three strides and gathers you into him.
You press your face into his chest, wind your arms around his ribs and hold on the way a drowning woman holds a spar. His arms come around your back, his beard presses into the crown of your hair and he holds you just as hard. For a long while the two of you stand there in the afternoon kitchen holding on and saying nothing, because there’s nothing to say that will make it smaller than it is.
"Darlin’, we have to go soon. If I ain’t through the Sheriff’s door by sundown he can send men out here, and I won't have men ridin’ onto this place after dark with you and Sarah in it. I'll go on my own two feet or not at all."
"I know. I just…I don't want you to go, Joel." The words tear out of you. "I know I have to let you. I know there's no help for it. But I don't want you to go and I’m not going to pretend that I do."
His arms tighten. "Good," he says roughly, "don't pretend. I couldn't stand it if you pretended. I’m done with any kind of pretendin’ for the rest of my life however long that turns out to be."
You laugh at that – a wet, broken thing – tip your face up, and he bends his head, and kisses you in a quiet and terrible way, a long careful pressing of his mouth to yours as though he means to learn the shape of it and carry the shape of it away with him into the cell. You kiss him back the same way, memorising, hoarding, and when he draws back at last his eyes are wet and yours are streaming.
"Where's Sarah?" you manage.
"Nappin’. Clean wore herself out helping me stack the wood." His thumb wipes at your cheek. "I know it goes without sayin’ darlin’, but if anythin’ bad does happen, Sarah’s yours – you understand me?”
"Joel…"
"When I'm gone, whatever happens at that trial – she's yours. You’re my wife, in every way possible now, so nobody can take her from you. She's yours. And this place is yours, free and clear, whatever…" His voice catches. "Whatever they decide about me."
"Stop." You catch his face in both hands. "Stop talking like a man saying goodbye, Joel Miller. Stop it! You didn't do the thing they're saying you did. You defended this family. Any man in the county would have done what you did, and you know that James is positive about the outcome. We have the town council on our side, and you are coming home."
"You believe that," he says, eyes searching yours.
"I believe it with my whole heart. And I thought you did too."
"I do, I…want it to be true."
He bends and presses his forehead to yours, and the two of you stand there breathing the same air in the afternoon kitchen until the light through the window begins to gild toward evening and there’s no more putting it off.
You wake Sarah together, which is the hardest part. She comes up out of her nap warm and rumpled and slow to understand, and when she does, she comes apart in a way you haven’t expected. She flings herself at Joel, burying her face in his neck, unwilling to let go. He sits down on the edge of her bed and holds her and rocks her, and his own face is a thing you have to look away from.
"Don't go, Pa, please don't go. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Don't go!"
"Babygirl, look at me." He draws her back and thumbs the tears off her cheeks. "You listen to me now. I have to go and talk to some men in town about what happened. That's all. And they're gonna talk it over, and they're gonna see that your Pa did right, and then I'm gonna come home. You hear? I'm gonna come home."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"I don't know exactly, babygirl. But soon. And while I'm gone you gotta help out, okay? And you say your prayers. And you know what you can pray for?"
Sarah hiccups. "A baby sister?"
Joel's face breaks and mends in the same instant. "You pray for whatever your heart wants, babygirl," he says, thick. "You pray real hard and God’s gonna hear you.”
He holds her a long while more. Then he stands, sets her small hand into yours, and looks at the two of you standing there together in the failing gold light and something passes over his face that you’ll carry with you the rest of your life.
"My girls," he says.
Then he nods and goes outside to help Tomás with the wagon.
****
The ride into town is made mostly in silence.
Joel handles the reins and you press against his side on the wagon bench with your hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the country going by gold and green and heartbreakingly beautiful in the last of the light, Tomás silent in the back.
For some reason, you find yourself memorising it – the way the live oaks throw their long shadows across the road, the way the cicadas saw in the heat, the way the dust rises gold behind the wagon wheels, the warm hard press of Joel's arm against your side, and the smell of him. You memorise his profile against the gold light, the rough dark beard, the eyes fixed on the road, the small muscle working in his jaw.
"Darlin’..."
"Yes?"
"When this is over…"
"When this is over," you interrupt, "we are going to have the rest of our lives, Joel Miller, and I intend to be a very great trial to you for every day of them."
The corner of his mouth pulls. "That so."
"That is so. I’m your wife proper now and you’ll be sorry you ever wished me to speak my mind."
"I'll never be sorry for that." His hand leaves the reins a moment to cover yours in the crook of his arm. "Never once. Whatever comes, I want you to know that. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I lost Tess and I need you to know it before I go through that door."
The gold country blurs through your tears.
"I love you, Joel," you say, “and I need you to come home to me."
"I'll do everything a man can do to come home to you," he says, not quite a promise because he’s too honest a man to promise what he can’t command, but as near a promise as the truth allows and you took it and hold it.
Sawyer’s Creek eventually appears on the hazy horizon. The same townsfolk who watched you leave a few days ago now watch you return with wide-eyes and whispers behind hands, but you lift your chin and look none of them in the eye.
Joel draws the wagon up before the sheriff's office and sets the brake. He sits a moment with the reins in his hands looking at the building, and you feel the breath go out of him. Then he wraps the reins, climbs down and comes around to lift you down, his hands spanning your waist and setting you on your feet in the dust of the street.
He nods to Tomás and doesn’t let go of your hand as you go up the steps to the door.
Inside, Sheriff Hayes is sat behind his desk, and when he sees you, he nods briefly, an acknowledgement of a bargain made and kept. In the corner, you see James leaning against the wall, a glint of satisfaction present in his eyes.
"Mr Miller,” James says, coming forward to shake Joel’s hand. "You're a man of your word. I told the Sheriff you'd be here by sundown on your own two feet and here you are. That counts for something."
"Mr Oliver." Joel nods in return.
"Well." Sheriff Hayes rises from behind the desk. “I'm as sorry about this as I was the last time, but I have to do it. Come on back, Joel.”
The moment arrives and though you thought you were braced for it, you realise you’re not. Not now, after everything. Joel turns to you, takes your face in both his hands, and looks at you as though he means to take the whole of you with him down the corridor and once more into the dark.
"Joel…" Your voice won’t hold. "Joel, I…"
"Darlin’, you listen to me now. You go home, take care of my girl and take care of yourself – just like you did last time. You eat and you sleep even when you don't want to because I need you strong and I need Sarah minded and I can't do either of those things from in here. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes,” you swallow hard, “Yes, I can do that."
"That's my girl." His thumbs wipe at the tears streaming down your face. "I'll be alright in here, just like I was before. It's a few days and then the trial, and then…"
"And then you come home."
"And then I come home," he says, and he kisses you, long, hard and desperate, one hand fisting in your pinned-up hair, the other splayed wide against your back crushing you into him.
You kiss him back with everything you have, both of you knowing it has to last and neither of you able to make it enough, and it’s Hayes clearing his throat who finally, gently, ends it.
"Come on now, Joel, before it gets harder.”
Joel draws back and presses his forehead to yours one last time, his breath shuddering against your mouth.
"I love you," he says low, just for you. "Don't watch me go through that door.”
You shake your head fiercely. “I watched last time and I’ll watch this time too.”
"Darlin’…”
"I'm not going to look away from you, Joel Miller. Not now, not ever. If you're walking through that door I'm going to watch you do it with my eyes open, and I'm going to be standing right here when you walk back out of it. That's my promise."
Something breaks and blazes in his eyes.
"God, I love you," he says.
Then he lets go of your face, steps back, squares his shoulders, and turns to Hayes.
“Let’s get this over with.”
Hayes nods and opens the door. You watch your husband walk through it, watch as he turns back once and lifts his hand, before the door closes behind him.
Then comes the sound of the cell door - the iron scrape and the heavy clang and the turn of the key, ringing down the corridor into the office, into your chest, into the marrow of you. You stand and listen to your husband being locked away, and something inside you that had the fortitude not to break the last time, but doesn’t possess that same fortitude now, gives way.
James catches you before you can fall and sits you in a chair by the window. He crouches in front of you, letting you weep and not saying the useless things men say. Not telling you to hush or be brave or that it will all come right, only staying there, crouched before you, with a steady hand on your shoulder while the storm of it goes through you.
Because he knows what these few days have meant.
Hayes reappears, and, seeing how it is, pours a tin cup of coffee and sets it wordless on the ledge near your hand, retreating behind his desk to give you what privacy the small room allows.
It passes the way even the worst of things pass. You come back to yourself by degrees and wipe your face with the back of your wrist, drawing in a shuddering breath.
"Forgive me, Mr Oliver."
"There's nothing to forgive, Mrs Miller,” James replies. "I've done this work for a long time with a good many wives. There's not one of them didn't do exactly what you just did. You go ahead and feel it. It means you've got something worth feeling it over. That'll serve you in the days coming."
“But…before…”
“No talk of before,” he shakes your shoulder gently. “We’re living in the here and now.”
You nod and meet his gaze. "How many days? Don't spare me because I would rather know the shape of the thing than imagine it worse in the dark."
His eyebrows lift with something you might call amusement.
"That is exactly what I wanted to tell you. Word came in on the noon rider to say that the judge will be here in three days' time."
You stare at him. "Three days?”
"Yes,” he nods. “Three days and then we can hold the trial. I know three more nights in that cell sounds like a cruelty when you'd take him home this minute if the law let you, but this is a good thing. And if I do my work the way I mean to do my work, then at the end of the fourth day, your husband walks out that front door on his own two feet and rides home with you."
“You truly believe he'll be acquitted?”
“Mrs Miller, I’ve already been given a letter from the leader of your town council vouching for your husband.”
He looks at you levelly, and you understand that he’s a man who chooses his words with care and doesn’t spend hope cheaply.
"I don't tell people what they want to hear. I tell them the truth. Three days, and then we have a fight I mean to win."
You close your eyes.
Three days.
It has a shape now, a bottom, and an end you can see – with hope shining.
"Thank you," you say calmly. "Thank you, Mr Oliver. You cannot know what it is to have a shape to hold onto instead of the dark."
"I have some idea." He rises and offers you his hand, drawing you to your feet, steadying you until he’s sure your legs would hold. "Now, I saw your man through the window, and he’ll be able to drive you home. I'll come out to the ranch tomorrow to go over the particulars of the day with you – what to expect, where you'll sit, what the lawyering will look like so none of it takes you by surprise. Between now and the trial you're not going to sit alone at that ranch imagining the worst. You're going to be busy helping me build the thing that brings your husband home.”
You look toward the mouth of the brick corridor, where the shadow had swallowed Joel whole.
"Sheriff,” you say tightly, regaining the strength you know you possess. “Before I go, may I say goodnight to my husband?"
Hayes looks up, mouth opening as if to refuse, then sighs and rises from his chair. “You seem to like asking me to break the rules, Mrs Miller.” He shakes his head. “Two minutes.”
You nod and wait for him to open the door, then move pass him down the now familiar corridor, the other cells empty on either side, until you reach the bottom. Joel rises from the cot to greet you, his hands going around the bars.
“Darlin’…”
“I had to tell you,” you say hurriedly. “Mr Oliver says the judge will be here in three days. Three days, Joel. He says if he does his work you'll walk out on the fourth day and come home."
You felt the breath go out of Joel, the naked relief of finally having a date to keep in mind.
"Three days.”
"Three days, my love."
He shakes his head. "I thought it might take longer. I thought…but this way, Sarah won't hardly have time to miss me again. Three days and it's decided, one way or the other. I can do three days standin’ on my head. Three days is nothin’. You go home tonight, and you tell my girl it’s only three more sleeps and then her Pa’s comin’ home.”
"I will,” you nod.
“Then, maybe…” he pauses, almost bashful, “maybe we can get to workin’ on that baby sister she asked for.”
Emotion swells in your chest, tears jump into your eyes and all you can do is nod.
“Three days,” he says, bending to kiss your fingers. “And then I don't ever leave you again as long as I live."
You press your mouth to the gap in the bars and Joel presses his to it in somehow one of the truest kisses you’ve ever been given. And when you draw back, you’re both weeping and both, underneath the weeping, lit up from within by that hard bright number.
Three.
"Go on now,” Joel says. “Go home to my girl…our girl. I'll see you first thing, when they bring me to wherever it is they’re plannin’ on holdin’ this thing. You be in the front row where I can find you."
"I'll be in the front row. Eyes open."
"Eyes open." The old lazy, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. "That's my girl."
You make yourself let go of his hands and it’s the hardest thing you’ve done all that long hard day, harder than watching him walk through the door, because now you truly know the shape of what you’re letting go of and you know it’s only for three days and even three days is three days too long.
But you let go, and you step back, keeping your eyes on him until Hayes’s broad body comes between you and gently turns you back up the corridor toward the office and the door and the purpling evening beyond.
James walks you out into the evening light and Tomás immediately jumps down to help you into the wagon.
“Thank you,” you say to the lawyer. “For everything.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he nods sagely.
Then Tomás clicks his tongue and the wagon leaps into life, setting off up the Street and out of town. You don’t look back. You look ahead, up the darkening road toward home, toward Sarah, safe with Maria, who needs to be told three sleeps, toward the ranch and the split wood stacked under the lean-to and the bed you’ll lie in alone tonight.
But only three more nights, only three, and then the trial, and then Joel will come riding home to his girls at last.
The first stars come out over the live oaks, and you ride home through the warm Texas night holding the hard bright number against your heart like a coal against the cold.
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Summary: Your neighbor plays his cello way too fucking late, and all you want to do is get off and get to sleep...
Warnings: smut, masturbation, cello lessons, grey sweatpants, hot neighbor, voyeurism due to thin walls, bach, i have zero clue about this character but i want to fuck him, riding, unprotected p in v, finger fucking and sucking, like he HAS to be good with his hands right?!, written in a fevered few hours, i feel like that jon hamm gif
Words: 3,000
A/N: Did I fuck off and ignore work for a few hours to write this? Yes. Am I going to have to pay for it by working tonight? Yes. Is it worth it? I don't know man, I'm horny af for this new character. Siri, play "Fresh Out The Slammer" because I feel rejuvenated in my delusional porn writing. Gif made by me because I'm that fucking insane.
Masterlist
—-
The notes mock you, mock the catch of your breath, the beat of your heart, the way your fingers move across your clit, pressing and swirling. You’re so close, and yet so far. Your trusty vibrator, rose, and grinder sit discarded on your quilt. The mournful music filtering in through the thin bungalow walls and windows is not helping. So close. So far. Your orgasm drowns again.
You slap your hand down against your stomach, killing the last vestige of your mood and roll off the bed. You just wanted ONE singular orgasm, something to take the edge off. But no, there’s a sad cello playing some sort of depressing, somber thing that just leaves you even more frustrated.
You check your phone and grumble. 11:39. Who fucking needs Vivaldi or Bach this loud after eleven?
Your new neighbor, apparently.
You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.
You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.
The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.
“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.
“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”
He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.
“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”
“Didn’t think it was that loud.”
“Could you turn it down at least?”
A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”
There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.
“I’d… appreciate that.”
“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.
You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.
The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.
He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.
At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.
“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?
God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.
—-
Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”
So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.
A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.
You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.
The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.
And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.
You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.
—-
The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.
Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.
By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.
You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.
He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.
“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.
“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”
You snort. “So why that song?”
His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.”
You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”
He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”
You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.
He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.
He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.
Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.
His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.
Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.
His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.
You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.
"You want to try to play?" he asks.
You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.
He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.
He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.
You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.
“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.
“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.
There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.
He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”
You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”
“Then set the bow down.”
You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.
You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.
He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”
“Fuccck,” you manage.
He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.
He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.
He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.
You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.
He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.
It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.
He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.
You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.
He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand finding your moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.
He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.
The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.
⟢ Summary: You share your thoughts on a painting to a stranger at an art gallery in Paris, unaware it was his.
Tags/warnings: none. meet-cute. fluff. maybe second-hand embarrassment. I don't know painting terms. no y/n. not beta-ed.
a/n: I'm done with assignments, but I'm still high from caffeine and I can't sleep so here goes nothing. Sorry if this is bad hehe, it's unplanned, and I wrote this within three hours. might delete once I wake up sober tomorrow. meanwhile, enjoy!!♡ update: didn't expect some of you to actually like this. Thank you sm! I guess it's staying then :>
You didn't even see him approaching at first, but his voice was the first part of him your senses registered. That gentle, and soothing voice.
"You've been staring at this one for quite a while."
Your head slowly turned to find a man in full white. The sleeves of a cashmere sweater with black stripes hung intentionally over his broad shoulders. It took you a second to realise he was talking to you.
Your eyes did a quick once over from his head to toe. Each part of him—his curls, mustache, plain white t-shirt that exposes his toned arms, white trousers, and black oxford—screamed perfection. A thought flashed through your mind,
He could replace the painting you were staring at, and you wouldn't complain.
"Mademoiselle?" His little head tilt and soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. He is not French. You knew that much, now.
"Sorry. You were saying?"
A tiny smile tugged at his lips and you were forced to witness those perfectly sculpted dips of his dimples and the creases around his eyes appear on his angelic face—all the while acting like he's not the most beautiful piece of art you had seen all day.
"This particular painting seems to have caught your eye. May I know what's in that beautiful mind of yours?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
"Well," You turned to look back at the painting. You had no idea who this stranger was, but he seemed just as passionate as you about art, so you decided to let him into your thoughts.
You talked, and talked, and you noticed the way he looked intently at you the whole time. It felt unnerving at first; until you understood that he was genuinely interested in what you were saying. That's when all hell broke loose, and you let your mouth run free.
"—though, I do think that it's a strange choice of colour."
You catch the raise of his eyebrows at your last statement, and for a second, you thought you had personally offended him.
"You think so?" He queried.
You stilled, mentally kicking yourself for talking too much. The expression on your face, however, wrote out your thoughts; and it brought a small chuckle out of the stranger.
"Don't worry. You can say it." He leaned closer, breath faintly brushing over your ear. "It'll be our little secret."
Heat crept up your cheeks and you timidly nodded. At the same time, a whiff of his cologne painted your sense of smell.
Gosh, he smells so good.
"I just think that.. a contrasting colour would do even better. Makes the little details pop." You said. "But I'm not a professional painter, so what do I know—"
"You're not wrong." He quickly said. You looked at him in surprise; but from the look of his face, you could tell that he was being genuine.
He smiled at you before looking at the painting again. "It would look nice with a contrasting colour." You took in the way his eyes roam over the delicate art. "but if I were to make a guess, I think the artist might have wanted to highlight the subject alone—hence the blend of complimenting colours and abstract details."
"Don't you think so?" He turned to you again, eyes twinkling with excitement. You had never seen someone get so excited over a painting in an art gallery. It usually ranges between taking mandatory pictures to show off that one had seen a piece of classics, and sketching a painting they admire.
"Sure." You nodded. For some strange reason, you didn't want your conversation with this stranger to end.
He straightened up and reached down the pocket of his pristine white trousers. It still amazed you that he hadn't gotten a fleck of stain on it.
"Hey. If you're free tomorrow, maybe you can come to his reception." He handed you a piece of rectangular card with an identical painting adorning the background.
"I got an extra. You'll get to meet him in person. Maybe then you can talk to him about your suggestion." He winked.
You hesitantly accepted the ticket, thanking him.
"Unfortunately, I have to go now. Lovely meeting you." He extended his hand and you took it with a smile.
"Likewise." You said as you shook his hand. "What's your name?"
"Reed Richards; but call me Reed." He said with a little polite bow. "Hope to see you again, mademoiselle."
You watched him leave, unaware of the huge smile carved on your face and the intense pounding of your heart. But as you looked down at the ticket in your hand, your smile gradually faded.
Meet the Artist
REED RICHARDS
Oh.
So his voice wasn't the first part of him that you knew. You glanced at the painting hung against the plain white wall.
It was his mind.
Thank you for reading!! Hope this made your day/night :) reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I would love to know your thoughts <3
taglist: @shadowqueen2024 @harriedandharassed (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed)
°❀.ೃ࿔ Lesson One: Only move in with your older brother if conditions are absolutely dire°❀.ೃ࿔*
spotify | pintrest visuals | masterlist | ao3
chapter summary: After your brain condition worsens, you are forced to move back home to Dallas and in with your older brother and brother-in-law.
authors note: YIPEE YIPEE I am so excited to finally be publishing this. as always let me know what you think. a lot of research went into it :)
Saturday, August 2003
“Is that it?”
Your brother Theo plopped the last remaining moving box on the tiny, second hand bed. Never in your life did you think you would be living in a storage room. Actually, never in your life did you think that you would be living in your brother and brother-in-law's basement that they had kept boxes of old shit in. But here you are.
You dusted your hands off on your jeans even though Theo did most of the heavy lifting. The room was practically one giant dust ball – if you inhaled for a bit too long, a 50 year old dust nuke would fly into your lungs. You looked around at the grey, concrete walls and the concrete floor. The only thing that was set up down here was the bed. Theo wanted to let you decorate it to your hearts contentment. It’s hard enough moving in with your older brother when you’re pushing 30, he had said.
There were a lot more things in your life that were much worse than moving in with your brother. But, the effort was sweet and you were grateful that you had someone to move in with rather than being stuck in a facility with the elderly, so you would decorate, god damn it, and you would decorate like it was your last time ever touching a throw pillow.
“Should be. I really could have helped you–”
Theo shook his head, smiling.
“Absolutely not. You callin’ me weak? Can’t lift a bunch of boxes?”
You smacked him in the arm.
“I am not! I’m just saying, if I’m living here, I won’t ask much of you, just…”
Treat me like a human.
“...I’m not incapable. Dr. Madlock upped my medication after what happened, and I’ve only had a few shakes since.”
You don’t remember when you and Theo started calling your tremors, ‘shakes.’ When you were first in the hospital, your parents had become extremely overbearing with physical therapy, and occupaional therapy, and medication, and therapy, and lawsuits against…fucking everyone. It was a lot. When Theo started calling the tremors, something that ruined your life and everything you worked for, ‘shakeys,’ it just made everything lighter. How silly is it to cry over having the shakeys?
Theo plopped himself next to a box on the bed, preparing to have a conversation you did not want to have. Your parents had him when they were young and they had you on the older side. A 15 year age gap meant he was always more of an uncle figure than a brother. He was very protective of you, not that you ever needed much protection until the accident. You always were good at holding your own until you could literally not hold anything.
“She took you off the beta blockers?”
Theo did not know what beta blockers were. But, he did listen when you spoke, which was enough for you now. You sighed, letting your guard down slightly and sank down onto your bed.
You’d think having hands that don’t function correctly, you’d be using them less. But more and more you found yourself fidgeting with your hands like you were testing if the tremors went away. You’d rub your fingers against your palms and crack your knuckles and massage your palms. You used to get your nails done before the accident, but for the last few years, you had to cut them short. Getting poked in the eye while you’re out of control of your own body is legitimately one of the most uncomfortable sensations ever.
“Yeah. That’s why the whole…episode happened.”
The episode that made you move back to Texas. The episode where it was decided you could no longer safely live on your own.
“Because they weren’t working? Did you realize they weren’t working?”
You gave a faint shrug.
“It’s hard to tell because these meds don’t completely stop the tremors. Propranolol just reduces the severity of them.”
Theo blinked at you and you could tell his brain was shifting, trying to understand.
“Shouldn’t you have been able to tell that the propo – fuck no, I’m not gonna try to say that. Anyways, shouldn’t you have been able to tell that the shakes were still severe? I saw your hands when you were in the hospital and that was…bad.”
You chuckled. Yeah, bad was certainly one way to describe it.
“It’s been 7 years of this shit man. I lost track of how to differentiate the little details of how my hands shake.”
That wasn’t entirely true. But it was pointless to try and explain the side effects of your condition to someone who never experienced it. It’s one thing when you’re consoling a friend about a breakup, and you can use your own breakup as a way to sympathize. It’s another when your injury only happens in 0.05% of car accidents. Or how, with the severity of your DAI, you were protected to die 2 weeks after your inury. You defied those odds too. And you should be happy about that – but if you defied the odds, there weren’t many people out there who knew what you were talking about.
Theo went quiet for a moment. You had spent the last 5 years in Massachusetts, trying not to come back to Texas if you couldn’t help it. Your family understood, of course, that your home town carried the memories of the worst moment of your life. Walking back into Dallas was like walking into a cesspool of anxiety.
That meant you hadn’t seen your brother in person in 5 years. He was 40 when you left, and the jump from 40 to 45 seemed so miniscule. But now, sitting across from him in a dingy basement, you could see all of the details of the time you spent apart. His skin had a more leathery texture, and a few more wrikles decorating his forehead. He’s been an irrigation specialist for the last 25 years, spending most of his days out in the beating Texas sun. Your mom always scolded him to wear more sunscreen, and, you would never say this to his face, he clearly never listened to her. The effects were catching up to him. His hair had more streaks of gray in it. He was getting gray while you were still in Texas, but now he had enough that he could officially be classified as middle aged.
“I just worry about you kid, you know that,” he ran a hand through his hair, “If I’m taking you in, I just want to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself too. I care for you and you care for you. That’s our deal.”
The right side of your mouth curved into a smile.
“Then who’s taking care of you?”
He gave you a look like that was the silliest question in the world.
“Have you met my husband? I am more than well taken care of.”
“This is true. I’m still surprised dad forgave him after he chewed him out that first year at Thanksgiving.”
Your parents were…not entirely supportive of Theo coming out. At first. He came out when he was 23, in the beginning of the 80s, in conservative Texas, to religious parents. It was a situation that was unfortunately not destined to go well. You don't remember much about that night that he told your parents because you were only 8, but you have a distinct memory of hiding at the top of the staircase in case you needed to step in between your dad and brother. You remember the shouting, the smashing glass, and the sound of a hand hitting skin.
You never understood how he could stomach the sight of your parents after all of that, even though they finally came around almost a decade later.
“Eddie will take care of you too, you know. We love to take care of people here, clearly. You’ll learn that we host a banger neighborhood get together. And Eddie has a book club that he hosts once a month.”
“Oh yeah? Anyone I would know from when we were kids?”
He paused, his eyes squinting a little bit as he thought about it.
“Do you remember mom’s friend Karen Daley? Her kids fell somewhere between us, but they were in the neighborhood.”
Your memory had worsened drastically after the accident. Dr. Madlock had just called it retrograde amnesia caused by your DAI. Diffuse Axonal Injury. It wasn’t that you forgot everything from your past, it was just that some things had a sort of fog over them. Did you remember Karen Daley? You recognized the name, but there was a fog floating around the image of her in your memory.
“Oh sure.”
Theo nodded, not seeing the confusion in your eyes.
“She’s still here. And her kids. Oh, Jessica Thompson is still here, I think she was in your grade. She has 2 kids now. Tiffany Sandlers still here, I work with her husband…uh…Ryan Collins is still here, he’s taking care of his mom…”
He paused for a second, his eyes flicking to you.
“And, I…I feel like I should mention this sooner than later…”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Huh?”
“B-but you can’t shoot the messenger, alright–”
He was subconsiously moving the packed boxes in front of him like a shield from you when the basement door flew open and the musty room was illuminated by your brother-in-law Eddie. Illuminated literally; he had hair so ginger he could be classified as a leprechaun. Or a highlighter.
“Hello!?” He grinned and dramatically stood in the doorway, “When the fuck did you get here!?”
Eddie always had this energy that made you feel like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world to be sad. It was somewhat problematic, how he refused to have a serious conversation, but with you it was almost a necessity. He was the only person who could make you laugh when you were in the hospital for a majority of 1996. He may have been the only person to make you laugh for the entirety of 1996, and his special talent?
Not talking about the accident.
“Like 20 minutes ago. Theo’s been carrying my boxes in.”
Eddie stepped in and didn’t try to hide his distaste with the basement. He grimaced.
“Sorry we had to set you up here of all places. I think we can make this homely if we really put our heart into it, but we should probably focus on making it cleaner because why did I just step on a dry leaf?”
You blinked at him.
“It’s your basement.”
He looked at you like you were being ridiculous. Which, you kind of were.
“I would like you to remember who you’re talking to. When’s the last time you think I was in this basement?”
Theo chimed in, moving his protective boxes he set up.
“We call it our storage baement, but it’s more of a hoarding basement. We literally don’t come down here.”
“Ever,” Eddie nodded. “I’m surprised Theo even cleared this out in time for you. Not that I don’t love you enough to move these boxes for you…nah, I don’t love anyone enough to move these.”
He turned and popped open one of your poorly wrapped boxes.
“How do you have so much shit anyway? Weren’t you living on a school teacher salary?”
He pulled out a sign from your old classroom door that said, “Welcome to First Grade!” with a little apple and pencil attached to it.
“I still am living on a teacher salary,” you reminded him. “It’s just that the pay at a fancy private school in Massachuetts is a lot different than a Dallas public school. I’ll probably have to sell half of this stuff soon.”
After it was decided that you needed to move back home and leave your job in Masachusetts, you didn’t really know what you wanted to do anymore. Teaching was never really the dream, but were you in any capacity to actually follow your dreams? You thought you had given up on chasing what you wanted almost 10 years ago, and now that reckless, painful hope slithered its way back into your brain.
It took you one night to shut that thought up.
You couldn’t even label your packing boxes because your hand was shaking so bad that it just made scribbles. How could you write–
“--are you excited to go back to working at Whitman?” Theo broke your haze. Eddie was still rummaging through all of your teacher decorations like this was hilarious in both a humiliating way and an adorable way.
Annie J. Whitman Elementary School was one of the Dallas county public schools. It was the one you and your brother went to, and it just so happened to be the first school in the area with an open first grade teaching position.
You tried so hard to get out of the area you grew up in. Moving home after you were known in your town for being the one who was going to get out and do something great was embarrassing enough. The least you could do is find a job that would limit your potential interactions with the people that you grew up with, or even worse. Your parents' friends.
“Theo, I want you to look me in the eyes and think about what you just asked me. If you were going to work at Whitman, would you be excited?”
“No,” he didn’t hesitate, “But I’m also not a teacher by choice.”
