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While we were texting

Here's my story for @jolapeno 's Dear-uary challenge!

I had fun writing it and I'm quite proud of the results, but his fic wouldn't have ended up being like this without the help I've gotten. @schnarfer I know I've said it before, but your notes were wonderful and really helpful. Thanks for taking such a thorough look and lending me your brain for a little bit. @encasedinobsidian The first combo of texts wouldn't be this great without you. Thanks for helping me with them and always being so supportive. And to my friends, @thundermartini @joelmillerisapunk, thanks for always being there and listening to my rambles.♥️

pairing: Tim Rockford x fem able-bodied reader summary: Help and surprises come from unexpected places. word count: 2900 tags: fluff, sweetness, and yearning, reader has no body description other than mentions of having hair, no use Y/N (Tim's texts are in bold and reader's in italics)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

(8/9/24)

(7:35 pm) Morales

Where the fuck are you?

I need backup 

(7:36 pm) No Morales in here, I'm afraid!

(7:36 pm) Don’t fuck with me, man 

Get down here, I've got 30 seconds leeway at best 

And that's being generous 

Once it gets dark it will be a nightmare to follow him.

(7:36 pm) This is the wrong number, I'm sorry! Don't know what's going on but I hope it goes to plan!! 

(7:37 pm) Shit

I'm sorry. Disregard all of that 

(7:37 pm) It’s alright:) 

(8:50 pm) Did it work?

(10:13 pm) Bad day?

(10:13 pm) Busy. 

(10:13 pm) At work?

(10:13 pm) Yes. 

(10:14 pm) Couldn't be worse than mine I almost lost my fingerprints with the ovens. 

I'm not usually this clumsy, but the period cramps are no joke this month.

(10:20 pm) Sorry to hear that ma'am. You'll be in my prayers.

There’s no glamour in saying he’s a detective tonight, no pride or fulfilment, no satisfaction in having closed the case and kicking off February with an apparent good note, just a crestfallen sensation as he finishes parking the car, a desolate silence sinking in its claws once he switches off the motor and his eyes close. Leaning back to rest his neck on the car seat, the exhaustion, the sore muscles, the aching back and knees, and the headache growing by leaps and bounds -courtesy of the blow he took, and left him with a cut on his forehead that is still bleeding slightly- threatens to obliterate the last scraps of willpower as he dares to question if he should have accepted the suggestion to go to the hospital. An option he had dismissed as soon as it had been conveyed, the lack of concussion symptoms and his urge to be alone, away from any pretence, and decompress had won over his caution.

Only her voice keeps Tim grounded, one he's created in his mind -lighter and sassy, spurring him to leave the car, offering the final push to get inside his apartment and care for himself. A voice he's yet to meet, but who has provided him more comfort in the past months than anyone else around him.

A voice he yearns to hear. For it would gift him her company, the privilege to revel in her presence and maybe feel her arms around him, hugging him, bestowing the solace he desperately craves.

(8/13/24)

(9:05 pm) Do you guys all go to a special school to learn how not to see things?

(9:15 pm) Excuse me?

(9:15 pm) Nothing. 

My boyfriend. 

I'm drowning in the mess and he tells me to holler if I need help. 

(9:15 pm) I’m sorry.

(9:15 pm) Are you?  

(9:20 pm) Sorry. I’m in a mood.

Thanks. It's all done.

But I’m pissed.

(9:25 pm) That’s understandable.

How did you guess I'm a man?

(9:25 pm) You called me ma’am. 

(9:25 pm) Touché. You didn’t disagree. Does that mean you’re a lady?

(9:25 pm) A lady? Hahaha. 

(9:25 pm) You mentioned your period, and I feel bad for assuming.

(9:27 pm) Did I say something wrong? 

(9:27 pm) No. 

You surprised me. 

That was quite thoughtful and you set some precedent the other day.

(9:27 pm) I was an asshole, and I’m sorry.

(9:27 pm) It’s ok. I snapped at you too. 

It’s all forgotten.

But yeah, I’m a woman. 

Tell me something funny. I don't want to think anymore.

(9:29 pm) I may have caused a small explosion today.

(9:29 pm) YOU WHAT!?

(9:29 pm) I said may 

(9:29 pm) No way! You totally did! lmao!

Leaving the car, he lets his dreary feet carry him across the street and through the lobby of his apartment block, halting in front of the elevator. Her parting wishes of good luck for the stakeout still reverberate in his mind, even hours after he responded to them, bringing forward the memories as he waits, the myriad of conversations exchanged since the first message sent by mistake - a fortuitous error, the consequence of his thick fingers mixing the numbers while setting the contacts on his new phone. A lapse he has no words to express how grateful he is for.

