A Closer Look at Why SweetDream's Images Feel Real
Most of the realism debate in AI companion apps comes down to one boring-sounding word: consistency. Anyone can luck into a single striking image. The harder problem is making the same character look like the same character a hundred times in a row, under different light, in different poses, with the same little quirks you set during creation. That's the lens I used when I sat down with sweetdream.ai, and it's where the platform quietly separates itself.
The looks you dial in during setup actually carry through. I picked specific features, a particular vibe, even a backstory and personality, and the generated photos respected those choices rather than averaging them into a generic stock face. The texture work is what sells it up close, natural skin, believable hair, eyes that track instead of staring blankly through you.
I'll be measured here because I dislike hype. SweetDream isn't magic, and no tool is flawless. But weighed feature by feature, the photo and video output is the strongest argument for calling it the best AI girlfriend platform right now, and the realistic voice calls and context-aware chat only reinforce that. If you care about images that genuinely resemble your AI companion, start there and judge for yourself.
HELLO! Iâm in the car and Iâm realizing I never made a big masterlist of all my fics so here we are!
⧠Ellie âď¸ 21 ⧠âď¸ U.S. ⧠english and journalism graduate âď¸incoming law student ⧠she/her/hers âď¸ loves lavender, lana del ray, books, writing and a million other things ⧠fav p project: fantastic fourâď¸
all dividers on this page are by @saradika-graphics
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Fics
Iâll find you in every cosmos (one shots included on masterlist)
Eyes upon me (in progress)
Purple Rain (in progress)
notes:
I do take requests for one shots. I will use my own discretion when it comes to what I will or will not write, but there aren't many things I won't write.
I do not have a posting schedule. I work full time and am starting law school soon so this is a side, passion project of mine. As of right now I try to update once a week.
I do not consent for my work to be fed into AI or created into a character ai bot
hi! iâve been devouringgggg Purple Rain recently and i just have to say that you are SUCH a talented writer. the attention and care you give to your craft is so obvious and i really admire that, from one creative to another! i was just wondering if you happen to have a Ko-fi?? (if you donât plzzzz make one, i would really love to support you just to say thank you for being such a genuine creator on heređ)
oh wow this is so kind đĽšđĽšđĽš I love getting anons they make my day so much knowing that my work is reaching people.
Funny story is Iâve been debating making one for a while, but I was afraid it would come off like I was putting a paywall around my writing or making my readers uncomfortable or pressured.
Im in a very toxic and emotionally abusive living situation right now that I have been trying to get out of, but landlords in my city dont really give apartments if you donât have a salary or a large savings (Iâm on an intern wage). Iâve been debating back and forth on making a page just to throw it out there in case anyone has liked my stories and wanted to contribute, and then put it toward my moving out fund <3
So, with this anon and my living situation Iâve decided Iâm going to make one but I want to make it clear I am by no means pressuring or forcing or demanding anyone to use it!! I write completely for fun and entering this space last year has really helped rejuvenate my love for writing. I love my readers and I love engaging with yall and I would never ever put anything behind a paywall for you guys. You deserve the world.
here is the link if you want to lookđ¤ again thank you for the kind words nonnie!!
The memory of storming to Joelâs trailer drunk started flickering in your mind like a faulty light bulb before finally staying on and buzzing.Â
You flew up right, scrambling to cover yourself with whatever was around you in case you wereâŚwell, in case you were naked. Though if you did drunkenly sleep with him you might have killed yourself in front of him.Â
But he wasnât looking at you like a man who regretted the night before. He was standing there, in a black shirt with a small âMiller Constructionâ logo on the side, and some blue jeans. His hair was combed, but free, so his curls bounced around his head. Good to see he was finally listening to your advice - you used to tell him you hated his slicked back hair.Â
âHey, hey,â he held up his hand like he was speaking to a spooked animal. âYouâre fine. Youâre fine. You were just drunk and it wasnât safe for you to go home.âÂ
You were still trying to mentally wake up and have your memory from last night connect with the present. You just stared at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed.Â
He glanced at how you were holding the covers over yourself.Â
âRelax. We didnât do anything. I may be evil to you but Iâm not a monster.â
You shakily let the covers go. You barely even felt the shirt on your skin, it was so big.Â
âRespectfully, I would rather get into another car accident than ever sleep with you again.âÂ
It was mean to say, but he let out a faint snort.Â
âI ainât too giddy to get in bed with you either darlinâ. Was just trying to prevent you from getting hit by a car on your drunk walk home.âÂ
You shrugged and rolled your neck.Â
âCould have checked off two boxes. Get into an accident inside a car and outside a car.â
He looked down when he realized he was smiling a little. You gave him a quick one up and down while he wasnât looking. The shirt he was wearing certainly wasnât big on him. It was fitted just enough that you could see his arms straining the sleeves, and a small tummy pushing against the edge of his jeans. He had some greys coming in his hair, just threaded throughout his curls and you couldnât help but wonder if it was genetic or stress.Â
When he looked back up, there was something different on his face, something that almost resembled concern.
âLast night you, umâŚâÂ
You sighed and shook your head.Â
âI do not need to hear a lecture about me showing up drunk at your trailer Joel.â
âNo, not that,â he sputtered a little. âYouâŚyou said that you knew it was me this time. You were glad it was me.â
It took even you a moment to think about what you were talking about. You never told Joel the truth about what happened on Halloween. Your relationship was so bad at that point that your roommates told you that it would have been the final straw. Because, they pointed out, it was cheating. You cheated. And then Joel would have dumped you and you would have lost him forever.Â
YouâŚyou hadnât told him about that had you? In your drunkenness? It was something that took you years to shove into a tiny glass bottle and store it away, and now you apparently decided to be vulnerable with him in a state where you couldnât even explain.Â
âYou said something too about Halloween before falling asleep,â Joel explained quickly. âAnd itâs just - do you remember what you meant?âÂ
You lifted your hand up and rested it against your chest. Your heart was hammers through your palms and radiating out of your fingertips.
⤡ chapter summary: your play pretend family starts to settle into a routine, but trouble always ensures. ⹠11k
⤡ warnings/tags. 18+ (minors dni), eventual smut, age gap, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, pinning, unrequited love, heavy angst, there was only one bed, hurt/comfort, domestic!abbot, fluff, reader goes by the nickname lola. tw: suicide, use of drugs (x1 marijuana). inspired by the movie life as we know it.
⤡ notes. will you believe me if i tell you i lowkey was thinking about pedro when writing a certain character here? you can't escape your roots! also, the reason i pushed this two days later is i underestimated the length (it's literally 11:59pm bruh) and chose to watch the wc instead; LET'S GO SCALONETAAA!
㠤㠤㠤series masterlist â previous â next
Finding out the most challenging thing of your life isn't bringing someone back to life or doing a spinal tap but changing a fucking diaper is a new low.
Jack was the one who noticed it first, which is considerably amazing since you'd think his sense of smell was fucked up as a veteran.
"No, I can't smell it. What?"
He tilts his head towards the baby. Oh. Now you get why.
"Maybe she finaIIy pooped. Did she?"
You pick her up, nose instantly regretting it as a wave of nausea hits you. Jack stands at your left.
"Yeah, I think you may be right."
Upstairs, in her bedroom, you place the baby over the changing station. You cover your nose out of habit.
"It's not that bad. Just a weird smeII, right?"
"It is," he replies but looks about to throw up, which again, as a veteran, you'd think he has a little more resistance. "Go ahead then."
Your turn to face him.
"What? Why me? Because I'm the girI?"
His eyes darken with annoyance.
"Don't go there. You're the one who loves kids here, where did that love go?"
You exhale heavily through your nose.
"I never said I loved changing diapers, which by the way, I've never done before in my life!"
Jack shrugs, "It's never too late to learn."
Without thinking, you grab his hand. You feel him tense under your unexpected touch.
"Take the tabs off," you instruct, ignoring how he volunteered you before. "See? These little, yeah-"
For some miracle, he obeys under your tight grip. As soon as he removes them and pulls down the diaper, you gasp. Abbot gags.
"Don't do that," you protest, "you're gonna make me throw up."
"She didn't eat enough to produce that. Just a banana," he mutters with disbelief. Then, looks away, "Oh, she's getting it in her toes."
"Okay, give me the wipes."
He pulls a chunk out, frantic. You wipe her feet hastily.
"Give me another one!" you bark, extending your hand.
The doorbell rings. Probably the food you ordered earlier.
"Oh. I got it."
"Abbot," you call in between gritted teeth, "don't Ieave me in here."
But he's already running downstairs, moving as fast as his body can take him.
"Jack!"
"Can't leave the Doordash guy waiting!" he calls back.
You look back at Diana, who softly coos.
"Who'd say such a tiny thing can make all... These," you whisper, then groan. "Oh, it's burning my eyes."
After what feels an eternity, you come down to find Jack sorting out take out. He looks up instantly, only to go speechless, mouth open slightly.
"What? She's fine. In fact, perfect. And I did all that without your help."
"No," he walks out of the kitchen towards you, "it's not that-"
"You're a coward," you scoff. "You think you're off the hook because your shift starts soon?"
"No, it's just-"
"What?!"
"Sweetheart," Jack's whole face threatens to break into a grin, "you have shit on your face."
Your eyes widen.
"Take her," you practically shove the baby into his hands, "I'm going to wash my face."
Both shame and his laughter follow you into the bathroom, your reflection mocking your bad luck with the clear stain in your cheek. You feel yourself gag.
"It's official," you say as you come out of the bathroom, "I'm skipping lunch."
"But sweetheart," Jack's voice is laced with mockery, "you worked so hard to clean her up. Accept your prize."
She gurgles, slamming her hands against the kitchen island's surface like it's the most entertaining game in the world.
"You're crazy if you think I'll eat a burrito full of beans after having shit streaked across my face. In fact, I think I'm never eating beans again."
He sets his food down.
"In fact, I think I lost my appetite too."
You smirk, "Can't handle the sight of a little shit, Abbot?"
"I'm handling you," he answers without looking up.
Your face burns with embarrassment.
"Try for about a year or the time we have left together."
He looks at you before answering flatly:
"Can hardly wait."
Without bothering to wait for another reply, he gets up, groaning.
"Since lunch is postponed, I might as well take a nap before I leave."
And here comes the other problem. Maybe changing a diaper isn't the worst thing. No, scratch that.
It's the horrible realization that there is only one bed. In the house you share. With Jack Abbot. The man you hate.
"Yeah, about that..."
"What?" he chuckles, "still keeping up the diaper grudge?"
You roll your eyes. "I don't hold grudges."
"Is that right?" Abbot's tone drops a shade meaner than his usual sarcasm. "Yeah, then your reason for switching to the day shift must be shallow."
Something flares in your chest, both the shame that comes from recognition and the rage that follows after it washes into something wounded.
You don't feel like poking at old scars that have healed. You don't feel like talking to Jack Abbot at all.
But he's here, as stated by Noelle and his duty to his old friend, maybe, so you need to be water when his fire meets your rage.
"There is only one bed," you deadpan.
The guest room Robby never used, avoiding its fate of turning into a storage room only because the previous owners had a bed in there he never bothered to sale or get rid of.
He blinks before running a hand through his greying locks, choking out a sound that can be a snort or a huff.
"Can't this day get any better?"
Even when he's being a douche (to you), he strays back to his manners. Jack, ever the gentleman, offers it to you.
Be it your pride or a certain guilt of letting a war amputee sleep on the couch, you deny it.
"We're obviously not sharing a bed" you anticipate before he comes up with one of his lines. "You're always free to take Robby's old room."
"So his ghost can berate me for stealing his favorite resident?" Jack coughs up, "damn right."
You can't tell if the recoil of your stomach is because you're irritated at his joke or the implications of it. You also can't tell if his voice is heavy with mockery or something else.
"Disrespecting the dead? Wow, there goes another reason to hate you on my list."
He smirks, looking the type of smug you've come to hate. You remember last week, the same loathsome cheeky attitude he used when he met Dr. Al-Hashimi for the first time. Talked about drinks after finding a common ground.
You were annoyed at how it always seemed to work. Only that. Because it didn't work on you, so it was annoying to see it do its magic on others.
"If you keep a list, I don't think you hate me as much as you say," he retorts, amused. "Boy pulling girl's pigtails type of situation."
"And who is who?"
He doesn't reply but gifts you with a boyish grin.
When you feel heat up your neck, you decide it's time to get back on track.
"We should decide on it fairly."
If it's to not contradict you or appreciation over your supposed concern, you'll never know, his expression settled into his usual stoicism.
"And how will we sort it out?"
Turns out deciding by Rock, Paper, Scissors feels childish for two indecisive grown-ups forced to live together.
"We can spin a bottle," you suggest, "I'm sure it won't be hard to find an empty one."
He smirks. "If you wanted to kiss me, you could've just said."
That earns him a slap on his arm.
Jack sighs, "we should just flip a coin."
"No," you insist, "it has to be earned."
"So you suggest we hold a rally because you feel sorry for me or can't handle some skin?"
You grit your teeth until your jaw hurts.
"I can handle you, Abbot."
You had.
One year of putting up with his silences when the shift got heavy, of being able to dodge the coldness of his interactions with others. Of suppressing the rush of heat to your face whenever he got too playful for your liking. It had to account for something.
He just smirks. "I'd like to see you try."
You don't think you can survive another year like this.
"The bed should be mine just because of what comes out of your mouth."
"And that is?" he taunts.
"Crap," you throw blankly.
"Oh," he crosses his arms, "but I thought that's what came out from-"
"Okay!" you interrupt, feeling your skin burn where the streak used to be in your cheek, "I get it."
You look around the room, trying to figure out if sleeping on the couch would be better than enduring one more second of Jack's nonsense.
It's like throwing darts in the dark.
Wait.
"I have an idea."
You remember one Saturday you had the rare, free weekend. Because of some small talk with Robby and having nothing better to do, you ended up volunteering to help him do some "Spring Cleaning" on his garage, or in Dr. Garcia's words, free labor for some dick.
"Then it wouldn't be free," you answered, several shades red. She never confirmed her suspicions nor did you deny them.
That's why you remembered it, obviously. Not because the garage had meant hours trapped inside with your boss under the unbearable heat, sweat mixed with his musk and perfume lingering in the air. Or every time you teased him when boxes filled with crap kept showing up, asking why he had many or moved to such a big house.
"Your idea of a sad bachelor pad is pretty warped, Robby."
"It's because this is an update."
You find a cobweb the size of America and sneeze.
"Whatever you say."
He gave you a cryptic smile, enough to make your heartbeat pick up.
"It's never too late."
You try not to cry over some stupid darts.
"You want us to play that?" Jack laughs, but it's not, for the first time in a while, to make fun of you. No, he looks like just the mere suggestion is entertaining to him. "I hope you're not thinking of stabbing one through my heart."
The baby laughs from the carpet like the thought of a dart piercing through Jack impenetrable Abbot is the funniest idea in the whole world.
Your voice drips with sarcasm as you grab the darts, "Wow, it's like you can still read my mind."
"Old habits die hard."
You try to brush by the real intention behind his tone and not think about it.
"I can still win."
What you need is to focus on the dartboard. And if you feel your stomach recoil, that's breakfast, not nerves of him. Never. Maybe nerves at the prospect of losing; you're a sore loser. "
"Not to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but you're playing against a veteran. My aim is literally better than yours."
"It's not all about aim."
Abbot laughsâactually laughs, loud and unapologetic, as if you're friends drinking on a bar and playing darts, not strangers trying to sort a dumb decision out in the name of avoiding the hassle of sharing a bed.
"It is all about aim."
You're determined to prove him wrong. Like some cheap guru or self-help book you'd buy last minute at the airport: It is all in the mind.
"I will win this bed from you."
"Out of spite or because you'd like to sleep well?"
"Whatever annoys you more."
You take down a frame that clearly still has the default picture it comes with. In the nail left, you hang the dartboard.
"Ladies first," as he makes an obnoxious reverence.
"You're giving me an advantage?"
Jack smirks. "It's cute you think you can still win, sweetheart."
He's being annoying on purpose, like he always is with you. Short fuse, he called you once (you weren't the type of person who went through someone's phone, but alas, you found out through his and Robby's chat).
"I can. Move."
Jack got off on provoking you, since that was his way of getting under your skinâyour sensibility always made you react; an easy target.
Speaking about targets.
Whizz.
Thump!
It lands on a single.
Fuck.
Okay, maybe picturing his face as the target on the dartboard isn't a good strategy.
"It's your turn," you dare, but when you see him, your courage dies.
Suddenly, it's not Dr. Jack Abbot in front of you, but that war veteran he never talked of yet sometimes haunted over how he moved through the ER and life: practical, logics over heart, sharp eyes, detached; nothing but an impenetrable mask with one goal in mind.
He plants his feet like he's never been more sure of anything on his life and takes a deep breath.
Swish.
Thwack!
Inner ring, effortlessly.
"Guess I'm a little rusty," he smiles a little bit sheepish, totally not distracting.
Nor were the muscles of his back, flexing with effort. Or the same force on his voice reflecting on the sole move, authority oozing from his hand, coming from years of saving and taking lives both alike. He commands a certain energy that makes it sure you doubt you can win this.
This, obviously, you won't tell him.
"It's my turn again, move."
He chuckles, doing as told. "Eager?"
Since imagining Jack doesn't work, copying him could. So you squint your eyes until they are on the brink of closing, focusing on a spot. Below his dart, on the lower half of the inner ring. Your body fails to imitate his rigid posture, almost like it's allergic to the discipline that's forged the man in front of you.
Swoosh.
Thwick!
Just one breath away from landing on the sad single section again. But it didn't.
"Did you see that? I did it!," you clap, jumping up and down with excitement, "It landed on the perfect spot. Ha! Take that, Abbot!"
He shrugs, "Beginners luck."
You feel like a toddler who's been told by the big kids they aren't cool enough to play.
"Never " you mock, "or just jealous?"
"Of your bad throwing skills?"
Is Robby watching from somewhere the two people he loves the most, settle silly bed arrangements with the dartboard he doesn't even know how it ended on his garage? With his forehead lines and mouth pressed into a flat, annoyed scowl?
"I'm a natural, landing so close on my first game and-"
Swish.
Plock!
He cracks his knuckles as you swallow your heart, "Guess I'm not that rusty after all."
Outer bullseye. He has to be kidding.
"But- How did you...?"
Jack chuckles, satisfied. "Like I said, you'd never beat a veteran."
You deflate a little, and yet say: "There's still a chance. There always is."
Here is the part where he calls you naive, to take off your rose tinted glasses. Instead, a tempting smile draws over his features.
"Okay, Lola. Double or nothing."
He sees the fire crackle in your eyes. Jack knows you love to put up a fight.
"Meaning?"
"Whoever hits closest to the bullseye, wins."
You go first.
You feel like you're about to kick a penalty for your team during a final.
"Don't worry, you've done pretty well so far for a beginner."
He doesn't give you time again to dwell on his words and feelings.
Swoosh.
Thump!
"Hey, it was my turn! Oh-"
Close, but not enough. Jack threw first and missed?
He gives you a certain look. "Well, it's over for me. It's up to you, sweetheart."
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You think of things that make you happy to gain strength from, or something like that had been said by those bullshit healthcare influencers who kept rehashing the same points in the name of self-growth.
Swizz.
Thwack!
"Holy shit!"
Directly into the bullseye. What is an anxious overachiever's steady pulse over a veteran's?
You giggle like you just won the lottery. The baby jumps into your happiness, cooing as she extends her hands.
Did Robby see that? How you beat Abbot for the first time?
"We won! You saw that? We won over uncle Jack!" you pick her up. She gurgles, little mouth curved into a grin. "We did it! He didn't believe in us but we did it!"
The baby extends her hand to the board as you prance around the kitchen.
"What? Wanna touch the board where I beat Jack's ass?"
"Language," he calls, leaning against the cool granite of the kitchen.
"She can't understand. She's not even one."
Jack's lips curve up, "but she feels."
You huff, absolutely hating he throws back your words to you. So you move to the board and let her touch it.
"You know, these have a pretty funny name in spanish," Abbot turns, unsure who you're speaking to but spellbound enough to feel it's for him. She extends her tiny hand to touch the material of the dartboard. "They're called Dianas."
Jack blinks, surprised. The baby keeps in trance, her mouth opening and closing. At the last sound, she giggles.
"D- D... D-"
You find it adorable how she clearly tries to imitate the sounds.
"Diana, baby. Like Wonder Woman, or Lady Di. Yes, Di! Don't you think it's cute? Di?"
She coos, like you just called her. Her eyes shine, and for a moment, the world stops: just cold burritos, six dusty darts over an even dustier dartboard, baby in your arms and Jack looking at you like you cracked the code to unlock the world's biggest fortune.
"I have her name," you mumble in awe, as if things have never been more clear before, "Diana."
Maybe it's your smile, or the warmth that crawls to his chest without permission. The way you look at Diana, eyes softening when she stirrs in your arms and laughs whenever you say Di, Di, Di.
Whatever it is, Jack Abbot, for the first time since this mess started, feels things can be okay.
To you, his face shows relief at another task completed. To anyone else, not in denial, it looks dangerously close to affection.
"Next case. The matter of Diana Robinavitch, Index Number 05893-01."
This is not how you pictured how your first free week in years would be. Certainly not sitting at court hearings and definitely not with your deceased attending's latest fling sitting as emotional support behind.
Robby's lawyer, a man on his sixties who only answers to Mr. Slater is next to both you and Jack, who carries Diana on his arms. She's busy gurgling and playing with the rubber duck that makes too much noise for a court hearing at seven in the morning.
You can tell Abbot is trying very hard not to fall asleep standing, but his eyelids keep on dropping every other second.
"AII right. I've read your submissions aIong with the wiII. Given that you foIks were named as guardians..."
Maybe that's why he doesn't realize the toy is a brisk movement away from falling until it hits the floor and squeaks loudly in protest. He jolts in a way that's too obvious to mask.
The clerk clears their throat and continues.
"...I see no reason to countermand the parent's wishes."
Jack tries to retrieve it when Diana starts to get fuzzy. He bends quickly, the sudden movement making him wince and grab his right leg. Seeing her toy isn't coming back to her hands any sooner, Diana's mouth begins to quiver.
"However. Permit-"
You try to do it yourself, but the lawyer stops you before you even consider leaving your spot.
"Just Ieave it," Jack whispers at your side.
"But she's about to cry," you insist with a whisper-shout, kneeling again.
Slater rolls his eyes at your unprofessional behavior.
"Let's Ieave the duck. What do you say we stand up?"
You're under the table when you reply, "I'm almost done, just-"
The loud Squeak! cuts right through the awkward silence as your hands grab it.
"Stand up," Slater grits through his teeth, "and don't squish it too hard."
You nod, hastily. That's why, trying to gain back your dignity, you end up doing everything but that, bumping your head on the table.
"Sorry," you stand up, passing the toy to Jack. He catches it with one hand while the other carries Diana, who at the sight of the toy, stops her whimpering.
The clerk gives you a look. They sigh and decide to just wrap it up.
"Until now, I hereby grant joint IegaI and physicaI custody of Diana Robinavitch to Y/n L/n and Jack Abbot."
They pound the gavel, meaning it's over. You smile, knowingly, but Jack seems frustrated.
'That's it? You're not gonna ask us anything?" he protests. "How do you know we're not drug addicts or crazy people? You can't be that trusting."
You fake laugh loudly. "He's a funny guy, isn't he?"
"Are you drug addicts or crazy people?"
"No," he mutters, "we're doctors."
"Then that's even better. Don't you think, Mr. Abbot?"
And just like that, it's official: you're in for a long ride.
The worst part of living with Jack Abbot is finding out it isn't so bad.
Well, that being because you don't see each other that muchâjust the right amount. Now that you're back to work, him doing nights and you days, the time spent together is relatively short, especially because most of that time is spent taking care of Diana.
Two weeks: That's how long you've been able to live without killing each other. Sure, there's the sarcastic comment here and there, but nothing too bad to ruin the perfectly curated balance you've reached. As embarrassing as it is, you and Jack have fallen into a routine: the one written on a whiteboard, hanging at the entrance of the house.
Can't get any more domestic than that.
Or it could, if you take into account the last weekend where you three went into the park and an elderly couple thought you made the Cutest couple ever. Perhaps it's when you go to the supermarket, Diana in her basket, and realize you buy things you know he likes, as if, no matter the years you have of not being his subordinate, you still remember things as if you know him (like how he hates soy milk and prefers oranges over tangerines). Maybe it's when you passed out on the couch after a night trying to put Diana down and woke up on your bed, Jack back at his spot in there.
(At first, you insisted on rotating. He said it wasn't practical and that you'd won the room fairly. Also, the couch was comfortable, something you doubted after you heard him grunt while touching his back and found a receipt for painkillers on the trash can)
When you arrive at six thirty, he's already wearing his scrubs, clothes tight against his skin. If possible, what's even more tense than his uniform is himself. You don't know how you know it the moment you see him, you just do.
(Maybe is how his quiet feels forced; voice softer, like he doesn't trust what may come out of his mouth. His gaze turns unfocused; distantâfrozen on a time ridden by guilt and ghosts. The lines deeper, almost carved into his freckled skin, making him look his age. How he repeatedly sniffs, like the scent of blood has followed him back home)
"Everything okay?"
He grunts in response. "Just a long shift ahead."
It could be that. Sometimes it's his past life, others his wife. Lately, it could be mourning his best friend; living in what used to be his house isn't certainly helping.
"Where is she?" you attempt to smile, "I want to see my little girl."