Your lips went into a straight line. You didn’t want to be a teacher either. It was just the only job that you were semi-capable of doing that still allowed you to engage with books and writing.
“You also hate kids,” Eddie chimed in, pulling out your class photos from the school you used to teach at. “Aw! Wait, are these your babies?”
Theo frowned, “I don’t hate kids.”
You pushed yourself up, knees quivering slightly before walking over to Eddie and looking into the box he was emptying.
“It’s okay, kids annoy me too sometimes and I’m a teacher,” you took the class photo from Eddie and looked at the kids faces to figure out what year this was.
“Oh! This was my second year teaching. See that little boy?” you leaned into Eddie and pointed to a little boy in the photo with chubby cheeks and dark hair. “He was the cutest thing, but he was the first case of a student I really struggled with. He had bad dyslexia, and I was completely on my own, no teaching assistant to pull him aside and do things slower.”
“So what did you do?”
You smiled fondly at the photo.
“I mean, I was lucky that I worked at a private elementary school. And Massachusetts has a really solid educational system. I ended up setting him up with our reading interventionist.”
Theo raised an eyebrow.
“Reading interventionist?”
You paused for a second before you remembered the learning gap here. In Masschusetts at least, there had been laws passed that allowed students with disabilities to receive equal access to education. The National Reading Panel had put forward several recommendations for how to help students with disabilities like dyslexia learn to read, one of them being to hire a reading interventionist. Someone who pulls students who struggle with reading to do personalized, one on one reading with them, along with phonics and vocab.
They were life savers. Your closest friend in Mass was one of the interventionists at the school: Camilla.
“It’s like a job that helps kids with disabilities. Life changing really. I wonder if Whitman has one.”
You paused.
“I take that back. They definitely do not have one.”
You turned and looked back at Eddie who was now digging through even more of your belongings.
“Can I help you? Do you realize it isn’t considered really polite to rummage through people's things?”
“I’m nosey!” he pulled out a bunch of photos and your stomach dropped. “Besides. I didn’t claim to try and be polite.”
You snatched the handful of photos out of his hand and put them back into the box.
“Ok!” You clapped your hands together. “Time to let me decorate.”
“You’re going to decorate by yourself?”
You exhaled and crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide your body away. That was either a comment on your desire to be alone or a comment on your inability to decorate the room by yourself.
“I’ve been on a plane for 4 hours plus all of the driving to a from the airports, I’m just…I’m tired. Might take a nap on my new bed.”
Eddie stood up from the box he was kneeling in front of, grinning.
“It’s not very comfortable. I jumped on it after Theo set it up to make sure it could handle all sorts of activities.”
Theo grimaced.
“That’s why you were jumping on it?”
“Why did you think I was jumping on it?”
“To test if I built it correctly,” he paused and shook his head fast, standing up. “I do not need to think about my sisters sex life, fuck. Please tell us if you’re having a guest over, yeah? I don’t need to know what you’re doing but…eugh.”
He turned around and walked up the basement stairs. Eddie turned to you and ran his hand through his mop of orange hair. He was grinning, pleased that he put a tormenting thought in his brother's head.
“Your welcome for getting him out of here. You sure you’re okay to hang down here?”
You dropped your crossed arms and shoved your hands in your pockets.
“I’m alright. Can you just make sure he doesn’t worry too much? I really do appreciate all he does to try and help me, but when people are on top of me acting like I’m incapable of doing anything it just–”
He held up a hand.
“No need to explain yourself about something you feel. Why do you think I’ve never pestered you about everything?”
“Because you hate serious conversations.”
He smirked and tilted his head.
“Well…yes, but it’s more so because I know that you know your body better than anyone else. Fussing over you will make it worse. And you’re a tough girl, I trust that you know when to ask for help.”
You never needed to hear words more in your entire life. You took your hands out of your pockets and wrapped Eddie in an unfamiliar hug.
Eddie wasn’t a sentimental guy, but he understood immediately. He hugged you back and ruffled your hair.
“Rest. We usually have dinner around 6 if that’s good with you.”
“That’s perfect. Thanks Eddie.”
He smiled and gave a faint nod before starting up the stairs.
“Oh! Did Theo give you the mail that came for you?”
You had changed your mailing address back to your brother's house a few weeks ago in case it took a while to process. Apparently it didn’t. They must have had weeks of your mail piling up.
You shook your head and Eddie held up one finger to wait one second before quickly coming back down with a large manilla envelope from Whitman.
“Looks fancy,” he shrugged and turned back upstairs, leaving you alone in the scary basement.
You stood there for a moment, letting the reality of your situation absorb into you like the asbestos that was probably in the air.
10 years ago you thought you would be in New York right now. Working on your second best-seller. Maybe the first one got a movie deal, and you would be book signings all weekend, and you’d be interviewed in the New Yorker and–
Well… you’d be happy.
Now, you never published your novel. You aren’t living in New York – you’re back in the same bum fuck town you grew up in. You’re stuck having to watch the adaptations of your favorite books be turned into movies and wonder who you would cast in your novel's movie. You have to spend your nights reading your old journals but not being able to write in them. You spend most of your weekends inside because your flare ups get so bad.
You cry a lot.
You push people away.
You’ve been operating as a shell of yourself for almost a decade.
Inhaling, you looked at the envelope in your hands and opened it, sitting on the cold floor instead of the bed. It was your class roster for the year and some notes on allergies. You always enjoyed this part of teaching – making predictions about who these students were. Some teachers you knew from the Boston school would say that they didn’t like to do that because they want to go into the year with a fresh slate. You tried your first few years to listen to your elders, but you found that that often left you disappointed when the kids didn’t behave as well as you thought. Now, if you predicted John would be a pain and he was a sweetheart, you were happy. You were actually winning by making judgments about people.
You used your index finger to focus on the names, but your hand quickly started to tremble with how much focus you were putting on it. You dropped it and pressed your hand to the floor to steady it and continued to read the names.
1.Michael Ackhurst
2. Joshua Austin
3. Ashley Dadford
4.David Fernandes
5. Stephanie Field
6. Lauren Galley
7. Austin Gallagher
8. Katherine Holbert
9. Brody Kauffeld
10. Sarah Miller
11. Morgan Murdock–
10. Sarah Miller
10. Sarah Miller
10. Sarah Miller
10. Sarah Miller
Your brain was glitching, rereading her name with a different emphasis on each syllable. Were you that fucked up that you couldn’t even look at one of the most popular names in the world without feeling your heart beat faster every second? Without your face flushing red with anger?
No. This was silly.
The Joel Miller you knew hated children. He would scowl every time he had to pick up his little brother Tommy from the park and had to see younger kids. The last you heard of Joel Miller, he moved to Austin with his girlfriend Isla. Hell, the Joel you knew never would have stayed with one woman for long enough to have a baby.
This couldn’t be Joel Millers kid.
And if it was? You were in trouble.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
September 1990
You spent nearly every afternoon in the library.
It wasn’t like you didn’t have friends. They just did sports after school, and you had tried that world out afew years ago…not your cup of tea. If you wanted to see your friends, you’d see them on the weekends or during school.
Now that you had your own car, your parents didn’t really care what you did after school so long as you were home by 6 for dinner. But those hours went by so quickly.
You had been sitting there long enough that the light had slowly crawled across the floor and settled over your legs, warming the denim of your jeans while you worked through the impossible decision in front of you.
7 books.
You were only allowed to take home 3. It was some bullshit rule at your local library because some people would take home a bunch of books and then never bring them back. It was an unfair rule to people like you who could bang through 3 books in a few days.
You sat cross-legged in the aisle with three books open around you and the rest stacked beside your knee, flipping between the first pages of each one like a scientist running a very serious experiment. The opening line mattered. A bad first paragraph usually meant the entire book was a waste of time. You knew what you liked.
You were halfway through rereading the first paragraph of one of the books when a static crackled over you:
“Library closes in 15 minutes for senior center event.”
You groaned – fucking senior center. You forgot they had events every other Wednesday. But, you ignored the warning and finished trying to pick one out. Your finger traced the spine of another paperback as you debated whether the author deserved a chance. You had just turned the first page when a shadow stretched across the carpet in front of you.
You had frequently been snapped at by the librarians for sitting on the floor and creating a safety hazard, so you assumed it was one of them. You opened your mouth to apologize, but when you looked up, it wasn’t the librarian at all.
It was...Joel Miller?
Joel Miller who (somehow) graduated last spring. You hadn’t seen him in months. Not that you saw him much anyway, he just always drifted around in high school, in and out of the same classes you took.
You were never a fan of his. He was usually sitting in the back with his boots kicked up against the desk, talking loudly about whatever band he was currently obsessed with. He was convinced that he was going to be a rockstar but you’d never actually heard him play an instrument or sing. He just talked.
More than once you had heard him complain about English class, saying stuff like, “Why the hell do we gotta read this crap? We aren’t living in the 1500s anymore.”
And now, for some reason, he was standing above you, one eyebrow raised, looking at your pile of books.
“You building a fortress?”
You stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what was happening. Were you not sleeping enough again? Why was Joel Miller who never spoke to you before trying to make casual conversation?
“Um…I’m just, uh, deciding which 3 I want to check out.”
He leaned against the bookshelf next to you, one eyebrow still raised like this was amusing to him.
“You can read that many books?”
You scoffed at him, looking at him like that was stupidest question you ever heard.
“Yes? I’m confused. Can I help you with something?”
He ignored your question and continued to probe you.
“You read these for fun?”
You just made a ‘mhm’ noise. You really just wanted to pick out your books before the librarians started kicking people out.
He let out a low whistle.
“Jesus.”
Your eyebrows pulled together.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he said, though there was a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Just didn’t know people actually did that.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“You’re standing in a library.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but I’m not here for that.”
Ah. That makes more sense.
“Figured. You know I remember you from our American Classics course last year. You never did the readings.”
He rolled his lips in and smiled softly.
“And you always did do the readings. I remember you too. I could tell you were into that class, fuckin’ book worm.”
You thought he was making fun of you at first, but there was no sarcasm in his voice. You motioned to the pile of books.
“Clearly. What are you doing back in the library if you graduated? I thought you were gonna move to Hollywood and be Mr. Rockstar or something.”
Joel’s smile dropped slightly and he rubbed the back of his neck, turning pink.
“My little brother’s in the kids section,” he said. “Dad said I had to pick him up, I just…I just recognized you.”
Right, there was another Miller. He was younger, still in elementary school last time you saw him. The 8th graders used to do reading buddies with the 3rd graders and you had been partnered up with someone in his class. What was his name…Tommy maybe? Johnny?
“I forgot there were more of you.”
He looked surprised.
“You’ve met Tommy?”
Knew it.
“Oh years ago,” you shrugged, “In some 8th grade/3rd grade reading buddies group.”
You looked down and noticed a book was hanging from his hands. You frowned slightly.
“You’re holding a book.”
Joel glanced down at it like he’d forgotten it was there.
“Oh. Yeah.”
It was a random mystery novel. You didn’t recognize it, but that wasn’t your go to genre. You were more of a literary fiction type of girl.
He turned it over in his hands.
“I was thinkin’ about tryin’ one.”
Your eyebrows furrowed.
“Trying…what?”
“A book.”
You studied him for a moment, trying to decide if he was messing with you. You still couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that you were having a friendly conversation with him right now.
“You always complained about reading in class…like, loudly. You made it everyones business that you didn’t want to do the work.”
He looked somewhat offended by that, as if it wasn’t the absolute truth.
“I did not complain every day.”
“Every other day then.”
Joel let out a quiet laugh in acceptance.
“Alright, fair.”
He held up the paperback slightly.
“So,” he said. “Which one’s good? I picked this one because the cover looked cool.”
“You want my recommendation.”
“Well,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the small pile surrounding you, “you look like you know what you’re doin’.”
You hesitated at his kindness. Part of you suspected he was just looking for something to tease you about later, but another part of you was curious why he had stopped in the aisle at all. He didn’t know you.
You reached for one of the books beside your knee and held it out: Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.
Joel took it.
His eyes dropped to the cover, then they flicked back up to you, then back to the cover again.
“…this one got less words in it?”
You couldn’t hold in your laugh.
“It’s less than 200 pages!”
He laughed right along with you.
“That’s still a lot of pages!”
You grinned at him, still not understanding how on earth you were speaking to Joel Miller right now.
°❀.ೃ࿔ Lesson One: Only move in with your older brother if conditions are absolutely dire°❀.ೃ࿔*
spotify | pintrest visuals | masterlist | ao3
chapter summary: After your brain condition worsens, you are forced to move back home to Dallas and in with your older brother and brother-in-law.
authors note: YIPEE YIPEE I am so excited to finally be publishing this. as always let me know what you think. a lot of research went into it :)
Saturday, August 2003
“Is that it?”
Your brother Theo plopped the last remaining moving box on the tiny, second hand bed. Never in your life did you think you would be living in a storage room. Actually, never in your life did you think that you would be living in your brother and brother-in-law's basement that they had kept boxes of old shit in. But here you are.
You dusted your hands off on your jeans even though Theo did most of the heavy lifting. The room was practically one giant dust ball – if you inhaled for a bit too long, a 50 year old dust nuke would fly into your lungs. You looked around at the grey, concrete walls and the concrete floor. The only thing that was set up down here was the bed. Theo wanted to let you decorate it to your hearts contentment. It’s hard enough moving in with your older brother when you’re pushing 30, he had said.
There were a lot more things in your life that were much worse than moving in with your brother. But, the effort was sweet and you were grateful that you had someone to move in with rather than being stuck in a facility with the elderly, so you would decorate, god damn it, and you would decorate like it was your last time ever touching a throw pillow.
“Should be. I really could have helped you–”
Theo shook his head, smiling.
“Absolutely not. You callin’ me weak? Can’t lift a bunch of boxes?”
You smacked him in the arm.
“I am not! I’m just saying, if I’m living here, I won’t ask much of you, just…”
Treat me like a human.
“...I’m not incapable. Dr. Madlock upped my medication after what happened, and I’ve only had a few shakes since.”
You don’t remember when you and Theo started calling your tremors, ‘shakes.’ When you were first in the hospital, your parents had become extremely overbearing with physical therapy, and occupaional therapy, and medication, and therapy, and lawsuits against…fucking everyone. It was a lot. When Theo started calling the tremors, something that ruined your life and everything you worked for, ‘shakeys,’ it just made everything lighter. How silly is it to cry over having the shakeys?
Theo plopped himself next to a box on the bed, preparing to have a conversation you did not want to have. Your parents had him when they were young and they had you on the older side. A 15 year age gap meant he was always more of an uncle figure than a brother. He was very protective of you, not that you ever needed much protection until the accident. You always were good at holding your own until you could literally not hold anything.
“She took you off the beta blockers?”
Theo did not know what beta blockers were. But, he did listen when you spoke, which was enough for you now. You sighed, letting your guard down slightly and sank down onto your bed.
You’d think having hands that don’t function correctly, you’d be using them less. But more and more you found yourself fidgeting with your hands like you were testing if the tremors went away. You’d rub your fingers against your palms and crack your knuckles and massage your palms. You used to get your nails done before the accident, but for the last few years, you had to cut them short. Getting poked in the eye while you’re out of control of your own body is legitimately one of the most uncomfortable sensations ever.
“Yeah. That’s why the whole…episode happened.”
The episode that made you move back to Texas. The episode where it was decided you could no longer safely live on your own.
“Because they weren’t working? Did you realize they weren’t working?”
You gave a faint shrug.
“It’s hard to tell because these meds don’t completely stop the tremors. Propranolol just reduces the severity of them.”
Theo blinked at you and you could tell his brain was shifting, trying to understand.
“Shouldn’t you have been able to tell that the propo – fuck no, I’m not gonna try to say that. Anyways, shouldn’t you have been able to tell that the shakes were still severe? I saw your hands when you were in the hospital and that was…bad.”
You chuckled. Yeah, bad was certainly one way to describe it.
“It’s been 7 years of this shit man. I lost track of how to differentiate the little details of how my hands shake.”
That wasn’t entirely true. But it was pointless to try and explain the side effects of your condition to someone who never experienced it. It’s one thing when you’re consoling a friend about a breakup, and you can use your own breakup as a way to sympathize. It’s another when your injury only happens in 0.05% of car accidents. Or how, with the severity of your DAI, you were protected to die 2 weeks after your inury. You defied those odds too. And you should be happy about that – but if you defied the odds, there weren’t many people out there who knew what you were talking about.
Theo went quiet for a moment. You had spent the last 5 years in Massachusetts, trying not to come back to Texas if you couldn’t help it. Your family understood, of course, that your home town carried the memories of the worst moment of your life. Walking back into Dallas was like walking into a cesspool of anxiety.
That meant you hadn’t seen your brother in person in 5 years. He was 40 when you left, and the jump from 40 to 45 seemed so miniscule. But now, sitting across from him in a dingy basement, you could see all of the details of the time you spent apart. His skin had a more leathery texture, and a few more wrikles decorating his forehead. He’s been an irrigation specialist for the last 25 years, spending most of his days out in the beating Texas sun. Your mom always scolded him to wear more sunscreen, and, you would never say this to his face, he clearly never listened to her. The effects were catching up to him. His hair had more streaks of gray in it. He was getting gray while you were still in Texas, but now he had enough that he could officially be classified as middle aged.
“I just worry about you kid, you know that,” he ran a hand through his hair, “If I’m taking you in, I just want to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself too. I care for you and you care for you. That’s our deal.”
The right side of your mouth curved into a smile.
“Then who’s taking care of you?”
He gave you a look like that was the silliest question in the world.
“Have you met my husband? I am more than well taken care of.”
“This is true. I’m still surprised dad forgave him after he chewed him out that first year at Thanksgiving.”
Your parents were…not entirely supportive of Theo coming out. At first. He came out when he was 23, in the beginning of the 80s, in conservative Texas, to religious parents. It was a situation that was unfortunately not destined to go well. You don't remember much about that night that he told your parents because you were only 8, but you have a distinct memory of hiding at the top of the staircase in case you needed to step in between your dad and brother. You remember the shouting, the smashing glass, and the sound of a hand hitting skin.
You never understood how he could stomach the sight of your parents after all of that, even though they finally came around almost a decade later.
“Eddie will take care of you too, you know. We love to take care of people here, clearly. You’ll learn that we host a banger neighborhood get together. And Eddie has a book club that he hosts once a month.”
“Oh yeah? Anyone I would know from when we were kids?”
He paused, his eyes squinting a little bit as he thought about it.
“Do you remember mom’s friend Karen Daley? Her kids fell somewhere between us, but they were in the neighborhood.”
Your memory had worsened drastically after the accident. Dr. Madlock had just called it retrograde amnesia caused by your DAI. Diffuse Axonal Injury. It wasn’t that you forgot everything from your past, it was just that some things had a sort of fog over them. Did you remember Karen Daley? You recognized the name, but there was a fog floating around the image of her in your memory.
“Oh sure.”
Theo nodded, not seeing the confusion in your eyes.
“She’s still here. And her kids. Oh, Jessica Thompson is still here, I think she was in your grade. She has 2 kids now. Tiffany Sandlers still here, I work with her husband…uh…Ryan Collins is still here, he’s taking care of his mom…”
He paused for a second, his eyes flicking to you.
“And, I…I feel like I should mention this sooner than later…”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Huh?”
“B-but you can’t shoot the messenger, alright–”
He was subconsiously moving the packed boxes in front of him like a shield from you when the basement door flew open and the musty room was illuminated by your brother-in-law Eddie. Illuminated literally; he had hair so ginger he could be classified as a leprechaun. Or a highlighter.
“Hello!?” He grinned and dramatically stood in the doorway, “When the fuck did you get here!?”
Eddie always had this energy that made you feel like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world to be sad. It was somewhat problematic, how he refused to have a serious conversation, but with you it was almost a necessity. He was the only person who could make you laugh when you were in the hospital for a majority of 1996. He may have been the only person to make you laugh for the entirety of 1996, and his special talent?
Not talking about the accident.
“Like 20 minutes ago. Theo’s been carrying my boxes in.”
Eddie stepped in and didn’t try to hide his distaste with the basement. He grimaced.
“Sorry we had to set you up here of all places. I think we can make this homely if we really put our heart into it, but we should probably focus on making it cleaner because why did I just step on a dry leaf?”
You blinked at him.
“It’s your basement.”
He looked at you like you were being ridiculous. Which, you kind of were.
“I would like you to remember who you’re talking to. When’s the last time you think I was in this basement?”
Theo chimed in, moving his protective boxes he set up.
“We call it our storage baement, but it’s more of a hoarding basement. We literally don’t come down here.”
“Ever,” Eddie nodded. “I’m surprised Theo even cleared this out in time for you. Not that I don’t love you enough to move these boxes for you…nah, I don’t love anyone enough to move these.”
He turned and popped open one of your poorly wrapped boxes.
“How do you have so much shit anyway? Weren’t you living on a school teacher salary?”
He pulled out a sign from your old classroom door that said, “Welcome to First Grade!” with a little apple and pencil attached to it.
“I still am living on a teacher salary,” you reminded him. “It’s just that the pay at a fancy private school in Massachuetts is a lot different than a Dallas public school. I’ll probably have to sell half of this stuff soon.”
After it was decided that you needed to move back home and leave your job in Masachusetts, you didn’t really know what you wanted to do anymore. Teaching was never really the dream, but were you in any capacity to actually follow your dreams? You thought you had given up on chasing what you wanted almost 10 years ago, and now that reckless, painful hope slithered its way back into your brain.
It took you one night to shut that thought up.
You couldn’t even label your packing boxes because your hand was shaking so bad that it just made scribbles. How could you write–
“--are you excited to go back to working at Whitman?” Theo broke your haze. Eddie was still rummaging through all of your teacher decorations like this was hilarious in both a humiliating way and an adorable way.
Annie J. Whitman Elementary School was one of the Dallas county public schools. It was the one you and your brother went to, and it just so happened to be the first school in the area with an open first grade teaching position.
You tried so hard to get out of the area you grew up in. Moving home after you were known in your town for being the one who was going to get out and do something great was embarrassing enough. The least you could do is find a job that would limit your potential interactions with the people that you grew up with, or even worse. Your parents' friends.
“Theo, I want you to look me in the eyes and think about what you just asked me. If you were going to work at Whitman, would you be excited?”
“No,” he didn’t hesitate, “But I’m also not a teacher by choice.”
Your lips went into a straight line. You didn’t want to be a teacher either. It was just the only job that you were semi-capable of doing that still allowed you to engage with books and writing.
“You also hate kids,” Eddie chimed in, pulling out your class photos from the school you used to teach at. “Aw! Wait, are these your babies?”
Theo frowned, “I don’t hate kids.”
You pushed yourself up, knees quivering slightly before walking over to Eddie and looking into the box he was emptying.
“It’s okay, kids annoy me too sometimes and I’m a teacher,” you took the class photo from Eddie and looked at the kids faces to figure out what year this was.
“Oh! This was my second year teaching. See that little boy?” you leaned into Eddie and pointed to a little boy in the photo with chubby cheeks and dark hair. “He was the cutest thing, but he was the first case of a student I really struggled with. He had bad dyslexia, and I was completely on my own, no teaching assistant to pull him aside and do things slower.”
“So what did you do?”
You smiled fondly at the photo.
“I mean, I was lucky that I worked at a private elementary school. And Massachusetts has a really solid educational system. I ended up setting him up with our reading interventionist.”
Theo raised an eyebrow.
“Reading interventionist?”
You paused for a second before you remembered the learning gap here. In Masschusetts at least, there had been laws passed that allowed students with disabilities to receive equal access to education. The National Reading Panel had put forward several recommendations for how to help students with disabilities like dyslexia learn to read, one of them being to hire a reading interventionist. Someone who pulls students who struggle with reading to do personalized, one on one reading with them, along with phonics and vocab.
They were life savers. Your closest friend in Mass was one of the interventionists at the school: Camilla.
“It’s like a job that helps kids with disabilities. Life changing really. I wonder if Whitman has one.”
You paused.
“I take that back. They definitely do not have one.”
You turned and looked back at Eddie who was now digging through even more of your belongings.
“Can I help you? Do you realize it isn’t considered really polite to rummage through people's things?”
“I’m nosey!” he pulled out a bunch of photos and your stomach dropped. “Besides. I didn’t claim to try and be polite.”
You snatched the handful of photos out of his hand and put them back into the box.
“Ok!” You clapped your hands together. “Time to let me decorate.”
“You’re going to decorate by yourself?”
You exhaled and crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide your body away. That was either a comment on your desire to be alone or a comment on your inability to decorate the room by yourself.
“I’ve been on a plane for 4 hours plus all of the driving to a from the airports, I’m just…I’m tired. Might take a nap on my new bed.”
Eddie stood up from the box he was kneeling in front of, grinning.
“It’s not very comfortable. I jumped on it after Theo set it up to make sure it could handle all sorts of activities.”
Theo grimaced.
“That’s why you were jumping on it?”
“Why did you think I was jumping on it?”
“To test if I built it correctly,” he paused and shook his head fast, standing up. “I do not need to think about my sisters sex life, fuck. Please tell us if you’re having a guest over, yeah? I don’t need to know what you’re doing but…eugh.”
He turned around and walked up the basement stairs. Eddie turned to you and ran his hand through his mop of orange hair. He was grinning, pleased that he put a tormenting thought in his brother's head.
“Your welcome for getting him out of here. You sure you’re okay to hang down here?”
You dropped your crossed arms and shoved your hands in your pockets.
“I’m alright. Can you just make sure he doesn’t worry too much? I really do appreciate all he does to try and help me, but when people are on top of me acting like I’m incapable of doing anything it just–”
He held up a hand.
“No need to explain yourself about something you feel. Why do you think I’ve never pestered you about everything?”
“Because you hate serious conversations.”
He smirked and tilted his head.
“Well…yes, but it’s more so because I know that you know your body better than anyone else. Fussing over you will make it worse. And you’re a tough girl, I trust that you know when to ask for help.”
You never needed to hear words more in your entire life. You took your hands out of your pockets and wrapped Eddie in an unfamiliar hug.
Eddie wasn’t a sentimental guy, but he understood immediately. He hugged you back and ruffled your hair.
“Rest. We usually have dinner around 6 if that’s good with you.”
“That’s perfect. Thanks Eddie.”
He smiled and gave a faint nod before starting up the stairs.
“Oh! Did Theo give you the mail that came for you?”
You had changed your mailing address back to your brother's house a few weeks ago in case it took a while to process. Apparently it didn’t. They must have had weeks of your mail piling up.
You shook your head and Eddie held up one finger to wait one second before quickly coming back down with a large manilla envelope from Whitman.
“Looks fancy,” he shrugged and turned back upstairs, leaving you alone in the scary basement.
You stood there for a moment, letting the reality of your situation absorb into you like the asbestos that was probably in the air.
10 years ago you thought you would be in New York right now. Working on your second best-seller. Maybe the first one got a movie deal, and you would be book signings all weekend, and you’d be interviewed in the New Yorker and–
Well… you’d be happy.
Now, you never published your novel. You aren’t living in New York – you’re back in the same bum fuck town you grew up in. You’re stuck having to watch the adaptations of your favorite books be turned into movies and wonder who you would cast in your novel's movie. You have to spend your nights reading your old journals but not being able to write in them. You spend most of your weekends inside because your flare ups get so bad.
You cry a lot.
You push people away.
You’ve been operating as a shell of yourself for almost a decade.
Inhaling, you looked at the envelope in your hands and opened it, sitting on the cold floor instead of the bed. It was your class roster for the year and some notes on allergies. You always enjoyed this part of teaching – making predictions about who these students were. Some teachers you knew from the Boston school would say that they didn’t like to do that because they want to go into the year with a fresh slate. You tried your first few years to listen to your elders, but you found that that often left you disappointed when the kids didn’t behave as well as you thought. Now, if you predicted John would be a pain and he was a sweetheart, you were happy. You were actually winning by making judgments about people.
You used your index finger to focus on the names, but your hand quickly started to tremble with how much focus you were putting on it. You dropped it and pressed your hand to the floor to steady it and continued to read the names.
1.Michael Ackhurst
2. Joshua Austin
3. Ashley Dadford
4.David Fernandes
5. Stephanie Field
6. Lauren Galley
7. Austin Gallagher
8. Katherine Holbert
9. Brody Kauffeld
10. Sarah Miller
11. Morgan Murdock–
10. Sarah Miller
10. Sarah Miller
10. Sarah Miller
10. Sarah Miller
Your brain was glitching, rereading her name with a different emphasis on each syllable. Were you that fucked up that you couldn’t even look at one of the most popular names in the world without feeling your heart beat faster every second? Without your face flushing red with anger?
No. This was silly.
The Joel Miller you knew hated children. He would scowl every time he had to pick up his little brother Tommy from the park and had to see younger kids. The last you heard of Joel Miller, he moved to Austin with his girlfriend Isla. Hell, the Joel you knew never would have stayed with one woman for long enough to have a baby.
This couldn’t be Joel Millers kid.
And if it was? You were in trouble.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
September 1990
You spent nearly every afternoon in the library.
It wasn’t like you didn’t have friends. They just did sports after school, and you had tried that world out afew years ago…not your cup of tea. If you wanted to see your friends, you’d see them on the weekends or during school.
Now that you had your own car, your parents didn’t really care what you did after school so long as you were home by 6 for dinner. But those hours went by so quickly.
You had been sitting there long enough that the light had slowly crawled across the floor and settled over your legs, warming the denim of your jeans while you worked through the impossible decision in front of you.
7 books.
You were only allowed to take home 3. It was some bullshit rule at your local library because some people would take home a bunch of books and then never bring them back. It was an unfair rule to people like you who could bang through 3 books in a few days.
You sat cross-legged in the aisle with three books open around you and the rest stacked beside your knee, flipping between the first pages of each one like a scientist running a very serious experiment. The opening line mattered. A bad first paragraph usually meant the entire book was a waste of time. You knew what you liked.
You were halfway through rereading the first paragraph of one of the books when a static crackled over you:
“Library closes in 15 minutes for senior center event.”