He hadn't thought it would have a special significance, a brief mishap flooded with his rudeness, a happenstance, inconsequential till not. Her texts, the random questions, the silly facts she kept sending initially, undeterred by his surly personality, had caused a ripple, a seed powerful enough to grow and become so much more. A source of reassurance and laughter, it was cheering, a safe space to speak, a shoulder to vent without judgment. A friendship.

(9/2/24)

(5:45 pm) You have a name, don’t you?

(5:45 pm) Of course.

(5: 45 pm) Wanna share it?

(5:46 pm) It doesn't seem smart. I shouldn't talk to strangers.

(5:46 pm) As you wish, Buttercup.

(5:46 pm) How did you know The Princess Bride is my favorite movie?

(5:46 pm) I’m a detective. It’s my job to know things.

(5:46 pm) Like Riggs and Murtaugh?

(5:46 pm) What?

(5:46 pm) Yes, from Lethal Weapon.

(5:46 pm) I know that movie. 

(5:47 pm) It fits, you know? 

With the explosion you caused.

I think I’ll call you that. 

Riggs.

He knows a lot now -sure, not her name or face- but her height, birthday, that they live in the same city, her work at the bakery, hobbies, favorites, and things under the title of hate. 

Initially, his wariness had made him hesitant, less prone to share until the easiness he felt around her had won. But it's never enough. Her presence, becoming solid, no longer shapeless but a woman beautiful and strong, intelligent, complex, supportive and understanding, funny, alluring, and stunning, his Buttercup, making him fall in love before he could say no.

He's been hoarding every bit of information, treasuring every glimpse of her trust, guarding her secrets, supporting her desire to write a book someday, thoroughly reading any slice he receives -the beautiful and evocative images that feel like poems whispered in his ear- pouring his full attention. Memorizing one very vivid and erotic encounter between a man and a woman she had surprised him with and left him wondering what had inspired her. A slip from her fingers -her turn, not having planned to show it- that had left him so hard he hadn't been able to contain his hands, picturing himself and her, the tension building with each rub, exploding as he never had before, his whole body tingling, spurting all over his torso, breathless, almost going blind. Hoping to confess one day, face to face if he's lucky, naked, with their bodies entwined, and sharing an intimacy just as passionate.

(10/7/24)

(10:17 am) I think I have a cat.

(10:20 am) A cat?

(10:20 am) Yeah. He’s cute now that the dirt is gone. 

Wanna see a picture? 

I found him in the alley behind my building.

I know, typical. 

But he's so skinny. I couldn't leave him there.

(10:20 am) I didn't know you were that fond of them.

(10:21 am) Me either lol. 

We're learning together. 

What do you think about Milo? 

For the cat, I mean.

Google says it means beloved. 

Or dear.

(10:21 am) Sounds good.

(10:21 am) For real? Pinky promise?

(10:21 am) Pinky promise.

(10:21 am) Oh! I almost forgot! Did you know the moon looks upside down in the southern hemisphere?

The elevator doors ding. Opening, as expected, efficiently and with no fanfare, breaking his musings, the battle between his desire to reach out to her and not wanting to risk waking her up. His solitude ends with the presence of his new neighbor standing inside. He’s seen glimpses of her these past weeks since she started living here, three doors down from his, but he’s yet to exchange a word with her.

He's too tired to do little more than nod in greeting as he enters, noticing the button of his floor number is already pushed and resting his weight on the wall.

“Rough night?” She inquires, sympathetic, her tone unfolding an echo Tim doesn’t know where to place as he hums in affirmation, his stare centered on the monitor, watching the numbers change, feeling hers on him, taking in his state as the elevator goes up. “I have some butterfly stitches and antiseptic if you want some help.” 

Her offer forces him to glance at her, his eyebrow rising, doing nothing to hide his surprise.

“I imagine the badge and Mrs. Davis' high praises make you safe enough to invite you in. I’m not that irresponsible to ask a bloodied unknown man into my home at night.” Her sass soothes him, stealing a smirk from him, short and tired, but not less genuine, reminding him of his Buttercup, triggering a fresh wave of longing, making him dream what it would be to be here with her, curious if her figure is similar to the woman standing beside him, the perfect size for him to mold his around. 

"Smart girl,” he sees a tinge flash in her irises, a glimmer vanishing as fast as it had appeared, sparked by his praise, flaring his interest, "If you're sure, I'd be grateful.”

(10/2/24)

(1:10 am) (video)

Milo is having a blast. 

(1:11 am) I reckon so. Who's his friend?

(1:11 am) Emma's cat. 

Sorry for waking you up. I didn’t realize it was so late.