Diana coos in his arms, sucking her fingers. Abbot passes her to you without sparing her a second glance, making her little lip wobble.
"You aren't going to say goodbye to her?"
Jack doesn't meet your eyes, "There's food in the frigde."
You watch him go, burdened by weights he won't share. Your heart can't help but grow heavy as his car leaves the suburban street.
Aside from the lack of sleep both because of the couch and Diana's piercing cries through the night, as well as your demanding jobs, you know Jack's frustrated he can't go out with the SWAT team anymore. Instead of being a SWAT physician, he's stuck playing house with a baby he didn't want and still doesn't, no matter how he watches every corner of the house when she crawls or how he smiles with a quiet pride when Diana eats all her food.
And he doesn't say it, but it's quite close to.
First, saying that you needed to sleep and balancing a baby with your R4 year was not healthy. Then, complaining when making Diana stop crying meant playing nursery rhymes on YouTube instead of his hockey games ("I know more Cocomelon lyrics than scoreboards this season"). Also each time the stress was too much to handle managing the midnight chaos on the ER and coming home to a tiny human who needed their help on everything.
But even then, he never lashed out on you. He shut out, and you let him. At least then, he had time for himself.
You're currently bathing Diana, secretly wishing it was you on the tub. Back at your apartment, if the one room place could be called that, you don't have a tub this big to take a nice, warm bath. One time, Robby let you use it. Safe to say, you fell asleep.
"We don't need Jack, do we?" you push some bubbles around idly, "we girls can manage just fine without that dummy around."
She giggles, clapping her hands. Dummy is her favorite word of the week, eliciting a cute laugh whenever you say it. Abbot, on the contrary, does not find it funny: he's always the Dummy.
"That's right, Diana," you giggle, "Jack Abbot is a dummy. Can you say that? No, too early for that."
She gurgles, attempting to replicate the sound.
"No, not like that. Di-a-na. Di, baby. Di-di."
Diana laughs at that last part.
"You like that don't you? Didi?" she coos, toothless smile on display. "Didi!"
She cheers, excited.
"That's right, look who makes you laugh. Not dumb, pricks whose idea of fun is stopping raiders," you grin. "who needs a co-parent? I'm doing just great without him!"
You pull her out of the water, her wet hair a little sticky swirl against her tiny head. That's when you notice it.
"Huh," you hold her closer to inspect. "What is that?"
It's a lump on her abdomen.
Your brain feels foggy, thoughts scattered. Maybe Jack was right and the missed hours of sleep were catching up to you.
It's not her beIIybutton.
You begin to worry, composed mind now running wild with scenarios and diagnosis. You remember the kids you've treated before, but this is nothing like it. No, this panic that makes you breathe through frantic puffs of air is very different. You don't like it.
It's enough to make you pull out the car and drive to The Pitt, the only place you trust yourself to go even if your hands tremble as they grab the wheel with white tight knuckles.
Lena spots you first.
"Oh, dear. Came to visit?"
"She's got a lump in her abdomen," you repeat, voice shaking lightly.
It probably isn't a big deal, and by the look on Lena's face, it most likely isn't. But you look like you might have a nervous breakdown, so to calm you down, she gets you in.
The thing about wanting to get a fellowship in Pediatry, is you meet all the Pedes team in the hospital you work in, whether for a procedure Robby let you join to see or holiday parties. Some you wave from afar, others you treat on a first name basis.
Like him: Derek Callahan, PTMC's Pedes attending physician. He works the day shift, but for some reason, he's here today.
"Hey, Lola. What do I owe the pleasure to?"
He's all smiles and warmth, comforting in a way and Pedes material all through and through. Obviously, he doesn't notice you're one sleepless night away from being admitted into a psych ward.
"It's- please, help me."
His eyes dart to the baby in your hands and your glossy eyes. Instead of asking what the hell happened or why the ER's favorite R4 is holding a baby, he extends his hand to a free bed.
"Go on, sweetheart," Lena encourages like she's talking to a scared child, hand on the low of your back. "You're in good hands."
You feel yourself calming down a bit, "I know."
"If you need anything else, I'm downstairs."
He leaves you and Derek alone, with the quiet humming of the AC and the occasional squeak from a nurse's shoes nearby. It's nothing like the ER: chaos. Here, you can actually breathe without tasting blood.
Aside from being encouraging whenever you had questions about the subespecialty you wanted to pursue, there was this one time, two years ago, at the Christmas party.
Garcia was bored of your mopping around, so to break your celibacy and seasonal depression, she dared you to speak to the hottest man in the room. A couple of eggnogs later, you accepted.
That's how you ended up in the bathroom with the newest fellow on PTMC: Derek Callahan, a forty-something with curly brown hair and equally auburn molten eyes. He was medical-tv-drama handsome, and as word got around, single. By the nurse gossip chain, sponsored by your favorite shit-stirrers Perlah and Princess, you also learnt he had recently divorced; no kids. Nothing screamed easier to get.
All you had to do was bat your eyelashes and say your name softly like an invitation, then find common ground, which wasn't entirely an act, as you expressed your interest in pursuing Pedes too once residency was done. He flashed you an easy relaxed grin and said you could keep talking somewhere more private.
It took a couple of seconds and some deliberate playful touches on his arm for him to corner you on the first stall you came across, needy whimpers drowned by music and small talk from outside.
But your brain betrayed you. Each time his lips kissed you, you went back to his, not gentle but demanding. The way his nose would brush your face as the kiss deepened, pouring all his frustrations and hunger on you. His stubble prickling. His hands finding the lower of your back to pull you flush against him. His heart fluttering wildly when you went still, like his touch could undo you. His groans when you moaned with both relief and satisfaction at having him, what he was willing to give.
You kept coming back for those scraps, understanding things he didn't say but where there when he made excuses or left early without a trace. Because you were willing to keep him in the way he allowed himself to.
God knows you did.
Until he closed the door after him one morning and didn't come back, letting you know it was over.
Holding someone like he held you. Jokes that used to be only yours now shared with others, like the weight he gave them, alike a secret, never mattered to begin with. Searching for eyes that weren't yours. Kissing lips that weren't yours.
Letting someone else hold him because you'd wanted more.
"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"
Derek sounded actually concerned, which made the guilt cloud your eyes.
You could have anyone. Why did your heart keep choosing him?
He didn't ask who or why you were crying, just held you close and let you wet his shirt with your hot tears that, embarrassingly, never seemed to stop flowing. That's who Dr. Callahan was: understanding, patient. Which is why right now he takes Diana from you slowly, placing her on the bed.
"I heard about the accident. I'm so sorry about Robby," he offers.
You suck in a breath and muster, "Thanks".
Diana begins to cry, probably at the strange environment, given she's been in the house for two weeks for the most part.
"It's aII right, Didi," you try to calm her down.
"Is she sIeeping okay? ReguIar boweI movements?"
"Not at first, but now very reguIar," you answer, remembering the cheek streak, "but she does have this protrusion on her stomach. I don't know, what it is-"
He sighs with a knowing smile that makes you flush.
"Diana's got an umbiIicaI hernia. It's nothing to worry about, most go away on their own. We'II watch it if you'd like."
You nod like you're the same clueless town kid back at medical school.
He starts writing something on the computer.
"Wait, you said it goes away."
"Yeah," he chuckles, "this is for you: One bottIe of Pinot Noir, one to two gIasses as needed. Or white, same dosage."
You snort, "Very funny. I'm fine."
"Y/n, you want to get into UPMC," Derek chuckles, teasingly, "you're supposed to know this."
You flush. "I did. I just... needed a second opinion."
"Right," he chuckles.
"From my favorite attending," you add.
He laughs, "Now I know you're just talking."
You feel better, at ease. Enough to attempt to joke. "Parenting nerves have me forgetting I'm about to finish my residency. I feel like I'm back at school and I forgot the answer of a question in front of the class."
Parenting nerves, as if you're an actual parent and not Diana's guardian.
"We don't judge here," he shrugs, "I forget some things too."
"The great Derek Callahan? Now I know you're just talking."
He blushes lightly, standing up from bedside.
"I'm glad sleepless nights didn't break your spirit."
"It takes more than that," you retort.
Derek moves to drop his gloves on the trash can. With his back to you, he speaking again:
"So it's true, huh? You and Abbot."
Heat crawls up your neck in a disgusting way that makes your skin feel sticky and prickly.
"What about us?" the us tasting sour.
His brown eyes find yours, curiously.
"That you're co-parenting Dr. Robinavitch's foster baby."
You feel oddly defensive for some reason.
"Her name is Diana."
"I know," he clarifies as he grabs Didi's chart, "I read it."
You cough, cheeks dusted pink. "Sorry, I'm on edge lately. It's been... so stressful."
"Balancing R4 while raising an unexpected baby? It's very noble."
"Some will call it stupid," you reply, deflated.
"I disagree. I think you're doing a good job. Besides, I meant it: you're still you. Which is great, because you're my favorite Pedes enthusiast around."
"You like me because I boost your ego asking questions you already know the answers to," you roll your eyes, a small smirk creeping up.
"I like you for other reasons too," he vaguely adds without looking at you.
Diana coos, looking at him intently.
"Even she knows you're full of shit."
He feigns offense, before laughing. It's a rich, deep sound.
"Like I said, your spirit is still intact." The older man pauses before he speaks again, "I guess that means you don't want my recommendation letter anymore-"
You interrupt him: "You were going to write me a letter?!"
He grins at your beaming smile, completely different from the nervous woman who entered the ward moments ago and more you.
"I didn't lie when I said I liked you. I think you'd be a great fit at UPMC."
That warms your chest. Before you can say anything, the curtain yanks open with a brisk movement.
"Where is she? Is she okay?"
Jack Abbot, looking flushed like he just ran a marathon. His chest rises and falls with quick puffs of air that accentuate the definition of it and his lips.
"Dr. Abbot," Derek greets, extending his hand.
He ignores him, going straight to you.
"What happened? Is Diana okay?"
You blink, taken back. The attending lowers his hand, embarrassed.
"Did you run all the way here?" you blurt out, the first thing you manage to speak to him ever since he left, the sight of him confusing.
This is the same man who wouldn't even look you in the eye a couple of hours ago, and right now, he's playing the worried father a little too well.
"The elevator didn't hurry, so I took the stairs. Once Lena told me you were here, I came as fast as I could," he explains, like his behavior is the norm.
You don't question him, especially because, no matter how much you hate him, you won't discredit him in front of other staff.
"It's nothing. Derek says it's an umbiIicaI hernia. It goes away."
"Oh, really?" Abbot sounds defensive. "Why didn't you call me? I could've tell you that."
You don't know if that is true. You also don't know why your heart flips like it's recognizing some underlying possessiveness rational you tosses aside on a whim.
"I didn't know you wanted to be called," you respond dumbly, instead of saying Why would I? Don't you remember how you've behaved these past days?
Reasons To Hate Jack Abbot, The Unofficial List: (New) He's a walking contradiction.
Abbot sighs, exasperated. After a few seconds, he adds. "But she's alright?"
You nod, slowly.
"Just... call me next time."
You nod again, feeling like a bobblehead at the offensive amount of times you've nodded wordlessly so far.
"I will," you force out, mouth tasting like sand.
Jack turns to the Pedes attending, finally acknowledging him.
"So, that would be all?"
You stand up, equally thrown off and annoyed at his inexplicable behavior. You grab Diana, who's falling asleep.
"Yeah," Callahan clears his throat. "Also, you should probably buy her some new clothes. She's outgrowing these."
He looks back once at you and then at Jack's jaw locked.
"We'll do," he replies, an unexpected hand over your shoulder, sounding offended like a parent at someone prodding at their business.
You roll your eyes even if your heart begins to beat faster.
"Sorry for the late visit..." you try to joke to lighten the mood as you leave.
Derek shrugs, "Just make sure to follow doctor's orders, alright?"
The wine. You smile, ruefully.
"We should go," Abbot interjects, "it's late and Diana needs to sleep."
Sighing, you turn around one last time, "Goodnight, Dr. Callahan."
He looks like he wants to say more, but Jack's unflinching presence makes him shrink. That's a lot, considering he's at least a head taller.
"Goodnight, Dr. L/n," he bids goodbye, dejected.
Jack's hand finds its place in the low of your back, and as the elevator doors close, you see his warm smile falter.
If you didn't know any better, you'd say Jack Abbot was jealous.
After the scare, Dr. Al-Hashimi suggested you take the day. Even if it was a quick discharge and it sounded like a nice consideration, you know she's most likely avoiding a walking liability in the ER.
Everyone is aware you don't work well when you're down. Considering she's pretty strict and a rule follower, it wouldn't be a surprise she chose such s decision, among other reasons you don't feel like finding out.
"At this point, I'll have to take weekends too if I want to finish my residency on time."
Jack clicks his tongue, "What's ten more days to a burn out resident?"
"A lifetime? I could have a whole kid on that time."
Jack looks at a soundly sleeping Diana that hasn't woken up since you put her to sleep after arriving back from the ER, her lashes fluttering with each tiny breath.
"You sort of do."
He doesn't say it with resentment or mockery. It sounds genuine, and that scares you.
"I guess. I must have looked like an insane first mother yesterday."
You haven't properly spoken about it. After being discharged and putting Diana in bed, you passed out with your clothes on. When you woke up, you found Jack cooking breakfast and Al-Hashimi's e-mail.
You want to ask a million things, but he seems to act as if it never happened, so you won't stick your nose into business you clearly aren't called for.
"You did, but it's okay. Understandable, in a way: you care about kids. Diana too, naturally."
"I just," you pause before beaming, "I love kids!"
A mother nearby shoots you a look. Your face heats up.
"I now realized that sounded weird."
Jack follows your line of view.
"I'd say overtly excited for baby shopping at eight in the morning," Jack smirks. "Is being back on the night shift hard for you?"
You wanted out of the house as soon as you woke up. If you couldn't work, you weren't going to spend the day sitting around while feeling useless and trapped.
It was Jack's idea to come see baby clothes, following Dr. Callahan's comment, not before muttering: "What does he know about raising kids?"
"No. Having to see your face for almost twenty-four hours is," you grumble. "Maybe they know I don't have kids."
He laughs. "That's only something you know, sweetheart. Remember the old couple at the park?"
You're surprised he even remembers that, given his apathy to the whole family act. But after yesterday, anything is possible.
"I mean," he adds, "to all these mothers, we seem like a picture perfect family."
Maybe if he said it with his usual sarcasm or the edge of his voice where it's hard to tell if he's flirting or mocking, you'd know Abbot's joking. You know he is, but the way his words sound lighter, as if the misconception from the rest of shoppers doesn't offend him at all, makes a foreign flutter bloom in your chest.
"I visit the ER one time at night and suddenly I'm part of your ensemble of weirdos again?"
"First of all, ouch. Second, how dare you?" he feigns hurt, hand over his heart.
"I can't have you having second thoughts. It was a surprise visit."
"Such a surprise you didn't bother telling me. Having to find out through Lena that you were there?" he sounds seriously suddenly. That until a cocky grin takes over his features. "Besides, I'm a much better doctor."
You scoff.
"You're very funny when you're running on caffeine and pushing baby strollers before the sun's fully risen."
"And you're even funnier when you care what random mothers think about you."
You shrug, trying to avoid the though from bothering you.
"I just don't want to fuck it up with Didi."
He stops in the middle of the aisle, looking your way. A slow smile creeps up on his lips, unsure but meaning it.
"You won't. You're doing a great job so far."
Similar words to Derek's, but they don't have the same effect because now? Your heart does that weird thing where it flips like an acrobatic performer at a circusâthe same from yesterday, when he yanked the curtain and his face showed up behind.
And you recognize it all too well, because it's the same one you felt whenever he praised you, before everything went to shit and you stopped being his subordinate.
"Thanks," you say, shy all of the sudden. "I'm trying."
"We both are," he admits, tiredly running a hand through his face. "Too hard, I'd say. Can't remember the last time I slept more than three hours straight."
"You'll survive. Haven't you until now?"
He smirks. "Well, they say you don't know what you have until you lose it. Guess I miss being able to choose if I wanted to skip my seven hours of sleep for some SWAT time instead of waking up to... Diaper time."
You can't help but laugh, even if his words carry some dryness to it.
"I'm sure you'll get used to it. Eventually."
"You tell my nose that," he sighs. "But it's temporary, isn't it?"
Your stomach plummets. Of course. You look at Didi, sleeping peacefully, unaware Abbot still tries to get rid of her.
Your pace quickens. You hear him curse under his breath before catching up with your step.
"I'm not having this conversation now."
Instead of backtracking, he presses on.
"Then when are we? After she's one year? After she's five? After she graduates school, college?"
You pretend to look at some summer dresses, the season around the corner.
"And what about us?"
Your chest tightens as you face him.
"Us?" you cough up, incredulously.
"Yeah, us. Will we live in the same house for the rest of our lives? Or will we sell it and move? Live in different houses, share custody. This system we set up isn't for forever!" he raises his voice, stroller stopping in the middle of the hallway. "You'll move for your fellowship and I'll keep working the night shift. What if you have to switch, or cover another time? Hell, study even. Who's going to take care of Diana then, a nanny? Because I sure as hell won't compromise my profession because you're being you."
He says it like an insult. Your eyes burn.
"Me? What is that supposed to mean?"
He avoids looking at you. "You know what it means."
"No, Abbot, why don't you spell it out for me, since I'm too stupid to understand."
He looks offended at the accusation.
"I didn't say that."
"Then why do you care so much?" you raise your voice.
Now those mothers won't think of you anymore as an exemplary family, will they?
"Because I need you to be realistic!" Jack shouts. The store falls silent. "You're an R4, Lola. You can't keep being this naive."
You push past him, ignoring his calls.
Of course it had to happen Saturday night.
After a stressful week and the incident at Carter's, you've been deliberately avoiding Jack.
He's respected your silence and interactions exclusively limited to Diana related affairs. He doesn't question either your disappearance from the house whenever he's around; he just stares.
It's probably around eight, you having just arrived, when the doorbell rings.
"Someone's at the door. Who is it?
"It's probabIy a neighbor," you reply without sparing him a glance. You don't know if he sighs at that or at the possibility you could have a nosy face show up after a long day; you'd had plenty of those for the past two weeks.
He answers, "Yes?"
"Hi," a woman with pristine hair and suit answers, "I'm Alma Reyes, your caseworker from SociaI Services."
At Jack's confused face, she adds: "You were toId we'd be making a few unannounced visits."
"Yeah, weII. This is definiteIy unannounced," he laughs ruefully. "Just... Give me a minute."
Before she asks if she can come in, he closes the door in her face.
You're licking your finger in the kitchen at the mustard leftovers over it after preparing a sandwich.
"You look like you saw a ghost," you mock. "Is it Mrs. Adelaire asking again when are we getting married because cohabitation is a sin that offends God?"
"No," he lowers his voice. When he doesn't laugh and instead sounds even more worried, you start to freak out. "It's social services."
"What?" you ask, dumbly.
"You have one minute to wash your face to come back downstairs and start acting Iike the responsibIe pain you've been since we moved in."
You blink slowly. "But, my sandwich-"
"Just go," he pushes you out of the kitchen, "Go. Go. Go."
While you're upstairs, Jack tries to charm the woman to no avail. She's attractive, that's for sure, but she doesn't laugh at his jokes, not even in compromise, like you. She's got a nice olive tone to her skin though, as well as long, luscious hair.
"You sure you don't want to see the garage again? The other day we found a dartboard in there. It could be dangerous."
"Since it's dangerous," she repeats, "have you disposed of it?"
"I, well-"
"HeIIo, I'm so sorry," you show up. Finally. He feels relieved at just the sound of your voice. "I had to get changed. I literally just came home."
"It's okay," she assures, "I only want to taIk."
You squirm, uneasy, like this is a trial. Or an oral test. Perhaps it brings out memories of you grounded, maybe even when being dumped.
"Don't freak out, it's normal. I only want to, you know," she motions with her hands, "get a sense of the both of you, your pIans. Where do you see yourseIves in five years?"
"Ooh! Ask me, I have a great answer," you beam. She lets you speak. "In five years, I'll have finished my residency and started my fellowship in Pedes at UPMC. Which, obviously, isn't a problem," you shoot a sideways glance to Jack, "because it's just six minutes away from our street here in Roslyn Place. And besides, it shows I love kids!"
Jack snorts, "You haven't even got in."
You feel anger bubble up. For the sake of courtesy, you keep it down.
"Yet," you clarify. "Anyway. I'm aIso hoping someday I can become an attending at the Pedes ward there, althought PTMC sounds good too."
"So you can be with your friend Derek?" Jack teases, smug smirk back on his stupid face.
"No, so I can get a job doing what I love..." you trail off, "Oh, God. I didn't incIude Diana."
He laughs under his breath, tilting his face. "You didn't."
"Let me just take it back," you grow nervous, hands suddenly clammy. "She is a big part of my plan-"
Alma raises her hand. "That's fine, thank you."
"Okay," you mutter, looking at your hands clasped over your lap.
"Jack?"
"First name basis already? I like that," he hears you scoff, making him grin. "Well, I'm the attending physcian of the night shift at PTMC, and I guess in a coupIe years... If I don't kill myself over the pressure, I'll retire and spend all my money on building a boat house. I like fishing."
Your eyes widen. Did you just joke about suicide? you mouth. He looks away, pleased.
"Okay. So, Mr. Slater teIIs me that you're both singIe and presentIy not engaged in a reIationship," she pauses. "Not sIeeping together?"
Your face burns in seconds and Jack looks like he's been shot.
"No, oh- No!"
He shakes his head, "God, no."
You feel offended at the way he says it, like its straight up punishment taken from a circle of hell.
"Not a chance," you add sharply.
"Obviously," Jack adds, "it's never going to happen."
"Okay..." Alma speaks carefully, "that's great."
You both look at her, questioning.
"It's just, this situation," she points to you, "Two singIe peopIe... Living under the same roof... Raising a recentIy orphaned chiId... WeII, it's compIicated enough without the added compIication of..." she cuts herself, "you know, that."
"Like I said. Trust me, Alma. We won't be compIicating anything with that."
"Yeah. I get pIenty of that eIsewhere," Jack jokes.
Why does your stomach drop, all of a sudden. Because of distant memories, surely, not because you care if Jack is sleeping around.
You're not together: just two people forced to live together to raise a baby.
Maybe, if you keep repeating it, you'll fully accept it and drown these weird feelings that pop here and there when he gets too annoying or too pleasent.
You try to save yourself, "I'd get pIenty of that in my day as weII."
Jack snorts, "Way back in the day."
Before you can reply, she cuts you off:
"Listen, you two both seem Iike two sweet, burned-out doctors and faux parents about to have the worst year of your Iives. I'II be honest with you," she sighs. "Wanna make jokes about killing yourself? Go for it, I don't care. Hell, I get you. In fact, half of the famiIies that I deaI with make me want to. You are my good cases. The onIy obstacIe here is you two, and whether or not you're both cut out to be parents."
"What we want to avoid is Diana Iosing more peopIe in her life," you feel your throat tighten. "I know she won't remember but-"
You stop speaking before you vent out to this tired woman your fears or break down in front of Abbot; no one deserves it.
She smiles, condescending. "Your friend thought you couId do this, but I'II be honest, I'm not so sure..."
After she left, you release a breath you didn't know you were holding. Laying against the door, you drop a low Shit.
"That went surprisingly well for a first time."
You roll your eyes, "Fuck off, Abbot."
"Can't take a compliment?"
"Oh, wow," you give him a pointed look, "now we're complimenting? I thought you preferred to berate me."
He sighs, "Look, I don't want to fight-"
"I'm going to check on Di," you interrupt him, too drained to stomach another confrontation.
He stops you, gently grabbing your hand. You jerk away, as if his touch burns. His hand falls to his side, fingers lightly twitching.
"I put her to sleep," he speaks softly, "you'll only wake her up."
"Oh, so what do I do? Stay and enjoy your nice company?"
He offers half a smile. "You can always eat your sandwich."
So that's how you end up standing in the kitchen, plate over the island, eating with aggresive bites so you can go upstairs and retrieve to your room, as you've been doing.
You catch Jack staring. If it wasn't for the house's dimly lit illumination, the shadows across your face wouldn't mask the blush.
"What?" you mumble with a moutful, "you're staying there like some watch dog until I finish to eat?"
Instead of defending himself, he says: "I still can't get used to seeing you wearing anything other than your scrubs."
"I'm glad you appreciate the assortment of my closet, but staring is rude."
You finish the sandwich and set the plate on the sink. You're too tired to wash, or do anything for the matter.
"Right, where are my manners?"
You walk to the couch and sit, or more like a I've-had-a-long-week-and-I'm-emotionally-and-physically-exhausted plopping as you melt within it.
"Beer?" Abbot offers from behind.
Fuck it. It's Saturday and Diana's knocked out cold; you might as well enjoy yourselves.
Is this how newborn parents felt? Well, in a Robby-fucked-us-up way, you are.
"I really hope Alma doesn't show up right now, saying some bullshit like- she forgot more stupid, invasive questions or... Her nonsensical meddling. I'm not so sure, who does she think she is?"
"Don't worry, sweetheart. She won't interrupt our domestic bliss," he sarcastically drops, "like hell I'm going to let that happen!"
His teasing is followed by the Snap! of the bottles' cap and hiss of the foam coming up. He walks to the living room and sits next to you, not close enough, passing you the cold bottle. It's almost frozen.
The smile breaks in before you can stop it.
"Twenty minute rule?"
It means he knows how you like your beer, something you remember mentioning once at a barbacue at Langdon's. It also means he put it in the fridge before you came home and Alma's interruption.