You groaned – fucking senior center. You forgot they had events every other Wednesday. But, you ignored the warning and finished trying to pick one out. Your finger traced the spine of another paperback as you debated whether the author deserved a chance. You had just turned the first page when a shadow stretched across the carpet in front of you.
You had frequently been snapped at by the librarians for sitting on the floor and creating a safety hazard, so you assumed it was one of them. You opened your mouth to apologize, but when you looked up, it wasn’t the librarian at all.
It was...Joel Miller?
Joel Miller who (somehow) graduated last spring. You hadn’t seen him in months. Not that you saw him much anyway, he just always drifted around in high school, in and out of the same classes you took.
You were never a fan of his. He was usually sitting in the back with his boots kicked up against the desk, talking loudly about whatever band he was currently obsessed with. He was convinced that he was going to be a rockstar but you’d never actually heard him play an instrument or sing. He just talked.
More than once you had heard him complain about English class, saying stuff like, “Why the hell do we gotta read this crap? We aren’t living in the 1500s anymore.”
And now, for some reason, he was standing above you, one eyebrow raised, looking at your pile of books.
“You building a fortress?”
You stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what was happening. Were you not sleeping enough again? Why was Joel Miller who never spoke to you before trying to make casual conversation?
“Um…I’m just, uh, deciding which 3 I want to check out.”
He leaned against the bookshelf next to you, one eyebrow still raised like this was amusing to him.
“You can read that many books?”
You scoffed at him, looking at him like that was stupidest question you ever heard.
“Yes? I’m confused. Can I help you with something?”
He ignored your question and continued to probe you.
“You read these for fun?”
You just made a ‘mhm’ noise. You really just wanted to pick out your books before the librarians started kicking people out.
He let out a low whistle.
“Jesus.”
Your eyebrows pulled together.
“What?”
“Nothin’,” he said, though there was a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Just didn’t know people actually did that.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“You’re standing in a library.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but I’m not here for that.”
Ah. That makes more sense.
“Figured. You know I remember you from our American Classics course last year. You never did the readings.”
He rolled his lips in and smiled softly.
“And you always did do the readings. I remember you too. I could tell you were into that class, fuckin’ book worm.”
You thought he was making fun of you at first, but there was no sarcasm in his voice. You motioned to the pile of books.
“Clearly. What are you doing back in the library if you graduated? I thought you were gonna move to Hollywood and be Mr. Rockstar or something.”
Joel’s smile dropped slightly and he rubbed the back of his neck, turning pink.
“My little brother’s in the kids section,” he said. “Dad said I had to pick him up, I just…I just recognized you.”
Right, there was another Miller. He was younger, still in elementary school last time you saw him. The 8th graders used to do reading buddies with the 3rd graders and you had been partnered up with someone in his class. What was his name…Tommy maybe? Johnny?
“I forgot there were more of you.”
He looked surprised.
“You’ve met Tommy?”
Knew it.
“Oh years ago,” you shrugged, “In some 8th grade/3rd grade reading buddies group.”
You looked down and noticed a book was hanging from his hands. You frowned slightly.
“You’re holding a book.”
Joel glanced down at it like he’d forgotten it was there.
“Oh. Yeah.”
It was a random mystery novel. You didn’t recognize it, but that wasn’t your go to genre. You were more of a literary fiction type of girl.
He turned it over in his hands.
“I was thinkin’ about tryin’ one.”
Your eyebrows furrowed.
“Trying…what?”
“A book.”
You studied him for a moment, trying to decide if he was messing with you. You still couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that you were having a friendly conversation with him right now.
“You always complained about reading in class…like, loudly. You made it everyones business that you didn’t want to do the work.”
He looked somewhat offended by that, as if it wasn’t the absolute truth.
“I did not complain every day.”
“Every other day then.”
Joel let out a quiet laugh in acceptance.
“Alright, fair.”
He held up the paperback slightly.
“So,” he said. “Which one’s good? I picked this one because the cover looked cool.”
“You want my recommendation.”
“Well,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the small pile surrounding you, “you look like you know what you’re doin’.”
You hesitated at his kindness. Part of you suspected he was just looking for something to tease you about later, but another part of you was curious why he had stopped in the aisle at all. He didn’t know you.
You reached for one of the books beside your knee and held it out: Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.
Joel took it.
His eyes dropped to the cover, then they flicked back up to you, then back to the cover again.
“…this one got less words in it?”
You couldn’t hold in your laugh.
“It’s less than 200 pages!”
He laughed right along with you.
“That’s still a lot of pages!”
You grinned at him, still not understanding how on earth you were speaking to Joel Miller right now.
Summary: Joel takes you on a date. And then he takes you home.
Pairing: Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader
Warnings: Porn with some Plot?, unprotected piv (please for the love of god wrap it up), cunnilingus, fingering, dirty talk, Joel works for reader, adultery, but reader's husband cheated first so it doesn't count and i stand by that, divorce, Joel has a big dick, light choking, dom!Joel if you squint, reader is down bad for Joel, shitty marriage, 18+ only, reader is afab,
WC: 6k
A/N: Looks like I'm turning this into a mini series thanks to popular demand (by me, I kept thinking about this). thanks for reading pals :)
Part 1 | Ao3 | Masterlist
The chime of the doorbell makes your heart jump in your chest, the staccato rhythm picking up as you approach the front door.
After Joel had fucked you next to your pool, he gave you a kiss, left you there to sunbathe, and returned to the meticulous task of assembling your kitchen cabinets. You spent the entire time exchanging heated glances with him where you lay, still naked and reeling from being fucked so thoroughly.
This time, he made no attempt to hide his perusal of your body and it heated your skin more completely than the sun ever could.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the towering trees lining your property, he’d finished the cabinets and covered them with a canvas tarp to protect them overnight. You watched as he wiped his forehead with the end of this t-shirt, giving you a peak of his tummy. You licked your lips — something he quickly noticed even from across the yard.
Sauntering back over to you, he sat on the edge of the lounger and ran a hand from your hip, up your tummy and between your breasts before landing at your neck. His thumb circled your pulse point as he leaned over to kiss you.
“M’ gonna go home now, darlin’. Shower. Put something decent on. And then I’m comin’ right back. That sound good?” His voice was like gravel, deep and rough and it made your entire body tingle. It did sound good, but you wanted him to fuck you again.
All you could do was nod as he kissed you again and then helped you up. You wrapped yourself in your towel and took his hand as he guided you through the house. Your stomach fluttered as he brought those soft lips down to you again and kissed you goodbye.
It took you a long time to process everything that happened, and when you finally did, you couldn’t stop smiling. The thrill of dinner with Joel carried you on a cloud of anticipation as you showered, primped, prepped, and dressed in a baby blue sundress that reached the tops of your thighs, thin straps, and a sweetheart neckline.
You even had time to paint your nails — a matching blue with small white polka dots.
Now, you bite down on your lower lip to stifle your smile as you open the door to find Joel on your front porch, a bouquet of pink, orange, and white wild flowers clasped in his large hand.
The corner of his lips tick up as you take each other in, his eyes roaming you hungrily, nostrils flaring at the sight of you. He doesn’t say anything yet, and you’re equally as speechless.
He’s swapped his dirty boots for a pair of worn but carefully maintained ones, his jeans black and faded instead of the ones he normally wears that are always covered in dust, paint, and plaster. His green button down brings out the hints of gold shimmering in his eyes, the top few buttons open and providing you a glimpse of his hard chest.
You don’t even want to go to dinner at this point, and it takes every ounce of self restraint you have to keep yourself from pouncing on him.
“You look gorgeous, darlin’” he rasps, voice quiet and low. It sends ripples of heat straight to your core. He steps forward to hand you the flowers, but something snaps between you and he’s wrapping you in a heated kiss before you even realize that you’re the one who leapt first.
He grunts as he presses you closer, one hand still holding the flowers while the other knots in your dress at your waist. He’s being respectful, not ripping your clothes to shreds or even touching your ass yet. But his tongue is right there, pushing past your lips and pulling a moan right from you.
Joel has the awareness to pull away before you do, breathing heavy, neck flushed with want.
“Gotta treat you to a nice meal before I fuck you again,” he reasons, setting the flowers onto the table by the door.
It’s sweet how he thinks you need that. Sweet that he knows you yearn for a little bit of romance. And even if there wasn’t the promise of him taking you home and fucking you senseless, you think you’d still love the idea of dinner with him.
Getting to know him. Opening him up and taking a peek at his thoughts. His wants. His needs. Giving him the same. You haven’t dated in years, but the thrill of it is still the same with one exception. You know he’s good and he’ll treat you right. You’re sure of it.
He nods behind him at the open door, the beat to shit red pick up parked on the street, engine sizzling, “After you.”
You can’t resist. You stretch up to kiss his chin, nipping with your teeth and snickering when he growls low in his chest. You snatch your clutch from the hook by the door and saunter out to the truck. He opens the door for you and helps you up to settle on the comfortable seat.
It’s surprisingly clean for a guy who works construction and likely tracks all kinds of debris into his vehicle daily.
“Cleaned it up real nice, just for you,” he says after climbing in and starting it.
Your skin heats, his thoughtfulness doing unspeakable things to you.
The drive is quiet, but comfortable. If there’s one person who knows how to exist in easy silence, it’s Joel. You like that about him. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the space with inane chatter. Like Jeremy. Always eager to hear the sound of his own voice.
When Joel parks outside a small Italian bistro, your grin widens. It’s quaint and out of the way, tucked behind a copse of trees that doesn’t make it immediately visible from the busy street if you aren't looking for it.
He helps you out of the truck and rests a hand at your lower back as he guides you inside. You can’t remember the last time you were treated with such care.
He tells the hostess his name and uses her momentary distraction to drop a kiss to your bare shoulder like it’s a habit he’s been waiting to fulfill. Your cheeks feel hot as you look up at him, his eyes twinkling in the dim candlelight of the restaurant.
The hostess confirms the reservation and takes you to your table. It’s an intimate place, small tables dispersed throughout the room, white table cloths, a small vase containing a single white rose on each one, warm, flickering candles decorating the room.
There are a handful of other couples already seated, relaxed, enjoying their meals. But you pay them no attention as he helps you take your seat and finally settles in across from you.
You can’t help but compare each and every one of his behaviors to Jeremy. You don’t want to, but you do. Jeremy would never pull your chair out. He’d never help you into the car. He’d never plan a romantic evening out. He’d never touch you the way Joel touches you.
He offers a tentative smile, tilting his head, “What?”
“Nothing,” you say, trying to fight the urge to beam at him. He may or may not be aware of just how thoroughly he’s romancing you.
He looks down at the menu, “How do you feel about wine?”
“Love it.”
“White?”
“Perfect.”
When your server flits by the table, he orders a bottle of Chardonnay that she quickly returns with to fill your glasses. The moment she steps away, you catch the amused glimmer in his eyes.
“So, you’re married. And I fucked you in your backyard.”
Very direct. Just as he was after he’d done it.
You almost choke on the wine, but are able to carefully arrange your features into a neutral, unbothered expression, “Yes.”
“He’s a piece of shit.”
It’s not a question or an assumption. He knows, heard Jeremy yelling at you the last time he was home, heard the derision in his voice, the malice. You nod.
“He cheated on you?”
Again, you nod, your eyes flashing with the briefest flicker of pain you’re unable to control. Even if your marriage had been failing long before you discovered Jeremy’s infidelity, it still hurts to know how deeply you’ve been betrayed.
“I’m sorry,” he offers, his voice soft and silken. He reaches across the table to thread your fingers together.
You want to climb into his lap and kiss him. His words are sincere, not placating, but genuinely apologetic about your husband’s indiscretions. About how it must make you feel.
“Don’t make it right – what we did,” he says quietly, “What we’re doin’.”
You take another measured sip of wine while you formulate your response, nodding slowly, “No. It doesn’t. Does that mean you don’t want to do it again?”
“Didn’t say that. Just said it ain’t right.”
The candle flickers across his expression, briefly illuminating the way his eyes have dilated, his lips tightening, his jaw ticks. You stare across at him, admiring the shape of his tension and the intensity of his gaze.
“Don’t know if I can stop myself now,” he admits.
You suppress a laugh, “Why? You seemed perfectly in control before I got naked and told you to touch me.”
That gets a low growl out of him, half grumble, half chuckle, “Tommy was there. Couldn’t very well go around flirtin’ and touchin’ you with him around. Anyway, he told me to stay away from you.”
You suck in a sharp breath, “Why?”
“You’re a client. Wouldn’t be right.”
“I think I can decide what’s right for me and what’s not,” you answer stubbornly, annoyed at Tommy’s intervention. Would Joel have fucked you sooner had Tommy not meddled? Probably not.
“Mm, I know, darlin’,” he says with an appraising nod. He sips his wine and purses his lips, disgruntled.
“We could’ve ordered something else,” you acknowledge, realizing he probably isn’t a wine drinker.
“‘S no trouble. You like it,” he says simply, forcing another sip.
That makes your chest ache, your need for him growing. Drinking something he doesn’t like just because you like it? Another point for Joel.
“So, Tommy is a meddler.”
Joel huffs, “Yeah. Always has been.”
“He told me to stay away from you too. Said you’re a grumpy old bastard,” you tell him.
His smile drops into a scowl, “I don’t care if he’s a brand new daddy, I’m gonna wring his neck.”
“Stop! Your niece or nephew can’t be fatherless!”
“Nephew. Benji. He’ll be alright. Better off, if I’m honest,” he grumbles. You know he doesn’t believe it, which makes it funnier.
You snicker into your glass, hidling your smirk just as the server approaches to take your orders. Joel looks across to you as you recite your selection. He orders the same and hands the menus to her with a gentle thanks.
“Big fan of ravioli?” You ask, resting your chin on your fist. “Would’ve pegged you for a steak kind of guy.”
He shrugs, “Ain’t no harm in tryin’ somethin’ new.”
“Hm, like fucking a client?”
“That’d be new, yes.”
“Is that so?”
His ears turn red at your inquisition, but he quickly settles his features into a calm, severe look as he leans forward to look at you properly, “Swear on my life. This is the first I’ve ever laid a hand on a client. Promise.”
Pressing your lips together to hide your smile, you nod, satisfied with his answer. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it. Were you unique? Does he do this with all his clients? He’s single, after all, according to Tommy.
“‘M I the first tradesman you’ve fucked?” He asks suddenly, making you blanch and laugh louder than what is appropriate in a tiny little restaurant like this. He grins, clearly very pleased with himself.
“Oh my god, yes. Jesus, Joel, don’t do that,” you gasp through your laughter.
Dinner is easy after that, relaxed and smooth with the difficult topic of your ill conceived exploits out of the way. He pours each of you another glass of wine, devours his ravioli, and smirks across at you as you run your heeled foot up his leg to tease him.
He plays with your fingers, his smile coy and shy despite having already fucked you within an inch of sanity. You finish the bottle of wine together, the alcohol warming your skin, cheeks hot with its effects, and with the way Joel makes you blush with his heated looks and dark eyes.
The candlesticks in the room shrink into nothing and soon, you and Joel are the only people left in the restaurant. When he realizes this, he signals for the check.
He’s a gentleman when he pays for your meal and helps you out of your chair. He’s a gentleman when he guides you out to the parking lot with a tender, warm hand on your lower back, then opens the truck door for you. But as you’re about to climb inside, he yanks you back, spins you around, and kisses you.
You lean up to meet him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he clutches at your dress, tangling his fingers in it like he wants to lift the skirt and fuck you right here in the parking lot. You really wish he would. Don’t really care who sees. You’ve been aching for him since he left you lying naked and trembling by your pool.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters, your back hitting the side of the truck, “Wearin’ this skimpy little dress. Lookin’ prettier than anythin’ I’ve ever seen.”
His beard scrapes against your cheek as he plunders your lips, tongue seeking yours while his hips pin you in place. You can feel the hard outline of him through his jeans and you shudder at the thought of sucking him off as he drives you home.
Despite his fervor, he doesn’t lift you up and fuck you against his truck in the parking lot of a little Italian bistro regardless of how desperately you want it.
Eventually, he tears himself away from you and offers you a heated look before finally helping you into the truck. His hand remains firmly planted on your thigh the entire drive home, his fingers steadily creeping upward each time your hips shift.
”Patience, darlin’,” he chastises, giving you a warning look as he drives toward your home.
The moment he parks in the driveway, you don’t wait for him to open your door like the gentleman he’s been all night. You hear him chuckle as he follows you up to the front door, wiggling your ass a little just for his benefit.
As you fumble in your purse for your keys, he stands a respectable distance behind you, hands tucked in his pockets so the urge to paw at you doesn’t hinder your hunt. You find the keys, get the door unlocked, and skip inside like the excited little minx you know you are. He chuckles again.
“Someone’s eager,” he rumbles, shutting the door behind him and finally reaching for you.
Your purse gets tossed aside as your arms come up around his neck, his lips finding yours like a homing missile. He shuffles you in the direction of the stairs until your ankles hit the bottom step. Since he’s been working on your house for the better part of three months, he’s become intimately acquainted with its layout, making it easy for him to navigate while he guides you along and turns your legs to jelly.
In a stunning display of brute strength, he lifts you up, hooking your legs around his waist so he can carry you up the stairs. You break apart with a gasp and clutch his strong shoulders to stabilize yourself.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, hands under your ass, powerful legs climbing higher.
“Nothing,” you squeak, instantly soaked at the ease with which he carries you. What girl doesn’t want to be whisked away and fucked within an inch of her life by the rugged handyman building her house? You’re a simple girl with simple needs that he’s extremely adept at handling.
His lips curve into a smile that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
He doesn’t set you down until he crosses the threshold to your bedroom, his lips on yours again, this time tender and slow like he’s trying to savor you. It weakens your knees and your fingers curl into his shirt to hang on.
“You understand what this means, don’t you?” He asks, big, strong arms curling around your waist while he backs you toward the bed.
You look up at him with wide, curious eyes, his meaning unclear.
“If I fuck you in this bed. In your house…” he lowers his head, lips brushing your ear, breath hot on your cheek, voice dripping with power, “You’re mine.”
Your entire body shudders at the possessiveness soaking his words. You were a goner the moment he laid his hands on you.
You nod, fingers curling in his shirt, “Yours.”
He lunges then, capturing your lips, sinking his tongue between them, devouring you wholly and completely. His big arms wrap around you, pressing you closer, making you whimper into him as he guides you toward the bed. Before you can fall onto its surface, his fingers find the zipper at your back and tugs.
He slips the straps off your shoulders and lets the dress fall to your ankles, leaving you bare apart from the scrap of lace covering your pussy. Joel breaks the kiss and takes a step back to admire you.
“Darlin’, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he growls, eyes dark and hungry as they take you in. With one, thick finger, he skims a path from your belly button up to your chin, stopping briefly to play with each of your nipples before continuing on. He lifts your chin gently, assessing the way your breathing changes, lips swollen from his kisses, thighs squeezing together, “Your husband fuck you in this bed yet?”
Once Joel and Tommy had completed the renovation of your upstairs, you had opted to redecorate the space with all new furniture, art, accents, everything – mattress included. You’d only slept next to your husband once since then. And he hadn’t touched you. Not a single graze of flesh, or a tender caress.
Shaking your head, you bite your lip, “No. He hasn’t fucked me in over a year.”
Joel’s eyes flash, something dark and dangerous in them that makes your thighs clench, “That right?”
”Too busy fucking his secretary,” you admit, leaning into his touch, his thumb tracing your plump lower lip. Your tongue darts out for a taste.
He allows it, and then grips your chin between his index finger and thumb, tilting his head, “You usin’ me to get back at him?”
You can tell by the question that he doesn’t like the idea of that. That he’s just some pawn in a battle between you and Jeremy. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. You shake your head, eyes softening.
”No, no, I promise. I want you, Joel,” you whisper, fists still clenched in his shirt as you press yourself against him, “I don’t care about getting back at him. I just want him gone.”
”You send your divorce papers yet?”
“Tomorrow. First thing, my lawyer will serve them.”
”Good girl,” he says lowly, giving you a brief kiss, “You still think fuckin’ me while you’re still married is a good idea?”
You nod, “Yes, I need it, Joel,” you whine, feeling the slick between your legs, the soaked fabric of your panties rubbing against you, “I need you.”
“You need to get fucked?” He nips at your chin, then moves down to your neck, making your legs weaken, “You need your pussy filled to the brim?”
Speechless, you nod frantically, hands flattening on his chest as he takes your waist and turns you to putty with his lips on your throat. “Please…”
”Alright, darlin’, lie back for me,” he grumbles, peeling himself away from you and helping you lie on the bed. When you position yourself in the center, he clicks his tongue and takes you by the thighs to pull your hips to the edge of the bed. Joel drops to his knees, and your stomach does a flip. “Need to taste this sweet little pussy before I fuck you.”
You’re not complaining.
His thumbs hook at the hem of your panties and he drags them down your legs slowly, your entire body lit with anticipation and a fresh wave of desire.
With his wide hands, he spreads your thighs gently, peppering kisses along your skin and inching his way methodically up to your center. The scruff of his beard tickles your skin, hips lifting in search of any sort of contact. It seems Joel isn’t in the mood for teasing today, because after parting your folds with his thumbs, he drags a slow, deliberate stripe up the center of your pussy.
He groans into you, your body overcome with sensation as he does it again. And again, and again, and again.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby,” he says, moving his hands to your hips to pull you further toward the edge of the mattress.
He drinks you in like a man possessed, his tongue strumming your clit effortlessly and drawing out the most pathetic noises from the back of your throat. You writhe and arch, his movements slow and precise as he licks you. Your toes curl, fingers digging into his mess of curls. Fuck, he’s good.
He uses his tongue on you like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. Like he’s been desperate to make you cum on his tongue all evening. And maybe he has been. Maybe it’s all he’s thought about, because you know damn well it’s all you’ve thought about.
Before you can even register anything else, two, thick fingers press into you and you have to slap your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out.
Joel lifts his head and scowls, “What are you doing?”
You blink, hips moving to the slow, steady stroke of his fingers, “I — I —“
“Nuh uh, I wanna hear those pretty little sounds you make. You understand?” He asks, voice hard and stern like you’ve made a grave mistake.
You nod, whimpering a little when he crooks his fingers just right.
“Words, baby. Use your words,” he rasps, “Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” you insist, letting loose a sound that would make a porn star blush when he starts pumping his fingers steadily. His tongue is back on you, and in the next instant, you’re careening toward your orgasm.
Your skin is hot and your blood electric in your veins as you cum, a strangled moan puncturing the quiet of your bedroom. Joel grunts into your pussy and licks and laps at your release until you’re sure you can’t take it anymore. You’re still trembling when he pulls his fingers from you and moves up your body to give you a kiss.
Tasting yourself on his lips, you let out a faint sigh, pulling at the buttons on his shirt and pushing it off. His tongue is heaven on your pussy, but infinitely more devious when it slips between your lips. It’s dirty and slow, like he’s building you up just to shatter you again and again. Your entire body still tingles with the aftermath of your climax.
Your hips lift against him, clit scraping against denim. His cock is hard in the confines of his jeans, and all you want is for him to be inside you.
With searching hands, you map out the contours of his muscles, built slowly over time by his craft. His tummy is soft, but underneath, you feel his muscles clench as your fingers continue their perusal.
As much as you enjoy kissing him, you need him to fill you up, so you begin the delicate task of undoing his jeans and shoving them down his hips. They’re barely down past his ass when you arch up again, and dig your nails into his lower back to get him closer. His cock is thick and heavy against your pussy, making you both groan.
“So fuckin’ needy,” he growls, pushing his hips against you and creating a friction so overwhelming you swear it’ll make you cum if he does it again.
All you can do is nod, because you are. You need him so bad, you think you’ll die if you don’t get him inside you soon.
He grinds against you again, the underside of his cock stimulating your overworked clit. You squeal, arching into him, both somehow seeking more and less at the same time. Joel takes your hip in his large hand, thumb pressing into you to still your movements.
“Ask nicely, darlin’.”
It takes a few seconds for your brain to catch up with his words. You sound needy when you say it. Desperate and fucked out. “Please, fuck me, Joel. Please, I need it so bad.”
The sentence hasn’t even fully left your lips before he pushes into you with a low growl. Once he’s seated with the coarse hairs at his base nestled against you, he flexes his hips, pushing just a bit deeper until there’s nowhere else to go. You’re so full of him, aching as he settles against you, his girth splitting you wide open.
Your nails rake down his back, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“This pussy’s so fuckin’ tight, honey,” he hisses into your ear, withdrawing an inch and pushing back in. “Fuck.”
Under your hands, his muscles tremble with either the effort of holding himself over you, or with the restraint of not fucking into you like you want him to. Either way, you’re flattered and tilt your hips to take him deeper.
“Don’t fuckin’ do that,” he warns, pushing his hips against you and making you gasp at the intrusion. Your walls flutter around him, practically screaming at him to move, pussy leaking with your arousal, “Ain’t bein’ polite.”
“S-sorry,” you whimper, nails digging into his lower back, “I need –”
“What do you need?”
“Need you to move, Joel, please fuck me,” you beg, sounding so pathetic to your own ears, you almost cringe. But the slow smile and jut of his hips makes you forget in an instant.
“Yeah? Need me to wreck this pretty little pussy?” He hums, the low vibrato of his voice sending you into another simpering fit as you try to move your hips against him. “Careful.”
He gives you a hard kiss before sitting up to tower over you, knees braced on the edge of the bed as his hands roam your body. The steady shift of his cock inside you has slowly eased the ache, but you need more. He feels so big, your cunt practically drools around him.
“You’ve got such good manners, baby,” he huffs, arms hooking under your thighs to lift you higher, pushing his cock deeper. Your hands fly out to cling to the comforter, eyes hazy as he withdraws and pushes in again, so fucking slowly it’s driving you crazy. It’s the same position he took you on the lounger by the pool, the same heavy stare, the same dark look and powerful body looming over you.
When speech evades you, he simply smiles and adjusts you again before he begins a steady, rhythmic pace that’s both hard and easy all at once. His hips smack into you, before he slowly withdraws, then fucking into you again like he’s trying to make you cum on force alone. And it’s working.
Each push of his hips elicits a little gasp from you and a spark of arousal pulsing through you. Sweat gleams on his forehead with the effort of his control, so you’re not surprised when he abandons his subdued pace in favor of quicker, deeper thrusts.
“Takin’ my cock so good,” he grunts, pulling you up higher, “You gonna cum on it like a good girl?”
You nod frantically, already on your way to your own undoing. When his thumb circles your clit and his cock hits you just right, your vision goes dark and your back arches. Your moans are obscene and loud, and you’re certain your neighbors can hear the way you scream for him. But you don’t care. The pleasure coursing through you crests while he fucks you through your orgasm, his groans faint and labored.
The moment you come down, he pulls out, making you suck in a sharp breath at the loss. He flips you onto your stomach while he lies prone on top of you and pants into your ear, “This sweet little pussy is gonna be the death of me, baby.”
In one, brutal thrust, he’s back inside you, making your back arch against him. He takes the opportunity to wrap a large hand around your neck, holding you up as he takes his own pleasure and gives you everything in return. Even after two orgasms, the size of him burns through you, fire coiling tight in your belly with each plunge.
Your walls clench around him and he growls into your ear, his breath hard. His lips find your throat and he grunts with each push, “Tryn’ to make me cum before I’m ready to be done with you, darlin’?”
You shake your head, voice broken and barely there, like he’s fucked the will right out of you, “No… no, I swear.”
His fingers squeeze around your neck, not enough to cut off your air supply, but the pressure is there, and it’s exquisite. His pace is relentless, his cock so deep, filling you so completely, all you can do is writhe and cry under him. A large hand lands on your ass as he growls into your ear, “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
You don’t even hesitate, not for a second, “You, it’s yours. It belongs to you.”
“What belongs to me?”
“My p-pussy,” you cry out, another crack of his palm against your ass. “Joel…”
“I gotcha, baby,” he breathes into your ear, his beard scraping your cheek, lips and teeth adding sensation to your skin as his cock stretches you out. His restraint snaps then, and he begins pounding into you with a force that makes your eyes roll back into your head and your entire body lock up. “That’s it, honey. I know you’re about to cum. Give it to me.”
It’s remarkable how quickly he’s become attuned to your body and its signals. He adjusts his hips, pushing deeper, harder, faster than what he should be capable of. His breath ragged in your ear, muscles tight against your back, cock dragging in and out of you. When he releases your neck, you slump to the bed, only for him to plant his hand next to you, while the other sneaks underneath you to rub your clit in time with his thrusts.
It undoes you so quickly, you scream into the sheets, hips pushing against him as you cum. Your climax washes over you so completely, you think you lose consciousness for several seconds. You’re nothing but sensation and bliss.
His deep growl reaches your ears, breaths coming in short bursts as he fucks you through it, “Fuck, feels so good. Pussy is grippin’ me nice and tight baby. I’m gonna cum.”
“Cum inside me,” you plead, words muffled by the bedding. You can feel him trembling above you, holding himself back, and then a rush of warmth as he fills you, cumming with a bone shattering groan that makes your entire body tingle. You love the way he sounds, love that you can do this to him. Wreck him just as thoroughly as he wrecks you.
His thrusts slow, then ease to a stop, and he bends over you to kiss along your shoulder and down your back until he’s withdrawing from you completely. A quiet whimper leaves you, devastated at the loss.
After wiping up the mess you two had made, Joel settles in bed next to you, drawing you against his chest and giving you a tender kiss. It’s slow and thoughtful and lingering. There’s no intent behind it other than to claim and cherish.
“I can’t stay,” he says when he pulls away, “Gotta be up early for a job tomorrow.”
You sigh and nestle deeper, chasing his lips, “I don’t want you to go.”
“Mm, I don’t either. But my client is extremely demanding. Gotta get to the site on time to make her happy,” he mutters, tongue swiping against you. Your heart flutters, cheeks warming as he pulls away with a smile, “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Stay a little while longer?”