(1:11 am) I was awake. I couldn’t sleep, don’t worry.

Babysitting duty?

(1:11 am) I'm crashing on her couch, eating my weight in chocolate ice cream.

(1:12 am) What’s wrong, Buttercup?

(1:16 am) I don't have a boyfriend anymore, nor a home.

(1:16 am) I'm sorry. 

(1:16 am) I should have seen it coming. I feel so stupid. 

You can tell me I told you so. 

(1:16 am) You’re not stupid. What happened?

(1:16 am) He decided to christen our bed with his secretary. 

And I obviously got home earlier than I usually do. 

(1:16 am) Fuck.

(1:16 am) Indeed. 

(1:16 am) You want me to break his knees?

The walk hardly takes a minute; a welcoming aura envelops him the second he puts his feet inside her place. Despite her recent move, it already feels like a home, cozy and inviting, with warmth pouring from the corners. The comfortable furniture, blending seamlessly, and the light illuminating the space, surround him as she guides him towards the bathroom, signaling the toilet seat for him to sit as she gets the supplies ready and begins to disinfect his wound.

“Do I want to know how you got that scratch?”

“It was my mistake. I was running behind a perp and not properly looking where I was going. It wasn't my best decision.”

“You…” The sting of the antiseptic and the curses slipping from his mouth interrupt her quip. “I'm sorry,” she hushes, delicately blowing over the laceration, her thumb brushing the skin around it, soothing the burning sensation. 

His eyes close at her actions, leaning on the touch, starving for it, her sweet scent, with hints of vanilla and lavender, that leaves him far too soon. 

She applies the gauze, the pinkish shade in it denoting a job done, her attention focused on the next task, carefully laying down the first stitch, all of them, one after another, with kindness infused in each stroke, fuelling the itch to reach out and caress her.

Her gentleness and beauty mesmerize him. Luring him in with how effortless it feels, genuine and bare -the sort that has always attracted him- dressed in an oversized sweatshirt, yoga pants, and no trace of make-up on her skin. Soft curves, pliable and supple, draw him in, begging to surrender to the unexplainable pull he's been feeling, unusual in him and his guarded nature, silencing his remorse, any guilt for accepting her touch, for his thoughts when his heart is spoken for as if his soul was cognisant of a secret his brain had yet to discover.

"I'm not that familiar with cuts. Bakeries are more prone to cause burns, but it doesn't seem that bad. You'll make a full recovery." He has no time to elucidate or ponder, the puzzle pieces falling before him, kneeling, slotting flawlessly, thanks to a noise driving her gaze to the hallway and exposing her neck.

(1/18/25)

(10:30 pm) Tell me a secret. 

(10:30 pm) Quite bold tonight, detective.

(10:30 pm) Will you indulge me?

(10:30 pm) What kind?

(10:30 pm) One you’re comfortable sharing. Or something that would let me recognize you if we crossed each other on the street.

(10:30 pm) Another bad shift?

(10:30 pm) You could say so.

(10:31 pm) I've got three moles on my neck, below my jaw, shaping a triangle. What about you?

(10:32 pm) I left my first day on the force with a souvenir. Three inches. A knife sliced my left wrist. I was so high in adrenaline that I didn't notice it until my boss told me to go get it taken care of.

He witnesses what she recently told him. A treasure, a trio of dots, of gems, rounded shapes of a darker color, splashing her skin, three moles forming a triangle.

It lifts the veil obscuring the truth, a unique hue blazing, bathing each gesture with a renewed color, no more blurred insights but undeniable clarity, appealing and arousing almost to the point of no control.

“Where’s Milo, Buttercup?” He barely hears his question, drowned out by his heartbeat, drumming against his ribs in tempo with his exhilaration and fear, scared it's all a mirage, a fantasy born of his yearning. But her body stiffening, freezing, becoming a statue for a few seconds, gives him hope. 

He offers himself as proof, raising his arm as she turns towards him. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt display his wrist, the scar he had described.

“I…” 

His smile expands. Unstoppable. And his stare roams, unashamedly, drinking her in, memorizing this moment -her beauty, silhouette, edges, and core, every detail, how her hair frames her countenance, the color and cut she had mentioned, the contrast between what she looks like to what he had imagined, how reality is infinitely better, perfect- the surprise in her expression, the twin of his, awed that fate has brought them together. 

“Riggs?” Her voice is no more than a trembling whisper.

“It’s Rockford,” he says, realizing he hadn't offered his name.

“Oh.”

“Tim Rockford,” he states, locking her gaze, extending his palm, pleading to hold hers, a knight avid to swear his loyalty.