He chuckles. "Of course. Wouldn't want to disrespect my co-parent's wishes."
"Then I forgive you."
Abbot looks a little too happy, like your words have injected some energy in him that makes him look younger.
You raise it your bottle in a toast. "For a peaceful night."
"Whoever is out there may hear us."
One bottle turns into two, then three; enough to feel tipsy but not too much to numb your instincts in case anything happens.
You're... Surprisingly relaxed, even when you both remain quiet, busy sipping the drinks in silence. The empty corpses of bottle stare back at you, witnessing how coworkers who hate each other became comfortable with the other's presence, enough to live under the same roof and fall into a routine. Tolerate the other's presence. Smile unexpectedly for unknown reasons. Fight and make up. Still be around.
You feel Jack staring again. Something (most likely alcohol fueling stupidity and bravery at the same time) compells you to turn around and look back.
His pupils are dilated under half lidded eyes; relaxed or actually happy, you can't tell.
"What?" you laugh, but the sound comes out strained, "don't tell me I have shit in my face again."
His eyes drift lower, right to your arm. You feel your body burns with a strange fever.
And then, all he says is: "Huh."
You lift an eyebrow, waiting for an (probably drunk) explanation.
"I guess you never really know people."
You're about to open your mouth to ask when he speaks before:
"You have a tattoo."
That takes you by surprise. Due to the recent summer heat, you'd swapped the t-shirts you usually wear for sleeveless tops.
"I'd never seen it before," he continues, like this is a defining moment on his life. Or the biggest discovery. A discovery he's deemed precious enough to muse over. "You're always wearing a shirt under your scrubs."
"Hospital policies," you chuckle. "Or, dare I say, Gloria's policies."
His voice comes out surprisingly soft.
"What is it?"
Words get caught up on your throat, his tone making you suddenly shy.
"The tattoo?" you ask just to fill the silence since you can't trust your own mouth, "it's a magnolia."
His next words knock the air out of you.
"Can I... Can I touch it?"
Your brain stops functioning, but you must've at least nodded your head, since his fingers reach tentatively, like you might change your mind halfway and he'd be left pathetically hanging in the air, so close yet so far. But you don't move away from his touch, not even as his calloused tips draw goosebumps out of your skin as he traces over the ink.
"It's really good," he says suddenly after an inspection that feels forever. Jack's fingers remain glued to it.
"Thanks," your mouth tastes like sand and it has nothing to do with the beers, "I... Dr. Ellis' referred me to her tattoo artist."
"Sounds about right," a beat goed by, as if he's unsure to ask. "So, does it have a meaning or you chose it because it's pretty like you?"
Sober you would've rolled her eyes and throw in a scoff at Jack Abbot's well-known flirting lines.
Drunk you however, is rendered a mess without words and treacherous red all over her face.
Drunk you absolutely notices the lower tone of his voice, the raspy tilt to each word he drags with his slurred speech, like he wants to make a point.
"Magnolias are one of the oldest flowers on Earth; they even predate bees," you ramble, eyes gleaming with pride. "There are many meanings behind. Like- did you know in the Victorian era people used them to show love without saying it? They send them on letters to symbolize affection. And, on China, these flowers usually represent femininity, while in other countries, they use them for bridal bouquets because it represents purity and nobility. Some others say they represent resilient bonds, as these flowers have stood the test of time."
Abbot let's you finish. He looks immersed, absorbing the information.
"And you?"
You blink, "Me?"
"Yeah. Why did you chose it."
His tips continue tracing mindless patterns over the ink.
"Perseverance," you confess. "I like to think, like them, I've survived. Since there weren't bees around, magnolias had to evolve to be polinated by beetles. Since they chew to get the pollen, they evolved until their petals became hard-like, almost leather." After a deep breath, you continue: "I didn't have a home growing up, parents that loved me. I could've drowned, but I made it out. At least, I think I did."
"You're a warrior," he whispers, devoid of his usual mockery.
Your mouth curl into a satisfied smirk.
"Was that a compliment, Dr. Abbot?"
He rolls his eyes, fingers backing away from your skin. You try not to be too disappointed about it.
"Don't get used to it."
You purse your lips, "And here I thought we were a team."
"We are. Doesn't mean I need to inflate your ego bigger than it already is."
"Say it. I'm a great foster mother."
"No. You know it, and that's enough."
"C'mon, Abbot," you whine his name, pushing him lightly, "it's just a sentence."
"A life sentence? Sure it is. I'll never hear the end of it."
You bat your eyelashes in the way Dana sighs loudly and Santos rolls her eyes.
"Please..."
"It's Robby's fault, really. Always saying you were good with kids, like some..." he gestures around, "magician."
The memory crawls up, uninvited, just like the shivers you feel when Jack stares for a beat too long.
It was summer, and of course the Pitt was doomed like it always was, bound to chaos. This time? The AC failed.
Donnie opened up a call and bet his money on power problem, but no promise of a big prize was enough to lift up the cranky mood the unbearable heat caused.
Somehow, the lack of cold air made it almost impossible to survive through the day.
"So this is what the lower class of Triage feel."
You slapped Donnie. "Shut up. If Dana hears you, she'll make you do rounds there."
"If this is normal to them, I don't even want to imagine right now. It's probably hell."
You click your tongue. "Try again," you point at your badge, right where it says Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, "were already there."
By hour five, most of the staff's scrubs are drained with sweat, like they've been only doing compressions for the past two hours. When you walk by the break room, the usual door closed for privacy now open, you know it's bad.
"Fuck it," you exclaim with exasperation to your friends inside the breakroom, looking like they'll melt away any second, "I have a top I was saving for the gym tonight and I'm not afraid to use it."
This is how you end up wearing only half of your scrubs, the upper half replaced by a white tank top that leaves a little peak of cleavage on display Lena would've call HR Material.
It's risky, but at least treating patients becomes a little more bereable when you're not feeling sticky and wet (not in a good way).
It happens when you're about to clock out. Dana shows up from God knows where, her usual composed clipped hair sticked to her forehead.
"I've got one for you."
"If you give me another lightheaded, nauseous teen from smoking too much vape, I might clock out early. Is that all kids do these days?"
She snickers, "You're not that old yourself, kid."
"At least I knew how to have fun summers without accelerating my death."
"As a smoker, I might not have much room for an opinion myself," she jabs. Then, her eyes soften. "Don't worry, it's a kid."
You instantly beam up.
Golden Rule Of The Pitt #8: If a kid comes into the ER and she's free, case is Y/n's.
As soon as day shift learned you adored kids, they let you tend to them, mostly the ones who didn't have the patience to deal with crying toddler and their screaming parents.
You had a certain something that made kids stop fuzzing and restless parents tone down a notch.
Perlah appears by your side as Dana goes back to her station, sliding you the chart.
"Kid, four years old. She fell off the slide on her backyard pool. Mostly superficial bleeding. No signs of concussion, but it's always better to rule it out. Besides, her mother insists."
"Four?" your eyes widen as you read the chart. "I hope that slide wasn't tall. Sounds like someone wasn't supervising to me."
"Save it. That woman is one comment away from a breakdown." She then looks at your outfit, "Can I ask about this bold fashion choice?"
"No," you deadpan as you yank the curtain open.
Inside, a child with two wispy messy braids from Chlorine and red rimmed eyes awaits with her trembling mother.
"Hello," you greet, giving them your name, "and I'll be your doctor today. This is nurse Perlah," she smiles sweetly to transmit calm like only she can, "and we'll be looking at you today. What's your name?"
"So-Sophie," she stumbles over her words, hiccuping.
"What a pretty name for a gorgeous girl," you compliment. She beams at that. "How old are you? Can you raise your fingers for me?"
She sticks her hand out. "Four!"
"You have a very smart girl, Mrs. Goodwill," she looks surprised you're addressing her and then smiles, a little more relaxed. "Can you tell me how this happened?"
After doing general assessment following results from Triage and a visual inspection where you see no asphalt on her scrapes, you decide to desinfect the area and use some topical numbing.
"We will apply LET gel topically to the wounds," you inform, "and then cover with an occlusive dressing for 20 minutes. I'll come back then to remove it and get it checked."
Her little voice squeaks. "It hurts?"
"Not at all," you reassure, "but it will feel weird when it touches tour skin."
Her eyes get watery, "It sounds scary."
"Well, you can hold to one of our plushies if you'd like. Or, you can grab my hand if you want."
Sophie transforms from a kid on the verge of crying to one beaming like it's Christmas. She grabs your hand strongly, suddenly deciding you're her favorite person in the room.
"Okay" you giggle, "you've got a good grip. Now, Perlah is the one who will put the gel on you. As you can see, my hands are kinda busy at the moment."
She giggles with you, but said laughter dies down a bit after Perlah's gentle warning.
"Ready?" Sophie closes her eyes until they scrunch up, grip tight. "Okay, here it goes."
She's surprisingly brave for such a little girl.
You're so focused on her tiny hand within yours that you don't realize she's talking to you.
"Huh?"
"She asked about the drawing in your arm," Perlah fills you in, briefly looking up from a scrape under her knee. She jerks slightly as she continues applying the gel.
"Oh, this?" you motion to the tattoo. Now without the scrubs and thanks to the heat, it's on its full glory, right on your bicep. "Think of it as a permanent drawing. Do you like it?"
Perlah is done with her knee. She moves to the next scrape, so you continue distracting her.
"I like flowers," she giggles, tracing it. "It's pretty, like you."
You smile warmly, a slight blush to your face.
"You think so? I'll tell you," you lean in, conspirational, "it's a magnolia."
Sophie struggles, "A man... Ma...l."
"Magnolia," you repeat. "Can you say it?"
She tries again, but fails. She continues trying until Perlah anounces she's done. Sophie looks deflated she could never pronounce Maloila.
"It's okay, you did incredible," you let go of her hand and take the badges from Perlah. While you wrap, her eyes stay glued to you. "You were very brave, Sophie."
"I was?" she beams.
"Yes, so when I get back to check on you, I'll bring you a lollipop from my personal stash. What's your favorite flavor?"
As you exit, Perlah turns back with a smile. You're about to question why when a voice stops you.
"Didn't know you were this good with kids."
Dr. Michael Robinavitch, day shift attending and your new boss after switching. He's quiet unless he's barking orders or scaring interns for fun.
You're an R2, he doesn't scare you anymore. But you sure want to impress him.
"Didn't think you'd notice."
"Words goes around," he answers simply with that press of his lips that not quite a smile but that's all he can afford. Because, as you've learned so far: he doesn't laugh often, unless he knows you and it's always something closer to a snort as if he doesn't allow himself to. But when he does, his crow's feet deepen and his eyes look a bit lighter. And if he smiles, it's like this: Dr. Robinavitch doesn't offer much from his side.
"Only good things, I hope," you smile, shyly.
Another thing you've learnt so far: Robby's (as he insisted to be called) good looking, in a way most don't find it to be. He looks like a man lived, one who has earned every year passed and is weighed down by it, left with a certain air that demands distance but only makes approaching more inviting.
"It doesn't matter what they say," he shrugs, then crosses his arms. You think he's trying to look more casual and less intimidating. "I'm looking at it."
For some reason, you blush. "Yeah?"
"Think I can join you for discharge?" he rubs a hand on the back of his neck, "I need to do rounds, anyway."
The request makes your heart oddly thump. Nerves, you think.
This is how you find yourself 20 minutes later with Robby by your side.
"Hello, Sophie. I'm here with Dr. Robby," she raises her hand shyly. "Ready to go?"
She nods, vigorously. "Yes! Where's my lollipop?"
You laugh. "Huh, that's a good memory. Here," you fish it out of your pocket, "all yours."
"Thank you," her mother speaks in behalf of Sophie while she pops the candy on her mouth, "I've never seen her so enthralled. You're like a magician."
Robby snorts at that.
You blush, embarrassed. "Oh, it's nothing. I love kids."
"No, you don't get it. She's like, enamoured with you. Won't stop talking about how cool you are. I'm worried her next obsession will be medicine; she's four."
"Healthcare workers are always needed. The more the merrier," Robby says. You laugh.
"No, you're right. And it's better than her talking about tattoos, anyway."
Robby's eyebrows shoot. "Tattoos?"
"Your resident here has some secrets," Perlah comments with a smirk, pointing your bicep.
"You?" he turns towards you and looks, intently, as if he's properly noticing the resident Abbot transferred without nuch explanations for the first time. It makes something in you squirm. "Wait. Why are you wearing a tank top?"
"The heat. Why are long sleeved still?"
Despite himself, he smirks. "Don't change the subject. This is about you and your-"
"Maiola!"
All heads turn to the little girl. She smiles, toothy grin like today never happened and she was in a trip with friends.
Robby blinks slowly, confused. "Sorry, what?"
"The magnolia in y/n's arm," Perlah interjects. "She can't pronounce it."
Sophie nods, "The pretty flower on miss y/n's arm! The... Mailola."
"Malola?"
And then, it happensâMichael Robinavitch actually laughs.
Not the one he swallows done and comes out like a cough. It's light, shoulders tense now shaking slightly as he still holds back; old habits die hard.
"Oh my God, Dr. Robby, you're bullying a kid!" you whisper, back turned from Sophie and her mother.
"Manlola? That might be the word of the day," you whine, making his crow's feet deepen. He pauses, "Hold on. You know what that sounds like?"
"No. And I'm not sure if I want to know. Your smile scares me."
His lips curve up in a genuine smile, as rare as slow days at the ER. It makes something in your chest tug.
I spent the night yesterday writing out the entire timeline of purple rain (what the flashbacks are gonna be, what I want in each chapter, where every character ends up) andâŚ.looks like itâs gonna be 30 something chapters LOLđ
Can folks stop turning Joel Miller into a shredded gym bro? This man does NOT have abs. He's soft-bellied, got that dad bod, and that's exactly why he's hot. Even the game proves his middle is pudgy. Stop rewriting him into something he's not. Keep this man simple and human.
Omg this chapter was absolutely amazing! I love that we got a better glimpse into Joel's life! Up until now, I was on mc's side, but after seeing her degrading behavior towards Joel (and the cheating?) , I don't even know! I'm really hoping that there's a bit of an explanation for all that... maybe? Anyway, I love the story so much! Your writing is truly so good! I didn't really get the meaning of her last words to joel though? Was I supposed to, or was it more like a cliffhanger?
Thank you so much for updating, I literally woke up to it first thing in the morning after going to sleep thinking about it!â¤ď¸
YES THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I WAS GOING FOR!!! My goal for this story was to make not one person the âbad guy.â Iâm so glad I conveyed it right.
One thing I do with all my stories is I always will throw in little hints about what Iâm talking about later on. Like (spoiler for eyes upon me readers) I have Marcus being able to speak French like reader and you wouldnât think much about it until you realize that he spent time in France and was the one who rescued you from captivity. Like a little detail that doesnât make sense until you see it flushed out.
All that to say, yes itâs absolutely a cliff hanger but in this chapter I do reference what sheâs talking about đ
°â.ŕłŕż* Lesson Seven: alcohol doesn't taste that good anyway°â.ŕłŕż
Spotify | pintrest visuals | masterlist | ao3
Chapter summary: Joel calls the school to try and get Sarah pulled from your class
Authors note: hellooooo guys my job is BEATING MY ASS it was so nothing burger then boom one day 5 MILLION tasks. ALSO this is two days early everyone say thank you Elly. I hope this chapter explains Joel a little bit better <3
tw this chapter for drug/alcohol use, domestic violence, unintentional hurting of a child
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
March, 1999. Joel.
Isla wasnât back yet.Â
Joel had told her for weeks leading up to today that it was Sarahâs birthday and that he wanted to do a little family get together for her. The common thought is that a mother should know her daughter's birthday by heart, but Isla wasnât really a mother.Â
He had gone back and forth with his anger toward Isla - was he even allowed to be angry with her? Joel had forced her to go to the doctor to get tested for postpartum after Sarah was born. Sarah was unexpected, but he had accepted the fact that he was going to have a baby. Isla, on the other hand, never seemed to accept it. She didnât want to go shopping for cribs, or baby clothes, or toys. Joel constantly got calls from the clinic that she didnât show up to her monthly appointments and he would have to pay a hefty fee. She never ate enough, and she was always disappearing for days at a time.Â
He was probably in denial. He thought the behavior was odd, but that she was just in denial that she was entering motherhood and it would come in time. But even when Sarah was born, and the nurses handed her their silmey, wiggly, and absolutely perfect daughter, her eyes were completely fogged over. She put her down the minute the nurses told her it was okay, and she didnât pick her up again.Â
She stopped showering. She didnât work, so Joel would leave to go work while she was home with Sarah. There were several times when he got home, and Sarah would be screaming in her crib, and Isla was nowhere to be found. When she randomly appeared hours later, she never explained where she was. She didnât want to breastfeed Sarah, which Joel didnât mind, but she never made an effort to feed her. He had to constantly ask Tommy to leave the construction site to go check on Sarah at home at make sure she was fed and not sitting in a soiled diaper.Â
It made Joel absolutely furious. His relationship with Isla had grown more and more toxic over time, and he was always forgiving, but there was something bigger than himself now. Someone he cared about more than anyone else in the world - his daughter. And any time his wife was actively neglecting his daughter, he couldnât restrain his anger. He yelled, and pleaded for her to tell him what was wrong and why she hated their daughter so much.Â
But Joel had a hard time staying angry. Because Isla wasnât completely numb to all of this. When he raised his voice at her, she would cry. She would break down in tears for hours, because she didnât understand why she felt nothing toward Sarah, and that she just wanted to feel normal again.Â
Thatâs how Joel got her to the doctor and diagnosed with severe postpartum depression.Â
Things should have been going up from there. She was medicated and going to therapy and making little bits of progress, like bottle feeding Sarah (under Joelâs supervision). She seemed to be getting better. Seemed.
But the progress plateaued. It was like the medication and therapy only took her so far before she actually had to put the work in herself. And it seemed like she never wanted to work.Â
The door to the apartment creeked open at 8 pm. The few friends and family that came by and brought presents and cooed over Sarah were long gone. No one had mentioned the lack of presence by Isla, because they all knew that this was the norm for her. No point in asking obvious questions.Â
Sarah was fussy and refused to go to bed, so Joel was sitting with her in his lap, bouncing her and trying to distract himself by making his girl laugh. It was partially for selfish reasons - he knew if he laid her in bed and tried to get her to fall asleep by herself, his anger and misery would spill over and he would do something stupid.Â
Isla crept in like she was a teenager sneaking in after a night out. And Joel took on the role of the dad who is eerily sitting in a lounge chair in the dark, who flicks on a lamp, scaring the shit out of the teenager.
âWhere were you?â
Isla flinched, her shoulders jerking up toward her ears. She froze under the doorway, her keys clutched tightly in her fist. Like she was afraid.Â
She was always a petite girl, but she looked particularly tiny in her oversized cardigan, her skin almost greying in this light. Her hair was a greasy, tangled mess and her eyesâŚher eyes. When they finally flicked up to meet his, they were pinned down to tiny, dark needles.
"Don't do that, Joel," her voice slurry around the edges as she shuffled past him toward the kitchen. She didn't look at Sarah, who was sitting up in Joel's lap, her tiny fingers clutching the collar of his shirt. Didnât even ask why their daughter was up an hour after they usually put her to bed. "I had errands. My head was pounding."
"Errands," Joel repeated as he slowly stood up, cradling Sarah securely against his chest. The rage he'd been sitting on all afternoon was starting to violently overflow. "For twelve hours, Isla? Itâs her birthday. Sheâs two years old today. My parents were here. Tommy was here. I had to sit there and make up some pathetic lie about where you were because you couldn't be bothered to show up for your own kid's cake."
Isla didn't turn around. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, her back to him, her fingers mindlessly tapping against the counter. "She's two, Joel. She won't remember."
"Look at me,â He was trying to sound as stern as he could without triggering her rage. Her anger was a lot scarier than Joels. "Look at me, Isla."
"What?! What do you want from me, Joel? I'm here! I'm home!"
"Are you?" Joel stepped into her space, looking at the slight sweat on her forehead, the way her jaw was constantly clenching and unclenching. "Are you even fucking here right now, Isla? Or are you floating on whatever you took out of the medicine cabinet this morning? Are you high right now?"
"Don't you dare accuse me of that! You think you're so perfect? You think you're the king of this castle because you bring home a paycheck from your stupid little construction trucks? You don't know shit about what I'm going through!"
"I took you to the doctor!" Joel whisper-yelled He was trying so goddamn hard to keep his voice down for Sarah, but her disregard for anyone elses feelings was pushing him over the edge. "I got you the pills! I pay for the therapy! And you're still disappearing for days, leaving our daughter in a soiled diaper while I'm out breaking my back! You're an addict, Isla. You've been popping the painkillers they gave you for the delivery for two years, and you're letting our baby drown because you're too goddamn lazy to put the work in!"
"I am not an addict!" she screamed, her hand flying out.
Her palm slapped hard across his left cheek. The force of it didn't move him - he was much bigger than her - but the violent movement made Sarah start crying. She buried her face into Joel's shoulder, her tiny body shaking as she sobbed.
"See?" She pointed a trembling finger at him. "You're a pathetic father, Joel. You can't even keep her quiet. You're just a control freak who trapped me in this shithole life. You're the reason I'm like this! You and your bastard kid!"
"Shut up. Don't you ever call her that. Don't you dare look at her and say that. Do you forget that sheâs your daughter too?"
Sarahâs crying grew louder, and Joel wanted to start crying too. He just wanted his daughter to have two loving parents. To have a normal life.
"Shut her up, Joel!" Isla exploded, completely unhinged as she lost whatever grip on reality she had left. She turned around, her hands shaking as they hit the cluttered sink. "I said shut her the fuck up!"
In the heat of the moment, before Joel could even register the movement, Islaâs fingers wrapped around ceramic dinner plate sitting in the basin. A plate that had just served birthday cake to their family. She spun around and hurled it directly past Joelâs head.
SMASH.
The plate struck the drywall right next to the kitchen opening, exploding into a dozen flying shards.
Joel didnât care about the shards bouncing off of his shoulder. She threw things on the regular at him. But time around started slow when he heard a gasp from his arms.Â
Sarahâs crying instantly stopped, cut off by a choke of agony.
Joel looked down. A three-inch piece of the ceramic had sliced cleanly across Sarah's chubby little forearm as it shattered off the wall. The blood was already welling up fast, spilling over her skin and instantly soaking into the sleeve of her yellow birthday pajamas.
He wanted to throw up.Â
Isla froze, rage draining out of her face in an instant. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening to the size of saucers as she stared at the blood on her daughter's arm. She took a step back, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Oh my god... Joel, I didn't - I didn't mean - "
Joel didn't hear her. The apartment went completely silent, a ringing static filling his ears. He looked at his daughterâs bleeding arm, and then he looked up at the woman he had married.
The expression on his face wasn't anger anymore. It was something far worse. It was an absolute, icy execution of whatever humanity he had left for her.
"If you are here when I get backâŚI will kill you."
He didn't wait for her to speak. He didn't look at her tears. Joel instantly scooped Sarah closer, his massive hand coming up to press his palm flat against the cut, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.Â
It was a deep cut. She would probably need stitches based on the way her blood pour through Joels hand.Â
"I gotcha, baby, I gotcha," he whispered frantically, his voice finally cracking as he sprinted out of the kitchen. He grabbed a clean dish towel off the counter, and with his teeth, he wrapped it tightly around her tiny arm as he kicked the apartment door open and flew down the stairwell into the night.
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
Tuesday, September 2003. Joel.
His eyes stayed locked on the scar on Sarahâs arm as he dialed the number for Annie Whitman elementary school.Â
She was happily munching on her cereal and fruit that Joel had cut into stars at her request, completely unfazed by the wound she had. He knew she probably didnât remember it - she was only 2 afterall. She never even brought it up or asked where it came from, but Joel knew that one day that question would come.Â
The doctors said the scar would fade with time, and it did. It wasnât raised anymore, or outlandishly bright against her skin. It had flattened and was starting to blend in with her skin tone a bit more.Â
âAnnie J. Whitman Elementary School, Lisa speaking.âÂ
Joel had to call the main office once a year ago to update Sarahâs family paperwork. He recognized Lisa as the receptionist.Â
âHi Lisa, this is Joel Miller,â He paused when he realized she probably spoke to 100 parents a day and didnât recognize him. âMy daughter Sarahâs in the 1st grade.âÂ
âOh yes! Sarah Miller, of course. What can I do for you Mr. Miller?â
A flash of insecurity flared through him - did she know her because of her panic attack? He didnât want Sarah to get the reputation of the problem child already.Â
âI was, um, wondering if I could speak to -â the name of the principal slipped his mind. â - the principal. Please.âÂ
There was some clicking of a computer.
âSure. Good thing you called early, Karenâs phone gets flooded around 10. Can I ask what youâre calling about so I can brief her on the issue?â
Joel looked back up at Sarah, who had now finished her breakfast as was sitting on the living room floor playing with her favorite doll. It was one of those Barbie Fairytopia dolls, all colorful with wings. She named her Egg.Â
âI wanna ask about switching my daughter's classroom.âÂ
The clacking on the other end stopped, and he heard shifting, like she was adjusting the phone on her ear.Â
âOh!â
âIs that a problem?â he asked defensively.Â
âNo, no! Of course not. We just donât get that request unless something serious happened, especially not so early in the year.âÂ
He thought about what genius thought it would be a good idea for you to be Sarahâs teacher. All of these administrators were older than him, meaning many of them were likely living in Dallas when the accident happened. What idiot would putâŚthe sheer stupidity of these people made him mad.Â
Luckily, he didnât have to explain himself anymore.