He answers by pulling the sheets around the both of you, his arms cradling you against him despite the sweat you’ve both worked up. Joel kisses you again, his hand sliding up your back to rest at the base of your neck.
He’s warm and solid against you, his breathing heavy and deep, but you know he’s not asleep yet.
“Joel?”
“Mm?”
“Are you gonna tell Tommy?” You ask, not out of fear or hesitancy, but simple curiosity. If he tells his brother, what will that convey about the two of you?
He lifts his head to peek down at you and arches an eyebrow, “Do you want me to?”
You shrug, truly unsure. You’re still married. He’s still technically working for you, and you’re not sure what this means for either of you.
“Don’t see that it’s any of his business. But I meant what I said earlier. I don’t do shit half way, darlin’. This ain’t some game to me,” he tells you, resting on his elbow to look down at you. You look up at him with wide, glimmering eyes, “You either want this, or you don’t. But you better tell me soon so I –”
“I like you too,” you blurt, cutting him off so he doesn’t spiral. You’re growing accustomed to his directness. He doesn’t want to play mind games like some men. Doesn’t want to string you along. It’s refreshing. “I – I don’t want to tell Tommy, though. Not until you’re done… working for me.”
A sly smile creeps onto his face, “You don’t want him to know I’m fuckin’ the boss?”
“No!” Your skin heats and you bring the sheet up to hide your embarrassment, “It’ll look like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“Darlin’, if anyone’s takin’ advantage, it’s me,” he chuckles, pulling the sheet down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Saw you walkin’ around in those skimpy little outfits and couldn’t help myself.”
“I didn’t exactly give you a choice, Joel. I basically stripped naked and threw myself at you.”
“Still,” he shrugs, “Could’ve said no.”
You look up at him with a slight smile, his eyes warm and gentle, softened in the dull light of the bedroom lamp, “Glad you didn’t.”
He smiles back. “Me too.”
The next morning, you wake to an email from your lawyer telling you that the papers have been delivered to Jeremy. He was confused and pissed off, but it’s done. The weight of it shifts something in you, the relief burning at your eyes.
Joel left sometime during the night, but you wish you could reach for him, celebrate with him, kiss him. Because of him, your life has changed drastically in the past twenty-four hours. You want to thank him.
You get the chance to do just that over the course of the next few days, kissing him when he arrives to work on your house for the day, sitting in his lap while he eats lunch, begging him to fuck you before he leaves for the evening. It’s pure bliss, and for the first time in years, you feel something dangerously close to happiness. Something Jeremy hasn’t given you in so long, you forgot what it felt like.
You should’ve known, then, that it would all come crashing down.
It's a Chanel morning in Paris as Pedro Pascal just arrived at the Grand Palais to attend Matthieu Blazy's second Haute Couture show for the Maison. | U la Repubblica (07 July 2026)
pairing: pre-outbreak / no-outbreak joel miller x female reader (afab)
summary: joel comes home late only to find you in pain, so he does what he does best, and takes care of you.
tags/warnings/rating: [explicit 18+ only, minors dni] pre-outbreak!joel miller (or no-outbreak!joel miller), established relationship, age gap (reader is mid-twenties, joel is 36), hurt/comfort, fluff, reader gets their period and is in pain, soft Joel, fingering, biting, praise, bath sex?, joel’s filthy mouth, use of vibrators, no use of y/n.
word count: 5.5k
author's note: throwing this absolute mess out into the world and hoping for the best. completely self-indulgent, not beta read—basically, in my feels and just want soft joel to take care of me. title taken from Comfort You by Eskimo Joe, header gif by @userparamore, dividers by me.
main masterlist | ao3
The traffic has only just started to clear on the interstate as Joel nears his exit. The clock on the dashboard of his truck had been broken for weeks so he doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows it’s late. Later than it should’ve been. Later than he told you he’d be home. It had stormed that morning which had pushed back the entire day’s schedule, so Joel had been stuck working back on the construction site. His cell phone battery had died in the late-afternoon, after he’d had to make calls all morning to move back deliveries of supplies due to the rain. He’d had no way of letting you know what time he would be home, and he had felt guilt pool in his stomach all afternoon.
It wasn’t uncommon for Joel to have to stay back on site, leaving him to get home later than usual. But, everytime it happened, he’d feel awful – the voice in the back of his head telling him he was neglecting you, neglecting Sarah. Whenever he would come home late, he’d slink into Sarah’s room to press a kiss to her forehead before he’d feel the promise of your embrace pulling him towards you. He’d stumble, already half-asleep, and drag his weary body into bed to wrap himself around you. Like clockwork, you’d tuck yourself into his arms and sleepily kiss whatever part of him you could reach.
Although you wanted to spend as much time as humanly possible with Joel, you understood that sometimes he had to work long hours. You had tried to assure him time and time again that you didn’t feel neglected, that Sarah didn’t think he was a bad dad, that the two of you didn’t love him any less. Still, he couldn’t help being worried.
He’d left earlier than usual that morning, and you didn’t get to say goodbye. After sliding out of bed silently, Joel had tucked you back in under the blankets and kissed the top of your head as you slept before getting ready for work and leaving for the day. You’d woken up with a headache, a dull throbbing ache spanning across the back of your head and settling achingly in your temples. Moving about the house in a daze, you’d quickly dressed and made your way to the kitchen to find Sarah already packing her bag for school. After downing two Tylenol and eating some toast together, you’d sent Sarah off to the school bus with a hug, and settled in for the day in Joel’s home office with a cup of coffee.
Today had been a research day for your thesis, compiling notes and comparing datasets as you awaited feedback on the first draft you’d submitted to your advisor the week before. As the day wore on, your headache worsened and was joined by a throbbing pain low in your stomach. It had gotten so bad that it had made you feel nauseous, as you’d fought the urge to curl around the toilet bowl and willed the breakfast you’d eaten earlier to stay down.
The shrill sound of the telephone ringing had pierced through your already achingly tender head, and you had moved sluggishly to answer it. You’d had to fight back a snort of laughter when the school nurse on the other end politely asked you to come and pick up Sarah, who was reportedly feeling sick. Ironic. You’d driven across town in the rain and arrived at the school, filled out all of the necessary paperwork to sign Sarah out for the day, and had herded her back into your car. The pain in your stomach had made its way around to your lower back, so severe that you’d had to hold yourself up with a hand positioned on your hip. Sarah, on the other hand, had made a suspiciously remarkable recovery. Once you’d arrived home, she’d mentioned that she was feeling ‘much better’ as she set herself up on the couch with the television remote in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. The fact that she was missing math class had told you that had something to do with it. You didn’t have the energy to scold her, as the ache in your skull continued throbbing.
You’d taken two more Tylenol and made yourself another coffee before deciding to put your reading glasses on to stop your headache from worsening with eye strain. Stealing a blanket from the back of the couch, you’d wrapped it around your shoulder and trudged back into the home office. Logging back into the computer, you’d noticed a new email from your advisor. Once you had read it and opened the attached document, your heart sank as you saw countless amendments, notes, and questions across the pages. Fuck. You had worked so hard on your first draft, and while you’d known there was room for improvement, it hurt to see it essentially torn to shreds. You’d blinked back the sting in your eyes as you read the notes and reviewed all of the changes.
It wasn’t until early evening when you’d been changing into some comfier clothes that you’d discovered you’d gotten your period. All of the pains throughout the day suddenly made sense and you’d began making yourself a cup of hot tea to try and help with the cramps. As the sun sank low and gave way to the cool Texan night, you’d began counting down the minutes until Joel came home. But, his usual arrival time came and went, with no sign of him. You’d told yourself that you understood that sometimes he had to work long hours, but at that moment, all you’d wanted was for him to come home and curl his strong arms around you.
Sarah had ordered pizza for dinner, and you’d only managed a few slices before the pain in your stomach stopped you from eating anymore. Eventually she’d moved into her bedroom, and you’d cuddled up alone on the couch with the television playing quietly in the background as you had thumbed through pages in various textbooks to supplement the research in your draft that your advisor suggested was wrong. You knew it wasn’t, and you were determined to show her that. Your throat felt thick and your eyes burned, stifling back the frustrated tears.
Now, hours later, as Joel pulls his truck into the driveway, his hands twitch to feel your skin against his. Immediately as he steps out and unloads his toolbox, he notices the light still on in the lounge room. As he quietly makes his way inside, he toes off his dirtied boots at the door, and follows the sound of the low hum of the television. His eyes find you within a matter of seconds, and he spots the various opened textbooks scattered around your sleeping form, one squished under your shoulder where you’d curled into yourself. You’re still wearing your glasses, the frames awkwardly pushed against the side of your face from where it was pressed into the couch cushion. His heart clenches when he realises you’d clearly tried to wait up for him, but had drifted to sleep before he’d been able to get home to you in time.
The guilt that had been churning in his gut all day doubles when he notices the way your eyebrows are pinched together — clearly in pain, even as you sleep — and the heating pad that is haphazardly placed against your lower stomach. You register the feeling of a warm palm pressed against your cheek as another smoothes your hair away from your forehead. As you begin to slowly wake up, your arms involuntarily move to curl around your stomach when you become consciously aware of the agonising cramps.
“Baby?” comes a quiet voice.
You let out a small noise as your eyes begin to blink open. “Joel?”
“Yeah, darlin’, it’s me. Sorry I’m home so late, tried to call you on my way back but the damn battery on my cell phone died,” he murmurs, gently carding his fingers through your hair.
“S’okay. Just glad you’re here,” you reply before you burrow further into the couch, scrunching your eyes back up to block out the light emanating from the television. Joel moves to slide the textbook out from where it’s stuck under your shoulder, before his knuckles softly skate over the top of your cheekbone.
He notices the way you squeeze the heating pad against your stomach before he speaks again softly, “You not feelin’ well?”
You hum quietly and nod. “Woke up with a headache that got worse all day, then my stomach started hurting really bad. Got my period.”
“Oh, honey, and you had to go pick up Sarah? I’m so sorry, the school called me but I was busy on site after the rain this morning – if I had’ve known you were sick I would’ve got Tommy to cover for me and gotten her myself.”
You shake your head as if to say ‘it’s alright’. Joel leans in, cradling your jaw in his warm palms and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before he pulls back to nose against your hairline. “My sweet girl.”
He runs his thumbs against the hollows of your cheeks for a brief moment before he gently stands up and moves away from the couch. You continue to lay there with your eyes scrunched shut, taking long even breaths through the pulsing pains in your stomach. You can hear him shuffling around on the other side of the house, before he returns a few minutes later.
Joel slides one arm beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees before he lifts you up, holding you against his broad chest, warm and solid. You begin to protest, “Wait, Joel, your back—”
“I’m fine, baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
He carries you through the hallway, past the bedroom and into the ensuite where he’s started filling up the bath with warm, soapy water. He gently places you down and guides you to sit on the edge of the bath. Joel drops to his knees before you and clasps your ankles, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin before he moves to pull your clothes off. With each piece of fabric shedded, he presses his mouth against your skin, slow and deliberate, sighing against you.
He slides your glasses off and places them on the vanity before he eases you into the bath with a hand around your waist, helping you settle in. You look up at him with wide eyes, eyebrows pulled together before asking in a quiet voice, “Will you get in too?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Let’s just get you all relaxed and clean first, and then I’ll get in with you afterwards, okay?”
Joel stays kneeling by the side of the bath, dipping his arms into the warm water to run a washcloth against the soft planes of your body. You sigh, beginning to feel the tension loosen from your body as the heat from the bath starts to ease the cramps in your stomach. He hums a quiet tune, one you don’t recognise, as he helps you wash. You stay like that for a while, Joel watching you adoringly as he gently trails his hands across your skin under the water. He brings a soapy palm up to your jaw and leans in to kiss you, capturing your bottom lip between his. He makes a noise, low in the back of his throat, and his hand moves to curl around the back of your neck as his mouth slides languidly against yours.
He pulls back slowly and presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth, his stubble tickling your cheek. Joel leans forward and tugs the stopper out now that you’re all clean. He moves back up towards you and glides his lips against your neck, trailing featherlight kisses along your skin as the water drains out of the bath. After a few minutes, once the bath is empty, he puts the stopper back in and begins running the water again. Joel stands then and starts peeling off his work-dirtied clothes, depositing them in a heap on the floor. You reach a hand out and run it against his soft stomach and he touches his palm to your shoulder with a warm smile. You move forward to make room for him in the bath as he slides in behind you, before he pulls you back against his chest, the warm water flowing around the two of you.
Joel wraps his arms around your waist and presses his palms against your stomach, rubbing slowly. He hides a kiss in your hair, before leaning in and pressing another behind your ear. “Feelin’ any better, baby?”
You sigh and relax back against him, resting your hands against his thighs where they cage you in. “Yeah. The hot water is really helping. Thank you,” you murmur as you tuck your head under his chin.
He continues to glide his hands in circles across your stomach, and you sigh as he nudges his nose against the shell of your ear. The spell is too quickly broken, though, when Joel murmurs his next words. “Did your advisor send you her feedback on your draft?”
Freezing in his hold, he notices immediately and cups your chin, turning your face back towards him. “Yeah, she did. I– I don’t want to think about it right now, she—” you stop, looking away as you feel your eyes start to burn again.
“She what? What is it?” he prompts gently.
You shake your head and he tightens his hold on your chin, dipping his head to meet your gaze. You look up at him with glossy eyes. “She basically tore it apart. I’ll have to rewrite the whole thing. I know it’s her job but it made me feel so dumb.”
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I know how hard you worked on that,” Joel says softly, running his thumb across your jaw, “I know it must be really upsetting after all that effort. This doesn’t make it any better, I know, but at the end of the day you’re going to end up with such an amazing thesis. She’s probably just trying to push you to get there, because she knows you can do it, hm?”
You sniff and nod, wiping your knuckles against your waterline to catch the tears that are threatening to fall. “I guess so.”
He presses a delicate kiss against your cheekbone. “No matter what, I’m so proud of you. My smart, perfect girl. You always amaze me, with what goes on in that head of yours.”
Hearing him say that makes something snap in your chest, and suddenly hot tears are running down your face. You suck in a heaving breath, the weight of the stressful day finally hitting you like a tonne of bricks. “Really? You’re proud of me?” you ask weakly through the lump in your throat.
Joel wraps his arms around your shoulders, crossing them over your chest before pulling you further into him. Leaning his head forward, he presses his nose against your temple. “Yeah, baby. So proud. Always,” he breathes against your skin.
He gently sways you back and forward in his arms as the tears continue to pour. He can see that this has been building all day, and he doesn’t attempt to quiet you, instead letting you sit with your emotions where he can comfort you. You don’t even need to explain the full events of the day, the few small sentences you gave him were enough. He understood. Before Joel, you always felt like you lacked a safe place to express your feelings, but now, you can let go, and he’s always there to take care of you.
“You’re okay. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”
After a few minutes of him whispering calming reassurances and hugging you tight against his chest, the tears begin to slow as you take in a shuddering breath. Joel lets out a soft hum and squeezes you in his arms. “You’re okay, sweet girl.”
With one last sniffle, you wipe your eyes clear and turn in his hold, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His palms move down and rest against the small of your back, and he pushes you up so you’re sitting on top of his lap. The position is awkward in the cramped bath, but neither of you care, wanting to feel the soft slide of your skin against each other.
You hug him tight, pressing your cheek against his chest, letting the constant beat of his heart calm you down. Taking in a deep breath, you kiss across his collarbone and up his neck until you’re face to face.
Joel leans forward and nudges his nose against yours before moulding your lips together. It’s slow and unhurried, as his mouth moves softly against yours. He pulls away and caresses the skin of your lower back with his fingertips, touching you like glass, delicate and precious in his palms. You push forward and slot your lips against his; he’s gentle, hands dancing delicately across your skin, but when you whine and press closer to him, he understands.
His hands slide up your back, around your shoulders, and move to cup your face before he presses a thumb into the hinge of your jaw. He licks into your mouth and you let out a sigh as your hands fist in his hair. When he kisses you, he devours you, consumes your every thought, and all you’re left with is JoelJoelJoel—
He catches your bottom lip with his teeth and tugs, and you keen for him, whining high in your throat. “Joel,” you whisper, moving back to take a breath.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, pulling you back to him with a hand at the back of your neck, and his lips claim yours again. Joel’s other hand now rests delicately against the top of your thigh, thumb moving in slow circles, edging closer and closer to your core. The touch is so gentle, barely there, and everytime you feel his hand brush against your skin as he moves it slightly closer, you feel your stomach twist with need.
He moves to bury his face in the crook of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your throat as his hot breath fans against your skin. His teeth graze the hollow above your collarbone, beard scratching against you, and he sucks a mark into the skin. Joel’s other hand moves to clasp your side, fingers splayed across your ribcage as his thumb brushes against your nipple. You can feel the simmering heat below the surface of your skin, fire licking at your pores.
“Joel, please,” you sigh against his temple.
He looks up at you then, and he revels in the way you watch him through half-lidded eyes, chest heaving. “Can I make you feel good, baby? Let me take care of you.”
“Yeah—yeah, fuck, please,” you whimper.
Joel dips his head lower and skims his lips down your sternum. The water sits just below your breasts, and it swirls between the two of you with every gentle movement. You can feel the tip of his tongue against your skin as he moves along your chest; his hand stays in place on your thigh and you push yourself closer to him, willing him to do something, anything. The beginnings of a ‘please, Joel’ are forming in your mouth when his teeth graze your nipple. He flicks his tongue back and forth before he catches it between his teeth and pulls. You cry out, arching your back to bare more of your chest to him.
“Yeah? Does my baby like that?” he murmurs against your skin.
You nod frantically, whining as he moves to the other side and takes the sensitive bud into his mouth. Swirling his tongue, he sucks hard and begins to push you towards the point of overstimulation. He pulls away, and your head falls back as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses across your breast. Too distracted by the feeling of his lips, Joel uses the opportunity to move his other hand lower, pressing his thumb against your clit.
You let out another whine as his thumb starts to move in agonisingly slow circles, “Fuck, Joel, please, I need—I need more.”
He huffs out a small laugh, kissing his way back up your chest. “I know, darlin’. Be patient.”
You gasp when you feel him nip at the skin of your throat – he had a tendency to tease you, leaving you a sensitive, whimpering mess, but you were extra responsive today. He knew that, and he played on it every month when the time came. Every touch feels like fire against your skin, and you are desperate for him to soothe the burn.
Joel’s fingers speed up as he leans up to lick across the seam of your lips. His other hand guides you the rest of the way towards him, palm spread across your neck. He slants his lips across yours and kisses you hard, tongue gliding against yours. You lose yourself in him, in the way he crowds your space and occupies your mind — drunk on the feeling of his skin against yours, your body reacts on instinct, chasing his touch.
He pinches your clit and you let out a broken cry, crumbling into his chest before his fingers continue rubbing rough circles. “Barely even touched you and you’re already desperate, aren’t you, baby?”
“Shit, yeah— oh, God—”
Your stomach burns, pleasure coursing through your core as he pushes just right against your clit. Dipping his head lower, he sucks a nipple into his mouth again, lavishing his tongue across the sensitive skin. The press of his mouth, his fingertips burning into your skin, the scrape of his stubble — your brain feels fuzzy, all consumed with Joel. He twists his wrist, bringing you closer as the heat builds up, up, up.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs against your nipple before flicking his tongue across it.
“Oh my God, please. Joel, I’m—” you cry out as he bites into the soft flesh of your breast, soothing his tongue over the skin as his fingers work over your clit.
“C’mon, pretty girl, cum for me—fucking give it to me,” Joel husks.
The burning heat ruptures in the base of your spine and you cry out into his neck as waves of pleasure throb throughout your body. You shudder as your cunt pulses, the warm tingling sensation dancing across your skin. His fingers work you through it and he brings his other hand up to splay across your shoulder blades, bringing you into his chest as he peppers kisses across your head.
“Fuck, you look so pretty when you cum, baby. That’s my girl, did so well for me,” Joel murmurs into your hair, fingertips trailing up your spine.
You press a kiss against his throat and hum, going lax against him. You’re soft and pliant and Joel slowly manoeuvres you off his lap so he can reach forward and pull the stopper out of the drain before he stands and gets out. He makes quick work of drying himself before he reaches down and places his hands under your arms, gently helping you step out of the bath on shaky legs. He wraps a towel around you and presses his chest against your back, mouth moving slowly against your shoulder, up your neck, and along your jaw. You sigh out as your head lolls against him, his thick arms wrapped around your smaller frame.
“My pretty girl,” he whispers as he nips the shell of your ear.
He breathes in slowly as he presses a kiss behind your ear, his hot breath sending a thrill up your spine. Slowly moving the towel across your body, he makes sure you’re dry before he moves in front of you and drops to his knees. Joel looks up at you through his eyelashes and your heart clenches as he grips your hips in his warm palms before resting his forehead against your stomach. You reach out and tangle your fingers in his curls while he places delicate kisses to your stomach. He exhales against your skin as he moves his mouth languidly up your sternum, kissing you reverently, causing a trail of goosebumps to erupt across your skin.
Slowly, he makes his way back up to your face before he stands to his full height. Joel reaches his hands up and cradles your jaw before he presses an achingly tender kiss to your lips, and another to your forehead. His hand trails down your arm and he threads his fingers with yours before pulling you into the bedroom, grabbing another fresh towel from the rack by the door. He lays it flat on the bed and fluffs up the pillows before sitting down and leaning back against the headboard.
“C’mere, baby,” he murmurs, beckoning you over with a small wave of his hand.
You drop the towel from your shoulders and climb onto the bed, making your way up between his legs. With a gentle palm on your waist, he guides you so your back is pressed flush to his chest, your head tucked into his neck. Joel brushes his knuckles against your shoulders, running his hands along your arms before they settle low on your hips. Ghosting his fingertips along your mound, he leans forward and licks a stripe along the side of your neck before he seals his lips over the juncture between your throat and your jaw, causing you to let out a whine.
Joel brings one hand up to your mouth and holds it out. “Spit.”
You feel heat settle across your cheeks and you have to take in a shuddering breath before you let a glob of drool pool on his fingers. You flush when he moves back down and runs his hand along the seam of your pussy. He slowly circles your clit before he dips lower and presses a thick finger into your cunt. Joel gently begins to move and you whine, grinding your hips to meet the thrust of his hand. He noses into your hairline, laying hot kisses to your temple as he works you open. You’re hot and pulsing around him, and he has to bite back a groan at the feeling as he moves in you.
“More, please,” you sigh.
He adds another finger and his pace quickens before he curls reaching the spot that always leaves you gasping and writhing in his hold. You push your head into his neck and let out a broken cry as he does it again, your cunt squeezing tight around him.
“That’s it, taking it so well for me.”
Lost in the feeling of him pushing into you, you don’t notice his other hand leaning over to the bedside table. He moves his arm back and you feel his hand brush against your skin; you hear a faint click, and before you have a second to register what Joel’s doing, he presses a vibrator firm to your clit. You feel as though the air has been punched from your lungs and you pitch forward, choking on an inhale before slumping back against him.
“Fuck—oh my God, shit,” you moan out as he works it back and forward.
He presses into you harder, faster, and you feel your stomach twisting up as he moves the vibrator in quick circles against you. He’s hitting something devastating inside you, those thick, clever fingers stretching you beautifully. You feel your legs twitch every time they brush that spongy spot as heavy, pulsing need thrums in your veins.
“You want another, hm? Or do you want my cock, honey? Want me to fill you up?” Joel whispers into the skin on your shoulder, now sticky with sweat.
“Just need you like this tonight—God, just like this, just your fingers, please. Fuck, it’s so good—”
“I’ll give you what you need, baby. My perfect girl.”
Joel hums and twists the top of the vibrator and it speeds up, causing you to sob into his neck as you clutch the towel beneath you. He stops moving it and just holds, and you whine, high in your throat, wiggling your hips in a desperate attempt to get him to move.
He kisses along your shoulder delicately, a stark contrast to the way he’s fucking you hard with his fingers. He nips, softly at first, before he bites down into the meat of your shoulder and you moan in wanton, pushing further into his broad chest. In the back of your foggy, hazy mind, you think there’ll be teeth marks there tomorrow.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you? You like when I mark you up for everyone to see? Dirty girl,” he mouths against the skin before soothing it with his tongue.
Joel turns the vibrator up again with his thumb, adjusting the speed to the highest setting as his other fingers curl up into you again, pressing so hard you can feel it at the base of your stomach. You begin to shake, your mouth opening in a silent cry as your cunt clenches tight—pulsing, radiating waves of pleasure flow across your skin as you cum. There was no warning this time, no teetering on the edge, just white, hot, searing bliss coursing through your body.
Joel’s fingers speed up while you cum, and you nearly wail at the overstimulation, his thick fingers filling you tight. “Yeah, good girl—good fucking girl, you cum so hard, squeeze me so tight. Oh, that’s it, you perfect fucking thing.”
You slump further into him, boneless, exhausted, and he turns the vibrator off before good overstimulation turns painful. He withdraws his fingers slowly and you feel the last waves throb through your cunt as you come back down. Joel wipes his hand on the towel before he leans forward and captures your lips with his own in a warm, delicate kiss. He smooths his hand across your head, brushing your hair away from your face, before pinning you with a soft smile.
He rubs a hand down your back and slowly guides you forward, extricating himself from behind you and pulling you up with him. Grabbing the towel off the bed, he leads you into the bathroom and, like before, guides you to sit on the edge of the bath. Throwing the towel in the hamper, he grabs a washcloth, runs in under warm water in the sink, and scrubs his hands clean. Joel kneels in front of you and takes your hand, pressing a tender kiss to the backs of your knuckles. He wipes the cloth between your folds and along the insides of your thighs, cleaning you thoroughly.
“How are you feeling, honey?”
You smile sleepily — happy, satiated. “Mmm, good. No more cramps.”
He chuckles, and moves his free hand up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, before he cups your cheek with his palm, “Good. That was the idea. Always wanna make sure you feel good.”
You lean forward and kiss him for what feels like the millionth time, but you don’t care. This is what makes you feel good. His hands on your body, his warm smile, his deep brown eyes staring at you like you hung the stars, his lips pressing against yours. Joel throws the washcloth in the hamper and helps you stand.
“All clean. Probably should’ve had the bath after and not before, now that I think about it,” he huffs out with another affectionate laugh, “Are you alright to get dressed and hop into bed? I just need to run to the kitchen,” he asks with a hand resting on your waist.
You nod and he leaves you to it, walking out of the ensuite and further into the house. Joel turns the television off, which had been since long forgotten, and picks up your heating pad where you’d left it. Moving into the kitchen, he places it in the microwave and turns it on, filling up a glass of water for you while it heats up again.
When he returns back to the bedroom, you’re cuddled up beneath the blankets, with just your eyes visible over the comforter. He feels a swell of affection as he looks at you, and hurries over to join you in bed. He switches the lamp off as he leans over to place the glass on your nightstand, before putting the heating pad under the blankets, next to your stomach.
“Heated it up again, just in case.”
“Thank you, my love,” you whisper. You touch your hand to his cheek and he turns, pressing a kiss into your palm.
He settles in and guides you to roll over, wrapping his body around yours. Joel presses a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, gently nosing along your hairline, before he gives you a gentle squeeze with the arm holding you close.
“Good night, baby. I love you so much,” he whispers into your skin.
“I love you more.”
end notes: okay this is the first smut i’ve ever written soooo would love to hear your thoughts!
tags: @fishingforpike, @littlelou22, @smokeinherperfume — i love you three <3
achingly tender and soft joel rewired my brain and swept me completely off my feet, I wish all of you could have our own caring joel when we need him!! 🥹🥰🫠
The boyfriend act, part 33: "The one with Santi's wedding, part one"
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader
SERIES MASTERLIST
Buy me a coffee - Ko-fi
Chapter summary: With Santi and Yov’s wedding just around the corner, returning to Austin feels thrilling given all the celebrations ahead, even if it means an imminent reunion with your ex, Frankie. But you’re ready for it. Or, at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. wc: 20.4k
A/N: warning, long chapter ahead as a little thank you for waiting as it took me so long to update! Thank you all for patiently waiting for another chapter of my long and boring fic, The Boyfriend Act (🤭). You guys really do have the patience of saints, huh?? We only have a few chapters left now, and I promise you won't have to wait as long for the next ones; there are truly very few left!! Anyway, enjoy this one and start bracing yourselves for the ending.
Your feedback means a lot to me so please let me know your opinions in the comments. Thank you 💕Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!
Tuesday, October 8th
Starting a new journal by writing about returning to Austin feels ironic. Starting a blank book while backtracking definitely is. But as you look out the plane window at the completely clear blue sky, watching the sprawling city stretch out far below your feet, you get the distinct feeling that you are about to land in a different place entirely.
It is your home; the very same walls that said goodbye to you a few months ago will welcome you back within the hour. The same bed, the same spot on your couch, the same mirror that pushed your own reflection back at you. Yet, you don’t feel like the same person who used to inhabit that space; or at least, that is the sensation that washes over you with every passing mile.
With your fresh journal in hand, you try not to overthink it.
Lucky for you, a wedding is exactly the kind of bustling event that can keep your mind occupied with other things.
You can't afford to get distracted by work, or by your latest manuscript, which has been giving you a massive headache these past few days. Nor can you dwell on what will become of you after all this is over. The choice between staying in Austin or moving back to New York has haunted you for the last week, and you were just about to sit down and make a pros and cons list.
But you can’t think about that. You shouldn't, really.
Weddings are fun if you know how to make the most of them. Especially if you aren’t the one getting married. The truth is, after spending weeks tagging along with Yov and Santi here and there, listening to all the wedding prep, you actually considered taking an anxiety pill.
Having a planner helps, it helps a lot. But some things just can't be allowed to slip through your fingers. At the end of the day, the bride and groom have the final say, which means things can get incredibly stressful, incredibly fast. But in the end, it will all be worth it.
Austin, October 8, 2026
I wonder if Mr. Darcy will recognize the smell of home right away. I wonder if I’ll realize just how much I’ve missed it these past few months.
I want to see everyone.