âKaren just got into her office, Iâll put you through Mr. Miller.â
The phone clicked before he could even say thank you.
âHuh!?â A different womans voice shrieked in his ear. âWhy is he calling so early? Lisa you need to speak up, my office is far away from your desk!â
The voice was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. Even Sarah turned, her head perking up at the sound blaring through the phone.Â
âHello?â He cleared his throat, which was almost certainly not loud enough, so he cleared it again.Â
âOh, Mr. Miller are you there? How are you this morning? Youâre calling real early.âÂ
That wasnât entirely untrue, but this was the only time he could call before the workday.Â
âI work in construction, m'am. Early mornings.â
She snapped her fingers.Â
âRight! Miller Construction. Itâs been so great watching your business grow, especially after everything that happenedâŚâ
The muscles in Joels arms flexed as he tensed on the other side. So she did know who he was. She wasnât even trying to feign stupidity.
âYeah, Iâve been tryinâ real hard to move on from everything. Makes it real hard when the girl I was in that wreck with is my daughter's teacher.â
He wasnât trying to hide the hostility in his voice, even though he knew it was impolite. Frankly, he was tired of always having to be the polite one. Any time he showed any anger or frustration, the same narrative from the accident came running back, so he always tried to be your traditional southern boy whose mama taught him manners (which she did).Â
Oh what an angry man. Do you think heâs drinking again? Did you know it was his fault? Because he was yelling at her while she was driving. Maybe if he wasnât so aggressive, the accident never would have happened. He was the toxic one.Â
âAh,â Karen sighed, and Joel heard a seat creaking like she was leaning back. âI had a feeling this would come up.âÂ
His eyebrows furrowed instantly.Â
âYou had a feeling?âÂ
âWell sure. Joel, Iâve been around for a long time. I remember reading the news about two young kids flipping their car. I recognized her name in the paperâŚshe was supposed to be a big writer, wasnât she? I saw her face on posters all over town about her book signing. Guess she was good, huh?âÂ
It didnât brush past him that she stopped calling him Mr. Miller and started speaking to him like she knew him personally. With how much of his life was in the news, she technically did.
âSheâŚshe is a good writer.â
Joel may not like you, but he was not a liar. You had a skill beyond anyone else, and denying that just felt petty and beneath him.Â
âItâs a shame she canât write anymore. Iâm sure sheâd write a great biography about what happened - oh! Maybe you can write it for her?âÂ
His lips parted at the sheer audacity of this woman. He had not called to catch up with his daughter's principal. He called to get her into a new classroom.Â
And yet, the allure of you never truly left him. Now that he realized that you didnât know about the lawsuit, he was curious how much he didnât know about you.Â
âWhat, umâŚwhat do you mean she canât write anymore?âÂ
Karen chuckled on the other end like the topic of a life changing injury was funny to her.Â
âShe told me that she was going to inform the parents about her brain condition before back to school night. Did she back out of that? I told her she could do whatever -â
âNo,â Joel cut her off. âShe did. I just donât understand how that means she canât write.â
He heard a faint inhale on the other end like she was about to respond, but she caught herself. She cleared her throat.Â
âWhat can I help you with Mr. Miller?â
âI want to switch Sarahâs teacher.â
She sighed on the other end, and he heard the jangling of bracelets as she scratched her temple.Â
âI canât do that for no reason.â
âNo - â he scoffed, trying to keep his temper down with Sarah in the next room. â - no reason!? I think her and Iâs history is enough of a reason. Certainly a conflict of interest?â
âJoel,â she switched back to using his first name like a disappointed parent. âYou arenât really trying to drag your personal business into your daughter's education are you?â
âNo!â He grit his teeth defensively. âI donât want my daughter to be taught by someone that has shown to me time and time again that she values her own needs over anyone elses.âÂ
âTime and time again? Has she not been living across the country for the last 7 years?â
Joel pushed his hair back as he leaned into the counter.Â
âI meant her and I were in a relationship for 6 years. I had a wedding ring picked out for her. I know her better than anyone else at that school, parents, administrators, whoever.â
âJoel,â every time she said his name, his grip in his hair tightened harder and harder. âShe is the most qualified teacher in this building.âÂ
He rolled his eyes on the other end.Â
âYeah, I got a whole mouthful about her awards last night. That means nothing to me.â
âWell they should. Those are extremely prestigious awards that most educators donât win in their entire lifetimes, never mind before theyâre 30.âÂ
Joel did look up the names of all of the awards once he put Sarah to bed last night. He knew he shouldnât do any digging into your life because that would open a wormhole for him. He was nothing if not obsessive once he allowed himself to be. He was that way with alcohol. And he was that way about you.Â
A mere search for what a Golden Apple award was turned into. That turned into finding a Boston Globe article of you with the Mayor of Boston after collaborting on the project you referenced. He found a post on a Boston bulletin board for Prince fan club that had your name attached to it. He couldnât find anything on new stories youâd put out, any local author talks like you used to do sometimes back in Dallas.Â
Sure, the awards were cool. You donât see teachers taking photos with mayors very often. But none of it moved him because he knew how superficial it all was.Â
âAwards are great and all until you realize that she will abandon all of those kids at the drop of the hat the minute she gets a better opportunity, or shit gets too hard. My daughter is the most important person in the world to me, and I donât want to constantly be worrying that her teacher has some vendetta against her because of her and Iâs personal relationship, or she has some health scare and has to abandon Sarah again just like her mother did!â
He didnât realize he was shouting until he realized Sarah had stood up and walked closer to him, holding Egg in her right hand.Â
âDaddy? Who are you yelling at?â
All of the anger left his face, his lips morphing into a frown. He covered the phone and whispered back.
âSorry baby, Uncle Tommyâs bugging me again. Go play, weâll drive to work in a minute and then your Uncle will drive you to school.â
She nodded, understanding that Uncle Tommy often bugged Daddy and he was okay. She was always worrying about him.Â
He closed his eyes and inhaled before speaking again.Â
âIâm sorry. That was rude of me.âÂ
âNo, no,â Karenâs voice was so soft, he almost thought he was speaking to someone else. âI understand your upset. Frankly, I do take fault for this. I didnât realize you and her were on such poor terms. But I absolutely see your fears. I do. But do you have any reason to believe she would use Sarah as some sort of ploy in your past relationship? Thatâs an accusation I have to take seriously.âÂ
His throat bobbed when she said âaccusation.â He was on such a role with his anger toward you, his own frustrations spilling out of him easily, but the minute a word as serious as an allegation was dropped, his breath stuttered.Â
Because he wasnât 100% certain in what he was accusing you of. In that closet yesterday, the way you stepped right into his space and shouted at him with such disdain and unbridled hatred toward him caught him off balance. He thought about how you tried to call him a bad father, despite everything he went through, despite years of trying his best. You insinuated that she would be better off without him. It was unacceptable.Â
But he couldnât help looking at you last night, he saw flickers of the girl he used to love. The girl who would always wave to babies being held by their parents in grocery stores. The girl who would always hand cash to a homeless person she saw and have a discussion with them. The girl who came over to take care of Tommy when he broke his leg and he and his parents had work.Â
He knew, deep, deep down that you wouldnât hurt Sarah. You couldnât. If it was true, and you werenât exaggerating, that you were the only person with her while she was having a panic attack, then maybe this wasnât about Sarah.Â
GodâŚhe wanted you gone though. He wanted to feel vindicated by getting you fired and seeing you packed up and getting hipped right back to Boston so he never had to look at you again. He spent so long without smelling burning rubber and blood where there was none. Now, he smelled it all the time.Â
âSheâs notâŚI donât think sheâs using Sarah as a ploy,â he admitted, even though he was watching his pride get stabbed in front of him. âBut sheâs unstable. She pulled me inside before the night started and she flipped out on me. It was so unprofessional; calling me every insult under the sun, attacking my parenting, insinuating that I donât try and teach my daughter,â
âAnd then she had the nerve to tell me that she thinks Sarah has dyslexia. And a-a god damn anxiety disorder! She knew my daughter for less than 24 hours and tried to tell me that something was wrong with her because I work too much. How dare one of your teachers attack my family like that? How dare she?â
It was quiet for such a long time that Joel thought he was disconnected. But then she sighed, her bracelets echoing through the phone. Her office chair creaked as it rolled closer to her desk.Â
âJoel, can I play the devil's advocate here?â
No.
âI know youâre hurting,â she continued. âI know thereâs history between your families. God, I feel like Iâm living in Romeo and Juliet here. I will talk to her, okay? Because if what youâre telling me is true, that is unprofessional and I want to make sure thereâs boundaries before the year really kicks off. Iâll bring her into my office today and I will make it very clear that personal grievances stay outside of the school.â
Joel let out a joyous exhale like he just won the lottery. He did win something, actually.Â
âBut,â Karen cut his celebration off. âI need you to listen to me too. Put your pride in your back pocket and look at the bigger picture here. You just told me she thinks Sarah has dyslexia, correct?â
âSheâs just saying that to get under my skin -â
âShut up and listen to me Joel Miller,â Karen cut him off, her voice turning scolding and disappointed. âShe told you how qualified she was last night. Iâm telling you how qualified she is. She didnât just spend all of those years working at a snobby private school, she spent years developing specialized curriculums for children with social and emotional challenges. She literally designed the modern day curriculum for children with learning disabilities in Massachusetts. If she was my childs teacher, and she believed they had a learning disability, I would be greatful that my child was in such good hands.âÂ
His jaw made a sharp screeching sound which usually happened if he was grinding his teeth too hard.Â
âDaddy, your mouth needs oiling.âÂ
When his jaw first made that noise, he tried to explain it Sarah by saying that he just needed some oil because metal gets real dry and crackly after a while. Really, the metal they used was just cheaper, and Joel didnât care enough about his body to try and remove stress from his face.
âYeah baby, one second.â He said to Sarah before returning to the phone.Â
âNow, Iâm not qualified to say if Sarah has dyslexia or not. But you and I both know that Sarah is a deeply sensative and anxious little girl. If she is struggling with reading, you have the most decorated and qualified teachers in the state of Texas sitting in that classroom. Plus, sheâs legally obligated to give your daughter 40 hours a week of her attention. At no cost to you. Most specialists cost thousands.â
Thousands. Thousands of dollars that he didnât have.Â
âUse her Joel. Use her to your advantage. You swallow that pride of yours, you look past that car accident, and you help your daughter. Because she is so smart and she has the exact tools Sarah needs to succeed. If you truly love your daughter, which I know you do, you will want whatâs best for her. And whatâs best for her right now is her teacher. Do you understand me?â
He chewed hard on his lower lip and looked up at Sarah, who was now braiding Eggâs hair. He was her protector, and right now? Right now, he wasnât doing his job. He had high hopes for Sarah, hopes for all of the things he never got to accomplish; college, pursuing her dreams without the fear of money, travelling the world.Â
She couldnât do any of that if she didnât have the proper foundations. As her protector, he needed to make sure she learned the foundations so she could have a better life than him.Â
âYeah,â he swallowed. âI understand.â
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
Joel sat behind his trailer desk, which was illuminated by a few measly lightbulbs since the sun wasnât fully risen yet. He was surrounded by stacks of blueprints, concrete invoices, and a mountain of bureaucratic safety logs he needed to sign off on before his crew arrived. And yet, he couldnât focus.
Ever since he hung up his call with Karen,, a migraine had been clawing its way from the base of his neck to the front of his skull. The silence of the trailer had never felt so loud.
He clenched his teeth in pain after a head rush from sitting upright too fast and his jaw let out that screech again. The physical therapists had told him that he would have to learn to divert tension in his face with his new jawâŚwhatever the fuck that means. Clealry it didnât work.
Sarah was entirely oblivious to his pain. She was sitting on a milk crate, wearing her backpack over her shoulders, waiting patiently for Tommy to show up and drive her to school. To pass the time, she was using his blueprints as a temporary runway (he guessed what it was) for her Fairytopia doll.Â
"Fly, Egg!" she whispered softly. Maybe she was more aware of Joels migraine than he thought, speaking so quietly like that.Â
He watched as Egg took off of the runway and Sarah made âbrrâŚ.brrâ noises like a plane. He wasnât quite sure where this new fascination with planes came from. He had never been on a plane, and that meant neither had she. He didnât watch any shows on the TV that had planes in them, and he wasnât aware of any kids shows that were centered on planes.Â
Kids are so fascinating.Â
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?" Joel didn't look up from the invoice he was pretending to read. His thumb was rubbing the scarred skin beneath his beard where the metal met his bone.
"I miss Mommy," she said casually, making the doll do a loop-de-loop over a concrete slab.
The pen in his hand froze mid-signature, the ink bleeding into a blotch on the paper.Â
He flung his head to the side at the sound of a shatter ceramic plate against the wall and Sarahâs wail. The same wail that she made while she was bleeding through her PJs and all over him.
Why was she missing her?Â
Sarah had been so understanding when Joel explained that she wouldnât be seeing Mommy anymore. She was good when they were going through the divorce too. He knew he should have been more hesitant at that reaction. He knew he should have been less easy going - what toddler doesnât bat an eye that her mother is leaving?
 Isla hadn't sent a single card, hadn't made a single phone call, hadn't looked back once after she signed away her rights. He had done everything he could to supplement her. He broke his back at work every day, he learned how to braid her hair, he cut her fruit into stars, he stayed up through every nightmare, he played dolls with her.
Is it because of the reading? Is it because I shouted during the phone call? Am I not enough for her?
He turned his head to look at her.
What's that, Sarah? WhyâŚwhy you sayin' that, sweet face?"
Sarah paused, holding Egg by her glittery wings, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she looked up at his upset face.
 "Because Katherine in my class yesterday said her mommy lets her sleep in her bed when she gets sad. And I got sad in the library yesterday. I just thought... maybe if Mommy was here, I could sleep in her bed. And she would help the letters not swim."
It wasn't about Isla at all. It was about the exact thing you had accused him of letting happen. She wanted a mother because she thought a mother would notice the letters mushed on the page. She thought a mother would fix the broken parts of her that her daddy was apparently too busy or too blind to see.
He stared at the scar on her little forearm. It meant so little to him, but it was a reminder to Joel of the night he chose to stop drinking. The night he ripped the bandaid off and spoke to a lawyer. He had thought he saved her that night. But standing here, watching her feel so insecure and sad, he realized he was still letting her get cut by the shards of his own life.
Before he could find his voice, the trailer swung open and a rush of exhaust came in.
"Alright, sorry I'm late, man," Tommy said breathlessly, stepping into the trailer with a travel mug of coffee, his boots muddy from the lot. He walked straight over to Sarah and extended a hand. "Come on, time to get you to school before the bell rings. Uncle Tommy's buying you a donut on the way to make up for it."
Sarah's eyes immediately lit up. She scrambled off the milk crate and shoved Egg in her backpack.Â
"A chocolate one?!"
"You bet," Tommy chuckled, ushering her toward the door. "See ya when I get back Joel."
Joel didn't move. Didnât say bye. He just watched the door click shut behind them before bursting into tears.
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
Joel was an alcoholic.Â
He didnât have a hard time admitting it. Anymore. He couldnât say the exact moment he started developing a problem with alcohol, but he could say the exact moment he decided to pursue sobriety.Â
It was one month after Sarah was born. Isla was so far gone she was practically out of the picture, but that wasnât to say Joel was much of a saint. He was far out of the picture because he was afraid that if he spent too long with his daughter, he would contaminate her. Thatâs what Isla had told them in one of their last big fights before she was born, hadnât she? That he ruined everything he touches? That he would ruin their daughters life just like he had ruined Islas?
She saidâŚthings during their fights a lot. Things that Joel learned to brush off because she would always come back and cry, claiming that she didnât mean it. But something about this specific comment never left his blood, even today.Â
By the time Sarah was born, his drinking was at its worst. But it was several bricks that had been placed since he was 18 years old, bricks that pushed him further and further into alcholism.
He never felt quite normal. That was the only way he could articulate it. He had a great childhood. Incredibly kind and supportive parents. Him and his brother got along well. He had friends that were like brothers to him. And yet, he never felt very fulfilled. Looking at the big picture, his life was nice. But the day to day was a drag for him to get through; it felt like shackles were stuck to his feet, trying to pull him into the center of the earth.Â
He remembered a world with color, so he knew that his life didnât have color anymore. It was as if someone took a turkey baster and sucked all of the color out of the world around him, leaving him to try and exist in a dull, grey hellscape.Â
When he started drinking socially, he was amazed that all the color had been repainted onto his surroundings. God, did he miss vibrance! Saturation! Rainbows! When you have color every day, you grow to appreciate it less and less because you know it's going to be tere tomorrow. You donât know what you have until itâs gone.Â
He craves the color back so badly that he makes more and more excuses to find a drink at a party. He managed to keep his yearning for it pretty underwraps for a whileâŚuntil his relationship with you progressed and he got more and more insecure.Â
All you wanted more than anything was for your writing career to take off. All Joel wanted more than anything was for your writing career to take off. He had the privilege of being the first person you let read your stories, which meant he had the privilege of being the first person to know that you would go down as a writing legend. He wanted nothing more than to see you take off and reach your dreams.
He just didnât expect for your dreams to change you so much.Â
The sweet, shy girl he forced into publically reading her story publicly becameâŚwell, mean. Sharp. Aggressive. He once expressed his insecurity to you that he wasnât going to college and working a blue collar job unlike most people he went to high school with. He was afraid that deep down somewhere, you judged him too and would grow out of him. But you swore up and down, left and right that you would never. Someoneâs education and job does not shape who they are here:
You tapped his heart.
The change started with little comments during fights, about how he wouldnât know good writing since he never took a real college class on it. You began throwing your own college education in his face like a weapon. Youâd insult him over dinner, glare at his grease-stained hands, make passive-aggressive comments about how he never had to use his brain because building houses required no skill. You systematically made him feel small and unworthy of being in your orbit.
And instead of fighting back, he just drank even more to numb the bleeding. Because despite the insults, despite how cruel you could be, you were still the only good thing he had ever known. He was so terrified of losing you that he swallowed the poison you fed him and washed it down with cheap bourbon.
There was one night toward the end of your relationship, where your roommates at your college apartment were throwing a Halloween Party. Joel had made the drive out, excited to spend some time with you since your school work was really swamping you lately.Â
But the party really wasnât fun at all. He felt so out of place in that apartment, even though he was with you, the only person who ever made him feel at home. Hell, he was a contractor standing in a room full of trust fund literature students who were talking about the fancy vacations they were going on over Thanksgiving, or the internships they had lined up.
He had stepped out to grab himself another beer, having lost you almost an hour ago. But when he saw your bedroom door slightly ajar, he walked over to go sit with you. You always made him feel better. Yeah. You would make him feel better.Â
But before he could open the door, he froze. The sounds bleeding out into the hallway were unmistakable.Â
It was the heavy breathing of two people behind a closed door, one of which wasnât his. There was that guy from the hockey team he saw hovering around you all night. It made him uncomfortable how he looked at you, but heâŚIt wasn't a misunderstanding. It wasn't something he could rationalize or explain away. You were in your room with someone else while Joel stood in the hallway feeling his entire universe collapse.
He didnât do anything in that moment, because the numbness he felt his whole life doubled down. He didn't say a single word to you about it. Not that night, not the next day, not ever. If he brought it up, it meant admitting he wasn't enough. It meant hearing you confirm every single insecure thought heâd ever had about himself.
So he just left the party. He walked out into the night, climbed into his truck, and drove straight to the nearest dive bar he could find. And he drank.
From that night on, the alcohol wasn't a medicine anymore. It was a suicide mission.Â
He drank before he went to see you, masking the scent with gum. He drank after he dropped you off. He drank until his chest stopped burning from the memory of that hallway. Every time you looked at him with those big pretty eyes, every time you made a remark about his background, he just went back to the bottle. You were the only good thing he had ever had and you had severed the rope.Â
A month after Sarah was born, his mom was supposed to be watching her for a few hours so Joel could supposedly "clear his head" and sleep off his exhaustion. Instead, he had spent 6 hours sitting in a (suspiciously) sticky booth at a tavern, drowning himself in cheap tequila, trying to drown himself from the inside out. He didn't care about his job, he didn't care about the bills, he didn't care about himself.
When he finally stumbled back to his parents' house, the screen door slamming loudly behind him, he was pathetic. It was undeniable. He reeked of alcohol, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his clothes were disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot and completely out of focus. He didnât hide it as much around his mom, because he knew she had a hard time confronting him about it.Â
But he didn't find his mother waiting for him in the living room.
He found his dad sitting entirely alone at the kitchen table. Sarah's diaper bag was sitting on the counter next to an empty baby bottle.
Joel tried to feign sobriety, instantly pulling his shoulders back and masking his slurred speech with an attempt at swagger. He looked like an idiot. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter to steady his rolling vision.Â
"Heyyyyyyy, Dad. Mom around?"
Scott didn't buy it. He didn't yell. He didn't throw a fist the way Joel half-expected him to. He just slowly stood up from the chair, looked at his eldest son and broke down in tears.Â
It was the first time Joel had ever seen his father cry in his entire life, and the sight of it horrified him, snapping him out of most of his drunkenness.
He didnât even notice Tommy was there. He walked out from the back hallway, holding a sleeping Sarah against his chest. His face was completely pale, his eyes fixed on the floor. He was disappointed in Joel. His younger brother was disappointed in him.Â
"You're gonna kill yourself, son," Scott choked out, gripping Joelâs shoulders, shaking him slightly. "And you're gonna leave this little girl with nothin'. No mama, no daddy. Nothin! You gotta stop, Joel. Goddamn it, please. We can't lose you too. I can't bury my boy."
So much had happened in his life, and yet, the sight of his daughter sleeping in his brother's arms completely broke something inside Joel's chest.Â
He collapsed forward into his fatherâs arms, his face burying itself deep into his dad's shirt. He fell to his knees on the linoleum, dragging his father down with him.
"I don't wanna do it anymore. I don't want to be here. I'm ruined. I ruin everything I touch. Isla's right... Sarah... Sarah would be so much better off without me. I'm just a piece of shit. I'm just gonna contaminate her. I'm gonna ruin her life too."
It spilled out of him so fast he was surprised his dad understood any of it.
He didn't offer a lecture or tell him he was wrong, and he didn't tell him to man up. He just wrapped his arms completely around Joel. He rocked him slightly, refusing to let go until the shaking finally stopped and the liquor ran dry in his veins.
Now 6 years later and sitting back at his desk in the construction trailer, Joel stared down at his hands.
They were clean. He hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol since that night on his parents' kitchen floor.
He had chosen to stay alive for Sarah. He reminded himself that no matter how much his jaw ached, and no matter how much the ghost of your voice tried to tell him he was unworthy, he was the one who held his daughter when she cried. Not Isla. And certainly not you.
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
âHow was pickup today?âÂ
Andrea had picked up Sarah today so Joel could stay after hours at work and finish this damn elderly home project. After he found the faults in the wall yesterday, his team had to tear down a large chunk of what they had done, and they needed to start over. He gave his guys a choice if they wanted to stay or not, of course offering overtime pay. Two of the younger guys agreed, but the other men had families they had to get home and feed, so they left.
So did Joel. But he was running this business.
âOh she seems so happy there Joely. I know you said she got upset yesterday during the day, but she came in just raving about her teacher, and - â
âTELL DADDY I DREW HIM A PICTURE!â
Joel snorted at the loud squeal of his daughter on the other end.Â
His mother chuckled and spoke to Sarah.Â
âYou wanna tell Daddy yourself? Come take the phone sugar.â
Joel waited patiently, perking up slightly with excitement to hear from his daughter. Her little voice just sent an injection of dopamine straight into his veins.
âDaddy,â she sounded almost breathless from excitement. âWe did art today.âÂ
âYou did art? You love art!â
âI. Know. My teacher told us to draw a picture of us with our families somewhere we loved. So I drew us at the zoo.â
He thought Sarahâs zoo phase would leave about a year ago. She often did that little kid thing, where she discovered something new about the world and became obsessed with it for a month. But her love for the zoo has been going strong.Â
âYeah? You put any animals in there?â
He mouthed lions on the other end of the phone.
âLions. And monkeys. Can we hang it on the fridge when you come get me?âÂ
ââCourse baby,â he paused and rolled his lips into his teeth. âYou do any reading today?â
âWe practiced learning how to say new words. Like s-a-t, sat. Teacher gave me something special to do too.â
Joel stiffened, like he was bracing for her to say that you did something mean to her.Â
âYeah?âÂ
âShe put cream on my desk daddy! That stuff you put on your face in the morning! Everyone else was just saying the letters outloud, but she told me I got to write the letters in the cream.â
His head tilted on the other end. Shaving cream?Â
âDo youâŚdo you feel like it helped you read the letters a bit better?â
âYep!â
His whole body warmed with joy and he couldnât fight the grin on his face. She was so little she probably didnât know how it helped, but if it helped her, he would take it. Oh god, he would take it.Â
âThat makes me so happy baby,â he could hear his own happiness in his voice. âYou have fun with GG okay? I think youâre having dinner with her, but Iâll pick you up after. I love you.â
âLove ya,â it was quiet for a moment before Andrea was on the phone again.Â
âIt makes me so happy that sheâs enjoying school.âÂ
Joel didnât tell his mother that you were Sarahâs teacher. Everything surrounding the lawsuits and the accident were a sore spot for her, and rightfully so of course. None of them ever really came back from that, and he couldnât handle the additional stress of his mother worrying why you were back.Â
â...me too.âÂ
Andrea paused.
âAre you okay sweetheart?â Moms and their ability to read their childrens tones. âIs that old folks home having trouble? You donât usually have to stay this late.â
He checked his watch which read 7 p.m. Fuck, it was later than he thought. He ignored his mothers question.
âI thought it was still 5ish, I didnât realize it was so late. Did Sarah have dinner? I told her I would pick her up after dinner. I can come get her - â
âJoel,â his mother said firmly. âHon. You sound exhausted. Why donât I watch Sarah for the night? That way you can focus on your project, get to bed early, treat yourself.âÂ
She was funny if she thought Joel slept.Â
âYou already watch Sarah so much -â
âDo you think I care if I spend a lot of time with my only grandbaby Joel Miller? I would snatch her up from you if I could. And besides, she hasnât had a sleepover since the beginning of August. Thatâs a whole month.âÂ
âYou know some kids donât see their grandparents for whole years.â
âAnd I will not be one of those grandparents! Go have a night to yourself, Iâll get her to school tomorrow morning and you can pick her up.âÂ
âI -â
She hung up on him.Â
It was a nice thought for her to do that, but he was physically incapable of having a night to himself. It was like his brain was always on addreall, which was an accurate description because he tried adderall several times at high school parties. He was always worrying about Sarah, and house bills, and new contracts, and business bills, and lawyer bills.Â
His work phone started buzzing in his pocket. One of the better purchases he made for the business, so now his personal phone wasnât blowing up with requests from clients.Â
âMiller Contracting, this is Joel.â
âHi Joel!â A cheery womans voice was on the other end. âMy name is Laurel Watson, Iâm the Chair of the Historical Preservation Trust here in Dallas.âÂ
She paused like Joel was supposed to recognize what that was. Did she seriously think ordinary people had time for frequent historical monument visits?
âHow can I help you Laurel?â
âIâm calling because the Trsut just secured a massive federal revitalization grant,â Laurel explained. âWeâre looking to completely overhaul the old Johnsonâs Crest textile mill over east - you know that one? That really big brick building?âÂ
Joel reached over to his desk to grab his Redbull.
âYeah, I know the building. That shits been abandoned since before my parents were around. What are you gonna do with it?â
âWe want to convert the entire facility into a public library with a community arts hub attached to it. Weâre even looking to maybe build a small charter school next to it, but that would be later. Itâs one of the biggest projects weâve ever worked on. The budget weâve allocated is upwards of 6 million dollars.â
He choked on his Redbull. Full on, soda out the nose, burning, coughing.Â
He started running the quick numbers, looking around the material costs and labor fees. A project of that scale meant a guaranteed, massive payout. Probably enough to wipe out his parents legal bills - the legal bills that had been draining his mothers spirit and ruined his fathers retirement.Â
His own bills and debts were probably too high, but to finally lift that weight off his families shoulders felt like a miracle.
But miracles donât happen to Joel.
âThat sounds like a hell of a project,â he laughed skeptically. âBut Miller Contracting is a small group. We do residential builds mostly. Concrete pouring. Iâm sure you got firms out of Houston and Austin who bid on stuff like this. Why are you calling me?â
Laurel let out a reassuring laugh.Â
âBecause those firms donât care about Dallas. They want to tear down the original building, gut the character, and turn it into some concrete box. Iâve seen the work your crew did on the firehouse downtown last year. You really respect what you do because you know how to rework old structures without taking away from their history. I think your team is exactly who I want.âÂ
Hearing a complete stranger express complete belief in his capability made him feel confident in a way he hadnât been in years.
He looked down at the safety logs on his desk that he still had to sign, then out the window where it was now dark outside.
He didnât want to work until it was dark out anymore.
"AlrightâŚAlright, Laurel. Send over the preliminary blueprints and the grant specifications to my office trailer. I'll review the structural integrity reports and have a formal bid on your desk by Friday morning."
"Wonderful! I knew I called the right man," he could hear her excitement on the other side . "Have a wonderful morning, Mr. Miller."
"You too. Thanks."
He clicked the phone shut and tossed it onto the desk. And thenâŚhe laughed. For the first time in seven years, he felt a genuine spike of excitement coursing through his veins. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was going to pay off his family's debts, he was going to build something that mattered, and he was going to secure his daughter's future.Â
It was the kind of joy that made him lose his mind for a moment. $6 millio. He had never been affiliated with the word âmillionâ before. He felt giddy like a child, so much so, that he stood up from his desk chair and danced.
Badly. But it was dark.
It was a dorky dad dance, shuffling to side, his arms popping in different directions. It was like his body had a thermometer that was filled with joy, and right now he had a fever - joy and happiness shattering the glass and pouring over the edges.
He was a simple guy. If he didnât have all of his and his parents' debt, he would move to Tennessee. Not have a whole farm, but have some animals for himself, maybe a couple of chickens. Oh, a cow! A cow seemed fun. Heâd buy a big oleâ farm house where he would have his dream guitar collection, and when Sarah was old enough, he would teach her how to play too. He would take her on trips to all of the big monuments across the world, and even though he didnât know anything about them himself, he would do research on them beforehand so he could answer all of Sarahâs questions.
But, for now, paying off all of the debt you caused him and his family would do.
BANG BANG BANG
It wasnât out of the ordinary for one of the guys to bang loudly on the door. But not when itâs dark outside and all of them are either home or in the home. And not when he was in his own world, dancing.Â
He walked over to the door, his pulse thrumming out of his wrists. It was probably just one of the guys telling him they were done for the night.Â
âYeah you guys can wrap-âÂ
He froze when his eyes finally connected to his mouth. Because he wasnât looking at one of his men.Â
He was looking at you.
You, with hair slightly frizzy from the extreme Texas humidity. You, with the glossed over eyes, almost as if tears were going to fall. You, who was holding yourself upright against the DIY railing he made and yet still stumbling around. You, who smelled like like strawberries and cream, cigarettes, and whiskey.Â
YouâŚwere drunk. Anyone could see it, but he had seen you drunk enough that he knew all of your little obscurities you had when you were drunk. You werenât wearing a usual going out outfit like you did while the two of you were dating, but you were also nearly 30. Did women still having designated going out tops at 30? Either way, you looked like you went to the bar straight after work, still wearing your landyard, a long pale pink skirt, and a blue shirt that said âBook Wormâ on it.
âDid you try and get me fired!?â
You took a step forward, pushing your finger into his chest. You nearly fell over just doing that.Â
Meanwhile, Joel was still speechless that you were standing outside of his work trailer. He instinctively reached out, holding the sides of your arms to keep you upright, and he guided you into his trailer.Â
âWhat the hell are you doing?â He hissed, ignoring her question and sitting her down at his desk. Not the most comfortable chair for a drunk girl but he wasnât going to put you on the floor. He hated you, but he wasnât an animal.Â
âDonâŚâ your words were slurring. âDonât fucking ignore my question Miller.â
Joel slammed the trailer door shut and locked it before walking over to you.Â
âIâm not ignoring your question.â
You looked soâŚsilly. In the dorkiest and most ridiculous way possible, you looked like the most dishevleved teacher in the entire world. It didnât help the warmth that was spreading through his cheeks when you looked up at him with your big puppy eyes, your pupils absolutely blown with intoxication.Â
âDid you try and get me fired?â you asked again, still slurring, but not so loud this time. Your head lolled back so hard against the headrest that Joel swore he heard your neck cracking.Â
Joelâs arm shot out before he could even register what he was doing. His hand cupped the back of your head, his fingers splaying across your neck so you didn't whip your spine against the hard seat. He held you there for a moment, one that felt so familiar, Joel let his thumb brush the hairs at the nape of your neck. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he let go, but he stayed close, his boots pressing right up against the wheels of your chair.
You glared at him, oblivious to his worry.
âKaren just pulled me into her office and threatened to throw me out of the district! She said I was a liability! Because 'I' pulled you into a closet and screamed at you like a lunatic!â
He raised an eyebrow. That wasnât at all what Karen said she would do. She just said she would talk to you.
âI didnât tell her to do that. Thatâs not what she told me she was going to do at all,â he muttered. He did say some awful things to Karen about you, but something about seeing you in his space, vulnerable and clearly hurt made him feel guilty.Â
He hated feeling guilty. You deserved to be reprimanded! What was he doing?
âBut you did pull me into that closet. And you did scream at me. I called the principal this morning because I wanted to talk about my daughter's classroom placement. I didn't ask for your contract to be reviewed.â
âBull-fucking-shit!â and you were yelling again. You stood up shakily, your palms slapping his desk. Your knees buckled almost instantly, sending you nearly crumbling into the sharp edge of his metal filing cabinet.Â
Joel caught you by the waist with both hands, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you flush against his chest to absorb the impact of your fall. For a second, you were entirely in his arms, the scent of your hair filling his lungs.Â
He held you the same way he held your limp body on the side of the road. Except this time, you didnât smell like blood and burning rubber.
His heart started racing as you thought back to that night, like your body was a time machine. He quickly lowered you back to your feet and dusted his hands off.Â
"Sit down before you break your neck,â He stepped back, crossing his arms tightly to keep from reaching out a third time. But you kept going.
"You just want me gone! You've wanted me gone since 1996! You wish I was dead didnât you? You wish I died in that accident and I would be gone from your lifeâŚâ
As you rambled on, Joelâs heart fractured. You thought he was so evil that he would prefer you dead. And of course he didnât want you dead. He did everything he could keep himself conscious so that he could call for help for you. Hell, sometimes he wished he would just let himself die, but that meant you wouldnât be here either.
"I called the school because I don't want a woman who has a 7 year personal vendetta against me diagnosing my kid just to hurt my pride. But Karen told me what you did up north. She told me you're the most qualified person in the state to help her. So I swallowed my pride. I told her you weren't using Sarah as a ploy. I saved your damn job this morning.â
You blinked up at him, your slurred defiance faltering for a fraction of a second as his words registered through the alcoholic haze. And in that flicker, he saw the youthful, innocent you, the one he fell in love with. The one he lost.
"You... you told her that?" you whispered, your hand instinctively coming up to clutch your lanyard.
"Yeah, I did," Joel sighed, straightening back up and rubbing the bridge of his nose/ He reached over, grabbed his half-empty bottle of water from the desk, and pushed it into your hand, forcing your fingers to wrap around the plastic. "Drink some water. And then you need to tell me how the hell you got here, because you are in no condition to be driving a car."
You tilted your head at him like he just asked the most stupid question in the world.Â
âI donât drive.âÂ
Joel froze, his hands half way through rubbing his face.Â
âWhat do you mean? You seriously walked all the way here?â His eyes darted to your feet, which must be aching. âYouâŚyou never got behind a wheel again? Not onceâŚâ
He didn't ask anything else. He couldn't. Because the truth was, Joel carried a mountain of guilt about the smell of dirt, burning rubber, and flipped metal under a black Texas sky. It was guilt about the absolute horror of waking up upside down, coughing on smoke, and realizing you were flung through the windshield. Despite his pleas for you to wear a seatbelt, he had failed to save you, and that failure had fundamentally broken something inside him.
He hated you now. He had spent seven years building a wall of pure spite to survive that guilt. But underneath the anger, Joel was a man who was physically incapable of not taking care of the people he loved. It was in his DNA. He was a protector, a provider, and a savior to a fault. And looking at you right now, his old instincts didn't care about the lawsuit or the bitter words - they just saw you.
"Where's your phone?" he demanded gently, stepping into your space and reaching for your small handbag.
"No," you slurred, trying to weakly swat his hands away. "Theo... Theo's gonna kill me, Joel. He's bein' so good to me... letting me live with him. If I walk in like this... he's gonna know I messed up."
Joel didn't say anything as he fished the flip phone out of your bag. He knew Theo, and he knew he would absolutely lose his mind if he found out you were anywhere near a Miller, let alone drunk in a construction trailer. He flipped the phone open, and posing as you, he typed out the quickest lie he could think of.
 Got invited out for drinks with some of the other teachers from school. Going to stay at their place tonight to be safe. Love you, see you tomorrow.
He hit send, snapped the phone shut, and slid it into his pocket. No drunk texting for you.
"Come on.â
"No! Let go of me!" you protested, your slurred voice rising as you shoved his chest. You fought him all the way out of the trailer, your heels dragging in the gravel lot, but Joel just kept a grip on your waist, hoisting you into the passenger seat of his truck like a doll. He closed the door, rushing around to the driver's side before someone thought he was kidnapping you.Â
There was a certain irony about your inability to drive yourself and how quickly you fell asleep in the car, like the engine was a lullaby. Like you found peace in being just far enough away from the trauma. The trauma was behind the wheel.
When he finally pulled into the driveway of his house, it was pitch black. He turned off the ignition and looked across the bench seat. You were entirely dead to the world, your head tilted against the glass in a way that looked ridiculously uncomfortable.
Joel sighed at how helpless you looked. He climbed out of the truck and walked around to the passenger side. Opening the door, he leaned in to carefully unbuckle your seatbelt, making sure his hands didn't snag your lanyard - they were so calloused they looked almost like splintered wood. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you out of the cab bridal style.
He used to dream about holding you like this.
As soon as frigid air hit you, you whimpered. Your body instinctively sought out the closest heat source you could find - his chest. You turned inward, your face burying directly into the crook of his neck, your hands clutching blindly at his shirt as you snuggled yourself as deep into his space as you could possibly get.
Joelâs breath hitched. His heart began hammering against your ribs. The sensation of just holding you was melting him from the inside out. It was too familiar. It felt too much like the nights he used to carry you to bed when you were 19, entirely safe and entirely his. He adjusted his grip, pulling you a bit closer, his chin resting gently against your hair as he kicked his front door open.
He had fully intended to give you the couch. He had told himself you didn't deserve his bed. But Joel was a gentleman, and the couch was far too small, and his body simply wouldn't let him treat you poorly right now. He carried you straight past the living room, down the hallway, and into his own bedroom, laying your body onto his mattress. Still small, but more adult sized.
"Hey," he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking your shoulder with a tenderness that contradicted everything heâd said today. "Hey. Wake up for a second, sweet girl."
He gulped when he said the name he used to call you. Sweet girlâŚhis sweet girl.Â
Well. You werenât really sweet anymore. Joel was living in a memory tonight.
You groaned, your eyelids squinting open.
 "Joel...?"
"You want a shirt and some shorts to sleep in? You can't sleep in that heavy skirt."
"Yeah," you yawned. "Yes, please."
Joel walked over to his dresser, pulling out an old grey t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, pulling the drawstring loose so they wouldn't pinch your waist. He walked back to the bed and set them down beside you.
 "Alright. I'm turning around. Change your clothes."
He turned his back to the bed, standing completely still as he faced the wall, trying hard not to envision what you looked like changing into his shirt. This isnât real he kept telling himself. Tomorrow the real you will come out.
"Done," you whispered even though it was just the two of you.
Joel turned back around. You were swallowed whole by his t-shirt, the fabric hanging past your knees, looking tiny in the middle of his bed. He leaned over, pulling the heavy quilt all the way up to your shoulders, tucking the edges around you like he did for Sarah when she had a nightmare.
He walked out to the kitchen to get some water and placed them on the nightstand right next to your head. He placed a plastic trash bag on the floor right by the edge of the mattress, just in case your stomach turned.
And finally, he knelt down by the side of the bed. He was holding a washcloth he had run under the bathroom tap with warm water, squeezing out the excess until it was just damp.
"Hold still.â
He brought the cloth to your face, wipingn the smudged mascara and foundation from your skin. He was careful around your eyes, his thumb resting lightly against your cheekbone to steady his hand. He traced the slope of your nose, cleaning your face the exact way he used to do when youâd stay up until 3 in the morning writing and couldn't keep your eyes open.
It was so quiet he heard you swallow before whispering.
âJoel?â
âMhm?â
âIâm glad itâs youâŚI know itâs you this time. Donât worry.â
I devoured all 6 chapters of Purple Rain that are available and omg the world building is insane. I feel like I know them theyâre written so well. Just wanted to say hi, thank you for sharing this, and I canât wait for the next chapter. đ
Oh my GOD Iâm going to cry this was such a lovely message to get at my evil corporate job I canât wait to go home and write my silly little story I love you all
⤡ chapter summary: two weddings and a funeral? more like two coworkers who fucking hate each other find out during the latter that they have become parents. ⹠5k
⤡ warnings/tags. 18+ (minors dni), eventual smut, age gap, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, pinning, unrequited love, heavy angst, there was only one bed, hurt/comfort, domestic!abbot, fluff, reader goes by the nickname lola. tw: suicide, use of drugs (x1 marijuana). inspired by the movie life as we know it.
⤡ notes. beta'd by my pookie @joeldjarin who i love a lot. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciatedâi'd love to know what y'all think!
㠤㠤㠤series masterlist â next
You knew it was bad when the ringing came back.
Piercing; loud. As if your wounded heart logged itself on your brain with it's broken fragments, dying pulse beating like a drum inside the confines of your worst enemy: your head.
Lola, look at me. Breathe.
You blink back tears at the memory. How much you'd give for him to come now, hold your trembling body down with his steady grip on your shoulder, speaking in that low voice of his for you to calm down, to come back to him. Look at you with those soft eyes he'd rarely show anyone else; bring you back from dark to light.
It's okay, just focus on me. Breathe.
The rasp and the fondness. The small chuckle at your hasty reply assuring you were fine.
Good. Can't afford to lose my best doctor.
You'd throw in a Take that, Langdon! for good measure, just to hear him laugh. Unguarded, like he didn't carry the weight of the world in his hands.
For a second, amid the chaos of the room, it was just two people in the staircase, sharing a laugh like the worst wasn't yet to come. As if you mattered enough to pull him out of the ship's helm, because saving all those people wasn't as rewarding as talking you out from the demons inside your brain.
You're good. Too good.
And you believed him like a lighthouse amid the storm; he was the anchor holding down this place from falling apart.
But he's not here anymore. You'll never feel the warmth of his comfort again.
Instead, all you feel is cold. So cold.
The ringing continues, crushing your skull down with the weight of raw, unprocessed feelings. You can feel them on your skin, all damp with sweat and dried streak of tears, that no amount of water can wash away.
The world doesn't stop spinning, not even when a familiar face shows up in the center, concern written all over her face.
"You alright, kid?"
You want to speak, but it's like there's a big knot on your throat pushing down all words. So you just shake your head softly, like any major effort will make you break apart.
She nods, comprehensive. Dana's always been like that.
"I miss him too, you know?"
You don't dare to say his name. It will only make it real.
That when you cross those doors, he won't be there to click his tongue with disapproval at the overly sweet coffee in your thermos. That he won't make fun of the Taylor Swift and pink stickers inside your locker. That in rooms, you won't be able to search his eyes again, won't find them staring back with a silent pride as you prove useful inside the ER.
And still, tomorrow would be another day and another shift at The Pitt; the sick don't rest. All the same but so painfully different.
Because life goes on, and yet, you can't imagine going back to a world where he isn't around.
Your voice comes out raw from the screams that never made it past your mouth. Tired of the sleepless night after the call.
"What are we going to do?"
She gives you half a smile. "What we always do: Find a way to make it work out."
You hold back a sob with a shaky exhale. She extends her arms in a silent offer.
So you let her hug you, trying to swallow the truth:
Dr. Robinavitch was gone, and there was nothing in this world that could bring him back.
"Imagine being abandoned twice at this age."
"Trinity!" Javadi calls out between her teeth, "don't say that."
The baby coos, looking adorable in her little black dress (courtesy of Dana's daughter) for a moment so grim.
"What? It's not my fault." She holds her finger out and the baby takes it, gurgling. "I'm not the one adopting knowing I'm going to kill myself."
Javadi's eyes wide in shock. Dennis gives her a hard look.
"It was an accident."
"Kahit anong sabihin mo," she mumbles under her breath. (whatever you say)
Whitaker crosses his arms. "I hope that means you're sorry."
"No. It means Congratulations, you just won a sad bachelor pad by default."
Before he can reply, Javadi elbows him. He looks confused and angry at the interruption for a perfect jab back before realizing what, or rather who, she meant.
"Glad to see your humor is still intact."
Trinity jumps slightly at the new voice that's joined.
She smiles tightly as she greets you. "Hey, Lola."
They all share a look. It's Javadi who dares to ask.
"Are you okay?"
You sigh, tiredly. "Been better."
They nod slowly, like any rougher movement might frighten you; shatter that mask that's holding back a broken woman. They most likely had seen you and Dana a few minutes before.
You avoid their careful gaze and look around. There are a lot of faces you recognize, some out of respect, like Dr. Adamson's family and Dr. Garcia; others devoted despite it all, like Jake and Langdon; conflicted, as Samira and Baran; bittersweet, like Collins, who drove all the way from Portland as soon as she got the news. Loving, like Dana: people who saw all your flaws and decided you were still worth of being cared for.
You wonder in which category you fall.
That's when you see him, the one you hadn't even dared to think about.
He moves through the crowd, greeting both coworkers and strangers alike, showing the manners of a perfect gentleman while wearing a face that says nothing except a composure years in the making, carefully crafted to keep every emotion in bay before buried wounds and old feelings drown him.
"Excuse me," you say as he makes his way to your group, fleeing the scene. You're glad none of the trio asks, much like the rest of the staff.
Golden Rule of The Pitt #12: Whatever animosity goes on between you and Dr. Jack Abbot, it's none of their business.
Theories have flown here and there, mostly from Perlah and Princess, but not one was close to reality. It was, if anything, a simple truth: opposites don't match well.
You thought his coolness didn't paint him as an emotionally intelligent man but rather a detached, unapproachable one. He viewed your optimism, naive and felt your need for control was a disrespect to the hierarchy and interrupted the seamless flow of teamwork. His purposelessness outside the hospital in which he carelessly and emptily lived his life made you think of him less. He found your need for approval pitiful, how you'd lie and hide your ambition behind false humbleness.
Jack knows he can't save everyone, even if he tries his best with every live that walks into the ER. You think you can, not only to prove him wrong, but because you've always thought that way.
You see Langdon by the food, trying to quiet down his kids by bribing them with the tray of pastries while Abby mingles with a group of people nearby.
He balances Penny on one arm while trying to stop Tanner from raiding the brownie tray Princess baked.
"Need some help?"
Langdon raises his gaze to meet you, eyes softening. You wonder if it's your palpable grief or the bond that despite everything that happened the last 10 months, hasn't been broken.
"Suit yourself."
You choose to carry Penny, because dealing with a toddler that'll cry if you say no isn't a thing you want to add to today's list of stress.
"How are you doing?" you ask before he gets the chance to question you first.
"Trying to swallow it," he admits, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, I just came back... It's hard to believe. There's so much I wanted to say, but now he's-"
He trails off, reality speaking for itself.
"I know," you force the words out. "It's not easy."
"And how are you doing? I know this is..." he cuts off, trying to find an appropriate word. You avoid his gaze by bopping Penny's nose and attempt to distract yourself with her tiny infectious laugh.
"I'm fine," you interrupt smoothly.
"If you say so," he crosses his arms. "Hey, who do you think will replace Robby?"
No one. Never.
Other one of the things you rather not dwell on. Anybody else on his shoes feels... Wrong.
It's probably all over your face by the way he backtracks.
"I meant his position", Langdon clarifies. "You and I know that place needs an iron grip so it doesn't fall apart."
He gives you a look that's meant to measure you.
"Think Al-Hashimi is going to step in? Heard she petitioned for two attendings for the day shift, though. For better control or something like that."
You raise an eyebrow.
"What are you implying, Dr. Langdon?"
"All I'm saying is there's three senior residents about to finish their residency. Any chance administration might fish from their pool?"
"You're delusional," you snort, "there is no way you catch up to Cassie and me."
He raises his hands in mock surrender.
"I'm fast."
You chuckle, "All right, McQueen. Hit those breaks, will you?"
Frank doesn't desist. "Maybe Collins? I don't know if she got a job in Portland, but do you think they'll call her back? You know Gloria always favored her."
"C'mon, Lola. No need to be humble," the young man teases. "Robby respected you. I wouldn't be surprised if he placed your name on his will somewhere," he jokes. When you don't laugh, he sighs. "I'm being serious. He mentioned you to administration almost on a daily basis. Hell, he probably already wrote your recommendation letter."
He says it with a bitter undertone, from his memories. It also brings some of yours too.
But they're fresh, exactly from two nights ago.
People are afraid of hospitals. You, having spent half your life in them, aren't. What you're scared of, is the dark. When the voices inside get too loud. And, a place you never thought you'd step a foot on if you could help it: a police station.
"I'm here for Dr. Robinavitch," you say, trying to keep your voice steady and emotions in bay.
You knew it from the start, that ugly feeling that sank right into your stomach. You came as fast as you could, interrupting your well earned bath after another week at The Pitt, trying not to think on anything and anyone.
But when the officer's face settles into a trained expression, your fears come true.
Motorcycle. An accident. Death.
"We found this among the wreckage. Our agent on the scene guessed it felt from his backpack," he sighs, "it's got your name on it."
In ink, the promise he made. One he'll never voice out. You don't know what hurts more: that he wrote it by hand or that these are his last words for you.
This wrinkled piece of paper: his last gift without meaning to.
No goodbyes. You know he hated them, but it'd be nice to get one.
To see him one last time. Maybe convince him to stayâtry harder. Make up a case you need him on so he didn't go. Anything.
Anything if it meant Michael Robinavitch lived to see one more day.
"I'm sorry," is all the officer says.
When he finds you, your grief and shock have settled into silent tears. He calls your name softly, like that one time years ago.