Everyone.
"Oh my gosh, you’re finally here!"
Emma crashed right into you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you could even flash a full smile. Her hair smelled like coconut.
"I'm here," you laughed, hugging her back. "I've missed you so much."
"Me too," she squeezed, tight enough to fuse her ribs with yours. Then, resting her hands on your shoulders, she stepped back just an inch. "You smell amazing!"
"I was literally just thinking the same thing about you!"
Emma laughed.
All around you, people streamed in and out of the airport, hauling heavy suitcases and overstuffed bags. It was a gorgeous day; the sky was clear and bright, the air surprisingly crisp. Nearby, a couple was reuniting with a warm embrace and a few perfectly public appropriate kisses. It was a sweet scene, but not enough to pull your eyes away from your friend's face.
The drive home was quick and fun. Inside Emma’s car, it smelled clean and citrusy, and a Lana Del Rey song was going through the speakers. She had picked up two coffees, one for each of you, and you sipped yours while hearing her repeat you can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss over and over again, wrinkling her nose every time her sunglasses slid down the bridge.
In the back seat, Mr. Darcy was sitting in his crate, remarkably quiet and relaxed. You could already tell he’d turned into a true New Yorker.
"Darcy is gonna be so happy to be home. Here he can climb up onto the kitchen window sill. I'm sure he misses watching people walk by on the street," you said, and the image of the cat pressed against the glass in the warm sunlight flashed through your mind.
"Mhm, that’s true. In New York people probably looked like tiny little ants, didn't they?"
You smiled. "They did."
Emma’s cheeks bunched up into a soft smile, and she glanced over at you for a second.
"Okay, and what did you miss?"
"Now that I’m actually here? I feel like I missed everything. I didn’t really notice it over there." You looked out the window, the rush of air brushing the strands of your hair against your neck. A deep sigh escaped your chest. "Have you heard anything about Francisco?"
You had managed to keep your simmering curiosity under wraps during your entire stay in New York. You hadn’t asked about him when Emma came to visit a few weeks ago, nor had you brought him up to Santi (or anyone) over the phone.
You mastered that control for months, all through the flight to Austin, and during the first twenty minutes after Emma picked you up. But as the landscape grew closer and more familiar, you simply had to ask.
You turned to look at her almost immediately.
"Frankie?" she asked.
You offered a faint smile. "I doubt I know any other."
"Right, who else?" She rolled her eyes playfully. She paused for a few seconds as the traffic light ahead shifted to red, bringing the car to a smooth stop. "He’s doing good. He's here in Austin, actually."
Your stomach did a complete flip. "Already? When did he get back?"
Emma pursed her lips to the side. "Like, a month ago?"
You raised a single eyebrow. "Really?"
She sighed. "He moved back to Austin last month."
"Emma."
"With Luna and Jamie."
You pressed your back against the seat, watching the scenery flash past the window as a hundred different thoughts raced through your mind. Yet, you didn't let yourself dwell on any of them for too long, only managing to say,
"Well, that makes sense."
"It does," Emma agreed.
"And where are they staying? With Helena?"
"At first, yeah, all three of them. I think Luna and Jamie are still there with her, but Frankie already moved out."
"Oh, he didn't go back to his place?"
She shook her head. "No. He actually put his house on the market and found a spot out in Circle Ranch. The guys helped him move in last week."
Okay. Recalculating.
Recalculating…
"Oh. I… That's… nice. Circle Ranch?"
"Yeah," Emma smiled, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. "I never pinned Frankie as the type to go for the whole white-picket-fence and a dog kind of vibe."
"Does he have a dog now?"
"No," she laughed. "But it’s that kind of neighborhood, you know?"
You smiled and turned your gaze back to the window.
"Maybe he got used to the Boston suburbs and wanted something similar," you suggested.
"Maybe."
Whatever the reason behind Frankie's move, you felt good about it. You knew his old house was a bit crowded with painful heavy memories that he probably didn't care to relive. You knew he was completely sick of his next door neighbor too, Clint, who always parked right in front of his driveway and blasted his music way too loud. Or the dog from across the street that constantly wandered into his front yard to do its business on the freshly cut grass.
You were genuinely happy for him.
"C'mon, baby, c'mon out."
As you unlatched the little door to Darcy’s crate, you watched his curious eyes take in the surroundings. His tiny nose twitched upward, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed, instantly recognizing his home.
A second later, he stepped out with confidence, raising his tail high in a friendly greeting.
If you had a tail, you’d be doing the exact same thing, because oh, how incredibly happy you were to be back.
You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed this place until you walked through the front door. Your living room was completely bathed in sunlight, the half-drawn orange curtains cast a warm glow into every corner, and there was a wonderful scent in the air that you definitely had Emma to thank for; she had been looking after the place, keeping it perfectly neat and tidy.
You grabbed your suitcase and rolled it into your bedroom, where your bed was neatly made and the floors practically gleamed as the sunlight hit your feet.
Unzipping it, you began to gradually unpack your things. Emma walked in just a moment later, holding a mug of freshly brewed tea for you and one for herself in the other hand. She set yours down on the nightstand.
"So, what do you wanna do today?" she asked.
You looked up at her, gently biting your tongue without realizing it.
"Well, first things first, I need to go get my car."
"Want me to drive you?"
You scoffed playfully. "Obviously. Is Will home?"
"He gets back at one."
"Oh, okay. Wanna eat something?"
"Yeah," she said, plop down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll order something, and we can just crash on the couch and watch some TV like the good ol' days, baby."
You smiled, your eyes crinkling. "Yes, please. I have missed doing that with you so much."
Emma hummed. "My butt has missed sitting next to yours, too."
You laughed. "Friends? How does that sound?"
She pointed a finger at you. "Yes! And since we are officially in wedding mode, we have to watch season seven."
"Yes!" You raised your eyebrows. "We should watch Monica and Chandler’s wedding and then Phoebe and Mike's!"
"Yeah," she grinned, her eyebrows knitting together playfully. "And let's get ice cream too. Will can wait!"
A wide smile spread across your face, and your chest swelled with warmth.
You were finally home.
Sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be the best decision you ever make in your life. You might end up living together in a beautiful house with two gorgeous babies, getting married in one of the highest rated television episodes of the era. You could be, as the kids say these days, couple goals. The total package. The sarcastic funny guy and the girl with a few control issues who (for somewhat obvious reasons) manage to blend and complement each other perfectly. It can be beautiful and lasting and solid.
And in other cases, it can be downright complicated. Because sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be a beautiful dream, right up until you find yourself sitting in front of the TV, watching Chandler and Monica’s wedding, and all you want to do is cry.
But you swallow it down. You suppress it because next to you, Emma is shooting you subtle suspicious glances; she knows you far too well not to realize this might be stirring up things buried deep inside your chest. But more than that, you fight it back because you simply don’t want to feel it. Not deeply. Because you know that very soon, at any given moment, you are going to see him again. You don’t know when or where, but you know it’s going to happen. And so, inside your mind, there is a tiny stopwatch with blurred numbers rapidly counting down the time until your eyes meet his once more.
Even the best couples have weak moments.
"Honestly, Chandler’s panic kind of ruins the whole thing," Emma said, lounging next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. "I hate that he doubts it. It ruins everything."
On the screen, Chandler is caught completely off guard by a phone call that refers to him and Monica as Mr. and Mrs. Bing. He makes a whole show of panicking, wanting to run away.
"It’s normal to be scared sometimes," you said.
"I wouldn’t want my fiancé doubting things like that at our wedding. I mean, it would make me question absolutely everything. I hate that choice the writers made. I feel like it’s not Chandler at all."
"Really?" You smiled. "Not Chandler at all?"
"No, why? You don't think so? C'mon."
"No, no, it's just, I mean," you sat up a little straighter, "I get it, but throughout the entire show Chandler has always had insecurity and commitment issues—"
"But we watched all his progress, and it was a long clear arc."
"Yeah but it’s completely normal that even though he's progressed and everything, he still has weak moments from time to time. Especially when it comes to something as huge as a wedding," you laughed.
"Mmh. I dunno. I don't like it. Would you want Santi doubting marrying Yov right before they do it? Would you want your future husband doubting marrying you right before you walk down the aisle?"
"But Chandler didn't doubt marrying Monica; he just got scared, that’s all. He didn't want to run away because he wasn't sure about her; he just panicked about taking such a huge step and didn't know what to do. He watched his parents' relationship fall apart, then went through the whole divorce and everything else. He has a history of commitment issues and the underlying fear that marriage might ruin the good thing he already has with Monica."
"But he literally talked to her just days before about how happy he was to spend the rest of his life with her. It makes no sense."
"It does make sense, Em," you said, looking at her. "You can't completely erase decades of trauma overnight. I mean, he thought their relationship was over after their very first argument until she had to assure him that’s not how things work. The man had avoidant attachment!"
Emma sighed. "I'm still not buying it, sorry."
"I'm sorry, you're telling me you're not buying it? You? The exact same woman who panicked because her boyfriend wanted to spend more time with her and almost considered breaking up with him over it?"
"Will wanted us to move in together!"
"So? All you had to do was tell him no!"
"And I did tell him no," she said, looking at you with a grin. "And we talked it through. I didn't dump him! It's not the same thing."
"I know it's not the same thing, but still, commitment issues are commitment issues."
"Alright, sweetheart, alright."
"You were on the verge of buying a ticket to Yemen at any second."
Laughing, you gave her arm a playful nudge and turned your attention back to the TV.
Time ticked away, minute by minute, as the sunlight shifted across the floor and walls, brushing against every corner until, almost without realizing it, you rested your head against Emma's and closed your eyes.
"I always fall asleep when I'm with you," you teased, buckling your seatbelt in Emma’s passenger seat. "I dunno what it is about you."
"But you needed it, didn't you?"
She started the car engine just as you flashed a smile.
"Maybe."
When you had finally woken up earlier, your mouth was wide open, drooling a little, while Emma was right beside you snoring deeply and completely fast asleep. In your lap, Mr. Darcy had been curled up like a little ball.
It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time you both decided it was time to go get your car. According to Emma, Will would be at his place, and when you told her to let him know the two of you were headed over, she simply said,
"No need, I know he'll be there."
Her relationship updates hadn't changed much since the last time you asked about them two weeks ago. They were still getting along well, really well, and now she had finally admitted to herself that she was in love.
That was an incredibly huge step for Emma, so neither of you was making a big deal out of it. You knew she was secretly ecstatic inside, and probably a little terrified, but she was handling it well. And Will, for his part, was a pretty laid back guy who gave her all the time and space she needed to feel completely comfortable about it.
It was funny and kind of unfair that, despite knowing them for so many years, it had never once crossed your mind that they would make a good match.
Granted, Emma used to be married, but what about before that? She wasn't even seeing her ex when Will entered the picture seven years ago. In fact, they had crossed paths a handful of times, but neither of them had ever shown the slightest interest in the other; or at least, you hadn't noticed.
How could you have missed it? They were absolutely perfect for each other. Emma was somewhat restless, impatient, driven, and occasionally loud, while Will was steady, relaxed, incredibly patient, and had no problem getting loud himself if the occasion called for it.
You were rooting for them.
"Does Santi know you already here?" Emma asked now, steering through a turn.
"Texted him as soon as I got home. We're having dinner tonight with Mom."
Emma smiled. "I saw her yesterday. She looks great, doesn't she?"
You let out a soft laugh. "So great. She's thriving."
"I guess that's what happens after having an european summer."
"A mediterranean one, mind you."
"Is she gonna be at Yov’s party?"
You pursed your lips. "I dunno. I don't think so. She says she doesn’t feel right about it. Apparently she thinks she’d be a mood killer. Yov wants her there anyway."
"A mood killer? It's not like there're gonna be strippers or anything like that, right?"
You laughed. "No."
"Then what's the issue?"
"I dunno. I think she still feels a little awkward participating in all of this."
"She has to be there! I need her to give us the full breakdown on everything that happened in Europe. I'm sure there were some interesting adventures," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I always knew Nora was a cool girl."
"I'm sure Yov will press her about it tonight," you said, turning toward the window. "And if not, I can always force her."
Emma laughed and nodded, completely on board with it.
It wasn't going to be a wild over-the-top party; it was going to be a small gathering at a gorgeous restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at a bar where Yov's friends had booked a private table in the VIP section. It was going to be fun and intimate, nothing crazy or chaotic. Yov didn't feel comfortable with shirtless guys giving lap dances, and she had specifically asked to just spend the night having a good time with her friends and close family.
To her, there was no such thing as a "farewell to freedom" anyway. What was she saying goodbye to? Being single? Well, obviously. But she didn't see much point in looking at it that way, since having Santi in her life didn't actually restrict her from anything. And after marrying him, it wouldn't restrict her either.
There was this archaic idea that once a person gets married, they abandon their freedom entirely; the freedom to hang out with friends whenever they want, to have total independence, and to be able to do this, that, or the other. But Santi and Yov were not that kind of couple. Marriage didn't demand limitations for them, and it was entirely obvious to you that their dynamic would keep right on going exactly the same way. Both were free to do their own thing, go out with friends, or dedicate time to personal matters. The party was symbolic, more than anything.
I mean, sure, they were saying goodbye to being single, but was that really significant? You were positive those two had said goodbye to that years ago.
For Yov, it would be a quiet fun evening tomorrow night. And for Santi, it would be a cookout in the backyard with the guys and a few other friends, followed by a trip to the bar to get drunk and play pool. It was a pre-wedding celebration, plain and simple.
Will’s house appeared ahead of you sooner than expected, and you suddenly realized the drive had gone by surprisingly faster than you'd even noticed.
Everything had been moving at hyper speed since you landed in Austin. The drive home from the airport, the morning spent with Emma on the couch, and now, the twenty minutes from your place to Will’s had felt like barely ten.
It was funny how time flew when you were desperately trying to hold it back. Not for any particular reason, either.
Emma flung the car door open before you could even unbuckle, and the second her feet hit the pavement, she said,
"I can hear music coming from the backyard. Go on ahead, I need to grab a few things from the car."
"Need a hand?"
In the background, the faint sound of an Alice in Chains song drifted over.
"Nah, I’m good." She moved toward the trunk, waving you off.
"Alright."
You walked down the driveway toward the side of the house, where a wide pathway led to the big backyard, and spotted your car right away, tucked under its protective cover beneath the patio roof and parked behind two other cars.
On a table under a window, a portable stereo was blasting music. Layne’s raspy broken voice screamed out lyrics you couldn't quite catch; your attention was already drawn to the car right in front of you, where Will was lying on a mechanic's creeper, working underneath it.
He didn't hear you come in over the music, and his upper body was completely hidden under the chassis. His legs were slightly bent, and seizing the moment, you crept up and gave his foot a gentle kick.
Thump!
You grinned as his whole body jumped in a mini scare.
The creeper shifted; he grabbed the tire with one hand to pull himself forward, the tiny wheels spinning on the concrete.
And just like that, nine months and twelve days later, your eyes locked once again with Francisco Morales'.
You physically felt your smile drop, as if your cheeks had suddenly turned too heavy, and you took a step back while trying, and failing, to tear your eyes away from him.
Frankie scrambled to a sit on the creeper like a startled kid, and braced his palms on the ground behind him. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, the rest of it a bit messy, and a pair of thick black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. They weren't enough to hide the scars on his face.
With a quick push, he stood up.
"I'm sorry," you blurted out, suddenly breathless. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were Will."
He gave a quick nod, wiping his hands on his pants, but didn't say a word.
As your heart threatened to burst right through your ribs and your throat went completely dry, you felt a desperate, intense, aching urge to just... hug him. And at the exact same time, to tell him: you have no idea how much I have to tell you.
Instead, you just stared.
Frankie looked exactly as you remembered, yet at the same time, entirely different. His hair was slightly shorter on the sides, with the top left long and a little unruly. He was wearing a white short-sleeve t-shirt, stained here and there, and black cargo pants.
Looking at him like that, he seemed pretty much the same as the last time you'd seen him. But you could spot the difference in everything else; he seemed taller for some reason, and though his shoulders and arms had always been strong, they looked more toned now. His beard was short, neat and soft, his mustache trimmed. The scars were visible, fully healed now but prominent, leaving a clear trace of his accident, and behind his glasses, his big brown eyes looked tired.
You could have sworn you stared at him for minutes, but it was only a few short seconds.
"I," you crossed your arms, "I just came to pick up my car. If that's okay. Is—is Will around?"
It took Frankie a second to process.
"Uh, Will?"
You offered a faint smile. "Yeah."
"Yeah, right. Yeah," he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, no. He stepped out a moment ago. But he should be right back."
"Oh. Okay."
Behind you, the familiar scuff of Emma's footsteps drew closer until she suddenly froze.
You turned around, trying to pack an entire conversation into a single look, hoping she would decode it.
Just as you expected, your friend was dead in her tracks, holding two boxes in her arms and staring at Frankie like she’d just seen a ghost.
She glanced at you a second later, then right back at him.
"Frankie," she said, flashing a casual but not quite casual smile. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."
Frankie huffed a soft laugh and gave a half smile. "Will'll be back in a minute."
Emma nodded. "Where'd he go?"
"No idea," he shrugged, turning back toward the car. "But he left a while ago, so he should be back any second."
"Oh, alright."
The second you glanced her way, Emma’s eyebrows shot straight up as she mouthed: I’m so sorry.
You gave a casual shrug that completely masked the panic clawing at your insides, letting out a soft sigh as your eyes drifted across the yard. Toward the back, for instance, where a disassembled bike sat abandoned mid-repair.
"I can move this car out of the way so you can get yours out, if you want?" Frankie asked. He was talking to you; it took you a beat to realize it.
You nodded. "Sure. Thanks."
He gave a quick nod and turned toward the car blocking yours. Will’s car. He reached inside the driver’s side to grab something, then slid into the seat, shut the door, and got the engine running on the second try.
"Here, let me help," you said, turning around and grabbing one of the boxes from Emma, desperate for any kind of distraction.
"Oh my God, I am so sorry," she whispered, pushing open the back door to the house. There was no real need to whisper since the roaring engine drowned out anything you two said, but she kept her voice down anyway until you were both safely inside. "I had no idea he'd be here. I mean, I know he hangs out here a lot, but I didn't know he'd be here today of all days."
"It's fine."
"No, I’m so sorry," she insisted, setting her box down on the kitchen counter. "I should have called first."
"No, Em, really," you said, dropping your box next to her. "It's fine. It's totally fine. You know what?" You turned to look at her. "Maybe it’s better this way, right? Unplanned and unexpected." You made a swift ripping motion with your hand. "Like ripping off a band aid. I’ve seen him, he’s seen me, how awkward can it really get? It wasn't even that bad!"
She smiled. "It wasn't?"
"Nope."
"Okay, that's good." She pursed her lips. "So... how are you feeling?"
"Nope. Nope," you said, shaking your head. "Too soon, honey. Not there yet."
Emma let out a soft laugh and pulled you into a tight hug. You took the moment to close your eyes, letting the tension in your chest unravel just a bit.
And outside, after a brief moment, the rumbling engine cut out as a clear sign that your safe haven inside the four walls of Will’s kitchen was officially up. You had to go back out there.
Emma let go of you, clearing her throat before turning toward the door and taking the lead. You gave it a single second before following her out.
The moment you stepped into the yard, your eyes instantly searched for him. Frankie was carefully peeling the protective cover off your car, and your gaze lingered on the back of his neck; on the soft messy strands of hair there, on the soft skin briefly blushed…
A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest.
"I'll get your keys," he called out, disappearing into the house so fast that this time, he was the one who seemed to be running away.
Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and walked over to the car Frankie had been working on when you arrived. It was old, you noticed, but not quite as old as yours. This one looked more like a nineties model; glossy black with a leather interior and smooth sleek lines. On the hood, the Mercedes Benz logo caught the light.
"You got yourself a real gem here."
Frankie’s voice made you snap upright. He was standing right behind you, dangling your keys from his fingers.
Emma was still keeping quiet.
"Thanks," you said, offering a small smile.
Frankie extended his hand toward you. Your keys were looped around his index finger; you slid them off, careful not to brush against him.
"I don't actually know much about cars," you added, mostly because the silence felt a little too heavy. "Will helped me with it."
"Yeah, he told me. He and I bought this one together, from the same seller," he said, gesturing toward the Mercedes.
"It's really nice."
"Yeah, though it still needs a bit of work. We’re fixing it up to... you know, sell it or something."
"I like it," you said, nodding. "My dad used to drive something like this when I was little."
His eyebrows shot up, and he replied almost too fast, "He did?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah—uh. It's a great car."
You nervously fiddled with the keys in your hands, dropping your gaze down to his shoes; a pair of black high top Vans.
Beside you, Emma let out a quiet amused sigh.
"I think I should get going," you blurted out, looking over at her only to catch a strange look on her face.
Oh, she was absolutely loving this.
"Yeah, sure," Frankie nodded, stepping aside as if he felt he was blocking your way.
"Can you tell Will I'll drop by later?" Emma asked him.
"Sure."
"Alright."
"Em, you can stay if you want," you told her.
"No, no. I said I'd help you unpack and set things up at your place, didn't I? Let's go," she said, waving you toward the driveway.
Unpacking at your place was a total lie. You were already fully unpacked and the apartment was spotless; she just wanted to be there for you.
"See ya," Emma added, giving Frankie's shoulder a friendly pat before turning around and heading toward the front of the house.
Once she was out of sight, you turned back to him.
"Tell Will I say hi."
He smiled. "I will."
"Thanks," you said, starting to turn toward your car. But you froze and looked back at him one last time.
He stood completely, utterly still.
You had no idea what to say, or why you’d even turned back around in the first place. But the moment you looked at his face and caught that flicker of nervousness in his eyes, you knew he was feeling it too.
"I like your glasses."
Frankie’s lips parted slightly, and a very soft sweet smile crept onto his face.
"Thank you," he replied.
Smiling back and holding in a sigh, you didn't say another word. You turned around, got into your car, and drove away, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.
You wished it had been different. You wished your inevitable reunion with him had happened in a controlled environment, surrounded by crowds of people; like Friday's rehearsal dinner or some pre-weekend get together. But as life had already proven to you time and again, you rarely get what you want exactly how you want it.
Forget everything we said a moment ago. All that talk about how time had been moving at a frantic pace since you stepped off the plane, remember? The walk from the airport to your house, your nice nap with Em, the drive from your door to Will’s… Forget it all. Because suddenly, the world seems to have ground to a near halt.
It's moving, and It's moving fast.
You’re driving, and the blocks around you pass at a crawl. No, how silly; you’re the one moving, not the blocks. You drift down the street while Emma sits beside you in silence, and you know it’s not an illusion because the cars passing you vanish ahead in seconds. And also because, after a few minutes, Emma rested her hand on your shoulder and asked,
"You okay?"
You nodded without a word. Well, maybe a soft "hmm" echoed somewhere in your chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far too guilty. "I know I already told you but I had no idea he was gonna be there."
You nodded again. "He looks so different."
"Yeah."
"Francisco," you glanced at her for a second, "he looks different, doesn't he? Or is it just because I haven't seen him in so long?"
Emma nodded. "No, I think he does look a bit different."
"I mean, I'm not saying he looks bad, he looks…" You tightened your grip on the steering wheel a little with your thumbs. "Different, healthier. Which is so freaking ironic because his face is covered in scars."
"Right."
"Oh God…"
"Hey," Emma squeezed your shoulder, "it's okay."
"He looks so good," you groaned.
Emma laughed. "It's okay."
You turned to look at her, frowning. "Does he wear glasses now?"
"He does."
"It's like he's doing it on purpose just to mess with me!"
"Look what Grian got for me." When Will walked into the yard, he was holding a six pack of beer and a large sealed plastic bag. "Original seat covers, baby, pure leather," he said, stepping closer to drop them onto the table next to the player.
Frankie was sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the grass just past the concrete, contemplating his entire existence.
"Hey," Will called out.
Frankie looked up at him.
"Covers and beer," Will said, holding up the six pack.
"That's great. How much for the covers?"
Will frowned, glancing around the yard. The music was off, the creeper wasn't under the Mercedes, and most importantly, your car was gone.
"What happened?" he asked.
"She came to get her car." Frankie pushed himself up from the chair in one quick motion, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her and Emma, who said she’d be by later, by the way."
Will’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, shit, man. You alright? How that go?"
"Nothing. She just… she just came and went."
"Y'all talk?"
"A little."
"And? What'd y'all talk about?"
"Nothing, really. Just… just her car, and this and that, and nothing else." He swallowed, looking over at the half-repaired Mercedes. "I'm such a fool. I couldn't even act normal."
Will laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"
"Oh, man," Frankie groaned as he sat back down again, burying his face in both hands and rubbing his eyes. "She looks so beautiful. I felt like I could barely breath."
"Alright," Will crossed his arms, "let it out."
"I mean, look at me," Frankie suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and gestured to his clothes. "I'm a total mess."
"Well, you know, they say girls like that. All covered in grease from work, that whole hot mechanic thing..."
Frankie frowned. "Oh God."
"And with the glasses on and everything, huh?" Will chuckled. "I bet she dug 'em."
Frankie felt his face burn with embarrassment, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole right then and there. He felt like a self-conscious teenager, or at least, his body was reacting like one.
A long time. He’d spent so much time thinking about the next time he’d see you. Late at night when everything was quiet, in the middle of work, while washing dishes or doing laundry. He used to wonder how dramatic it would be, if it would be incredibly awkward or not at all, or if you’d just avoid him altogether. And none of it had been the way he expected.
He knew you hadn't expected to see him either. He'd caught it on your face the second he saw you—as beautiful and sweet as he remembered, but completely caught off guard all the same.
He’d been dying inside with every passing second. The moment you drove away, he felt this overwhelming urge to run right after you; to hold you tight in his arms and cover your face with kisses, to tell you how terribly he’d missed you and that loving you this much was unbearable.
But how completely out of line would that have been, right? When you looked so good, so refreshed, so perfectly fine. Frankie knew he no longer had a place in your life for that kind of confession.
He’d have to be strong. Stronger than he’d ever thought. Because the wedding was drawing close and these weren't gonna be easy days. Between the final preparations, the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, and the ceremony itself, he’d have to find a way to keep his feelings in check and not let a single bit show, since you’d be seeing each other practically around the clock.
He couldn't even let his eyes betray him, because he knew all it took was having you nearby for him to look at you like a fool. Guess that's just what longing does to you.
And Santi knew all about that. He and Yov had talked to Frankie a few days back when the three of them stopped to rest during a long Sunday bike ride. They’d asked how he was doing, how he was prepping for the wedding, and if he was truly alright with all of it; all of this out on the trail, while their calves throbbed and their chests heaved. But the way their voices sounded reminded him of those times the guys used to try and casually check up on his health years ago, trying not to sound too nosy or overly worried.
"You don't need to worry, everything's fine," he’d told them, a bit winded. His neck was flushed and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and let out a chuckle. "What do you think is gonna happen?"
Santi scratched his chin, pulling a face. "I know, I know it'll be fine. It’s just, y'know, it can get awkward and all, and we wouldn't want either of you having a rough time."
"We'll be fine," Frankie nodded. "Don't worry. We spent years getting along terribly and managing to co-exist or something like it, and nothing happened—"
"No, no," Yov interrupted, shaking his head and holding up a finger, "that wasn't co-existing."
Frankie rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smile. "Everything's fine on my end. I’ll be respectful, polite, and anything that comes up can wait until after the wedding. You can count on that."
He didn't even know what he meant by that. "Anything that comes up" could mean absolutely anything; an argument, a casual conversation, anything requiring an ounce of extra attention that might pull the focus away from what really mattered.
Anyway, he’d promised himself to keep his distance and not let a single thing throw off the balance this week needed to have…
Until he saw you again, and a flood of emotions washed over him, soaking him to the bone. And right then, Frankie realized that for the past few months, he’d only allowed himself to feel about twenty percent of what he truly felt for you.
He’d convinced himself that he was okay with all of this; that his feelings, while still strong and very much there, weren't so intense anymore that they'd steal his breath away.
What a fucking lie. He loved you just as intensely as before, maybe even more; or maybe it was just the effect of seeing you after all this time.
You were surprised to see him; he’d noticed that. You hadn't expected it at all, and it definitely wasn't what you wanted. But as he looked at you, pretending to be completely unfazed, he felt this overwhelming urge to share every single piece of his life with you.
He wanted to tell you about his new house, about the big windows and how beautifully the light flooded the living room. About the shelves he’d filled with his vinyl records, and the space that was still left to fill.
Oh, and Mr. Bingley was absolutely out of his mind, completely in love with the new yard. Frankie would let him out for a bit, keeping a close eye on him so the cat wouldn't wander off anywhere. He’d discovered the little guy was actually a total scaredy-cat, which would make Frankie anxious enough to bring him right back inside. He wasn't quite sure how to handle it yet; the neighborhood was quiet and not dangerous at all, but letting the cat roam free in the yard still made him nervous. Who knew, maybe he’d hop the fence and end up in the street, or some dog might give him a scare. He wasn't about to take that chance.
He’d wanted to tell you about his new job, too. Frankie was back to training pilots, but no longer at his old academy. His former boss had done him a big favor by recommending him to the owner of a different academy (one that trained specialized pilots) and Frankie was finding it a whole lot more engaging and enjoyable.
Now he wasn't training arrogant rich guys who had too much money and free time on their hands, treating flying like some "easy" hobby with zero responsibilities (not that it was always the case, but... most of the time). Instead, he was training people who genuinely saw flying as a calling.
They were all young, eager to learn, and had a real respect for the profession. Frankie truly enjoyed teaching and had a great time with them; plus, the pay was damn good. It was exactly what he needed right now after draining a huge chunk of his savings. His house was about to sell, he’d already sold his car, and you could say he was pretty close to having everything sorted out.
He was doing alright.
He’d wanted to tell you all of that. For a brief minute, every single piece of news in his life flooded his mind and he wanted to share it with you, but a second later he reminded himself that it wasn't his place anymore.
It made no sense how completely his chest melted whenever he thought about you now.
"What are you gonna do now?" Will asked then, leaning his hip against the table and tilting his head.
Frankie sighed, pulling his hands away from his face.
"What else? Nothing. Act normal, I guess. Like an adult."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," he got up from his chair and walked over to the Mercedes, opening the driver's side door. "I'm not gonna bother her."
"Ah, I see. The old go-crazy-and-suffer-all-by-your-lonesome routine."
Frankie laughed softly, shaking his head. "I deserve it."
Wednesday, October 9th
You really don't care about Francisco. He barely crosses your mind.
He wasn't on your mind when you woke up this morning, nor when you showered and got ready to open the bookstore. You weren't thinking of him when you brushed blush onto your cheeks, or when you coated your lips in raspberry gloss. And you certainly weren't thinking of him every single time the chimes above the door jingled and you glanced up, checking to see who walked in.
No, you aren't thinking about him at all.
Your morning flew by, peaceful and smooth. It had been a while since you’d spent time at the bookstore, and settling back behind the counter felt incredibly good.
You had missed all of this: helping customers find the exact books they were looking for, listening to their vague, quirky descriptions and the titles they always got completely wrong. You missed the scent of old pages, and the aroma of coffee that drifted through the door every time it opened because at this hour, every café on the block was open and the entire sidewalk smelled of espresso.
It was a quiet, nice morning. A few people dropped in; many left with books, others just browsed for stretches of time, and some simply asked a question before heading out.
In the quiet lulls, you read through the notes Donovan had sent this morning. There were far more than you anticipated, all anchored to comments lining the margins of the document.
In one of them, you read:
His age isn’t clear. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty years old. If I didn't know better, I’d assume he is a man nearing sixty. Keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know what you know, and you cannot gloss over that in the main descriptions. You can weave it into the dialogue or the internal monologue. Your choice. But don't make it obvious.
It wouldn't be so jarring if Donovan didn’t highlight the paragraphs in an intense, vibrant red. Sometimes he used yellow, other times a soft, light blue. If there was an actual system to his color-coding, you had no idea what it was.
At ten o'clock sharp, the chimes above the door rang out once more. Instantly, your eyes snapped toward the entrance, your mind flashing for a fraction of a second with the thought that it might be… him.
But it was Bill who stepped through the door.
Tall and handsome as ever, he wore a crisp smile and his bright prominent green eyes were shining as usual.
The moment you saw him, your eyes widened with joy.
You slipped off your stool to greet him as he walked in, carrying two large brown paper bags and a warm grin.
"Coffee and a slice of cake for my favorite writer!"
Bill set the bags down on the counter and welcomed you with open arms; he smelled of fresh brew and cologne. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as he held you close for a brief moment.
"You haven't even read anything of mine," you laughed.
His hand brushed up your back. "I don't have to to know it'll be incredible."
"You really have faith in me."
Bill pulled back slightly. "We all do. Julie was thrilled when she found out. She says now she’ll have someone interesting to interview for her school project."
You huffed a laugh and walked back around to the other side of the counter. A customer stepped through the door right at that moment. Good morning, he said. Good morning, you replied. He was an elderly man holding a cane, and he headed straight toward the Hispano-American literature section.
"What are your plans for today?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. "If you're free, Julie and I would love to have you over for dinner."
"I’d love to," you smiled, "but tonight is Yov’s bachelorette party. And Santi’s bachelorette party, too."
He grinned. "Oh yeah? What d'you have planned?"
"We're grabbing drinks at a bar nearby," you tilted your head. "Yov’s girlfriends made a reservation for dinner too, so, we'll see what happens."
"And Santi?"
"Oh, I dunno. I know they're going out for drinks too, but knowing them, they’ll probably do something else too."
A chuckle caught in his chest. "Will they have to go rescue him from a hotel rooftop in the morning like The Hangover?"
"Mmm," you narrowed your eyes playfully, "I think it'll be more like Into the Wild."
"Campfires and all that, huh."
"Exactly," you nodded. "Knowing them, they'll have a few drinks and then go have fun somewhere out there. Nothing too crazy. Plus, the rest of Yov's family arrives tomorrow so he gotta be fresh."
"Got it," Bill nodded. "And how... how has Austin treated you so far?"
"Austin?"
He tilted his head, a smirk forming on his lips that made you suspect his question had several layers.
"Austin is fine," you answered, lifting your chin. "I barely got here yesterday and my eye is already twitching, how about that?"
It was a joke. Your eyes were not twitching at all. Spiritually, maybe.
Bill laughed and reached out with his left hand, grabbing the side of the brown paper bag he had set down moments ago.
"Better not drink this coffee then. It has two shots."
You burst out laughing and snatched the bag from his hands. "Don't you dare!"
You needed that coffee, and you also needed the slice of cake he had so carefully tucked inside the plastic container. But above all, you needed him to stay right there with you and give you his opinion on a few things.
You pulled the coffee cup out and set it on the counter for a moment.
Bill laughed softly, his eyes dropping to your hand, and that’s when you asked:
"You free this Saturday?"
Later
If New York had taught you anything, it was how to dress and do your makeup.
No. Not New York. Alex.
Alex, like so many other wealthy, fashion forward New Yorkers, was a woman who understood style deeply and knew exactly how to tailor it to different people. That was why she had spent a massive chunk of your stay dragging you from one boutique to another, letting you freely indulge in every single one of her perks at beauty salons across the Upper East Side.
She had been incredibly generous. And while you initially thought it was a favor to you, you soon realized it was actually a treat for her. Letting Alex guide and advise your style was exactly what she craved and thoroughly enjoyed, and even Emma had gotten a little taste of her styling expertise when she came to visit a few weeks back.
You weren’t normally one to blow money on clothes and makeup. Truthfully, you liked the things you already owned, they lasted a long time, and you rarely found anything you loved enough to desperately want to buy. But in New York, your credit card began seeing action it had never seen before. And honestly? You liked it.
Now, your closet in Austin was packed with new dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of boots and shoes. You had flown back with two massive suitcases stuffed to the brim, packed right alongside the heavy uncertainty of whether you were even going to stay here. When in doubt, bring it all.
Right now, Emma stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half dressed. She was in her bra, a dress pulled up only from the waist down, fussing with her underwear beneath the fabric to make sure there were no visible lines.
Even though she was wearing seamless panties, she was convinced that the glare of the light caught the faint outline of the edges.
"I’m telling you, it doesn’t show," you said from the bed.
You had finished getting ready ages ago and were now lounging with Mr. Darcy resting on your stomach. You wore a form-fitting black skirt paired with a black blouse featuring soft, sheer bell sleeves. The neckline was high, grazing your collarbones, and the entire front was dusted with tiny sparkles that subtly caught the light whenever you moved. Your legs were covered in semi-opaque black tights, finished off with boots that hit just three fingers below the knee.
"You sure? What about like this?" Emma turned to the side, arching her back to check her reflection.
"It’s a thong," you said, lifting a hand. "And it’s completely seamless. For heaven's sake, Em, nothing is showing."
"Alright, alright," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You better be right. What time is your mom picking us up?"
"Seven o'clock."
"And what time is it now?"
You picked up your phone from where it lay beside you on the bed and glanced at the screen.
"Quarter to seven."
She let out a sigh of relief, then finally pulled the dress up over her waist and shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the zipper up along her ribs.
She looked at her reflection and pursed her lips. You smiled.
Emma looked radiant. Not just beautiful, not just happy; radiant. Everything about her carried a glow that reminded you of the old Emma, the one from before the divorce, before everything had gone down.
She had always been a strong woman, and she had always faced life's hurdles as one. Even as she went through the divorce, you had never once seen her hang her head or crumble the way so many others would have. But she had suffered through bad days and rough patches, and during those times, a very specific light inside her had gone dark.
Between the two of you, Emma had always been the one who had life figured out, or at least the one who always knew how to stay on track.
Since you were little, she knew exactly what she wanted to do and how to achieve it; she graduated early, started working immediately, and married Luca shortly after meeting him. Everything in her life had always been neat and effortless, unfolding exactly how you’d expect the life of a model adult to go.
After the divorce, she barely faltered. That was the thing about Emma; some things just never seemed to shake her. Good or bad, she didn't let much get under her skin. Her peace was sacred.
Until Will came along.
At first, you couldn't quite put your finger on it, this thing that made her nervous in a way you had never seen before. When you were in New York and she would call to give you updates, the anxious flutter in her voice was entirely new. You were absolutely certain she hadn't been that jittery even during the week leading up to her wedding.
There was something about all of this that, for the first time in her entire life, was throwing her off balance. And it only took you a moment to realize why: she was truly in love.
Not in love the way she had been with Luca, or with any other ex… no. Truly, deeply in love. The kind of love that makes you feel like a teenager all over again, the kind that keeps him in your thoughts day and night, making you ache for him while simultaneously filling you with absolute peace.
You knew the feeling all too well. Looking at her right now, you recognized it instantly, because not too long ago, you had been in the exact same place. Head over heels.
Emma was in love.
"You look beautiful."
Hearing your voice, Emma caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.
"Thank you. You look beautiful too," she replied, turning around to face you directly.
You offered a warm smile in return, spreading your fingers across Mr. Darcy’s back. You gave his fur a gentle squeeze, and he immediately began to purr.
"So…" Emma walked over to the bed and drifted down beside you, propping herself up on her elbow. A wave of her perfume reached you instantly. "How's everything?"
You smiled. "How's everything? Everything's good."
"Ah…" She reached out and stroked Darcy, who promptly closed his eyes.
"What about you? How's everything with you?"
"Good." Emma sighed. "You talked to him?"
Your hand went still on Darcy’s back. "With whom?"
"Y'know. Francisco. Frankie. Have you talked to him?"
Your lips parted for a split second, your brows knitting together.
"No. Why?"
"Just asking," she said, pursing her lips. "After what happened yesterday, I dunno, I just thought maybe you guys had talked."
"Oh, no. No… you know how it is. If we’d talked, I would’ve told you by now, don't you think?"
Emma huffed a laugh. "True. You better."
"And what happened yesterday? Was he there when you went over to Will’s later?"
"Yeah, but only for a little bit," she said, her hand running over Darcy’s fur almost absentmindedly. "And he didn't say much."
"Hmm."
"It doesn't…" Emma locked her eyes onto yours. "It doesn't bother you that I hang out with him, right? Because if it does, I can totally—"
"Em, no," you interrupted, shaking your head.
"No, I’m serious. I know it can be weird for your best friend to spend time with your ex."
"It’s weird if you phrase it like that," you laughed. "But you aren't hanging out with Frankie. It’s just that he happens to be your boyfriend's best friend. It’s not your fault."
"It really doesn't bother you?"
You raised your eyebrows. "No, it really doesn't."
"I swear, the first few weeks I gave him the absolute cold shoulder."
You laughed. "Really?"
"Yes, I swear! And he barely even came near me because he knew what I was gonna say to him."
"What were you gonna say?"
"That he’s a fool and an idiot, what else?" She laughed. "Though I think he already knew it, because he always watched his step around me."
"Mhm. You two seem to get along well enough now, though, right?"
At your question, Emma’s smile faltered.
You knew she spent time around Frankie now. Here and there, they would cross paths at gatherings or over at Will’s place. She didn't tell you much, but it was always implicit. Every time Emma mentioned she was at a certain place, you already knew Frankie would likely be there too.
"Not really," she replied.
You smiled. "Em."
"What? I’m serious."
"You don't have to hide it from me. I know Francisco can be nice. And I wouldn't expect you to treat him badly just for my sake. That would make things uncomfortable for everyone."
"I don't treat him badly," she said, lifting a hand, "but we aren't friends either, okay? We just… we talk like normal people."
"Sure."
"Ugh," she groaned, tossing herself backward and covering her eyes with both hands. "I’m a terrible friend."
"That’s not true!"
"Of course it is! I have fraternized with the enemy!"
"Alright, stop it," you said, propping yourself up on your elbow. "Can we please drop this?"
"No!"
"We’re adults," you laughed, pulling Emma’s hand away from her face. "And Francisco isn't the enemy, he’s just my ex boyfriend. I have to coexist with him tomorrow, Em, please. Can we just act like this is normal?"
Emma sighed, narrowing her eyes. "Fine. But let’s be clear: I am gonna act like this is totally normal, but on the inside, I'm gonna enjoy every single second of watching you with Bill there—"
"Oh no, that’s not—"
"And when Frankie sees you with Bill?"
You threw your head back. "Bill is just my friend!"
"Your 'friend' whom you invited to your brother's wedding, where your ex, who was always a little jealous of him, happens to be the best man!"
A loud laugh burst from your throat as your face flushed bright red. "It’s not like that!"
"Yes it is! You smart bitch!"
Emma’s hands dug playfully into your stomach, and the tickling shocked another loud laugh out of you. Poor Mr. Darcy; the little cat bolted off the bed at the sudden noisy outburst.
On the inside, you swore to yourself: it really wasn't like that.
Fortunately for you, five minutes later, the horn of your mom’s rental car honked outside your apartment, and Emma immediately bounded off the bed to throw on her heels, utterly unable to tease you any longer.
Hours later, at night.
Sitting at the long table surrounded by Yov’s friends, you felt at ease.
The restaurant was located right in the heart of downtown, and thanks to Cinthia, the maid of honor, they had managed to book a private table out on the terrace.
Beside Yov sat Emma, who had become really close to her over the last few months. The bond between them had blossomed naturally, fueled by all the time they spent together because of the guys. Watching them laugh together, it was hard to believe they hadn't known each other a lifetime.
"And then," one of Yov’s college friends said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "she completely forgot where she parked the car and we spent two hours walking to our apartment, drunk as hell. And as soon as we got home, guess what? Her car was parked right there!"
The table erupted into laughter, and Yov buried her face in her hands just as her cheeks flushed pink.
Emma leaned in, nudging her playfully.
"To be fair, that happened to us, too," Emma chimed in with a grin, throwing a knowing look your way. "Remember that? My dad was so mad."
"Oh, yeah," you raised your eyebrows, "but we walked all the way home having forgotten your car was parked right outside the club."
Your mom gasped; "What? When was that, and why am I just finding out now?"
You turned to look at her, sitting to your left.
"It was a lifetime ago!" you replied.
She smiled and shook her head. It made you happy to see her here, laughing, enjoying herself, and sharing this moment with all of you, because the truth was, it had been a very long time since that had happened.
Following your father’s death, your mom’s retreat had been almost absolute. She had rarely returned to the city, and she had never stepped foot in the family home again; a house that didn't even belong to you anymore.
Your relationship with her had fractured deeply because of that, leaving Santi as the one who stayed closest to her. It meant years of brief interactions, arguments over the phone, and her constant attempts to reach out to you, which you always pushed away.
Back then, you were younger. You were grieving one of the people you loved most, and you needed her. But she wasn't there, and for the longest time, you resented her for it.
If you were a mother, you would never do that; leaving the city because you were heartbroken over the loss of the love of your life was understandable, but distancing yourself from your two children was not.
And it wasn't that she had completely vanished, either. No, she had always tried to stay in touch with daily calls, constant texts, and video chats every single night. Until you finally said no more, and began to freeze out any kind of contact.
That lasted for two years. Two years where you cut yourself off from her entirely, reducing your only connection to calls once every few weeks and updates passed down through Santi.
It hadn't been easy at first, but she was entirely honest with you. All of this was difficult for her, and it had been incredibly hard years ago as well. But living together in New York after her trip had been surprisingly fun, and something you had missed desperately.
The two of you spent your days walking, exploring, taking in the city, and spending your nights watching movies, shows, and reading together in the living room.
You reconnected, and it felt so good. You had missed your mom so much, and being with her now felt completely right.
Amid the chatter and jokes, two hours flew by as you finished dinner and dessert. Yov was ecstatic; her friends were all gathered in the same room for the first time in years, and on top of that, her mom and yours were having a wonderful time together.
The atmosphere was incredibly warm and the excitement for the wedding grew with every passing minute; you were starting to feel the rush of emotion building up inside you, too.
You couldn't believe it. This was actually happening. Santi was getting married, and not only that, but his future wife was someone you absolutely loved.
Watching her now, as she laughed with your mom and lifted her glass to her lips, you felt a wave of genuine happiness.
What a beautiful family you had. And what a beautiful family they would have in a couple of years. You could picture it perfectly; just like this, but a little different. With a couple of kids, maybe. Santi wanted two; Yov wanted at least two. And you couldn't wait to have nieces and nephews running around everywhere.
She was an incredible woman, and your brother was lucky to have her. And on the flip side, Santi was a wonderful man, too. You were certain he would make an amazing husband and father, and you couldn't wait to see him step into that new chapter of his life.
"What are you thinking about?"
Emma’s soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. Turning toward her, you met her bright eyes framed by long curling lashes. She gently touched your elbow.
"Nothing," you answered, a gentle smile tracing your lips. "I can't believe they're actually getting married. Time moves so fast. Santi is fully a grown man now."
Emma smiled. "He has been for a while, huh."
He had been for a long time. But you had barely noticed the passage of time, preoccupied with growing up right alongside him.
Everything had just moved so quickly. Only a few years ago, the two of you were inseparable, going everywhere together; you glued to his side like velcro, and him completely fine with bringing you along. It had always been you and him, him and you.
Every time he hung out with his friends, he brought you with him. Everywhere you went with Emma, there he was, simply because he was too curious and liked your company.
Spending these past months in New York had been a completely new experience for you, as you had never gone that long without seeing Santi. It had felt strange not having him around or seeing him for such a stretch, and it made you realize just how accustomed you were to his presence.
You didn't know if all siblings were like that. Probably not. But you and Santi definitely were.
"Your mom is having a great time," Emma whispered, leaning close to your ear.
You smiled instantly. "I know. I wish Dad were here to see it."
Emma squeezed your arm with hers. "I'm sure he is."
"You think so?" you asked, looking at her sideways with a small smile.
"Of course I do. I bet he’s even having a glass of wine somewhere right now."
That made you laugh. You could picture it perfectly: your dad tilting his elbow back to finish his glass of wine, just like he always did whenever he was celebrating and happy.
Somewhere out there, he was watching over you all. You liked to believe that.
"Another round, my treat! Our boy's getting hitched!"
A microsecond after Benny finished speaking, the entire bar roared in celebration, raising their glasses and hands.
Fuckin' opportunistic bastards, Santi thought amused. Everyone here wasn’t just happy for him; they were just thrilled to drink on someone else's dime. Julius, CJ, Baz, Carlos, and even Don had already crowded around, slapping him on the back in congratulation.
Santi laughed, ducking his head a bit, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness from all the attention.
"C'mon Fish, live a little," Will said, stretching his arm across the table to thrust a beer bottle toward Frankie, who was sitting at the far corner.
Santi watched him shake his head.
"Ts, I dunno," Fish replied.
"Not even a single drop?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely offended. "C'mon, celebrate with us. The state of Texas allows a zero-point-zero-eight blood alcohol level, which is..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, doing the math. "... a drink, a beer!"
Frankie crossed his arms and leaned his head back. "Under what exact circumstances were you researching that?"
Ben scoffed. "You don’t wanna know. But let’s get one thing straight," he added, planting his hand firmly on the table. "I am a responsible driver!"
"Fish," Santi called out, raising his own beer. "We’ll call an Uber. Now celebrate with your friend who's about to tie the knot."
Frankie’s smile turned lopsided, and in that brief moment, Santi noticed how the scar on his cheek stood out just a bit more.
"You guys are a terrible influence. Haven’t you noticed I’m a clean guy now?"
"Oh, c'mon," Will laughed, throwing his head back.
"No, no, it's true," Santi chimed in, nodding. "He really is."
Will raised his eyebrows. "I know he is. What is it, up to one or two cans of beer a day, max?"
"Only if I have to drink. Otherwise, nothin'," Fish said, squaring his shoulders with a hint of pride.
Santi smiled, feeling a pang of pride himself. "I’m proud of you. We all are."
"To Fish!" Benny raised his beer.
Will smiled and imitated his brother. "To Fish."
Frankie scoffed, suddenly shy, and hid his eyes under his glasses.
A second later, Will took a long swig of his beer before slamming the bottle back down on the table.
"Alright, enough with the sappy stuff, you're gonna give me diabetes. If Fish is staying sober, it just means more booze for the rest of us. Call that round already!"
Frankie laughed and looked over at Santi, who held his gaze for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows rising bit by bit.
"Uh?" Santi smirked. "Just one? What do you say?"
A few feet away, Grian was pulling out beer bottles and lining them up on the bar.
Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a wide grin flash of teeth breaking across his face.
"It's my bachelorette night and my best man can't even clink glasses with me!"
"Alright, alright, alright," Frankie raised both hands in surrender. "Just one. But only 'cause it’s your night and a nice cold beer actually sounds real good right now."
Will slapped Fish on the back, giving him a rough but affectionate nudge, a grin splitting his face.
"And just so we're clear, we're still incredibly proud of you."
Santi smiled as he watched them, taking a sip of his beer. As he swallowed, a heavy sensation settled deep in his chest.
He couldn't quite explain this feeling. He was thrilled about his wedding, and even more so about what it meant for his life with Yov. Yet his smiles felt forced, slipping away the moment none of his friends were looking.
Will was ecstatic, Benny was right there with him (and a bit tipsy), and Fish had just tipped a bottle to his lips, taking a long swig as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a grin. And in that exact moment, the only thing Santi could think about was… someone else.
Terrified that someone might notice the sudden glossiness in his eyes, he pressed the beer to his mouth and finished it in one long gulp.
"Alright, where’s that next round, huh?" he said, bringing the empty bottle down hard on the table. "I’m getting thirsty."
Fish smirked slightly, his gaze drifting over Santi’s face. "You alright?"
Santi let out a huff. "As always."
People always say you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.
Well, you all took that advice to heart.
Following a delicious dinner and a suggestively named dessert specially crafted for the bride and her guests, the group piled out onto the street, where a stretch limousine was already idling by the curb.
Yov burst out laughing. "Fio, what on earth is this?"
Fiona, one of her best friends, gestured grandly toward the massive car before pulling a white sash out of her bag that read Future Mrs. Garcia in bold lettering.
"What does it look like?" she laughed, stepping closer to loop the sash over Yov’s shoulder. "Nothing but the best for our beautiful bride; you only get married once!"
Emma chuckled. "According to whom?"
"I've been married twice," Cinthia chimed in, raising both hands.
"Well, they do say third time’s a charm," Fiona shot back, clapping a hand over her mouth the exact second the words slipped out.
The sound of your mom’s laughter made you snap your head to the right, and you watched her laugh with flushed cheeks as she walked over to Yov and gently took her by the arm; She was already a bit tipsy. She had finished two glasses of wine during dinner and you knew that was always enough to make your mom giggly, and you loved seeing it.
She was having a wonderful time, just like everyone else.
Fortunately, Fiona’s slip of the tongue was swept away by a wave of giggles as the limousine doors swung open, inviting you into leather seats and neon lighting.
One by one, each one of you piled inside, heels clicking against the pavement before sinking into the comfort of the interior. ABBA was already pulsing through the speakers and a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting in the ice bucket.
Your mom took a seat near Yov, still giggly, while Emma slid in right next to you; her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down her dress and smiled at you. Cinthia, in front of you, immediately took charge of pouring the drinks, handing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the city lights outside melted into streaks against the tinted windows.
It was a short drive, but when the limousine finally pulled up to the curb, the venue took your breath away.
It wasn't a huge chaotic nightclub, but a really nice luxurious place. Nestled behind a discreet entrance, the lounge exuded… quiet. The lighting was low and calm, casting shadows over velvet booths, dark walnut accents, and a big glowing marble bar that stretched across the main room. Your first thought was oh, this is expensive.
But Cinthia took charge of that. Of everything, really. She had a wildly successful career in PR, and before you had even made it to the restaurant, she had casually mentioned how she always managed to get exactly what she wanted. It was a natural born talent. The restaurant, the limo, the lounge, and even the expensive bottles of champagne waiting for them were all the masterwork of her and Fiona.
A hostess in a tailored suit checked the name and guided your group past the main floor toward a raised, private tier.
"Right this way, ladies. Your table is ready in the VIP lounge," she murmured.
The private area overlooked the rest of the venue, enclosed by elegant brass railings and draped in heavy emerald green curtains. It was the perfect vantage point.
"You really outdid yourself," Yov breathed, taking in the crystal glasses and the dedicated server already waiting for them.
Cinthia just offered a knowing smirk, sinking into the velvet cushions. "Only the best for the bride. Now, what are we drinking?"
Emma squeezed your arm. "Oh my God, no! No! I'm gonna pee myself!"
"Oh no!" your mom shrieked.
You wanted to answer (you really, truly did) but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't even breathe. Your stomach ached from laughing so hard, and Emma wasn't helping; she was standing right in front of you with her legs tightly crossed, this ridiculous, hilarious wheeze escaping her chest.
"Emma, no, go, go!" Cinthia ordered, shooing her away with a wave of her hand. Beside her, Kat, another one of Yov's friends, looked intensely focused, squinting into near blindness as she tried to wipe her glasses with a cloth.
"C'mon, I'll take you," you managed to choke out between giggles, pushing yourself up from your seat and nudging Emma toward the hallway.
"You need me to come with you, sweetie?" your mom asked.
You turned back to look at her and your grin widened; she had a straw clamped between her lips, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
"Nah, we're good, we'll be right back."
Oh God, your stomach literally hurt from laughing. You couldn't even remember what the first joke was, or whatever it was that had triggered this chain reaction of non stop laughter, but it had been at least ten minutes of tossing one-liners back and forth.
Surprisingly, your mom wasn't helping the situation at all; she was on a roll tonight, spilling anecdotes about Santi; embarrassing stories that would have absolutely mortified him if he were here to listen.
And like any good younger sister, you found them hilarious and were laughing your head off.
"Ask him about the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by doing a backflip off the diving board," she said minutes ago. "He ended up doing a full horizontal belly flop. The smack was so loud the lifeguard thought a firecracker went off! He had a bright red stomach for a week, my poor boy!"
Yov buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she let out a loud, snorting laugh.
"I am calling off the wedding," she wheezed, shaking her head.
"No!" your mom shot back, entirely unbothered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I have the photo album to prove it. I'll pass it under the table right before you say 'I do'."
"Oh yeah! I've seen those photos!"
Picture this. A fourteen year old Santi with slightly long curls and naturally flushed cheeks. And underneath his t-shirt, a bright red stomach bruised from a wipeout that made you laugh your head off back then, but also curse on his behalf. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it hadn't been summer, and if he hadn't done it right in front of every single kid at the pool. The poor guy wore a shirt for an entire week after that, even to get into the water.
It was a simple kind of silly anecdote, but the way your mom told it was hilarious, and it was followed by so many more that your brother’s ears would definitely be burning somewhere right now.
Emma let go of your arm the second you entered the restroom and rushed straight into a stall.
"Your mom is so funny," her voice echoed. "I missed her. Poor Yov!"
Looking in the mirror, you ran your index finger under your eyelashes to fix the mascara that had smudged a bit.
"I know, but she’s one of us now. She has been for a while."
"I love her, I love her—ouch!"
"What's wrong?" you tilted your head to the side.
"Nothing, nothing, I just twisted my stu-pid foot!"
Laughing, you furrowed your brow. "What are you even doing in there?"
Emma let out a low chuckle. "Nothing. These toilets are too damn low."
"Alright. Just be careful in there." You looked down at your purse and opened it to grab your lip gloss, but the glowing screen of your phone caught your attention instead.
Ten missed calls and many… many messages. All from Will. And you would have heard them if you hadn't put your phone on vibrate mode just to enjoy the night better.
Plse answt, one of the messages read.
wwe can't fondsanti
Your heart started beating incredibly fast as you unlocked the phone, your hands turning freezing cold.
You heard the sound of Emma’s toilet flushing just as you pressed call on Will.
"Oh God, much better," she said as she stepped out of the stall, but you couldn't do anything except listen in silence. Emma watched you bring the phone to your ear. "What happened?"
"I don't know," you shrugged both shoulders.
The phone rang once, twice, three times—
"Hey."
"Hey, Will, what happened? I just checked my phone—"
"Santi’s gone."
Oh God, he was slurring his words.
"What you mean he's gone? Gone from where? Isn't he with you?"
Emma’s eyes widened. "Is that Will?"
You nodded and put it on speaker.
"—in the restroom, but Ben went to look for him and he wasn't there, and he's nowhere to be found and—"
"Where are you right now?"
"Here."
"Here where?"
"Will, honey, can you hear me? Where are you guys?" Emma asked.
"In the restroom—at the bar, in the bar restroom."
Your heart jumped into your throat. "And where's Santi?"
"I-I I dunno, he left, or I dunno, he's not here—"
You closed your eyes in frustration. "Listen, is there anyone else there I can talk to?"
"Yeah wait."
On the other end, you could hear music, voices, and a thud that sounded like a door slamming shut. Will muttered a shit, and two seconds later:
"Yeah?"
Francisco.
"Hey, what happened?" you asked, rubbing your hand across your forehead. "Where's Santi?"
"Uh… we… we don't know where he is. We were just hanging out here and he said he had to go to the restroom." Okay, he wasn't slurring his words. "And then after a bit, we realized it had been a really long time, and when Ben went to check, he wasn't in the restroom, or in the bar. He's not here, he left."
"But how? How could he have left without you guys noticing?"
Emma watched you in silence, her eyes wide.
"I dunno, I'm sorry. He must've slipped out through the other side of the bar."
"Shit, Frankie, are you being serious?"
"I'm sorry, we're gonna go look for him right now—"
"Will is drunk, and I assume Benny is too, you aren't gonna get very far," you sighed. "How was Santi acting before he disappeared?"
"A bit wasted too. He started talking about trees and houses, and said Yov was gonna be mad at him."
Emma gasped in shock. Your heart completely skipped a beat.
"Alright, where exactly are you guys right now?" you asked.
"At The Crow. We were planning to head over to Met Park later."
"Okay. Listen to me, stay put, yeah? I'm coming right now. Please don't call anyone else. Have you talked to anyone else?"