You don't know what compells you to do it: the weight of emotions or the fact you're the only two people Robby had in the world, both contacts logged under emergency on his phone. Maybe you don't want to deal with this pain that cuts right through you alone.
So you fall into him, arms snaked around his body. He's strong; steady. And when he hugs you back, tentative and weary at first, fully when he realizes you need it, you think his hold is the reason you don't fall apart and break into million pieces right now.
"It's okay," Jack whispers, soothingly. His grip doesn't waver once. "We'll be okay."
"Maybe Dr. Abbot takes his place."
That snaps you out of your thoughts. You tried hard not to go back to it, but you did. Probably this is the real reason you didn't want to find him particularly today: you're embarrassed you fell into the arms of a man you hated because you were vulnerable. It doesn't matter it was just a hug.
The face you make must be very transparent, because when Frank replies, he says:
"Sorry, remembered you two aren't exactly friends."
The change of topic works to lift the pressure in your chest a little, annoyance overtaking pain. Regardless, you shoot a murderous look his way.
"He's fine in the night shift. Don't see why he'd be moved to ours."
You'd never hear the end of it if anyone in the hospital found out. You willingly hugged Jack Abbot, even if you weren't exactly completely clear in the head.
You did, and that's that.
(You obviously won't mention the fact that his smellâof clean laundry and wheat soap, had rubbed off on you, smelling him hours after that horrible visit to the Central, strong enough to soothe you into sleep. Or that his arms had caged you, letting you bear all your weight on him, despite initial reluctance on his side. Nope, you're taking it to your grave)
"Okay, princess, relax. Did using the F word piss you off? My bad."
You lean to Penny, whispering. "Your dad is being dumb."
She laughs because your breath tickles. The eldest too since the word dumb sounds fun.
"Don't discredit me in front of my kids!" he loudly whines.
It is then when Abby rejoins you, probably drawn by the sound of laughter. After small talk with her, she takes Penny from you as you excuse yourself.
This time, you walk to the front yard. Most people are inside, mostly coworkers, some patients even. You sigh, unpacking a box of cigarettes and lighting one with trembling hands.
You take a drag while looking back at the house. You wonder if Robby ever felt alone, between walls so big and empty. If when he bought it, he thought about a wife and kids.
"Didn't know you smoked."
You turn around, finding Jack staring at you, hands on his pockets. He looks weird, seeing him only on scrubs so far, maybe the military attire once or twice, as he now wears a plaid formal shirt and black slacks. The top strains on his arms and over the middle, due to his muscles and thick body.
You want to say Thank you for helping me set this up, or anything remotely similar to express your gratitude, but no words push past your mouth. Except a quick, dry retort.
"Just in emergencies," you reply cooly.
He nods. "I see. Didn't pin you for a smoker, thought."
You take a drag. "Is that so?"
"You love control," he chuckles dryly. "My idea of an addiction is quite the opposite."
"I said it was occasional," you bite.
He shrugs, "Never said otherwise."
You're about to argue back when you realize the day's already been as awful as it is and you don't have the energy to keep up a fight.
"What will happen to the house?" you ask.
He tilts his head, taking in the big suburban building.
"Probably will go on sale. It's too expensive," Jack says. "Must be written on his will."
"What the hell was Robby thinking about when he bought it?" you muse out loud.
Jack chuckles. "Only he knows."
You think of the times you've been here: the way the living room catches the first rays of sun on its wooden floorboards, the kitchen full of too many compartments for a single solitary man, the garden with plants he did water but only because you set an alarm on his phone, or the bedroom door that creaked each time it got stuck. The soft thick sheets of his bed.
"Perhaps because it felt like a home," you say softly, throat tight.
Jack chooses wisely to not add anything to your comment. But it sits right there, at the tip of his tongue. Before Abbot gets to even open his mouth, another person disturbs your one on one time.
"Thank God I found you. Someone told me you'd be here."
You both turn at the same time to where the voice comes, from the front door.
The woman smiles, wide, like no amount of misery could kill her professional image.
"Just the two people I was looking for."
You exchange a look.
"Can we talk inside?" she asks.
Abbot replies. "After everyone leaves. Do you think we can do that?"
She shrugs. "I have time."
"Good," the older man smiles, all ease and manners. "Do you want a brownie?"
Noelle Hastings isn't a bad person, but you can't bring yourself to like her.
Her presence unnerves you: because where others see reassurance in her confidence, they see ego behind your own. She was an excellent case worker and you were just a resident who thought of herself a little too high.
And she doesn't like you either, judging by how, as she talks, she only addresses Jack. Rarely throws a look your way; it's fleeting at best.
"I'm sure this is a very difficuIt time for you, obviousIy. Everyone at PTMC," she motions with her hands, "We'll miss Dr. Robinavitch very much."
You squirm in the sofa. As of now, its soft leather isn't providing any comfort.
"Now. you must have many questions."
"Why you?" you cut in, brash. "Robby must've had a lawyer."
"He did. Does," she winces after correcting herself. "They just thought it would be better to have a familiar face deliver the news."
You laugh under your breath in disbelief. She ignores you.
"The house," Jack speaks first, not before shooting a look your way that reads Behave.
"Right, finances. The estate will cover the mortgage, and since Michael had some savings of his own, well, I think that'd make easier the custody."
You both nod, understanding.
Wait.
"Did- Sorry, did you just say custody?"
"Don't worry, I have aIready arranged for her transfer. After today, her foster famiIy will take her until next morning. Then bring her to CPS."
What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening.
"Child Protective Services?" you gasp, brain running a mile while trying to process what she's talking about.
This better be a joke. A sick joke, but a prank nonetheless.
Yeah, in any minute, Mateo will jump from the big plant pot near the door and Santos will laugh as she records from her phone. Javadi will upload a TikTok making fun of you. There's no baby or whatever Noelle is saying. Nothing can get any worse.
"They feeI she'II adjust best in her own environment... So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought back in here."
You remember the baby on the crib as you interrupted the trio. Was that the one Noelle is talking about?
"I'm sorry, Noelle, but I have to stop you right there," Abbot, who had been awfully quiet, resumes. His voice sounds even, not quick like your own, panicked. But, on the color of his eyes, you pick up the all too well glint of adrenalinen; the way he's containing his rage, surprise, confusion and like your own, fear.
"Why? Is there a problem?"
It's you who speaks, "This doesn't make sense."
She gives you both a look that's too much like concern, and then settles back on her couch as if she just figured something out.
"Oh, wow. Okay... I see."
As she fixes her hair off from her face, Abbot speaks again.
"Can you enlighten us, if you're so kind?"
"I'm sorry. Did Robby not tell you anything about this?"
You're afraid of the answer. "Tell us what?"
"Guardianship arrangements."
Okay, this day could definitely get so much worse.
Guardianship? Baby? Robby involved? Jack and you on the mix?
There better be an explanation that's not you going insane from grief.
Your answer comes at the same time: "No."
She presses her lips into a thin line.
"Well, according to his lawyer, Robby sat him down earlier this week to fix his will, about who would take care of the baby in the, um, unlikely event that, you know... He passed."
A heavy silence settles. She breaks it.
"Well, he named you. Both of you."
It's a nightmare. When you wake up and walk into your shift, a text from Robby and where his motorcycle has taken him will arrive. No mention of a mysterious baby or anything crazy like that.
"But, Noelle..." Jack's voice pauses, like his brain too is stuck trying to function and at the same time, understand what's going on. "Robby- He didn't have any kids..."
For the first time, she addresses you directly.
"Do you remember baby Jane Doe? From about four days ago."
"Baby Jane Doe?" Jack parrots.
Your brain scrambles for information.
Baby. Triage. Bathroom. Pedes. Dana asking who could foster her.
"Shit," you curse. "Wait, what does this have to do with her?"
Abott throws his arms up with exasperation.
"Who are we talking about? Seriously."
"Day shift shenanigans," you fake disinterest, pretending to check your nails. Then, you ask Noelle. "What about her?"
"Robby adopted baby Jane Doe."
You feel you're about to throw up.
"I know this is overwheIming, beIieve me. Even I advised him against it-"
"When did this happen?" you interrupt.
Noelle sighs.
"Before he left for his sabbatical. He probably didn't want her to end up going to any family, I don't know. So he started the adoption process, at least enough to leave her under his name so she'd stay in foster care while he was away but guaranteed she wouldn't end up going anywhere else."
Jack nods silently. Your hands clasp over your lap with a force so tight, your knuckles are turning white.
"You know what I told him before he left?" she speaks again, "see you in a week. I knew he'd be back, and perhaps sooner because of the baby. And now, he's-"
She doesn't finish the sentence. It's better for everyone. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself back into professional mode.
"But there are options. You can say no, because this is a big deaI. This is a chiId. Big commitment."
"No shit," you snort. "Tell that to Robby and his altruistic bullshit or whatever compelled him to pull this trick."
Abbot looks at her, as if telling Noelle to focus on him and ignore you.
"Options. You mentioned them. What are some other options?"
"His parents could be a good one," she suggests.
"Perfect!" you clap your hands together, like that ends the conversation and transfers the problem to someone else.
But Jack shakes his head slowly, heavily sighing.
"I'm afraid that can't happen."
You want to ask why, but it feels invasive to. While he knew a lot about your life outside the ER, Robby never really spoke about his. It's a topic you learned to avoid since you saw how his face hardened when you reminisced fondly of your family, like he was holding a long grudge or grief he didn't know what to do with.
"Cousins? Any other family?"
Jack shakes his head again. Noelle and you look equally surprised.
It falls in the room, heavy: both of you never knew who Michael Robinavitch really was.
"What if..." you break the silence, "one of us, on our own, by ourseIves... Chose to honor Robby's wishes?"
Jack adds, "Or both of us. HypotheticaIIy."
You roll your eyes. Not only is the prospect of having a baby in less than 24 hours very much real but also Jack Fucking Abbot wants to insert himself in the picture. With you. Side by side. It's ridiculously infuriating.
"They named you," Noelle explains, "so I just set up a court hearing. In the meantime, may I suggest something?"
You snort, "Can't be any worse than what I've already heard."
"I imagine, logically, your apartments aren't child safe. So, can I suggest the two of you move in here in the interim? For the baby."
Alright, you've had enough. By the way Jack's hand find your thigh and pats it, he probably can tell you're about to explode. It's amazing he remembers the telltale signs after three years.
"You want us to Iive together? Here?" your eyes widen in disbelief at the nerve as you laugh, incredulous. "What makes you think Robby's sad bachelor pad is any better than our places?"
"He had started making the modifications," she replies, defensive.
"Oh, wow. Did he also tell you the color he'd paint the baby's room? So we can buy the correct shade."
She ignores you. "It's the best for the baby, or at least, until you decide what you want to do."
Noelle grabs her briefcase and pulls out a neatly graped file.
"All you need to do is sign here."
It tumbles out of your mouth before you can even regulate it.
"You're fucking crazy if you think I'm going to sign it."
"Lola-"
Why the fuck did she call you that? It feels a profanity to the nickname. Did Robby tell her the story behind? On his bed or just passing by?
Your griefâthe sadness you've felt all day now turns into something uglier, meaner.
"No, I'm sorry. You're not guilt tripping me into doing this because Robby decided to have a last minute heroic moment," you scoff. "What kind of sick fucking cruel farewell gift is this?"
Noelle adopts the tone she uses when patients are being stubborn.
"I think we should calm down-"
"Calm down? Calm down?!" you shout. "You are about to drop a baby on me and expect me to be understanding and sweet?"
"I said you could not-"
"Right. So then I have everyone up my throat because I didn't respect Robby's last wish? Because I let a poor baby end up with God knows who?" you spit. "And why do you keep calling her Jane Doe?"
"Not all her papers were done by the time he left," she answers flatly.
You feel frustration bubbling up your throat.
"Oh, okay," you laugh bitterly. "So, Robby has time to fill out paperwork that legally dumps this burden on us but can't bother to name her?"
Jack says your name like a warning.
"No!" you reject his order to calm down. "I'm a senior resident, weeks away from finishing my residency. I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone a baby," you speak with quick, angry words. "A-And Jack here- He's fifty. He works the night shifts and has a penchant for getting shot at on his second job as a SWAT physician."
"Stop talking like I'm not here," he cuts in, tone neutral. Still, the icyness in between doesn't go unnoticed by you and Noelle.
"What I'm trying to say," you focus back on her, "is that we're not fit for this. We don't have time or the necessary skills to do it."
"I think," she speaks carefully, "that he chose you both for a reason."
"The fucking reason being he didn't have anybody else!" Jack tries to make you sit down, but you roughly swat his arm away. "Don't you see? They're trying to put a baby on us like it's just another one of his sad stupid house plants to water. This is a kid, for God's sake. That's- At least eighteen years taking care of someone!" you burst. "Like, a person. A whole ass person. And you want me to sit here, smile and accept it like I'm some martyr? Fuck you," you spit, "whatever this circus is, I don't want to be part of it."
Noelle stands too.
"Those were his wishes, Lola."
Not only does she use the nickname again, but this time with a tone that oscillates in between demeaning and condescending. It gets under your skin.
"Forgive me I'm not a saint for accepting a child with open arms," you scoff. But it doesn't stop there. You feel the venom pour out, little having to do with today's emotional burnout. "Also, why do you care? Because he fucked you a couple of times?"
Jack's voice cuts through the air like thunder.
"Enough!" he shouts. You'd never seen him this angry before. Not even in the ER, back to when he was still your boss, able to keep calm among the chaos. Now, there's a vein on his forehead and disapproval written on his face to the point it darkens his features. He's even angrier than that time, three years ago. "I know you're frustrated, but this isn't the right thing to do. Noelle isn't to blame."
She looks like she silently thanks Abbot's intervention. Out of shame, you refuse to meet her eyes, but you catch the shade of red humiliation on her face anyway.
"If you don't want to follow what's stated on his will, you'll have to go to court, like I said" she speaks firmly. "That's the way it is."
At your silence, Jack takes the floor for both of you.
"Thanks for speaking to us. We... We will talk about it," he stands up, offering his hand for her to take, "and I'll let you know when we're ready to have a proper conversation."
He casts a sideway glance at you.
"Right now... Maybe it's not the best time."
She nods curtly, taking his hand.
"Of course, just let me know. You have my number."
Noelle walks out the house with Abbot following behind. Then, she stands at the door and looks back one last time.
"I'm sorry."
Before you ask her for what, Hastings is gone.
Jack sighs, closing the door. He then turns to you.
"Do I need to tell you how unprofessional and rude that was?"
You get up, making a beeline to where Robby kept his stash of whiskey.
"Save your lectures for someone who cares, Abbot.".Ăą
You feel it coming back, but you push the throbbing to the back of your head.
"There was no reason for you to lash out on her like that. She's not to blame."
"She'll survive a few mean words, Noelle's a big girl," you scorn. "Besides, it's not her life that's getting ruined."
"You didn't want kids?"
You take a long sip from your drink. "Not like this, and not with you. No offense."
A faint smirk adorns his lips as he raises his hands in mock defeat.
"Can't blame you."
A beat passes before he continues.
"So, what do you think?"
"That even when gone, Robby keeps finding ways to fuck me up," you mumble through a humorless laugh.
Your eyes sting. The left side of your head begins to pulse.
You can't breathe, falling from light to dark. Jack's face becomes blurry, and all you see through tear stained eyes is him, frantically moving, trying to get to you.
But you're far, deep inside. You can't speak, chest constricted, as if you're underwater.
You're drowning.
Because nobody tells you one day you'll say goodbye to a person without knowing you'll never see them again. That one day they're here, and next, they're gone.
That you'll have to organize his funeral because he's got no one else left in this world.
That you'll have to take care of a baby he decided to adopt without knowing he'd die before he even got to name her.
That the one person you thought you could trust didn't tell you this.
If you can't relate to him, then who are you related to?
You're alone in this world, left to rotâlet it fester in a city where his face haunts every corner.
"Hey. Hey! Focus," he calls you. "Look at me!"
Your eyes blink, taken back by the scream, and there he is.
Among the fog: Jack Abbot. A light. Steady in ways he shouldn't be. Forcing himself to act strong because you can't, even if the fear circles inside his eyes, and someone has to.
You feel his hand on your shoulder, with the warmth of a mentor. A friend.
"I told you we'll be okay before, and I mean it." Jack takes your hand in his and whispers your name like a promise. "We'll get through this."
Nobody tells you what to do when there's light at the end of the tunnel, but you know you won't make it.
When you can't compartmentalize your feelings any longer because things keep getting worse.
When those feelings explode and you're left a crying mess, gasping for air on a world that doesn't let you breathe.
But, most importantly, nobody tells you that, one day, the only person who sees you, is the one you hate: The one who cradles you into his arms because you'll fall apart if someone doesn't hold you, and whispers in your ear assurances like he means them, as if hugging you is natural and not a favor.
As if he cares about you enough to forget all diatribes and snarky comments. To forget he once used to be your mentor before it went sour. Before the bitterness and the distance. Before you changed nights to days. Before you forgot how easy it was to read him and know what went in his head. When he could tell what went through yours.
It's good he's forgotten or chosen to: Dr. Jack Abbot must not know this might be the last thing keeping you sane on Earth.
When Jack pulls away, standing as if to put some distance after being too close twice this week, you feel a tiny flutter store itself between your ribs.
"C'mon," he extends his hand your way; a second chance, "we have to prepare this house."
Hello my loves tbd on chapter coming out tomorrow, unless I can speed write thereâs just a whole scene I have envisioned that I havenât had the time to write out yet! It may tomorrow it may be Monday it will be a surprise
My work week is so crazy 𼲠for context, I wake up at 4 am and Iâm not home till 7 pm. Not a ton of time to write recently but I am trying my absolute best.
Hey! Iâve been loving purple rain so much, itâs really the highlight of my day when you post. I canât wait for the next chapter!!! But I saw your reply, and from what I remember you wrote that ideas for your fic purple rain would be open and suggestions?
I am REALLY dying to see in a future chapter possibly some hate sex, I know itâs only chapter 6⌠but Iâm loving the dynamic between them I am a sucker for this kind of troupe.
Of course you donât have to add it⌠itâs just a suggestion, I canât wait for chapter 7 đĽš
đđđđŠđźâđťđŠđźâđťđŠđźâđť me right now
here's a little wip for chapter 7! this chapter is going to introduce Sarah's mom more and is going to be very heavy (domestic violence flashback, unintentional hurting of a child, alcoholism) so please take care of yourselves <3
Tuesday, September 2003. Joel.
His eyes stayed locked on the scar on Sarahâs arm as he dialed the number for Annie Whitman elementary school.Â
She was happily munching on her cereal and fruit that Joel had cut into stars at her request, completely unfazed by the wound she had. He knew she probably didnât remember it - she was only 2 afterall. She never even brought it up or asked where it came from, but Joel knew that one day that question would come.Â
The doctors said the scar would fade with time, and it did. It wasnât raised anymore, or outlandishly bright against her skin. It had flattened and was starting to blend in with her skin tone a bit more.Â
âAnnie J. Whitman Elementary School, Lisa speaking.âÂ
Joel had to call the main office once a year ago to update Sarahâs family paperwork. He recognized Lisa as the receptionist.Â
âHi Lisa, this is Joel Miller,â He paused when he realized she probably spoke to 100 parents a day and didnât recognize him. âMy daughter Sarahâs in the 1st grade.âÂ
âOh yes! Sarah Miller, of course. What can I do for you Mr. Miller?â
A flash of insecurity flared through him - did she know her because of her panic attack? He didnât want Sarah to get the reputation of the problem child already.Â
âI was, um, wondering if I could speak to -â the name of the principal slipped his mind. â - the principal. Please.âÂ
There was some clicking of a computer.
âSure. Good thing you called early, Karenâs phone gets flooded around 10. Can I ask what youâre calling about so I can brief her on the issue?â
Joel looked back up at Sarah, who had now finished her breakfast as was sitting on the living room floor playing with her favorite doll. It was one of those Barbie Fairytopia dolls, all colorful with wings. She named her Egg.Â
âI wanna ask about switching my daughter's classroom.âÂ
The clacking on the other end stopped, and he heard shifting, like she was adjusting the phone on her ear.Â
âOh!â
âIs that a problem?â he asked defensively.Â
âNo, no! Of course not. We just donât get that request unless something serious happened, especially not so early in the year.âÂ
He thought about what genius thought it would be a good idea for you to be Sarahâs teacher. All of these administrators were older than him, meaning many of them were likely living in Dallas when the accident happened. What idiot would putâŚthe sheer stupidity of these people made him mad.Â
Luckily, he didnât have to explain himself anymore.
âKaren just got into her office, Iâll put you through Mr. Miller.â
The phone clicked before he could even say thank you.
âHuh!?â A different womans voice shrieked in his ear. âWhy is he calling so early? Lisa you need to speak up, my office is far away from your desk!â
The voice was so loud he had to hold the phone away from his ear. Even Sarah turned, her head perking up at the sound blaring through the phone.Â
âHello?â He cleared his throat, which was almost certainly not loud enough, so he cleared it again.Â
âOh, Mr. Miller are you there? How are you this morning? Youâre calling real early.âÂ
That wasnât entirely untrue, but this was the only time he could call before the workday.Â
âI work in construction, m'am. Early mornings.â
She snapped her fingers.Â
âRight! Miller Construction. Itâs been so great watching your business grow, especially after everything that happenedâŚâ
The muscles in Joels arms flexed as he tensed on the other side. So she did know who he was. She wasnât even trying to feign stupidity.
âYeah, Iâve been tryinâ real hard to move on from everything. Makes it real hard when the girl I was in that wreck with is my daughter's teacher.â
Hi! I love your writing! Been really enjoying your new story, Purple Rain. I also have been enjoying Eyes upon You, I was wondering when the next chapter will be out. Ended on such a cliffhanger so cannot wait to see how it all ends! đĽş
hi!!! omg an eyes upon me reader that makes me so happy. the next chapter will be the last so ive been waiting until I have enough time to really focus on ending it with a bang. I would say some time in early July. I never abandon fics, so it is coming I just wanna make it good!!
Omg i loved the new chapter. It was so so good! I'm so curious to see what caused the rift between them before the accident, especially when in most flashbacks, they look so in love. Not that i would ever try to influence the ending ( yes, i would ), but I'm already hoping that they get together in the end. What can i say? I love me a happy ending! Thank you so much for the updateâ¤ď¸
im going to cry everyone is being so sweet to me :') this is why I came back to fic writing last year, I fell out of love with writing and it really brought back my passion this year.
im glad you like the flashbacks! I was getting nervous that I wasn't including enough or not articulating well how actually in love they were. and yes you guys absolutely do influence the ending! send me every thought you have and I promise I will take it into consideration!
°â.ŕłŕż* Lesson Six: Try not to strangle your brother for not telling you that your ex-boyfriend still lives in town °â.ŕłŕż
Spotify | pintrest visuals | masterlist | ao3
Chapter summary: you try and make it through parent teacher night after Joel's confrontation
Authors note: HELLO I am home from my cruise! we had 5 minutes of wifi a day and I had downloaded a bunch of really shitty movies to watch before we got on - speaking of which, follow me on letterboxd xoxostarfire_ teehee yay hope you enjoy! I'm insecure about my smut writing and there's a smut flashback in here so go easy on me.
Monday, September 2003.
The last time you saw Joel Miller, he told you you ruined his life.Â
As much as you spent the last 7 years trying not to think about him, his last words slipped into your mind from time to time. How could they not? Seconds before both of you nearly died, the man you thought you loved changed the entire narrative of what you thought the relationship was.Â
Your mom told you that he only said it because he was jealous and drunk, and you nodded along to please her. But thatâs certainly not the case - drunk words are sober thoughts. He really and truly believed that you ruined his life.Â
Itâs hard to know how you ruined someone's life when they arenât there to tell you what you did. When you woke up from your coma and started regaining memories of the drive leading up to the accident, you waited day after day for Joel to show up so you and him could talk.
You knew the quote from Hemmingway, âThe world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.â After the accident, you hated Joel for all of this. You wanted to scream and hit him and scream at him for ruining your life. And yetâŚpart of you naively hoped that you and Joels relationship would come out stronger after this. Like both of you nearly dying was some sort of reincarnation.
He never showed up.Â
You thought maybe he was embarrassed to face you and that in time he would come by. He must have his own injuries from the accident right? Maybe he was in rehab just like you. It was a lame attempt to try and humanize the man who you once loved more than anything in the world.Â
If he loved you, he would have found a way to see you.Â
Cami had told you that after you moved to Boston and were telling her about the accident. She told you that life was too short to make excuses for men who treat you poorly. That the fact of the matter was, if you werenât in a coma, you would have found where his hospital room was and sat with him. He didnât. Your mom told you his parents didnât even send their regards - the couple who you thought were going to be your future in-laws. Your family and the Millers were completely cut off overnight.
AnyâŚno, love isnât the right word. Nostalgia maybe? Any nostalgia you had left for Joel left in 1996. You were still in rehab, going to Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy and Psychological Therapy every day, but even though you were constrained to the hospital, you werenât immune to gossip. Your suburb in Dallas was small, which meant everyone that was everyone knew about the accident.Â
âDid you hear he moved on already?â
You had been waiting for your dinner, watching television when you heard two nurses talking by the nurses station. You innocently perked up - the gossip you heard was the only source of real entertainment you had in these four wall. Yet you were completely unaware that they were gossiping about you.
âOh my god!â the other nurse whispered so loudly it was basically a hiss. âHer cousin does pilates with my sister and told her. How long have they been together now? I feel like itâs moving fast.â
âOh godâŚwhat, must be 3 months now? I donât think Iâve ever heard of an engagement that fast. Not unless someone's knocked up.âÂ
Your eyes widened and you winced as you tried to sit up straighter in your hospital bed. You heard stories about kids in your high school getting engaged after 8 months, but 3 months? Thatâs insane.Â
âHer cousin didnât say if sheâs knocked up or not, but I honestly think they really like each other. Iâve seen them around town and the way he looks at herâŚGod, I wish my man would look at me like that.â
âYeah, but people can be madly in love and get engaged after 3 years. I just canât help but feel bad for Y/N.âÂ
You were still smiling after they said your name, like when a firework goes off and it takes a moment for your ears to take it all in.Â
They were talking about Joel?
He was an off limits topic in your family. The mere thought of him made everyone around you so angry it was just better for everyone. But that meant you had no idea what he did with his life after the accident. You didnât know if he had brain damage too, or if he had several surgeries like you. Maybe he walked away injury free, but given that the car was smashed practically in half, that was unlikely. Either wayâŚyou certainly didnât know he had a girlfriend. That was the least likely result of what happened to him.Â
âYeahâŚI mean, he moved on fast. And he has every right to find love after all the shit that happened to him, but that can not feel good for her. Like, she still hasnât fully recovered and heâs living his best life and engaged to a damn supermodel.â
You hadnât realized your hands started trembling until your right hand jerked so violently to the right that you yelped out in pain. Your eyes felt heavy, and wet with tears, but you knew it wasnât because of the muscle strain.Â
Joel had moved on and was living his best life while you were in a hospital bed, still struggling to sip your own glass of water. It wasnât fair.
And now, he showed up to your first back to school night at your new job. The new job that already wasnât working very well. He always had to ruin everything.
When you stepped out of that closet, you didnât pause to catch your breath. Hell, you had so much rage pumping through your veins, you barely remembered half of the insults you had thrown at him, even though they were the same insults you had been sitting on for 7 years.Â
Your hand pressed to your chest, and you put a bit of pressure on it, to try and feel your chest rise and fall. That always made you feel betterâŚyeah. Rise and fall. In and out. You could hear the echo of Joel calling your name - rise and fall, in and out.Â
Do not cry.
You cried over the first bad review of your book to Joel. You thought you were safe. He used to hold you, and cradle you in his arms, stroking your hair until your tears dulled into a weak exhaustion.Â
But that night you went to him, he snapped at you. He called you ungrateful. A whiny crybaby for crying over a bad review when you had the privilege of even getting a book deal. He told you to grow up and learn that not everything is going to go your way in life. To stop thinking everything you do is perfect and learn to accept some fucking criticism. He told you maybe the reviewer was right.Â
So, you would be damned if you cried in front of Joel Miller ever again. Nor would you cry in front of your new students and their families.Â
You paused just outside of the door and wiped underneath your eyes. It had been 7 years. You needed to show Joel Miller that you moved on from him and from the accident.
âHi everyone!âÂ
You didnât recognize your own voice as you stepped inside, not bothering to hold the door for Joel, who had quickly closed the gap between the two of you.Â
You stepped right in front of the whiteboard where you had written your name across it.Â
âI was so excited to meet all of my students today and I am definitely excited to meet all of their lovely parents as well,â you smiled, your eyes scanning the room. âI wrote my full last name on the board so you are aware of it, but I told everyone to call me whatever they fell comfortable with - teacher, miss, mâam, whatever they want. I know my name can be a bit tricky to pronounce and that goes for all of the adults in the room too. Or you can call me by my first name, Y/N.â
You looked at your kids sitting next to their respective adult.Â
âThat last one doesnât apply in the classroom yâall.â
That got a few laughs from the parents. Good. You were still funny even though your life was falling apart.Â
âI do want to address something before I open up the floor for questions about how I plan for this year to go if thatâs all right with everyone.â
All of the heads nodded, and your eyes caught Joels, sitting next to Sarah who was smiling and kicking her little legs that didnât fully touch the bottom. But Joel was staring at you with a seemingly blank expression. Only you would know that it wasnât blank. Only you would know that his face went empty when he was analyzing something, trying to figure out the bet way to handle a situation.Â
And in this case, the situation was you.Â
âIâm certain some parents in the room knew my name when they got the class roster,â your eyes never left Joels. âOthers may not have even bothered opening the letter.â
More laughs. It made Joelâs cheeks pinken slightly, the fact that everyone was laughing like not reading the class roster was the silliest thing they ever heard. Because it was.Â
âFor those who donât recognize my name, wellâŚthat makes me happy. But, to address the elephant in the room for those who do know me, yes, I am the same woman who was in the accident of 1996.â
You didnât want to address the fact that it was a car wreck in front of the kids, but you wanted the parents to feel at ease. It was almost inevitable that one of your kids would go home and say that their teachers hands shake and the parents would think you are some kind of junkie who was high during the school day.Â
âThe accident left me with what is called a Diffuse Axonal Injury. It is a brain injury that I got from the accident. I spent a year in rehabilitation learning to speak again, walk, and redevelop my fine motor skills. I am 99% recovered, accepted for one lingering side effect that the doctors were not able to fix - hand tremors.âÂ
Joelâs throat flexed and his hand lifted up to massage his jaw. For the first time since you started speaking, his eyes darted away from you.Â
âThe tremors, while visible, are completely controlled by medication. They rarely get severe enough that I am unable to do my job, and in a worst case scenario, the teacher next door and I have made a plan that she will step in so I can leave the room until my hands are under control. The administration is also aware of this and they are willing to watch the classroom if I need to step out, but that is not expected to happen,âÂ
âI want to make it clear that just because my hands shake from time to time, I am no less qualified for this position. During my recovery year, I finished the last year of my college degree through a plan I made with my professors - one degree in English Literature and one degree in Elementary Education.âÂ
A few of the parents nodded, impressed. You had the tendency to disregard your accomplishments since everything in your life was so focused on what you couldnât do, so it felt good to see something you did (that was extremely difficult), be acknowledged.Â
One of the parents sitting next to your student Katherine raised their hand. It was a woman dressed up in a pantsuit who wore tiny glasses at the edge of her nose. You would bet $1000 that she was a lawyer.Â
âWhere did you go to college?â she asked. Of course she asked that.
You grinded your teeth together at the question and you glared at Joel. You wanted to shout in front of everyone, âWhy donât you answer that Miller?â Afterall, he was the one who guilted you into staying close to home for college, insinuating that your relationship wouldnât last if you went to Rice Unversity, the best school in Texas, that just so happened to be almost 4 hours away from you.
âTexas Christian University. Full ride.âÂ
That seemed to please her enough, so you moved on.Â
âWhen I left the hospital, I moved to Boston where I got a job at the top private elementary school in the state. There I won the Milken Award, a $2,500 prize for early career teachers who show promise in the field. Before my move back to Dallas, I won the Golden Apple award for my work on developing special education programs not only in my school, but across all of Massachusetts, and the same year I was recognized by the mayor of Boston for the project,â you paused and clapped your hands together. âI hope that eases any concerns. Please feel free to throw questions my way.â
Katherineâs mom immediately leaned forward, her pen poised over a leather-bound notepad. Some parents really took the 1st grade seriously.Â
"Given your impressive background in Massachusetts, I'm curious about your transition back to the public system here. What specifically are your curricular plans for this cohort, particularly regarding reading benchmarks? And how do you plan to handle differentiated learning if a child is struggling to meet those benchmarks early on?"
"That is a fantastic question," you said. This was your specialty in the classroom. "My philosophy is that reading shouldn't feel like a high-stakes interrogation. At this age, children develop at completely different rates. If a student is struggling with phonological decoding or showing anxiety around text, the absolute worst thing we can do is force it until they cry and associate books with failure. We break it down. We use multi-sensory tools like letter tiles, sight-word games, and we lead with patience. My goal is to make sure every child in this room feels capable, not broken."
From the second row, Joelâs entire posture shifted. He was so self-centered he probably thought that that was a dig at Sarah.
His hand, which had been resting on his jaw, dropped into his lap. You didn't look directly at him anymore, but you could see him out of the corner of your eye. His chest rose and fell in a slow, strained breath, the same way yours did when you were trying really hard not to have a panic attack.Â
He didn't blink. He just sat there, completely frozen, his eyes burning into yours as the words force it until they cry hung in the air between you. Maybe you had subconsciously made a digâŚbut certainly not at Sarah. At him. He looked like heâd just been hit right in the chest, his face tightening as he clearly connected the dots back to whatever Sarah had told him about their reading battles at home.
"I have a question about your history," a father in a polo shirt chimed in from the back, leaning over Mickeys tiny desk. "You mentioned the Milken and Golden Apple awards - I work over at the high school so I know how big those are. If you were doing that kind of high-level work with the mayor of Boston, why come back to a standard public district in Dallas?"
You smiled, though the corners of your mouth felt tight. Nothing wrong with telling a white lie here for the greater good right?
"Boston was an incredible chapter, but Texas is home. And frankly, the public school system is where the work matters most. The private sector has resources, but public schools have the heart. I came back because I wanted to bring the specialized programs I developed up north back to the community that raised me. And no, I'm not going anywhere."
A subtle scoff barely escaped Joel's nose, so faint that if you hadn't spent four years memorizing his exact cadence, you would have missed it completely.
He shifted his weight in the tiny student chair, his work boots making a sharp scrape against the linoleum that drew a quick look from Sarah. He was soâŚbroad. He was always a muscular, but seeing him next to something so small really put into perspective how big he was. His arms crossed over his chest, his shoulders bunching tight under his flannel shirt. The sheer hostility radiating off him was palpable - he was clearly rejecting of your little speech about "the community that raised me."
"Ms. L/N," Katherineâs mother spoke up again. "To touch back on what you said about your recovery... a Diffuse Axonal Injury is an incredibly severe diagnosis. Most people don't walk away from that, let alone earn two degrees and win state-level accolades. If you don't mind me asking, how exactly did that recovery period shape your approach to teaching children who face their own cognitive or emotional hurdles?"
She must be a medical malpractice lawyer, because you had no idea why she knew what a DAI was.Â
The room went entirely quiet. You kept your posture perfect, but your left hand, the one hidden slightly behind your hip, gave a sharp jerk, the tremor fighting through the high dose of your evening medication.Â
"When you have to spend a year re-learning how to force your brain to tell your feet to move, you learn a lot about frustration. You learn what it feels like to be trapped inside a mind that isn't doing what you want it to do. When a 6 year old is having a panic attack, or hitting a wall with a word, they aren't being bad. They are frustrated. My injury taught me that every single milestone is earned through a mountain of unseen work. I don't give up on kids who take a little longer to get there, because nobody gave up on me."
Joelâs pupils were blown as he glared at you, but the anger faltered at the phrase nobody gave up on me. For a split second, the anger on his face slipped, replaced by an expression you actually didnât recognize. He seemed to fully acknowledge the permanent damage from the crash, using your shaking hand as a shield to protect his daughter.
He lowered his eyes, looking down at Sarah, who was beaming up at you with absolute worship. When Joel looked back up at you, his face had gone entirely blank again, masked in that terrifyingly empty composure he always used when he was completely overwhelmed and trying to force himself not to feel a single thing.
"Ms. L/N," a father in the third row interrupted, raising his hand before the quiet in the room could fully settle. "You mentioned specialized programs for emotional hurdles. My son tends to shut down when he's frustrated. Do you employ any specific behavioral intervention models in the classroom, or is it mostly intuitive?"
"Itâs a mix of structured tier-intervention and trauma-informed care. We use a 'cool-down' corner-â you motioned to the corner of the room you had decorated. â-with regulated breathing visuals, and we track behavioral triggers daily. If a child shuts down, we don't punish the isolation, we investigate the cause."
Before the father could thank you, Joelâs work boots scraped against the floor as he shifted his weight. The crossed arms came undone, his large palms flattening against his knees as he leaned forward in the tiny plastic chair. The sudden movement drew the attention of a few parents.
"I got a question," Joel said, his accent really popping out. He always sounded more southern when he was angry, but it wasnât intentional. You knew he tried to mask his accent so that he would see more professional, but it always slipped out when he couldnât control his emotions.Â
You forced a polite smile.
 "Yes?"
Joel didn't smile back.Â
"You talk a lot about foundations and not giving up on kids. That sounds realâ nice on a flyer. But you also just said you have a plan to walk out of this room and hand my daughter over to the teacher next door or an administrator if your hands start shaking too bad."
Several parents raised their eyebrows at Joel - whether agreeing with his concern or shocked at his open hostility, you had no idea.Â
"I want to know how that's supposed to build a stable environment for a child who already has anxiety," Joelâs demenor was so intense it looked like and interrogation. He didn't look at anyone else in the room; his entire universe had narrowed down to you. "If a kid is in the middle of a freak out under a desk, and the person who's supposed to be running the show suddenly leaves the room because her own body is short-circuiting... How is that prioritizing the children? How many times a week are my taxes paying for a substitute to take over your job?"
It was so blunt he may as well have stood up and slapped you in the face in front of all of these people. You felt the heat rising up your neck, but you kept your chin up, refusing to let him see you shatter.
"Mr. Miller, as I stated, the tremors are fully managed by medication. The protocol with the neighboring teacher is a worst-case redundancy. In my 7 years of teaching up north, I never had to leave my classroom a single time due to my injury. My students have always had a perfectly stable, highly structured environment."
"Up north," Joel repeated. "Right. At a private school where parents pay thirty grand a year and the class sizes are capped at twelve. This is a Texas public school. You've got over 20 kids packed in here, and no full-time aid. You really think a few breathing visuals and some letter tiles are gonna hold a room together when things get loud? Or are you gonna find out real quick that this public system is a lot heavier than what you're used to?"
"Joel," a whisper came from a mother a few seats over who seemed to recognize the personal venom in his voice, but Joel completely ignored her.Â
"I'm just asking about capability," He continued, ignoring the womanâs gentle warning. "Youâve been out of the state for a decade. You don't know the curriculum changes here, you don't know the stress these kids are under with state testing, and by your own admission, you spent a year just trying to figure out how to walk again. I think the parents in this room have a right to know if you're actually physically and mentally equipped to handle the workload of public school kids, or if we're just an experiment for your specialized programs."
The sheer malice behind the words was breathtaking. He was weaponizing your medical history in front of your new employers, trying to dismantle your credibility before the first week of school was even over.
Next to him, Sarah looked up at her father, her little face falling into a confused frown as she sensed the upset in her dads voice. She wrapped her arms around her dads arm and tucked her chin into her chest.
Seeing Sarah shrink out of the corner of your eye injected a shot of adrenaline into you. Your left hand stopped shaking entirely behind your back.
"I am more than equipped, Mr. Miller," You looked him dead in the eye, letting every single parent see the unyielding strength behind your posture. "My degrees, my state awards, and the endorsement of the principal who hired me speak to my capability. If you have specific concerns about your daughter's placement, my door is always open for a private conference. But in this classroom, I am the educator. And I can assure you, no student under my care will ever be abandoned when things get heavy."
His lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to jump out of the chair, but with twenty pairs of eyes now staring at him in uncomfortable silence, he slowly forced his back against the plastic chair.
He didn't say another word, but his hands curled into iron fists on his knees, his gaze remaining locked onto you like a predator waiting for the room to clear.
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
Was it innapropriate to throw a tantrum at 29 years old? Probably.
âWhere is he!â You slammed the front door of the house shut and stormed inside without taking your shoes off. Eddie was sitting on the living room couch with a plate of something in hand, the evening news turned on.Â
âWell hello to you sunshine. Could you be more specific?âÂ
You glowered at him, stomping over and standing over him. Meanwhile, he looked completely relaxed, like the woman in front of him wasnât bright red.Â
âYour partner, dipshit. My evil fucking brother.âÂ
Eddie looked up at you, chewing onâŚit looked like sludge. Eddie was not a man of the kitchen like your brother was.Â
âMy dipshit partner is in the shower. Is there anything I can help you with while you wait for him?âÂ
He was so laid back that you couldnât help but feel a bit calmer in his presence. When Eddie was around, the world wasnât all that shitty, because he said so.Â
You dropped your bag on the ground, sunk onto the cushion next to him, and immediately started sobbing. A day's worth of frustration finally pushing you over the edge as you buried your face in your hands.Â
You were always embarrassed with how you cried. You always lost your breath, and your face contorted in a way that looked like you were melting. You always turned so red and warm that if you got your temperature taken it would say that you have a fever.Â
âWoah!â you couldnât see Eddie in your hands, but you could hear the concern in his voice. He rested his hand on your back and rubbed it gently. âWhat happened?âÂ
â - stop right there because I absolutely have no idea what youâre saying. Just let it out for a minute then talk to me.â
You inhaled and forced your hands away from your face even though your skin felt like it was on fire. Your vision was blurry with tears, but you could see Eddie had set his plate down on the coffee table.Â
"Okay, breathe," Eddie said softly. He would have made such a good therapist with how stabilizing his voice was. He continued gently rubbing your back. "In and out, sweet pea. You're completely safe in this living room. Just give it to me piece by piece."
"Joel," you choked out. "Joel Miller. He was there, Eddie. At back-to-school night."
Eddieâs hand froze flat against your spine. His entire face went completely rigid, his eyes widening as the color practically drained from his cheeks. He didn't look confused; he looked entirely, utterly horrifiedâŚand guilty.
"Oh, shut up," Eddie whispered. "Oh, my God. You didn't know?"
You pulled back, your brow furrowing through your tears as you looked at him.Â
"What do you mean, did I know? Eddie, his daughter is in my class. He came in for the presentation. And before we even went inside, we got into this horrible, vicious fight in the supply closet. He was asking me what the fuck I was doing back in Texas.â
âBut he got the roster! He should have known ahead of time - â
â - He didn't read it. Eddie... he didn't throw it away because he was mad or because he didn't care. He threw it away because he didn't care enough to look at it at all."
All that pride heâd displayed in the supply closet was just a mask for careless apathy. He hadn't even given the paper a single glance. He hadn't checked the name, hadn't looked at the classroom number, hadn't bothered to spend five seconds ensuring his anxious daughter was set up for success.
He had just tossed it into the trash like junk mail because checking up on her school details wasn't worth his limited time.
"What?" He reached out, his hand resting gently on your knee. "What do you mean he didn't care enough to look?"
"He didn't even check," you said, a new kind of bitter laugh bubbling up in your throat, completely devoid of humor. "He stood there and screamed at me for not requesting a transfer, acting like he did nothing wrong by not checking important mail about his daughter's education. But he was lying to cover his own tracks. He just couldn't be bothered. He didn't look at the list because he's so checked out, Eddie. He's so busy playing the martyr, working eighteen hours a day and running his company, that he didn't even give his own daughter's first-grade teacher a second thought."
You stood up from the couch, the rage returning, but this time it was directed at his absolute negligence as a father. You started pacing the length of the living room.
"That baby is drowning," your voice shook as you gestured toward the door. "She's sitting at home crying over books, having full-blown panic attacks under library tables, and her dad can't even be bothered to read a one-page printout from the school district? He just throws it in the trash because it's an inconvenience to him? And then he has the nerve to come into my classroom and interrogate me about my capability?"
"Oh, so he's a hypocrite," Eddie said, his voice dripping with absolute disdain as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Fabulous. Heâs out there pretending to be the father of the year in front of the other parents, pointing fingers at your health, when heâs really just a lazy, negligent prick who can't take five seconds to read a roster for his own kid."
"Exactly," you stopped by the window and pressed your forehead against the glass, trying to stop the heat from radiating off your skin. Your left hand gave a tiny twitch, but you forced it down into a fist. "He wanted to make it about us. He wanted to make it about my brain injury because it's easier to attack my stability than to admit he's completely failing his daughter."
"If he wants to play the neglectful contractor who ignores school notices, thatâs his business. But the second he tries to blame his bad parenting on your tremors? Absolutely not. You are the professional in that room, and you just proved it."
You thought as much as you could about your past with Joel Miller. So many of your arguments with him were because he refused to ever admit he was wrong. When he accused your friend in college, Bryce, of wanting to sleep with you and you introduced Joel to Bryceâs girlfriend, he refused to acknowledge that he over reacted.
"I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of an all-out war. I don't care about him anymore. Iâm just shocked, is all. I don't care about his anger, or his insults, or his bitter little under his breath mumbles he does. I am a professional. I work with his daughter, not him. She is the one sitting in my classroom every single day, not Joel."
You dropped back down onto the couch, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to your bones, making your shoulders slump. Eddieâs hand went to your shoulder and squeezed.
"But Eddie," you choked out, your eyes burning all over again as the sheer helplessness of the situation hit you. "Sarah is going to struggle so badly based on her reading assessment today. It's not just that she's behind or that she's nervous. From everything I saw today, she clearly has dyslexia. And I guess Iâm less qualified to say this, but she clearly has some sort of anxiety disorder. Sheâs terrified of failing, and she's only 6 years old."
"Oh, the poor thing. And you tried to tell him?"
"Yes! When we were trapped in that closet, I tried to change the conversation and bring it up. I told him that she's drowning, that she sat at my desk crying because she couldn't decode basic words. And do you know what he did? He didn't even listen. His massive, fragile ego immediately went up like a house on fire. He claimed I was insulting his daughter. He said I was just trying to call his kid broken because I hate him."
You shook your head, the utter madness of it making your hands tremble violently in your lap. You had to clasp them together, locking your fingers tight to keep the tremor from taking over.
"Heâs so blinded by his hatred for me and his own defensive pride that he thinks my observations are a personal attack on his genetics," you whispered. "How am I supposed to help this baby girl if her dad won't even let me find her the resources she needs? To get her the proper testing, to get her an IEP, to get her accommodated so she doesn't spend the rest of her childhood thinking she's stupid... I need his signature. I need his cooperation. But heâs going to block me at every single turn just because my name is at the bottom of the paperwork."
Eddie reached out and took your shaking hands into his own, his thumbs smoothing over your knuckles.Â
Thatâs how Joel used to calm you down.
"Then you do what you always do, love," Eddie pushed some of your hair out of your face. "You bypass his ego and you focus entirely on that little girl. You document every single thing she does in that classroom. You track the reading data, you log the anxiety triggers, and you build an airtight case that the school administration cannot ignore. If Joel Miller wants to play the blind, stubborn fool because he's too proud to admit his kid needs help, you let him choke on the paperwork. You are the educator. You are her lifeline right now, and you are going to save that baby girl whether her caveman of a father likes it or not."
âI agree,â Theoâs voice said from the door way and you and Eddie both jumped.Â
âJesus!â Eddie pressed a hand to his chest. âI didnât hear the shower turn off.âÂ
He must have been out for a while, because he was in a shirt and sweatpants, just using his towel to dry some of his hair.Â
âThatâs because you speak like thereâs loud music in the room,â he threw his towel into the bathroom next to him and walked over. âI am so sorry I didnât tell you faster than Joel was still in town.â
You scowled at him from the couch.Â
âDid you even try? I know you worry about me but seriously, I would have rather known that be fucking ide blown into a closet by him!âÂ
Theoâs face fell and you immediately felt horrible. He was much older than you, and yet, you felt incredibly protective of him. It was the day your parents got the call that he was in the hospital after being attacked that you realized that the bigger and older person in the room isnât protected from hurt.Â
He walked over, but didnât sit on the couch. He stood in front of you and Eddie.Â
âI tried, I really did. I just kept getting cut off -â Eddie opened his mouth to defend himself, but your brother held up his hand. âIâm not blaming you babe. It was circumstantial. But I swear on my life, up and down, that I did try to tell you. I canât fucking believe he wasnât mature about it and cornered you like that.âÂ
You pushed the heel of your palm into your eyes.Â
âI donât know what I expected⌠this whole thing is certainly not normal. I didnât expect him to just brush me off or to fucking smile and wave like nothing happened. But I canât believe he wonât let me help his daughter. Thatâs a different type of low.âÂ
Theo chewed on his cheek.Â
âIs this the appropriate time to make a point that may seem like Iâm taking his side but I absolutely am not?âÂ
âNo,â Eddie said confidently.Â
âYes,â you said at the exact same time. You were never one to expect the people around you to tell you everything you wanted to hear. And to you, your older brother was the smartest man alive.Â
âI think hearing that your daughter has a learning disability that will almost certainly negatively impact her life is a hard thing to hear. I know that youâre a teacher so you obviously know that these conditions donât make a child lazy or stupid like they say. But youâre coming from the perspective of a trained professional. And the only reason I know more than the average person is because my sister is a teacher.âÂ
You blinked at him.
Theo sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned his hip against the armchair. "You have to think about what Joel actually knows about special education. In 2003? In Texas? The public perception of a learning disability isn't 'differentiated learning styles.â To a guy like him, it's a life of being labeled slow or broken by a system that already doesn't care about kids like Sarah."
He walked over to the dining table, shuffling through a stack of newspapers heâd brought in from the porch earlier, flipping through the local section until he found what he was looking for.
"I knew this would be in here. Look at this," Theo said, tapping a blunt finger against a headline from last week's Dallas Morning News. "There was a whole panel at the state capitol on the new standardized testing requirements. One of the state representatives literally stood up and said that the rise in dyslexia diagnoses was just âan excuse for lazy parentingâ and a way to âcoddle kids who just don't want to do the work.â He explicitly called special education accommodations an âunfair advantage for the weakâ that ruins a kidâs work ethic."
Eddie let out a sarcastic laugh.Â
"Of course he did. Leave it to a politician to be a complete troglodyte."