You heard Frankie pull the phone away from his ear.
"Did you talk to anyone else? No? You Ben? Alright…" his voice sounded muffled before coming back clear. "No, they haven't talked to anyone else. Neither have I."
"Good. I'm not far, okay?"
"Okay."
Without answering, and before he could say anything else, you cut the call, your hands freezing cold.
"What are we gonna do?" Emma asked. "You don't think he got cold feet about the wedding, right?"
"No, no," you shook your head, though you weren't entirely sure. "No way. Santi would never do that."
Emma rubbed her cheek. "I'm calling an Uber right now. What are you gonna tell the girls?"
"Nothing. They don't need to know. I'll just text mom telling her we're heading home for some silly reason, and that's it."
Your fingers flew across the screen, typing out some absurd excuse. Hey, Em broke her shoe, we're running home real quick to change and we'll be right back, don't worry, we already called the Uber.
You hit send and prayed that your mom's maternal instinct wouldn't kick in tonight of all nights.
You were going to kill Santiago.
If you bit your nails any shorter, you were going to be left with none. And it felt like this damn Uber driver was practically crawling.
"There they are!" Emma said the second you pulled up to the block where the bar was.
Will, Ben, and Frankie were waiting outside on the sidewalk, the three of them looking like scared kids waiting for their moms to pick them up from kindergarten.
You mumbled a quick thank you to the driver and got out as fast as you could, while Emma scrambled out from the other side a bit more clumsily.
Will put both hands on his head as soon as he saw her. "Emmy!"
"Look at you! Grown men!" she snapped, a little tipsy herself. "How could you lose your friend?"
Shaking your head, you looked over at Benny, who was crouching down and looking like he was about to throw up, before shifting your gaze to Frankie; the only sober one, apparently.
He wasn't drunk, but he looked just as panicked. His hair was a bit messy, and he was looking at you with a strange expression.
"What happened?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stepped up to him. "Have you tried calling him?"
Frankie’s eyes flickered across your face. "He left his phone. I have it right here."
"Oh God."
"Don't worry, we're gonna find him," he nodded. "He couldn't have gone very far."
"How? Look at them," you gestured toward Will and Benny. "They're wasted!"
Frankie took another step closer to you. "But I'm not. I've only had a few sips. My car is right across the street."
"Francisco. You're the best man, you were supposed to look out for him," you frowned, a sudden wave of anger hitting you. "How on earth did you let him slip away?"
He frowned back. "How was I supposed to imagine he’d just take off like that? It's Santi we're talking about."
"Yeah, exactly!"
"Alright, alright," Emma stepped in, raising a hand. "Stop wasting time talking and do something, okay? He could be anywhere! Frankie, can you drive?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"Zero point zero eight!" Ben yelled.
"Okay. You go with him and search everywhere," she told you, gesturing with her chin, "and I'll take these two drunks back to Will's place."
No, you thought. And your stomach did such a massive flip you almost gasped. But on the outside, you just nodded.
"Alright," you said, catching sight of Frankie moving beside you out of the corner of your eye. "I'll keep texting you. Tell Grian to keep an eye out in case Santi comes back here, and to hold onto him."
"Will do."
You took a step backward and your back collided with something—No, with him.
As you lost your balance, his hands instantly caught your shoulders. He was right behind you.
"Sorry."
"It's fine," he murmured over your shoulder, his hands releasing you immediately. "Let's go."
He started walking toward the curb, stopping right there to wait for you.
Before moving, you looked at Emma with your eyes wide open, only to catch the mischievous glint in her gaze as she pressed her lips together, trying not to smirk.
Bitch.
Well, this felt familiar.
As you crossed the street, you turned back for a moment and saw your best friend on the other side, while you awkwardly approached your brother’s friend’s car. It was a familiar scene, wasn't it?
Unlike that first time in Dallas, Frankie held the door open for you. A gentlemanly gesture that caught you off guard. First, because you didn't recognize the car. It was a different one. Black or dark blue, you couldn't quite tell the color in the darkness of the night. It wasn't any of the cars you had seen at Will’s house, and this one was newer. And second, because it would have been easier for both of you to have just skipped the gesture entirely.
"Thanks." You settled into the leather seat, and he shut the door softly beside you.
During the brief seconds it took him to walk around to the driver's side and get in, you let out a deep sigh. Your eyes scanned the black dashboard and then moved up to the rearview mirror, where a small silver cat keychain and a green pine tree hung, filling the space with the scent of vanilla.
Frankie stepped inside like a gust of air and slammed the door shut.
Alright. Chill. This doesn't have to be weird.
"Where to?" he asked.
You pressed your knees tightly together. "Let's just drive around the block first."
Without a word, he started the engine and pulled the car out of its parking spot, maneuvering smoothly as he kept a cautious eye on the street, while you locked your eyes on him the exact same way.
"Uh," you cleared your throat and looked straight ahead, "he couldn't have gone very far."
"He must be around here somewhere."
"You think he called a cab or something?"
"I have his phone."
"Right," you pursed your lips. "Of course."
You clasped your hands in your lap and laced your fingers together, feeling your palms grow sweaty as you stared out the window, holding back a sigh.
It smelled way too much like him in here. Like his cologne, the fabric softener on his clothes—like him, because he was sitting right next to you, and that made sense, didn't it?
Your heart was beating so fast.
"He seemed a little down today," he noted.
You turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"You know, earlier," he looked back at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds before turning his eyes back to the street. "I figured he was just nervous about the wedding, so I didn't want to press him with questions."
"You think that could be it? You think he got scared?"
He shook his head. "No, no way. Santi isn't like that."
"I know he's not. But I dunno, it could be possible."
Through the window, the sidewalks and streets passed by with no sign of him.
"What did he mean when he said Yov was gonna be mad?"
Frankie pursed his lips and turned the corner. "I don't know, he wasn't making much sense. He started talking about trees, about how long they live and how big they can grow, and how it had been a really long time since he last visited the park. I asked him about it, but he said nothing. Then he said Yov was gonna be mad if she found out about the house. When I asked him what he meant, he just said it was stupid."
"I can't think of anything," you sighed, rubbing your hand over your neck in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense. Did something happen with his house? What on earth was he talking about?"
"He's drunk, I don't think much of what he said was supposed to make sense."
"But Santi isn't like that, you know him," you looked at him. "When has he ever said something he didn't mean?"
He sighed. "Never, I guess. Maybe tonight he was just in the mood to talk about live oaks."
You froze, watching Frankie’s profile as he looked straight ahead and scanned the sidewalk on his side while driving at a relaxed pace.
"Live oaks?"
"Yeah," he affirmed, looking over at you. "I didn't know he was that into trees."
Oh.
OH.
Your hand shot out to grab his shoulder. "I think I know where he is."
"What?"
"Turn around right here," you pointed with your hand, "now. I know where he is!"
Frankie accelerated to the corner and made a sharp left. "Where? Tell me."
"I'm not completely certain, but I'm almost positive," you brushed a strand of hair out of your face.
He chuckled. "Are you gonna tell me where or not?"
"Osbourne Park."
"Why?"
"When we were kids, we had this eco-week in school and they sent us to plant trees. Santi and I planted a live oak with Dad. We went there a lot after he passed away, and I am—Jesus, I'm almost positive he has to be there. Did he say anything about my dad tonight?"
"Yeah," he raised his eyebrows, "yeah, he did."
A relieved sigh escaped your throat and instantly, the car surged forward as he pressed on the gas.
"Take the next right. It'll get us to the ramp faster," you said, leaning forward in your seat, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of the dashboard.
Without a word, he shifted gears and veered right. The streetlights flashed across his face, throwing shadows over his jawline and making his messy hair look even wilder.
Not the time to be looking at him like this!
"He's gonna be fine," he said quietly, grounding anchor against the worry rising in your chest. "If he’s at the park, he’s just clearing his head. He wouldn't do anything stupid."
"I know, I just hope he's there. Otherwise, I don't know," you murmured, staring out at the blurred shapes of buildings. "I don't have any other idea."
Frankie glanced at you, his expression softening before he turned his focus back to the road. "Easy. He's gonna be okay. And if he's not there, we can keep looking around."
Your heart did another strange, complicated flutter that had nothing to do with Santi. You swallowed hard and kept your eyes glued to the windshield.
The car flew past the exit signs, Frankie maneuvering through the light night traffic. He kept his foot steady on the accelerator, making the drive feel much shorter than it actually was. And within short minutes, the neon signs of the downtown bars faded away, replaced by the dark, towering silhouettes of the trees surrounding Osbourne Park.
He took the final turn into the park's entrance; the headlights cut through the heavy darkness of the empty parking lot, sweeping over the grass.
You popped the door open and scrambled out of the car as the heavy darkness of the park was broken only by the scattered park lights cutting through the night, and hovered by the car for two seconds, waiting as Frankie got out from his side and shut his door with a thud.
The moment you saw he was ready, you started moving into the park, your eyes darting everywhere, scanning every shadow. Then, you locked your gaze just to the right, past the paved, illuminated path that led toward the thicker wooded area where the tallest trees stood, and among them, the live oak.
Your pace quickened. As you got closer, cutting through the deep shadows, you managed to make out a familiar shape.
"There he is," you said, drown in anger and relief.
You broke into a fast walk, nearly a jog, while your heart hammered against your ribs as you felt Frankie’s footsteps keeping close right behind you.
As you got closer, you could make him out better. Santi wasn't on the grass; he was sitting on a park bench right in front of the little green space where the tree stood tall and still young among others.
Your footsteps naturally lost their urgency, your pace tapering off as you approached him from behind. He was half hunched over, elbows resting on his knees with his head hanging down. His curls caught the bright glare of the overhead LED light, making them glint in the dark.
You stopped. "Santi?"
He jumped a little at the sound of your voice, straightened up at a relaxed pace, and turned his head just enough to look at you, his eyes unfocused.
"Bub? What are you doing here?"
His voice sounded completely congested and undeniably drunk.
"Frank," Santi smiled, "what are you two doing here?"
You let out a tired sigh and stepped closer to him. "I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I? What are you doing here?"
Up close, he looked like a little kid. You could see his glassy, tear filled eyes, the soft curls falling over his forehead, and the utterly defeated look that took over every single feature of his face as he stared at you in pain.
Santi hung his head again.
"I'm sorry. It's just..." He swallowed hard. "I need time."
His voice was so low you had to furrow your brow. "What?"
He shook his head.
Confused, you glanced over at Frankie, who was keeping a short distance back. He was absolutely quiet.
"Our house is for sale," Santi said. "Our house."
You shifted to his side and sat down right next to him. Tilting your head to see him better, your chest tightened.
"Our house?"
"Our house," he looked at you, and right then, it clicked.
Santi wasn't talking about his house. He was talking about your childhood home.
"I drove past it the other day. I always do. It’s on my way to work, or… not really, I'm lying. I just like driving past it, I guess," he continued. "You remember the family that bought it? With those three little kids?"
"Yeah."
"They don't live there anymore. It's empty now, and there's this big sign outside with a realtor's face on it," he let out a humorless laugh.
You forced a smile even though your cheeks felt heavy, and you reached your hand out to his arm.
Instantly, Santi placed his hand over yours.
"I want it back, bub," his voice cracked. "It’s our house. How could we just let it belong to someone else?"
"You know how things were back then. It wasn't easy for mom—"
"Dad lived there. We grew up there. And she… she just got rid of it because it hurt? What about us? What about you, what about me?" he spat out painfully, the words hitting you straight in the chest.
You swallowed hard. "I know."
Santi’s face contorted with agony, and a sob broke through his lips. And as if he were terrified of you seeing him like this, he covered his face, burying his head in his hands, trying to hide in the shadow of his own body.
"Santi," was all you could manage to say as you threw your arm around his back, resting your head against his shoulder while thick tears began to pool in your eyes.
He let out a ragged breath and abruptly straightened up, making you shift away from him.
"I made an offer," he said.
"For the house?"
He nodded, looking at you with pure fear in his eyes. "I did. And Yov doesn't know."
"How… how? With what money—I'm sorry, but—"
"Our savings, and I'm planning to take out a loan—"
"Santi, wait," you shook your head gently, "you have to talk to her before you do anything like this."
"I know."
"Why didn't you tell her?"
"I don't know," he shook his head, in pain. "She loves our current house. If she found out I wanted to sell it—I don't wanna disappoint her." A gasp broke through his words. "I'm gonna be a husband."
You smiled involuntarily at the realization. "Yeah, you will."
Santi sat completely still, barely moving, his eyes bloodshot as he stared down at his own hands, his body swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm.
"I'm gonna be a husband," he repeated, barely a scared whisper. "And a dad, someday."
"I am absolutely certain you'll be a great husband and dad."
His head snapped toward you, his eyes instantly flooding with glassy tears.
"You will," you reaffirmed, squeezing his hand. "I know you will."
He nodded at a very quiet, subdued pace. "I need him, bub."
A beat.
You nodded. "I know. I need him too."
"How can I ever be like him? How can I ask him what to do or how to do it if he's not here? He should be here," his words took on an angry edge right at the end. "On my wedding day."
"I honestly don't know," you murmured, your voice catching as you squeezed his hand tighter. "I ask myself the exact same thing every single day. But I know I have you, and you have me. And you can always, absolutely always count on me, for whatever, whenever. And I'm sure he's so proud of you."
Santi offered a faint, fleeting smile, his eyes searching yours. "I'm gonna miss you when you leave again. Nothing is the same without you sticking your nose into all of my business."
You let out a soft laugh, blinking back a new wave of tears. "You're gonna be way too busy starting your own family. You'll barely even notice I'm gone."
His smile faltered, a deep, raw sadness washing over his features. "How could you say something like that? You're part of my family too. I've missed you so much these past few months, you know that? First Mom, and then you," he said, his voice cracking slightly as a weak smile returned to his face. "Why is everyone so obsessed with leaving this place, huh?"
He turned his head around, his gaze shifting toward Frankie, who was still standing a short distance behind you both, keeping his respectful space.
Frankie offered a quiet smile, his eyes on Santi. "Hey, I came back, didn't I?"
Santi let out a weak laugh. "Yeah, you did."
Then, he turned back around to face the dark park, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He hung his head, dragging both of his hands over his face and up through his tangled curls, holding them there for a second.
When he finally lifted his eyes, he locked his gaze onto the live oak tree, staring at it in total silence for a long moment, as if soaking in the memory of your dad one last time tonight.
Finally, he spoke, his voice completely drained. "I wanna go to sleep."
You nodded silently, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak.
"Alright, let's go," you whispered.
Carefully, you pushed yourself up from the bench and reached out, pulling on his arm to help him stand. His weight shifted unsteadily, but right at that moment, Frankie was there. He stepped in instantly, his strong grip catching Santi by the arm, anchoring him and helping him keep his balance on his shaky, alcohol heavy legs.
In complete silence, the three of you made your way back across the grass toward the car. The only sound was the rustle of the night breeze through the leaves and the quiet scuff of your shoes. And when you reached the vehicle, you quickly pulled the back door open as Frankie guided Santi inside, carefully maneuvering him so he could settle into the backseat.
The second his head hit the leather, it was over. In less than two seconds, Santiago was completely out, his eyes shut tight as his breathing immediately slowed into a deep sleep.
Frankie drove in silence down the side street by the park, careful with every bump and easing through the road so the car’s movement wouldn't wake Santi. In the backseat, he was completely twisted and bent out of shape, yet fast asleep.
Less than a minute passed after you left the park area behind before a sigh finally escaped your throat.
Your phone lay in your lap, its screen dark ever since you read Emma’s last message a few moments ago. She was already at Will’s place with the guys, and apparently, Benny had crashed on the couch the second they walked through the door.
Frankie pulled up to a red light.
"You can take us to my place if you want, I’ll stay with him," you said, not looking at him.
He clicked his tongue. "Nah, it's fine. I’ve got him. Yov’s party is still going, you shouldn't miss it. I’ll take him to Will’s and crash with the guys. You and Emma can head out."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," he turned to look at you, "gotta fulfill my duties as bestman."
A helpless smile slowly formed on your lips as you looked at him, and his own lips mirrored the gesture a second later. His eyes held yours like a magnet, and your stupid heart skipped a beat again.
"So, uh, New York," he tossed out, breaking eye contact as he looked back at the road. "What did you think?"
You lowered your head, fixing your gaze on your hands in your lap.
"It's nice. It's a great city," you looked back at him, but his eyes were still fixed ahead. "And I… I’ve been writing a lot."
Frankie glanced at you again. "Yeah?"
You nodded, unable to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot.
"Yeah. A book, actually."
"That's amazing," he smiled, "what's it about?"
"Uh, well, it's kind of a love story. It's mostly about Miles, and his relationship with Alya. They meet one night at a restaurant and lose touch for a year until they cross paths again, but Miles is this guy with a huge amount of baggage and things to work through," you waved your hands, showing just how huge Miles's problems really were. "And it's… it's a complicated story."
Frankie gave a half-smile, nodding slowly. "Does it have a happy ending?"
You pursed your lips and tilted your head. "I'm not telling you."
"Why? C'mon."
The traffic light turned yellow, and two seconds later, green.
"It has a happy ending, doesn't it?" he pressed, his eyes drifting back to the road as the car started moving again.
You huffed. "You really want me to spoil it for you?"
"Depends. How long do I have to wait to read it?"
"I haven't even finished writing it yet, so probably a while."
Frankie let out a soft laugh. "Alright. I'll wait."
Or maybe you could show him a few pages, you thought. Just a few, just to get his opinion.
It was just a thought. You didn't even know why you were so desperate to show him all of it.
"Emma told me you moved to a new place?" you said, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.
He nodded. "Yeah. Over at Circle Ranch."
"Yeah? It's a nice area."
"It is, it really is," he glanced at you for a split second. "Bingley likes it."
You smiled. "Really?"
"Yeah. We have a big backyard now, lots of grass and a few trees. He loves it, but it freaks me out a little, y'know," he shook his head with a smile. "The other day he climbed up one of the trees and I spent half an hour trying to get him down."
"He probably would've come down on his own. Cats really like being up in high places."
"I know. But what if a dog gets him or something?"
You tilted your head. "Are there any dogs nearby? I mean, from your neighbors or...?"
He shook his head. "Not really."
"Then?"
Frankie laughed. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want anything happening to him."
"Mhm. Cats are really smart. Bingley is really smart," you assured him. "And if your yard is safe, you shouldn't worry too much as long as he stays inside it. Just make sure he doesn't escape."
"Yeah, I bought him a collar with a tracker."
You laughed softly. "That's cool. I should get Darcy one of those. You really are a protective cat dad, uh."
"Well, obviously," he smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "He’s my roommate. If he goes missing, I gotta do my own dishes."
"Fair point," you smiled, looking out the window for a moment. "I'm glad Bingley is enjoying his new backyard. Sounds like he has his own little kingdom now."
"He definitely thinks he owns the place," Frankie chuckled, slowing down as you approached a quiet intersection. The playful tone in his voice softened, turning into something softer as he glanced over at you. "What about you? Are you staying at your apartment?"
"Yeah. It feels good to be back home. Even Darcy is enjoying it."
Frankie nodded, keeping his hands steady on the wheel. He went quiet for a moment as the car moved down the dark street.
Then, his voice dropped. "So... Uh, are you, are you going back to New York?"
A sudden hollow feeling carved itself deep into your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, looking away out the passenger window as the city lights blurred past. In your lap, you tightly laced your fingers together, squeezing your hands to ground yourself.
"I guess. I don't know yet."
You turned your head back to look at him just as the car approached another intersection. The traffic light flicked to a glowing red.
Frankie came to a stop and turned his head.
In the sudden stillness of the car, bathed in the soft crimson glow of the light, his eyes met yours. There was no teasing left in them, no easy deflection; just a brief searching intensity that seemed to pull the air right out of your lungs for a second.
He looked at you as if he were trying to read between the lines of your hesitation, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours. "You like it there?"
Your heart squeezed.
Yes, you thought, but it doesn't feel like home.
Instead of saying it out loud, you looked away, answering softly, "I guess I do."
You turned your eyes back to him. Frankie was still looking at you, wearing a small encouraging smile. But you couldn't mirror it. There was something heavy sitting deep in your chest that anchored your lips in place.
Frankie noticed. "When Harry met Sally, uh?"
That pulled a small laugh from you. You shook your head.
Seeing your reaction, Frankie shook his head too, a chuckle escaping him as he quickly backpedaled. "No, no. They met in Chicago. Forget I said that."
You leaned your elbow against the car door, resting your face in your hand as you turned to look out the passenger window. The lingering smile stayed on your lips for a few seconds as the car moved forward, but it slowly began to fade, melting away into the quiet streets.
Beside you, Frankie just drove. He didn't push for more conversation or try to fill the space with words. He simply let the silence settle between you, steering through the night as the landscape outside started to blur into something increasingly familiar.
Will’s house wasn't far now. Just a few more blocks, a couple of turns, and this ride would be over.
And right then, a sudden ache hit you: you didn't want it to end.
The realization washed over you quietly, almost catching you off guard, of just how desperately you had missed this. Just being near him, sharing the same space, even wrapped in these sometime-uncomfortable silences.
You watched the streetlights sweep across the dashboard in waves, wishing the car would slow down, wishing the blocks would stretch out, just to keep the outside world away for a little longer.
But no matter how much you wished you could control time, sometimes wanting to speed it up, other times desperate to slow it down, the reality was that it just kept moving.
And while your heart hammered against your ribs like an untamed creature, craving more of him, Will’s house suddenly appeared ahead.
Frankie pulled the car into the driveway, bringing the ride to a final stop.
A beat later, he let out a quiet sigh and unbuckled his seatbelt, the click signaling the end of the line. The headlights caught the front window of Will’s house.
Your eyes drifted to him then. He glanced at Santi, still dead to the world in the back, before turning his face to yours.
"Frankie," you breathed, and the name felt forbidden on your tongue.
He didn't speak, but the slight tension in his brow gave him away. His hands remained clamped at the top of the steering wheel.
"I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you," you said, knowing this probably wasn't the right time or the right place, but utterly unable to hold it in any longer. "About Henry, and... and everything that came after."
The silence stretched.
Frankie swallowed, giving a single nod. "Thank you."
"And it makes me real happy that you're doing better now."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his eyes stayed entirely dark. His gaze drifted down, anchoring somewhere between the two of you, as if measuring the distance that had grown since you left.
His hand twitched on the wheel, a microscopic movement toward you that he stopped just in time.
"Thank you."
You nodded.
Frankie seemed to hesitate. "And I... I'm so sorry," he murmured, his brown eyes lifting back to yours. "For hurting you and… and letting you down. You didn't deserve what I did to you."
You didn't offer an easy reassurance. You just let out a slow nod.
"And I'm really happy you're doing what you love," he added, his voice flattening out as he forced a smile. It was a tight, fragile thing. "I have no doubt everyone is gonna love your book."
You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Thank you."
Frankie’s smile faltered, dropping for a fraction of a second before he held it back up.
"And New York..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping from yours to look down at his own lap.
In that brief second of detachment, your eyes scanned his face with a desperate quiet hunger, memorizing him all over again. You traced the familiar slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the tiny lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago, the new marks on his face. You searched every single feature, hunting for a crack in his armor, looking for a hidden twitch, a shadow of hesitation, anything that said stay.
But Frankie just gave a soft shake of his head, looking back up. His expression was clear and almost painfully serene.
"I'm sure New York loves you too," he said softly. "It’s a big city, but it fits you. You’re gonna do amazing things there."
A cold ache settled deep into your stomach.
Was this encouragement? Was this a gentle nudge out the door? Was he clearing the path for you, sweeping away the debris?
A sudden winter seemed to settle inside the small cabin of the car. You forced a nod, your eyes drifting back to the dashboard where the green light of the clock kept ticking forward.
"Yeah," you breathed. "Thank you, Frankie."
He unclasped his hands from the steering wheel, the leather letting out a soft stick and release sound that felt incredibly loud. And the space between your seats suddenly felt like an ocean.
You looked straight ahead and unbuckled your seatbelt, the snap breaking the trance. "We should probably get Santi inside."
Without waiting for a response, you pushed the car door open and stepped out, your lungs begging for air.
You took a deep grounding breath of the cool night wind as you walked toward the front porch. Pressing the doorbell, you could hear the heavy thud of Frankie’s door closing behind you.
Emma opened the door almost instantly.
"Hey," she whispered, stepping outside and crossing her arms against the chill. "Will and Benny are already passed out. What happened? How's Santi?"
"Nothing," you said, turning back toward the car where Frankie was gently shaking Santi’s shoulder. "Santi was just at the park. Everything's fine."
Emma nodded, watching as Frankie carefully hauled a groaning Santi out of the backseat. You stepped in, grabbing your brother's other arm to stabilize him.
"Careful," you murmured.
Santi blinked heavily, a goofy smile spreading across his face as he looked at you.
"I'm careful," he slurred.
The three of you shuffled toward the porch in an awkward synchronized stumble, Frankie carrying most of Santi's dead weight while you guided his steps. Emma stepped aside, holding the front door wide open to let the makeshift rescue team pass.
"Will and Ben are in the living room," Emma guided quietly, shutting the door behind you. "You can take him straight to the bedroom."
"Alright, keep your feet steady, man," Frankie muttered to Santi, adjusting his grip around his torso.
Santi let out a low grunt, his sneakers dragging lazily against the hardwood floor.
"Why didn't you tell her?" he mumbled into the space between them.
You frowned, staring at your brother. Just then, Santi rolled his head back to look at you, his eyes unfocused but teasing. "He didn't... he didn't."
Frankie didn't acknowledge it, his face a mask of focus as they reached the open bedroom door. He placed a firm hand on Santi’s back, guiding him over the threshold.
"C'mon. Bedtime."
Santi paused for a second in the middle of the room, clumsily tugging at the zipper of his jacket.
"It's too fucking hot in here," he muttered.
A soft chuckle escaped Frankie’s lips. You watched them from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed, forcing a faint hollow smile that didn't reach your eyes.
"Hey."
Turning around, you found Emma standing a few feet away in the dimly lit hallway. You stepped out of the room, giving Frankie and Santi some space.
"What's the plan?" she asked softly.
"We're heading back to Yov's," you replied. "Frankie's staying with the guys."
Emma searched your face, her eyes lingering a bit too long. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
You slipped back into the bedroom. Santi was already sprawled out on the mattress, his jacket and shoes discarded on the floor, while Frankie pulled a thick blanket up to his chest.
"All good?" you asked quietly.
Frankie nodded, looking down at him. "Look at him. Like a baby."
You swallowed the tightness in your throat and walked out toward the living room. Emma was already on one of the armchairs. Across from her, Will and Benny were sound asleep on the couches, buried under a messy pile of blankets and breathing heavily.
"I'll call an Uber," you said, pulling out your phone.
Emma nodded. "Your mom texted me, by the way. Asked how long we were going to be. I told her we got held up because you had a stomach ache."
A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Right. Did she buy it?"
"Seems like it," Emma said, shrugging her shoulders.
You nodded, your fingers moving quickly across the screen to confirm the Uber ride, while the soft snores of the Millers drifted from the couches. Emma watched you in silence for a beat.
"I’m completely sober now," Emma noted quietly.
You offered a tight smile. "Me too. The scare Santi gave me cleared the alcohol right outta my system."
On your screen, a driver accepted the ride, the map showing he was only two minutes away.
"I’ll text mom to let her know we’re on our way," you said, just as Frankie walked back into the living room.
"Santi's already snoring," he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "I don't think he’ll wake up until noon tomorrow."
"Yeah, well, neither will these two," Emma whispered, gesturing with her chin toward Will and Ben. "How much did they even drink? Weren't you supposed to have other plans after the bar?"
Frankie shook his head. "I lost count. Benny got a little too excited ordering rounds."
"You gotta work tomorrow?" Emma asked.
Frankie shook his head slightly. "Yeah, but not until after ten."
In the heavy silence that followed, you listened to their casual back and forth, the ordinary words mapping out a life you were no longer part of. You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes glued to the glowing screen of your phone.
"Are you too busy tomorrow?" Emma asked, leaning back against the cushions.
Frankie shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Nah, not really."
You let out a quiet sigh. Shifting your weight, you stepped away from the living room without a word, slipping back into the dim hallway toward the room where Santi was sleeping.
As you walked, you caught a movement from the corner of your eye. You glanced back and saw Frankie watching you from the living room, his dark eyes tracking your retreat. You met his gaze for barely a second before turning your head away, focusing entirely on your brother.
It's fine, you thought. What did you really expect?
You had known that coming back to Austin meant facing Frankie, and facing Frankie meant clearing up a few things. But you couldn't pretend that the world had been on pause all this time. You couldn't expect him to show more than he already had. Because no matter how many feelings you still harbored for him, or how many he kept for you, if he even had any left; time had kept moving. And maybe... maybe this was just it. The end of the line.
The phone vibrated in your hand. The Uber was outside: Eric, dark grey Toyota Camry.
Casting one last look at Santi, you stepped closer to the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He barely stirred, completely and deeply asleep.
By the time you reached the living room, Emma was already standing by the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Ready, babe?"
You nodded, tightly crossing your arms against your chest.
You couldn't bring yourself to look directly at Frankie, but you could feel his gaze burning into your profile; he was standing just to your left.
"Okay," Emma murmured, twisting the doorknob and pulling the front door open.
You stepped out first, your feet moving automatically as if you suddenly couldn't bear to be in his vicinity for a single second longer.
The night air hit your face like a splash of cold water, but it wasn't enough to clear the suffocating feeling in your chest.
"Tell Yov I say hi," Frankie’s voice drifted from inside.
Only when Emma stepped out onto the porch beside you did you finally turn your head to look at him. Frankie’s eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, but you didn't say anything; you just offered a small fleeting smile, turning on your heel before it could fade.
Walking down the driveway toward the car waiting by the curb, you didn't look back. Not before getting into the car, not after the door clicked shut, and definitely not through the window as the engine revved and the house began to recede into the darkness.