"Exactly. But that is the exact rhetoric Joel is surrounded by. He works in construction - He's surrounded by old-school, blue-collar men who think you just beat the laziness out of a kid, or you make them sit at the table until midnight until they read the damn page. To Joel, when you say dyslexia, he doesn't hear a neurological reading difference that can be accommodated. He hears a label that is going to follow his daughter forever, brand her as defective in the eyes of the school board, and limit her future before she even gets a chance. No parent wants to hear that,"
"And then there's the pride factor. Heâs working 18 hours a day to prove he isn't a failure, to prove he can provide for his kid. And the second he walks into that school, the woman he blames for his ruin stands up and basically tells him, âYour daughter is struggling, and you didn't even notice.â His immediate defense mechanism is going to be rage, because admitting you might be right means admitting heâs failing the one thing he has left to protect."
You stared at the newspaper clipping, the black ink of the headline blurring slightly as Theo's words sank in. The sheer weight of the cultural and personal walls you were going to have to climb just to get a six-year-old girl a basic reading accommodation felt completely staggering.
"So," you pulled your legs up onto the couch and hugged your knees tight against your chest. "He's not just fighting me because he hates me. He's fighting the label because he thinks he's protecting her from being marked as stupid."
"I think so," Theo nodded. "He's entirely wrong, and he's hurting his daughter by burying his head in the sand. But you aren't fighting a deadbeat who doesn't care. You're fighting a terrified, uneducated father who thinks the system is trying to handicap his kid, and who happens to think you're the enemy commander."
If Joel was scared of confronting Sarahâs dyslexia head on to protect her and not because of his long term hatred of you, youâŚyou could work with that. He probably wouldnât hear it from you, but maybe an administrator could talk to him and explain what dyslexia really is to him.Â
Theo was right. This was more nuanced than just his hatred for you. You just needed to get over your pride and help his daughter.Â
âââ ââ âźâ â âââ
February 1991
"Joel, please. I'm going to throw up.â
Your back was pressed flat against the cold and disgustingly damp brick wall in the hallway leading to the coffeehouse restrooms.Â
The air back here smelled like espresso grounds and vanilla, two things that you usually loved, but it did nothing to ease the back flips your stomach was doing. A bass guitar vibrated through the drywall right behind your shoulder blades, immediately accompanied by the muffled snapping of fingers from the dense crowd out front.Â
"I can't do this. My knees are literally shaking, Joel. SHAKING! Look at me, I look like shit. I'm going to pass out on that stage and ruin everything and everyone is going to hate me and want me dead-"
Joel stepped directly into your space, completely blocking out the rest of the hallway, the restroom doors, and the terrifying world beyond of 20-something year old poets with cool colored hair and piercings in places where there should not be piercings.Â
"Look aâ me," he commanded softly. When he let his true accent slip out, it was like molasses to you, slowing everything in your body.Â
This was all his fault actually, but it was hard to be mad at him when he put on that gentle voice, like he was talking to a small puppy. After he read your notebook, he decided that you had a âtalentâ that should not go to waste. And because you had zero backbone when it came to your boyfriend, you let him sign you up for this.Â
He reached out, his hands cupping the side of your neck where your pulse was trying to break free. His palms were so wide they cradled your jawline completely, his thumbs tracing back and forth over your cheekbones. He was so warmâŚlike a blanket.
"You ain't gonna throw up, and you ain't gonna pass out. I'm right here. I gotcha."
"You don't understand," you choked out, the stage fright tightening its claws around your throat. "What if they laugh at me? What if they think it's stupid and nerdy? It's too personal, Joel, tt's too much - "
"Shh. Stop that right now. Listen to my voice.â
He took a deep breath, his chest expanding fully against yours, instructing your body how to mirror his. He stayed like that for a moment, breathing for both of you, letting you absorb his strength through his shirt.
"They ain't gonna laugh. Because what you wrote in that notebook is absolute magic. I told you that when I found it, and I meant it. You think Iâd let a bunch of strangers laugh at you? I wouldn't have signed you up if I didn't know for a fact that you're gonna blow the goddamn roof off this place."
"I still hate you a little bit for signing my name," you muttered, a tear slipping down your cheek.Â
Joel laughed and his lips curved into an almost adoring smirk. He used the side of his thumb to catch the tear before it could drop - his skin was scratchy on your skin from all of his callouses. He looked down at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
"You can hate me all you want tomorrow, sweet girl. But right now, you're gonna walk up to that microphone, and you're gonna read the same thing you read to me. You do it for them, or you do it just for me, I don't care which. But you're doin' it, because you're too special to stay hidden."
He leaned down and gave your lips two pecks before dissolving into a deeper kiss. He leaned into you, his hand sliding down from your neck to press flat against the small of your back. Your panic entirely dissolved by the taste of him.
He squeezed your shoulders, gently turning you toward the hallway exit where the light was brighter.
"Next up on the mic, we have Y/N!" the coordinator's voice echoed from the main room.
Your heart leapt right back into your throat, but before you could pull back, Joelâs hand slid down your arm to grasp your hand. His fingers tangled tightly with yours, his calluses scratching pleasantly against your knuckles, giving your hand one last squeeze.
"Go get 'em, babe," he whispered against your hair. "I'm right behind you."
Walking onto the creaking wooden riser felt like stepping directly into a dream. The spotlight overhead was warm and a vibrant yellow, blinding you just enough that the crowded tables of college students and local bohemians blurred into a sea of slightly creepy anonymous silhouettes. The microphone stand hissed with a tiny bit of static as you adjusted it, your heart hammering against your ribs as you flipped open the leather binder.
You looked out into the crowd, a sudden wave of vertigo hitting you, until your eyes frantically scanned the very back of the room.
Joel was standing right against the exit door, his arms crossed over his chest, his frame easily clearing the heads of everyone sitting down. The second he caught your eyes, he gave you a reassuring nod.Â
Your voice started out small, but as the familiarity of your own prose took over, the lingering anxiety completely dissolved. The words flowed out of you exactly the way they had when you wrote them in the dead of night. The coffeehouse went completely silent; no one clinked their ceramic mugs against the tables, no one whispered. The snapping stopped. They were entirely yours, suspended on every syllable that left your mouth.
When you finally hit the last line, your voice trailed off a bit as you realize the story was ending and you were now going to be faced with the scrutiny of your peers.Â
The room completely exploded.
You had been expecting some pity snapping, but it was loud, enthusiastic clapping, with people sloshing their drinks as they cheered and a few college guys in the front row whistling.Â
It was startling - you blinked, concerned about what all the commotion was for, before a smile broke out on your face when you realized that the applause was for you. You clutched the notebook to your chest, gave a flushed nod to the crowd, and practically floated off the wooden riser.
Before you could even make it back to the hallway, Joel met you at the edge of the seating area. He didn't care that everyone was watching you; he caught you securely by the waist with both hands and lifted you right off the floor.
You squealed at how easily he lifted you, wrapping your arms securely around his neck as he spun you a half-circle in the crowded room.
"See?! What'd I tell you, huh? Knocked 'em completely dead. You're the smartest, most talented girl in this whole damn city baby. Don't you ever let me catch you hidin' it away from the world again."
â
The drive back from the coffeehouse felt entirely different from the drive there. Mainly because you werenât having a panic attack. But there was something different thereâŚsomething you couldnât recognize. It frightened you a bit, not being able to place how your own body was feeling, Joel kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on your thigh. He was playing his Purple Rain CD, the one he bought himself after you told him that was your favorite album of all time.
That unfamiliar feeling continued into his apartment, where you were going to stay with him and watch a movie for a bit before going home. Usually, when you came over, there was a pretty domestic routine; heâd offer you a soda, youâd sit on opposite ends of the sofa talking about your classes or his latest project at the shop, and everything felt safe and carefully contained.
Tonight, Joel didnât move toward the kitchen. You didnât move to the living room to turn on the lamp.
He took his canvas jacket off and tossed it over the back of a chair, leaving him in just his long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.Â
You stood just inside the entryway, still gripping your notebook tight in your hand. The longer you stood there, the quicker you started to place that mysterious feeling in the car.Â
Vulnerability.
 You were a senior in high school, and yet, inexperienced. It was embarrassing, something your friends would tease you about. Lighthearted, of course, but you hated that it was even something that could be the target of teasing.Â
And itâs not like you werenât interested in sexâŚthatâs all you knew. You were so uneducated about sex that you didnât even know how to touch yourself to the point of release. But you did crave the release. You did.Â
Joel knew all of it. And he didnât make fun of you once. Heâd known you were a virgin since your third date, when you had confessed it to him in a fit of absolute panic, fully expecting him to look at you like you were some sort of puritanical freak (which you werenât. You werenât even religious!) But he hadn't. He had just looked at you and told you he wasn't in any rush.Â
For two months, he had been protective of your boundaries. Heâd kiss you until neither of you could breathe, his hands holding you by the waist, but the second he felt you tense up, heâd pull back, press a kiss to your forehead, and change the subject without making it feel awkward. He wanted to wait until you were ready. He wanted you to feel safe.
But tonight? You didnât want to wait anymore. The validation he gave you from the stage just added to the weight of how much you loved him. More than anyone in the world - he was the only person who never made you feel bad for being you.Â
Joelâs lips scrunched to the side of his face. It was a cute thing he did subconsciously that meant he was thinkinâ real hard about something.
"Hey," he walked closer to you, stopping when he was so close you could feel his breath on your neck. He reached down, taking the notebook from your grip. He set it down on the small table by the door without ever breaking eye contact. "You're still shaking a little bit. You still running on all that adrenaline?"
"No," you sounded fragile, and yet you had never felt more sure. Your hands felt completely empty without the book, so you reached out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, right over his chest. "It's not the reading."
Joelâs hands came up to rest flat against your waist, his thumbs tucked into the belt loops of your jeans. He didn't pull you closer yet; he just held you there. He had many love languages, but the one he addressed the least was his love of touch. He always had his hands on you, not sexually, just always resting on you like that was where they recharged.
"What is it, then?"
"I don't want to go home tonight, Joel," you said before your standard anxiety could talk you out of it. But then your cheeks flared and your eyes darted down to his collarbone, the old insecurity flaring up in your throat. "I mean... I want to stay. With you. For real."
Joel didn't move. He didn't smile or make a joke. His hands on your waist tightened just enough that you could feel the strength in his fingers.
"Love," He slid one hand up your side, his thumb lifting your chin until you were forced to look at him again. His pupils were completely blown to the point that his brown eyes looked nearly black. "Look at me. You know how I feel about you. You know I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. But you don't gotta do anything just because tonight was a big night. We got all the time in the world."
"I know. I'm not doing it for the reading. I'm doing it because I love you. And I'm ready, I-I'm completely ready."
Joel leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss that was entirely different from the ones before. It was hungry. His hand slid from your neck into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, holding you against him while his other arm wrapped entirely around your lower back, lifting you up slightly until your chest was crushed flush against his. He tasted like black coffee and cigarettes, two things you used to hate before Joel came around.Â
You whimpered softly against his mouth, your arms flying up to wrap around his neck, burying your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. It was starting to get long, but you didnât mind. He stopped his frequent trims after you told him how much you liked when his hair got a little shaggy.Â
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours.
 "You're sure?" he growled slightly, his hands trembling just a fraction against your back. "Because once I take you into that bedroom, I wonât ever letting you go."
"I'm sure," you whispered back, your heart bursting with a love so intense it felt like a physical ache. "Please, Joel."
He didn't say another word. He just slid his arms under your knees and lifted you into his arms, carrying you out of the living room and toward the bedroom, leaving the wreckage of your fears on the floor behind you.
Joel's bedroom was even darker than the living room, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside casting pale blue shadows across his bed. He always made his bed. Always.
 He didn't turn on the overhead light. Instead, he reached over with one arm and clicked on the small lamp on his nightstand, replacing the blue low with an amber one that made the room feel warmer.
You could see the nervousness in his face now, the way his fingers hesitated before tracing up your sides. For all his strength and despite being older than you, he looked almost boyish in his uncertainty - his eyes wide and searching your face for any sign of hesitation.
"Never done this before," he admitted, his thumb brushing along your jawline. "Not with somebody who... not with somebody who matters this much. I don't wanna hurt you. I don't wanna get anything wrong."
"You won't," you said with such certainty, even though you had never done this before. "I trust you."
He knelt down in front of you, his hands moving to your boots, unlacing them slowly. He did usually do this for you because you could never wedge your heel out of these particular shoes. But this was different. It was like he was tracing you.
"Gonna take care of you," he murmured, pulling off your boots one by one, setting them aside. His hands moved to your socks, peeling them off and warming your cold feet between his palms for a moment before sliding up to the button of your jeans. "Gonna go slow. You tell me if anything feels wrong, yeah? You tell me to stop, and I stop. No questions."
You nodded, unable to speak as he unbuttoned your jeans and eased the zipper down. You felt silly being so shy. This was your boyfriend. The man you loved. You justâŚyouâve never been naked in front of anyone before.
  He hooked his fingers into the waistband, looking up at you for permission, and when you lifted your hips slightly, he slowly worked the denim down your legs. The goosebump on your legs were so prominent they looked like ski moguls on your skin.Â
You were in just your sweater and underwear now, and the vulnerability made you want to curl into yourself, but Joel's eyes stopped you. He wasn't looking at you with hunger yet. He was looking at you like you were something precious, something he'd waited his whole life to deserve.
"Youâre so beautiful," he stood up, his height towering over you as he reached for the hem of your sweater. "Arms up, sweet girl."
You obeyed, raising your arms as he peeled the fabric over your head, revealing your basic tan bra. You chewed on your cheek - if you had anticipated this happening earlier you wouldâve put on your nicer one, the one that made your tits look bigger than they were.Â
But Joel didnât seem to mind. He tossed the sweater aside and just stared for a moment at your chest, his own rising and falling. You could see the distinct outline of his arousal straining against his jeans, his hands shaking as they returned to your waist.
"You're shaking too," you reached out to touch his forearm.
"Yeah," he admitted with a laugh. "I'm scared as hell. I want this to be perfect for you. I want to be worth this."
"You are.â
Joel took inhaled and reached behind you, his fingers finding and undoing the clasp of your braâŚfreakishly fast. The fabric loosened, and he slid the straps down your shoulders slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, giving you every chance to stop him. When the bra fell away and you were bare in front of him for the first time, he whimpered.
"God. You're... you're perfect."
He touched you then, finally, his palms cupping you. His hands were so warm against your cold skin that you let your head tilt back slightly. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and you gasped at the sensation. You didnât realize your body couldâŚJesus that felt good.
He watched your reaction, learning you, mapping what made your breath hitch and your back arch.
"Like that?"Â
"YesâŚYes..."
He leaned down and replaced his hands with his mouth, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, and finally closing his lips around you. You bit down on your tongue at how good it felt, your fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked gently. No one had ever touched you like this. No one had ever made you feel like your body was something to be worshipped rather than hidden away.
He moved to the other side, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger with just enough pressure to make you squirm. You could feel yourself growing wet between your legs, a throbbing ache building that you didn't fully understand but knew only Joel could soothe.
"Joel," you whimpered, pulling at his shirt almost pathetically. "I want to see you too. Please."
He straightened up as if he was caught doing something wrong and pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He was bare-chested in front of you, all broad shoulders and lean muscle and scattered scars from his work at the site. You reached out nervously, tracing the line of his collarbone, the sparse hair on his chest, the faint planes of his stomach. He wasnât a super lean guy - he was big. Entirely muscle, and yet, a bit of life covering his work. You found that far more attractive than any of those six packs your friends liked.
 He shivered under your touch, his abdominal muscles jumping as your fingers drifted lower, hovering at the button of his jeans.
"Can I?"Â
"Yeah," he groaned, his hand covering yours and guiding you. "Yeah, you can."
Together, you undid his jeans, and he pushed them down along with his boxers, stepping out of them. He was fully hard now, and you couldn't help but stare. He was bigger than you'd imagined. How on earth was he going to fit - he was kneeling before you again, his hands on your thighs, spreading your knees gently, and all coherent thought dissolved.
"Gonna take these off now," he said, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. "That okay?"
"Yes.â
When the cotton cleared your ankles and joined the rest of your clothes on the floor, you were completely bare to him. Completely bare for the first time ever. You instinctively wanted to press your thighs together, to hide the most private part of yourself that no one had ever seen, but Joel's hands kept your knees gently parted.
"Fuck me," he exhaled, the words barely audible. His eyes fixed between your legs, which should have embarrassed you, but the admiration in his expression only made you feel beautiful. "Look at you. You're already wet for me."
You whimpered at his words, at the knowledge that he could see your arousal, that there was no hiding how much you wanted this. Joel leaned in and pressed a kiss to your hipbone, then lower, the stubble he was developing grazing your inner thigh. He moved to the other thigh, kissing his way up, closer and closer to where you ached but never quite touching where you needed him most.
"Joel," you gasped, your hands finding his hair again. "Please... I don't... I've never...I donât know why it feels like this."
"I know," he soothed. "No one's ever touched you here. No one's ever seen how beautiful you are. Let me, babyâŚLet me be the first."
He didn't rush. He took his time and you could feel his hesitation, his fear of getting it wrong, but it was overwhelmed by his desire to please you.
When he finally leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your clit, your moan echoed off the walls. It was a sound that scared you, so unfamiliar from your mouth. He just held there for a moment, his lips pressed against you, breathing you in.
 "You taste like heaven. You have no idea how long I've dreamed of this."
It still blew your mind that he dreamed of you. He could get any girl he wanted and he still chose you every time. You justâŚyou couldnât think about what made you so special.
Once he got the confirmation that you were okay, he went in hard, licking you long and slow from bottom to top. Each pass made your vision blur at the edges, your hips jerking involuntarily toward his mouth.
"Easy babygirl," he cooed, his hands gripping your thighs more firmly, holding you still. "Just feel it."
He found your clit with the tip of his tongue, and despite how soft he pressed, you still gasped. It started building a pressure deep in your belly that you'd never felt with your own weak attempts at touches.Â
"Joel," you sobbed, your head falling back, your eyes squeezed shut. "I can't... it feels too..."
"Yes, you can," he sounded so muffled with his mouth buried in you. "You can take it. You're doing so good, baby. Just relax and let me make you feel good."
He changed his technique, flattening his tongue and pressing firm, steady pressure against your clit while his hands slid up to grip your hips. The sensation shifted from teasing to overwhelming - your legs started shaking uncontrollably. You looked down at him, watching him between your legs, his eyes closed in concentration. He looked like he was having the time of his life.
"Please," you begged, not even knowing what you were begging for, just knowing you needed more, needed him closer, needed something.
Joel pulled back slightly, his chin glistening.
"I'm gonna put my fingers inside you now. Gonna open you up slowly. You tell me if it hurts, okay? You use your words."
You nodded frantically, unable to speak, and he lowered his mouth to you again, sucking your clit gently between his lips as his hand moved between your legs. You felt his fingers there, circling you, gathering your wetness, and then one thick finger was pressing against you.
"Relax." he coached. "Let me in."
You forced yourself to breathe out, to unclench the muscles you'd been holding tight without realizing, and his finger slid inside you. You gasped out, your hands flying to his hair again, gripping tighter as he held still, letting you adjust to the sensation of being penetrated for the first time.
"That's it," he said, pressing kisses to your thigh, your hip, anywhere he could reach while his finger stayed buried inside you. "God, you're tight. You're so warm, baby."
The dual sensation made you nearly black out. How could something so good have effects that made you look like youâre in pain? You were gasping,squirming, moaning, and nearly sobbing, and yet, you had never felt so good in your life.
He added a second finger, scissoring them gently to stretch you, preparing you for what was to come, and the fullness made you gasp, your inner walls clenching around him involuntarily. He curled his fingers slightly, pressing against a spot inside you that made your eyes roll to the back of your head..
He didn't stop. Of course he didnât. His fingers pumped in and out, curling to hit that spot with every stroke, his mouth sucking and licking and driving you higher and higher. Your whole body was trembling, sweat beading on your skin.
His fingers pressed harder against that spot inside you, his tongue flickered rapidly over your clit, and you shattered, crying out his name as your first orgasm ripped through you from your clit to your stomach to your head. Your inner walls spasmed around his fingers, your back arched off the bed. You had never felt so out of control before.Â
It was addicting.
Joel didn't stop, even as you started shaking from being sensitive. He was so lost inside of you that you had to pull him up to you.
He gathered you into his arms as you shook through the aftershocks, your body feeling like syrup. God, what did he do to you?
"Okay?" His chin still glistening with evidence of what he'd done to you. He cradled your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears that you didnât even know you shed. "Was that okay? Did I hurt you?"
You could only shake your head you were so spent. You could feel him hard against your hip, but he made no move to rush, just held you close as you caught your breath, whispering love against your skin until you were ready for more.
"Joel," you traced the hook of his nose, your favorite part of his face. "I want you inside me."
He groaned, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment, his hips pressing involuntarily against you. "I need you to know... it's - itâs gonna hurt. The first time. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't... there's no way around it."
"I know," you said, remembering the awkward health class lectures. You may be inexperieced but you werenât stupid. "I took sex-ed, Joel. I know what to expect. I don't care. Well, maybe I do. But Iâll get over it."
"You might bleed," he brushed your lips with his thumb the same way you did his nose. "Not everyone does, but you might. I'll go slow, I'll wait as long as you need, but I need you to tell me if it's too much. I need you to be honest with me."
"I will.â
You reached down and cupped him. He twitched against you which made you gasp a little, because while you did take sex-ed, you were unaware that they twitched.
Joel froze at your touch and moaned before rolling away from you just long enough to reach for his nightstand. You watched as he tore open a foil packet with shaking hands and rolled the condom down his length. The sight of him touching himself, even for protection, made you wide awake and ready to go.
He moved back between your legs, his hands sliding under your knees to hitch your legs up around his waist. The position opened you completely to him and you felt the head of him press against your entrance.
"Look at me. Donât close your eyes. Need to see you so I know how to make you feel good."
You nodded, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he began to push forward.
And - oh. God. It felt like a large pole splitting you entirely in half like in one of those torture movies. You gasped, your whole body tensing and locking down. Maybe you just couldnât fit him.Â
"Relax," His whole body was trembling with the effort of holding still. "Breathe, baby."
You forced yourself to exhale, to unclench the muscles that had seized up in panic, and he slid in another inch. You sobbed out, feeling the pole push higher and higher into you.Â
"Joel," your voice cracked. "It hurts. It really hurts."
"I knowâŚI know, baby, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry it hurts."
He stopped moving, buried halfway inside you, and just held there. You could feel him shaking, every muscle in his back and arms corded tight with the effort of not thrusting and taking what he so clearly wanted.
 But he waited. He waited for you, his hands stroking your hair, your face, his lips pressing kisses to your eyelids, your cheeks, anywhere he could reach.
"You're doing so good. Just breathe. Just let your body adjust to me."
As the mintes stretched out, the burn started to ease slightly. The pain didn't disappear exactly, but it shifted into more of an overwhelming fulness.
"Okay," you whispered finally, your hips shifting experimentally, testing the sensation. "Okay, you can move. I'm ready."
Joel pulled back slowly, just an inch, before pushing back in.
"Still hurts?"Â
"A little," you admitted, your fingers tracing the line of his spine. "But it feels... it feels good too. Don't stop, p-please don't stop."
He bit his lip hard and began to thrust a bit harder. The pain faded with each thrust, replaced by a building pleasure that seemed to radiate from your core outward, filling your veins with pure, chemical serotonin.Â
âYou feel... you're so tight."
You were curious what that meant to him. What does it feel like to have sex with someone who was tight? They said the same things in the porn you tried to watch before.
You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the change in angle made you both moan loudly.
"There!" you gasped. "Right there!"
He found that spot again and again, his thrusts gaining speed and force as he lost himself in you, as you lost yourself in him. The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, his low groans and your breathless cries, the creak of the bedsprings beneath you.Â
His hand slid between you to find your clit, circling it with his thumb.
 "I'm close baby, do you - do you think you can come with me? Please come with me."
He didnât have to ask you twice. You came around him, clenching hard against him as you lost control again. He thrust deep one final time, burying himself, and you felt him pulse inside you, his whole body going rigid as he came, his face buried in your neck.
He stayed inside you for a moment. You ran your hands up and down his back, feeling the sweat slicking his skin.
"I love you," he whispered, pressing kisses to your own damp skin. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
He pulled out carefully, dealing with the condom and tying it off before reaching for the tissues on his nightstand. Between your legs ached and when you shifted, you saw the faint smear of blood on your inner thigh.
Joel must have seen it too, because his face immediately fell. He didnât even say anything as he stood up to go dampen a cloth in the bathroom. When he came back, he gently parted your legs and wiped away the evidence of your first time. Then he gathered you into his arms and carried you to the bathroom (even though you could probably walk with some pain), setting you on the closed toilet lid while he started the shower.
"Can you stand?" he asked, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"Yeah," though you were kind of lying. Your legs felt like jelly.
He helped you into the shower and he washed you with the same care he'd shown every step of the way; washing your hair, your shoulders, between your legs. No one had ever showered with you before. You leaned against him, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
He got out first when you asked him if you could stay in the shower a bit longer, the water feeling good on your skin. But when you stepped out, wrapped in his towel, you noticed that the bed had been remade. You hadn't even heard him do it.
He looked up from where he was folding the old linens, his expression softening when he saw you standing there, wrapped in his towel.
"Come here," he opened his arms.
You went to him, and he lifted you again. He laid you down on the fresh sheets and crawled in beside you, pulling you against his chest, your legs tangled together, his heartbeat rocking you toward sleep.