The only thing you knew for certain was that you desperately needed a glass or two of that champagne. Or maybe something a lot stronger.
"Hey," Emma’s voice broke through the quiet, her fingers touching your forearm. "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"
You shook your head, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, but your body betrayed you completely. Your eyes burned, blurring with hot tears, and your mouth trembled, puckering into a soft painful grimace.
"Hey," Emma repeated, her fingers tightening just a fraction.
"It's over," you whispered. You didn't sob. You didn't break down. But your mouth trembled as the hot tears finally spilled over, tracks of quiet fire burning down your cheeks.
Take my hand where you want it - boss!Joel Miller x married!f!reader
Rating: Explicit, MDNI
WC: 2,6k
Summary: After you discover that your husband is cheating on you with Joel's secretary, Joel becomes your confidant.
One night, after your husband comes home late yet again, you rush to Joel for comfort. And Joel makes sure you get everything you deserve.
Tags: no outbreak, smut with a little plot, infidelity, reader is the wife of one of Joel's employees, kissing, reader gives instructions to Joel, consent king!Joel, soft!Joel, unprotected p in v, cream pie, nipple play, tits biting, sex on a table, hubby cheated first so fuck him, dirty talking, praising, Joel and his huge cock (heheheh), Joel keeps reader panties, pussy pronouns,mention of a vibe and masturbation, no description of reader besides having pussy and breasts and wearing a dress.
A/N: This one won the poll I made for the latest WIP Wednesday. I don't know why infidelity has become a recurring trope for me, I would never do that in real life, but here we are 😂 (I'm also single af sooo). English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you like it, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated.
dividers by: @/saradika-graphics
You don’t know what drove you to do it. Or rather, you do know. All too well.
You snuck out at night, like a thief, leaving your husband in bed.
How ironic. Until recently, you were responsible, a devoted wife, someone who tried her best to make the relationship work.
Of course, that was before you found out your husband was systematically cheating on you. Every sudden meeting, every urgent deadline, every project he had to work on late into the night—it was actually his boss secretary riding his cock in a seedy motel.
So what was the point of struggling to hold together the shards of something that was shattering right before your eyes?
What was the point of settling for your vibrator, masturbating silently in the bathroom, biting your lips and stifling your desperate need for someone to make you come the way your husband hadn’t even dreamed of doing for so long—far too long—while he had no qualms about shoving his cock into another woman’s pussy?
One day you stopped by the construction site where you thought you’d find your husband to bring him his favorite sandwich.
You didn’t find him. But you found Joel, his boss.
He was nice. He told you your husband was out to lunch. “Actually, he’s running late—he was supposed to be back half an hour ago.”
You looked at him. You looked at the desk next to his, and then back at him.
“Where’s Joanne?”
“At lunch,” he told you.
“They always disappear at the same time, right?”
You saw the exact moment when something clicked in his brain, when he connected the dots and his eyebrows furrowed, his lower lip trembling.
“Shit,” he whispered, his hands on his hips.
He didn’t dare look at you anymore, his eyes fixed on Joanne’s empty chair.
You didn’t want to cry, but you felt your cheeks streaked and wet.
Joel looked embarrassed, sorry, still confused as to how something like that had slipped his mind.
“I had no idea, I’m sorry,” he tried to explain.
“It’s not your fault, you know. A wife notices that kind of thing…” you said, quickly wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand.
Joel hugged you.
Driving home, you spent the whole time thinking about why you’d chosen a man like your husband instead of someone like Joel.
Why did you always fall in love with jerks? Why did you always let them treat you that way?
Your husband was late again. By now, you’d given up hope that he’d change. You pretended to be asleep, waited for him to get into bed and hear him snoring, and then you slipped out from under the covers.
Fuck it. Fuck him and the way he never knew how to satisfy you. Or take you into consideration. He’d been taking you for granted for at least a year.
At that point, you’d had enough of having dinner ready for him, the house clean, and his clothes washed and perfectly ironed.
Fuck it.
You threw on a dress in a hurry, fixed your hair, grabbed your bike, and started pedaling into the night. You weren’t even thinking about where you were going as the wind whipped against your face and your bike’s light cut through the darkness.
You arrived in front of Joel’s house. You left your bike in his driveway and knocked on the door.
The light was on in his bedroom. You heard his footsteps approaching as you waited under his porch in total silence.
The neighborhood was asleep.
“What are you doing here? Did something happen?” Joel asked you. He seemed surprised but stepped aside to let you in.
“Sorry for showing up here at this hour,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling the weight of what you were doing. “Joel, he…”
“Did he do it again?” he interrupted, looking at you with concern.
You instinctively buried your face in his chest. Joel didn’t touch you, but he let you do it.
“I’m so tired, so tired,” you cried, soaking his shirt.
You looked at him through your tears, asking the one question you were truly afraid to ask.
“I have to file for divorce, don’t I?”
“I mean…not my business but he’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you,” Joel nodded.
You knew that.
Joel had become your confidant by chance, but he’d been a good friend.
You’d been talking for a few weeks, ever since the first time he’d comforted you.
It was nice. He was nice.
You didn't have the courage, and you'd never been the vengeful type, but a few times you were on the verge of asking him to fire your husband.
Joel’s hands rested on your shoulders, then on your back, holding you close. “Cry,” he said simply, in a gentle voice, “let it all out.”
Joel was warm. He was gentle, reassuring, affectionate. And you needed that.
Your tear-filled eyes met his again, his knuckles brushed your cheek in a barely perceptible caress.
You took his hand. Clasping it tightly in yours, you pressed your lips to the back of his hand, whispering, “Thank you, Joel.”
“Don’t worry,” he replied, smiling at you “You can stay here for a while if you want. I'll go to my room, but call me if you need anything.”
“No, please, don’t leave me alone…” you begged him, unable to let go of his hand.
You hadn’t held a man’s hand in a long time, and Joel’s fingers intertwined with yours felt wonderful.
A feeling you’d been missing.
“What can I do for you?” he asked you. No one had asked you anything like that in years.
No one had paid you any attention in months.
Your husband fucked you lazily a couple of times recently, just quick thrusts, without any care or feeling, just out of marital duty. It was as if he were having sex with an inflatable doll.
It made you feel stupid and inadequate, without any charm or allure.
You didn’t know what to say.
“I…” You were afraid. Afraid to express what you were feeling, to say what you were going through, to put a name to what Joel was making you feel.
You realized you were trembling in his arms. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t fear—it was desire.
And when your brain registered it, sending the message to the lower part of your body, you felt a warmth rising from your stomach. A sensation similar to when you let yourself go in the privacy of your bathroom, slipping the vibrator into your panties.
So screw it.
“I just want to feel alive again, I want passion… I want…”
“Sex?” He interrupted you. Straight to the point.
“I…yeah” you lowered your gaze, looking at the tips of your shoes.
“With me?” He asked, gently taking your chin with two fingers and bringing your gaze back to his.
“P-Please…” you muttered.
You couldn't have thought of anyone else. No one who made you feel as safe as Joel.
“Take my hand where you want it,” he invited you. He was calm, reading your eyes, sensing your need.
“Take my hand where you want it”
Holding him by the wrist, you lifted your dress with your other hand, placing Joel’s hand on your hip, just above the waistband of your panties. Joel’s hand was relaxed; he let you guide it.
That was all it took.
You were standing in his living room, and the way Joel’s eyes were looking at you made you think you deserved more. You deserved someone who would look at you as intensely as he was. You deserved him.
Joel held you gently, respectfully; his fingers lingered at the hem of your panties, waiting for your consent. He didn’t go any further, letting you enjoy the weight of his hand on you, his warmth, and his long, calloused fingers resting on your bare skin.
You basked in that sensation, feeling your body come back to life, ignite, and burn.
Joel had never allowed himself to cross the line; he’d always acted like a friend up until that moment—never an inappropriate joke, never a mean remark, never trying to dominate you or force you to do anything you weren’t ready for.
But now, this unexpected closeness was telling you everything you needed to know. His gaze spoke for him, as did his hands and his hips, which moved involuntarily against yours, like a reflex he couldn’t control. He lowered his gaze, you even thought you saw him blush.
You were ready to allow yourself to think about yourself—and only yourself—as you hadn't done in far too long.
You let his hand slide down onto your panties.
His fingers moved cautiously, sliding down at the side, as if he were afraid to get too close to your center.
“Joel…”
“What do you want, baby?”
“I want you” you hesitated for a second before adding, “I want you to remind me what it feels like… touch me, Joel.” Your voice was shaky as you looked into his eyes. But you were certain, more certain than you’d ever been about anything.
“Guide me, then. Use your words, sweetheart, tell me exactly how you want me to touch you.”
And you did.
His hand slid down over your mound, while his mouth was on your neck, kissing and sucking on you tender skin.
His index and middle fingers found your wetness, plunging into it, gathering it up, and guiding it toward your clit.
You moaned, and when he began to trace tight concentric circles on your nerve bundle, you praised him, “Like that… just like that, don’t stop.”
Joel tried to take it slow and steady; whenever he applied too much pressure, you gently corrected him, and he caught on immediately, learning to read your body’s reactions.
His other hand clasped your breast again, and you found enough strength to whisper, “Play with my nipples.”
Two of his fingers closed around it, twisting it, pulling gently, making it harden. A shiver ran down your spine, and a guttural sound escaped your throat: “God… yes.”
He was completely focused on you; his clothed erection was pressing against your thigh, but he didn't seem bothered by it.
Your dress slipped over your head shortly after, he pulled down your bra, and his fingers were around your button again.
He leaned down, his fingers still tracing circles over your clit as your nipple slipped between his lips. He began to suck slowly, his tongue darting over the tip, his hand cupping the underside of your breast, testing your softness.
“Bite it…” you moaned, your hand tugging his hair at the base of his neck.
He did it, softly, holding his bite ever so gently but squeezing enough to make your knees buckle.
He smiled on your skin, watching you slowly fall apart for him.
“You like that, huh? Want more?”
“Yes” you replied under your breath, clutching your other hand on his bicep.
“This pussy’s been neglected for too long, babe, you want me to take care of her?” He whispered.
“Please…that’s all I want” you whined.
“Table, couch, bed… choose” he growled.
“Table” You didn't know how long it had been since your husband had slammed you onto your kitchen table to fuck you. He'd done it when you were newlyweds. Now it was a faint memory.
God, you missed that type of passion so badly.
Joel took you in his arms, your legs around his waist. He pushed you on the table, took off your shoes and slid your panties down.
“Taking this a little souvenir, okay?” He said, pushed them down the pocket of his jeans.
You giggled “yeah, why not”
He looked at you, all spread and open for him.
“You look amazing like that”
You felt your cheeks heat up as you begged him, “Fuck me, Joel, please.”
“How do you want it?” he asked. He was calm and composed, waiting for your instructions, despite the bulge growing in his pants.
“Rough,” you replied, “and raw.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Joel.” You smiled at him. You had a IUD and you trusted him more than any man you knew.
Joel wasn’t a womanizer. He raised his daughter on his own, built a company from scratch, he didn't have time to screw around.
But boy, he fucked you like crazy that night.
He leaned down over you, kissed a trail down your neck, along your collarbone, and down your arm until he took your fingers into his mouth.
He coated them with his saliva, his tongue gliding skillfully over them. He released them, smirking.
“Do me a favor, okay? Use them on your clit while I fuck you. I'd really love to see it”
You nodded, feeling your whole body aching for him..
He took off his shirt, revealing his freckled, tanned chest. Your mouth watered at the sight. He was so handsome. Muscular, but not too much. Your eyes took in his broad shoulders, his biceps, and drifted down to the happy trail that disappeared into his jeans. He pulled them down, kicking them off. When his boxers joined his jeans on the floor, you were left breathless.
He was huge. He wrapped one hand around it, moving closer.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s okay, it’ll fit.”
You were soaking wet. With every centimeter he entered you, you felt his veins sliding against your walls, his girth stretching you, as you eagerly sucked his cocked in.
Joel was praising you, whispering in your ear, “Good girl. All nice and wet for me. You’re taking it so well.”
Every word that slipped into your ears sounded like honey—or perhaps like a poison that was hypnotizing you. You liked it. You wanted more. Moans rose from your throat uncontrollably.
“All the w-way in,” you managed to stammer, “give it to m-me. . . all of it, Joel.”
When he reached the bottom, you felt his balls press against your butt.
“Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.” You were filled to the brim. Craig, your husband, couldn't even come close to competing. He had a nice cock, sure, but Joel...
He grabbed your legs, holding them slightly raised with his arms, and started moving.
You were bouncing on the table as if you weighed nothing, while he thrust into you.
One of his hands reached for your breast, the other held you by the hips.
“That's what you needed, right? For me to stuff you like this? To stretch out this pretty little pussy, huh?” He grunted.
“Yes. Yes Joel”
He lifted you up to sit on the table, sliding you along the edge—still inside you—while holding one of your legs.
The change in position allowed him to reach that special spot inside you.
You slid your hand down between the two of you, reaching your clit.
“Yeah, baby, touch yourself.”
It was intoxicating. As soon as you started drawing circles on your bundle of nerves, you started moaning his name, over and over. So loud that you thought the whole neighborhood would hear you.
Your breasts were pressed against his sweat-beaded chest, your nipples rubbing against it with every thrust.
Your other hand slid through his hair, tugging at his curls.
“That’s it, gorgeous, Don’t stop stroking that pretty clit for me”
That idiot Craig never let you do it, every time you tried, he complained that he wasn't enough for you.
Joel was urging you on, “Come on, baby, I know you’re close, I can feel the way you’re clenching around me” speeding up the pace.
You did, your cunt was literally spasming around the huge thickness of his cock, crying all over, juices dripping on your inner thighs.
You came, quivering in his arms, your whole body shaking, overstimulated and exhausted.
He came right after you with a convulsive thrust of his hips, unloading his cum inside you in long, thick spurts.
“Everything okay?” he asked you, as soon as he caught his breath.
He gently kissed your lips, cupping your cheek.
You smiled. You hadn't smiled like that in so long you couldn't even remember when.
“It was amazing. Everything I could have wanted, and more.” You returned his kiss, lingering on the taste of him.
Craig was no longer even in the back of your mind. He and his lover could have a happy life—you didn't care.
"And there's no remedy for memory / your face is like a melody / It won't leave my head."
— Lana Del Rey / "Dark Paradise"
⟢ pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader
⟢ warnings: provocative themes (18+, mdni), pre-outbreak Joel Miller, strip-club setting, private dance, age gap, sex work, stripper!reader, hurt/comfort, slow burn, protective Joel Miller, affection-starved reader, acts of service, emotional repression, no outbreak AU, flowers, mutual pining, first date vibes, emotional intimacy, caring Joel Miller
⟢ word count: ~3.1k
ACT I: East of Eden | Masterlist | ACT III: The Fall (TBD)
lips divider by me ♡ / lace divider and photos are from Pinterest ♡
TWO DAYS LATER //
"Had a good day off?" Poppy asks, swiping mascara through her lashes.
You pull on your bra, clasping it at your back. Sequins and fringe today, the kind that swish and glimmer with every step, catching on the lights.
"I did. Thanks," you say, glancing up at her with a smile.
Just then, Diamond enters, holding a bouquet of flowers in front of her face.
"Scarlett, babe," she exclaims, peeking around them. "You've got a secret admirer."
You blink, hands stopping where they were doing up your bra. "What the hell."
"Jenny said some guy came in and left them for you. There's no note."
Before you can dwell on it, Lacey's voice chimes from where she sits at her vanity and interrupts the thought.
"Do you think it's that guy?"
Poppy gasps, sitting upright so quickly the mascara wand nearly flies out of her grip.
"The knight?"
You frown, shooting Lacey a questioning glance.
"What guy?"
"Oh, yeah," Diamond adds. "The private dance guy. He came back yesterday asking for you."
You straighten, taking the flowers into your arms, shoulders rigid.
"He give a name?" you ask carefully.
"Yeah. Joel something."
You would ask more questions if you could think of something, anything meaningful that springs to mind, but all you manage is—
"Cool... Thank you."
You bring the flowers to your nose, inhale the sweet scent of the lilies before setting them on your vanity.
While you fill a glass to set them in water, Poppy watches you.
Catching her watching you, you ask, "What?"
She comes up behind you, resting her chin atop your head when you settle into your stool, meeting your gaze in the mirror.
"He gets a dance, then comes back asking for you, then he brings you flowers—no questions asked."
She lifts her head, plucking a lip gloss tube from your bag.
"He totally has it bad," she says with a finality that brokers no argument.
You roll your eyes with a huff. "Come on, he does not. He just wants to sleep with me or something," you reason, and the thought settles in your stomach like a brick.
Maybe, you think to yourself.
Maybe not.
You've had admirers before, sure. But they've never brought you flowers. They've never come and gone just to do something nice for you.
This is different and you know it, but how?
"Look," Poppy says, perching on the edge of the table. "I'm not saying to marry the guy, but if he wants to treat you," she shrugs, "Let 'im."
With a sigh, you relent, offering her a lip gloss that better matches her eyeshadow.
"Always the voice of reason, Poppy."
She grins, blowing you a kiss. "And don't you forget it."
All night, your thoughts linger.
On the flowers in the dressing room. On the door, wondering if he'll come in any moment now and take you by surprise. On him.
You go through the motions.
Dance, sway, grind, repeat. Your calves are sore by the time you finish your second number and you're itching for a cigarette.
"Where you goin'?" asks Lola, watching you approach the door. You tug at your robe, pulling it shut, smokes in hand.
"Taking a break. I'll be back in a minute."
"'Kay," she chimes. "Just don't take too long. You know Richie hates when we come in smelling."
"Yeah, well," you slip one between your lips. "Richie can kiss my ass."
She barks a laugh, shaking her head. "Somethin' tells me he wouldn't say no."
You groan, gagging playfully as you head outside. Your lighter clicks. Again, again, again, until you stare at it with a scowl.
"Damn thing," you mutter.
"Need a light?"
You shouldn't recognize that voice, shouldn't remember it like a hymn, but you do. "Sure," you say, turning towards him.
Your eyes don't leave his as he brings the lighter to your lips, setting fire to the tip of the cigarette held between them. As soon as it cherries, he draws the flame away, clicking the lid shut.
You take a drag, draw the smoke deep into your lungs until it burns before blowing it out in a slow breath.
"This is getting creepy now," you tease, gesturing between the two of you. "First, you come on my day off. Then you leave flowers. Now you're loitering."
"Wouldn't call it that," Joel says.
Maybe you should feel unsettled that he's putting in the effort to cross paths with you. Instead, you're elated.
"Guess the flowers were pretty nice," you hum, tapping the cigarette over the ground. You watch the ash flutter down, crossing your arms against the chill in the air, cooling the sweat lingering at your nape.
"Wasn't sure what you'd like."
"And that matters?" you ask, studying him.
He holds your gaze. "'Course it does."
You smile as you look him over. He just came from work, if the dusty boots and flannel are any indication. The cigarette burns steadily between your fingers.
"Well, I liked 'em plenty."
He clears his throat, nods once. "Good."
Your fingers reach out before you can help it, swiping at his shirt just beside the collar, brushing away lint that isn't there. "You back for another dance then?"
"That what it's gonna take?" he asks quietly, enough that you almost miss it.
Your brows furrow, confusion flickering across your face. "What?"
"To talk to you. I gotta pay?"
"Yeah. That's how it works."
Taking another long pull of the cigarette, you put it out on the ashtray beside the trash. "Gotta get back in."
Halfway to the door, you toss him a glance over your shoulder. Still standing in place, looking entirely out of his element.
"You coming?"
"Yeah," he sighs. "I'm comin'."
In the club, the air smells like sweat, cheap liquor, and desperation. It's familiar enough to be comforting—this you know. Not flowers, not sweet words, not whatever it is Joel's trying to offer.
Then you remember his expression, that sheepish look on his face that says he's learning as he goes just like you are.
You turn to face him so abruptly, you nearly collide with his chest. Rising on your toes, like you have any right to, you press a kiss to his cheek.
Quick. Chaste. A barely there brush of your lips against his tired skin.
Watching his ears flush with color, you lean in and murmur, "For the flowers."
Patting his chest, you make for the dressing room. Along the way, the robe slipping from your shoulders, you catch Poppy's eye.
"Oh my god," she mouths.
"I know," you mouth back.
At your vanity, you're halfway through touching up your makeup when Diamond pokes her head in. "Scarlett, baby, you—"
"Have a dance," you finish, already rising from your seat. "I know."
Diamond laughs. "Damn, okay! Go get your man."
"He's not my man."
"Mhm. That's why you're fixing your tits like you care."
You glance down, your hands stilling where they were adjusting your bra. "He's not mine."
"Get your ass to the room already," she exclaims, swatting your ass as you walk past her.
"I'm telling you he's not," you call back. But the way you walk down the hall with renewed energy, heels clicking as you go, betrays you with every step.
He's already settled in by the time you slip inside, watching him fidget with his shirt, shift in the seat like he has no idea what to do with himself now that he's here.
"Didn't think you'd go through with it. Not gonna lie," you tease, stepping further into the room, swaying to the music that filters through the speakers.
He doesn't stare at your hips, doesn't watch you like a piece of meat. Instead, he averts his gaze entirely.
"You don't gotta dance," he says as you climb onto his lap.
"You paid for it," you murmur, staring at his lips for longer than you'd care to admit, bringing his hands to your waist.
"Not the dance. I paid to talk to you."
"And why would you do that?"
You're watching him now, head tilted like he's a puzzle you're keen on figuring out, but half of the pieces are still missing.
"'Cause I wanna know."
"About what?"
"About you."
That makes you freeze, staring at his face and searching those hazel eyes that are looking straight through you. Your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart against your palm.
You want to believe him, but your mind keeps telling you things like this don't happen to girls like you. Still, against your better judgment, you choose to believe him.
"You're serious."
"Said I was," he mutters gruffly.
When the song changes, the momentary lapse between beats filling the room with quiet, you move off of his lap to sit beside him. Thighs touching, his denim-clad leg warming yours.
"What do you wanna know?" you ask cautiously. "I don't think I can give you much."
"Whatever you wanna tell. Why you work here, what you like, what you don't."
You laugh quietly, wryly. Too good to be true.
"Sounds like a date."
"If you want it to be," is all he says, and your pulse thumps a pattern you don't recognize in response.
Swallowing, you glance down at your outfit. A skimpy two-piece covered in fringe and tacky sequins, itchy beyond belief. Heels that leave you blistered after an hour, that dig into your skin until it's mottled and bruised.
"Ain't exactly dressed for one," you murmur, pulling lightly at a strand of the fringe.
He looks at you then, fingers finding your chin, tilting it until you're forced to meet his gaze.
"Think you look pretty."
Without meaning to, your fingers curl against his nape. His hand settles on your thigh, warm and steady.
Not moving. Not trying to grab more than he deserves. Just touching you to feel close to you.
"I don't have a favorite color," you say quietly. "I like multiple, I guess. Pink, green, purple. Things like that."
You watch him for silent permission to continue, and he hums, nodding his head only once.
He doesn't interrupt, doesn't act surprised that you aren't the woman in front of him now all the time. That there are days when you have no sex appeal at all, and you wear granny panties for the sake of comfort.
You tell him you like to read, that you watch old romance movies and pretend you're the heroine the guy falls in love with. That you think falling in love is something that only happens in cinema and not real life.
You talk about how you have days where you feel disgusting and can barely pull yourself out of bed, and only when you feel too vulnerable to continue do you stop.
"I don't know what else to say. No one ever really asks me this kinda stuff."
He leans into your touch, your fingers scratching lightly at his scalp as they comb through his hair.
"S'alright," he says, voice low. "You tell me when it comes to you."
Your lips move before your mind can catch up. "Okay. I will."
The men in the club cheer loudly, the sound spilling through the crack beneath the door, drawing your attention to it. One of the girls must be performing—Poppy, maybe Lacey.
"It's not all bad working here," you admit suddenly, feeling the need to justify your decision. "I need the money, but it's a decent job."
For some reason, you think he'll tell you you're a fool. That this job is degrading, not good enough for a girl like you. Or maybe it's just right, and this is all he thinks you're worthy of doing.
"Never said it wasn't. A job's a job."
"Yeah," you smile. "Yeah, it is. The girls treat me like family, y'know? And the money's something, at least. That's all I can really ask for."
"I know what you mean," he says, and it feels like you parted the curtains on a dark, gloomy day and sunlight filled the room.
He tells you he's a contractor. That he has a daughter. That he struggles often, but does what he can for her. It makes you look at him differently.
"You seem like a good man," you murmur, fingers leaving his nape to toy with the hem of his shirt.
"Don't know about that," he chuckles.
"C'mon. Don't be modest."
A smile teases his lips. "Ain't that either."
You hardly realize how much time has passed until someone knocks at the door. "Scarlett? You have another request."
He looks away without a word, patting your leg. "S'alright. Go on."
You untangle yourself from him, withdrawing your legs from across his lap, watching him stand from the couch in silence. He holds out a hand which you take without reluctance, lifting you up easily.
Adjusting your bottoms, you're about to thank him for coming when he asks, "You got a ride home?"
"What?"
"Could give you one... If you wanted."
You shift on your feet, sore and aching in your heels. "You sure?"
He reaches out to steady you, hands hovering for a moment before settling at your sides, pulling you closer. "Yeah," he rubs lightly at your skin. "I'm sure."
You smile, smoothing his hair back. "Alright. But no funny business."
He snorts. "None of that."
"I don't get off for another hour though," you say apologetically.
"I'll wait."
You snicker despite yourself. "God, you're so weird."
He releases you finally, leading you to the door. "Yeah, you said that last time."
"And I meant it."
"That why you're blushin'?"
You straighten, cheeks burning hot when you press the backs of your hands to them. "I am not."
The corner of his mouth lifts, enough to have you staring at his mouth in disbelief. "Sure," he says, thumb brushing your cheek so gently, you'd think you imagined it. "If you say so."
And then he's leaving the room, gone before you can think of a response. You're left standing there with nothing but the rapid jump of your heart to keep you company.
As you and the girls head outside, the parking lot empty save for a few sedans and the bartender's SUV, you spot Joel's pickup truck instantly. It's a little beat-up, but well maintained despite its age.
He gets out when he sees you hobbling over, feet covered in blister patches beneath your socks.
"Need a hand?" he asks, opening the door for you.
"No, it's okay—"
He lifts you up easily, gripping your midriff to help you into the passenger seat.
A giggle escapes you. "I could've gotten up myself."
"You're limping. Don't mind helping," he says quietly.
It's so kind, the words sweet in your ears, you can't help but sigh softly in response.
"Thanks, Joel."
He shuts you in, rounding the truck to climb into the seat with a grunt. He throws it into reverse, pulling out of the spot and heading onto the main road.
"I'll guide you. Just straight from here, then make a left at the light."
"No problem."
The silence stretches, interrupted only by the idle drone of the radio and the quiet hum of the engine.
His hand rests around the shifter, thumb tapping the leather absentmindedly, your eyes flitting to it every few seconds. You bite at your lip, grip tightening around the flowers, the paper crinkling gently.
"You have a good day?" you ask abruptly.
"Can't complain. You?"
"...Yeah. I had fun."
The turn signal flicks to life—a steady click, click, click until he turns. The moment he straightens out the wheel, your fingers brush his in question.
You graze the line of his wrist, then his knuckles. An accident, you tell yourself. He glances at you briefly then turns his hand over, not saying a damn thing about it.
You slip yours into it, fingers lacing together. When his thumb rubs along your skin, your head leans back against the seat.
"That's nice," you whisper.
He doesn't respond, but you know he heard you when he squeezes lightly.
You watch him sidelong—following the slope of his nose, the scruff along his jaw, the way his lashes flutter against his cheek when he blinks.
"You're starin'," he murmurs.
"I am. Can't help it."
His face softens, jaw working then relaxing again.
"Still goin' the right way?"
You look ahead, recognizing the church on one corner and the McDonald's with its bright sign on the other. "Yeah. Turn right at the next light."
The conversation filling the air isn't small talk. It's more than that. Something unfamiliar that makes your defenses fall a little further with every breath you take in the dark cabin.
"This is me," you gesture, already gathering your things like you'll be expected to leave the second he stops.
It's a dreary apartment complex—a former motel converted into still-overpriced units that you share with more roommates than anyone knows what to do with. No central A/C despite the sizzling Texan summers, hardly a kitchen, and a single closet that scares you to open from how obnoxiously full it is.
To your surprise, he pulls into the spot closest to your door before putting the truck in park. He scans the exterior, and having had to defend it to others before, you do it again.
"It's not that bad inside. A little cramped, but we make do."
"You live with people?"
You shrug a shoulder. "A couple roommates."
"Okay," he says, exhaling slowly. "Ain't my business."
"Isn't it?" you ask, searching his face. "Am I not your business?"
"You wanna be?"
Bringing your joined hands to your lips, you hold his gaze as you press a kiss to his fingers.
"Ask me again the next time you see me."
He mulls it over then.
"Over dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"I ain't a bad cook," he says in justification. "My daughter might disagree, but I can make somethin'."
"Okay... Yeah, dinner sounds good. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow. Six?"
"Six is good," you say quickly, like he'll suddenly change his mind. "Pick me up at six."
You start toward the apartment, flowers in your arms, duffle slung onto your shoulder.
Halfway there, you turn. He's still there, engine idling, watching to make sure you get inside.
You laugh to yourself. "Go home."
He shakes his head. "Get inside first."
"Chivalry isn't dead, huh?" you ask, twirling your keys around your finger.
"Not if I can help it."
Only after you've turned the key in the lock and given him a wave does the truck finally pull away. The engine fades into the night just as the door clicks shut behind you.
a/n: FINALLY I HAVE AN UPDATE 💔💔 forgive me for the constant delays, i was so incredibly busy with work and class, i fell behind on everything, but i'm excited to be back and i'll hopefully have part III up by next week! thank you for reading, and thank you for helping me hit my next follower milestone! ilysm!!! ❤️