She responds, accepting, her name escaping in a murmur as she anchors the connection, turning it physical -gasping at the charged touch. Anew. Meaningful. Heavy. Loosening the knot in his chest, infusing air in his lungs. He seizes it, clasping her fingers, bringing them to his face, smelling, ingraining her fragrance in his brain, her name carving an imprint on his tongue as he repeats it, savoring her taste with an unhurried peck on her knuckles. 

"You can keep calling me Buttercup."

His chest rumbles, a growl more than a chuckle, using the grip to tug her closer, between his legs, spread out for her to fit, close enough to feel her heat, craning his head to maintain eye contact, watch her pupils dilate and bask in the growing desire, burning. His hands land on her hips -squeezing her pliant flesh- and hers don't stay idle. Her nails scratch his jaw as they draw a path to his hair, interlacing with his curls, bold, conquering, cradling his head, bewitching him with her succulent lips, curving upwards, conscious, beseeching to be claimed.

“I prefer Tim.”

“Of course, Timmy.” 

Her grin twinkles with mischief, adorable and infectious, making his own grow so big it hurts, rolling his eyes, fully aware that he's definitely in deep trouble. She could call him stupid, and he’d be a happy man.

“Will you go on a date with me?” He asks, finally, now that she's found her footing, healed from her previous relationship, not daring to wait any more time, unwilling to have another case suspending his plans again, eager to start something that will never end.

“Is tonight too soon? The food I ordered should be about to arrive. There's plenty. We could sit on the couch and talk." She proposes, hesitation splattered in her expression. "I’m not ready to let you out of my sight.”

He stands, closing the distance, his hands traveling to her cheeks, cradling them, ensuring she's looking at him, bumping his nose with hers to ease her nerves and make her giggle. His bliss permeates his movements, slow, with intent and hope, stopping just a breath away from her, his forehead grazing hers.

“I’d love to.” He replies, destroying the last traces of space, sealing his vow to her lips.

Npt (because there was interest on my WIP Wednesday) @secretelephanttattoo @harriedandharassed @almostfoxglove @yxtkiwiyxt @milla-frenchy

@maggiemayhemnj @604to647 @aurorawritestoescape @mermaidgirl30 @tinytinymenace

@mothandpidgeon @whocaresstillthelouvre @burntheedges

[favorite-fan-fic]

Need Joel Miller to fuck me in front of a mirror, grip on my chin making me watch his cock sink into me, making me look at myself the way he sees me. ‘Look how fuckin’ gorgeous’, ‘Look how good you take it, like you were made for it’, ‘That’s it, keep your eyes open baby, want you to watch how you look taking my cock’

[favorite-fan-fic]

Listened to the podcast. Fell in love with him even more. Oh no. 🥹

Listen here if you haven't yet. 🖤

[favorite-fan-fic]

I love your writing! Would you consider writing a short fic where you’re one of Santi’s friends and he sets you up on a blind date with Frankie? Bonus points for Frankie being kind of shy and adorable

Blind Date - Frankie Morales x Reader

Thank you so much for your request!! I really hope this is okay 🩷

I have a friend. He’s single. You’re single. You’re both recently out of long-term relationships. You can awkwardly return to the dating scene together. But seriously, I think you’ll like each other. How does that sound?

You laughed when Santi sent you that text. But two weeks later, you were pacing anxiously in your kitchen waiting for your cab to arrive. You’d partly agreed to the date to shut Santi up, because you knew he’d complain about your complaining if he’d offered you a way out of the single life and you’d refused, without even giving him a chance. Finding a good man was difficult, so it was worth trying, right?

The cab ride to the restaurant was painful, to say the least. You couldn’t help but question if you were doing the right thing, but Santi was one of the few people you actually trusted, and he wouldn’t have set the date up if he didn’t think you’d actually get along.

Five minutes. This Frankie guy was five minutes late. You tapped your fingers on the table, trying to distract yourself from the fact that he maybe got cold feet himself. But out of the corner of your eye, you see a little bit of commotion near the entrance of the restaurant.

A man has a bouquet of roses in one hand, and the other was messing with the soft curls on top of his head. He looked as thought he’d ran all the way there. He was frantically looking around and trying to catch his breath, while also explaining to the wait staff who he was there for.

Someone’s in trouble, you think to yourself. And then it hits you. Man who looks like he’s supposed to be on a date, also looks like he has turned up late to said date?

Then you hear your name. And a few curse words that he muttered under his breath in embarrassment. You look up, and it’s him.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get off work. Then I realised I’d forgotten to get you flowers. I hope you like roses.” He said, as you stood up to greet him.

“Frankie? You’re fine. I mean, not fine as in handsome, just fine as in ‘you don’t need to apologise for being late’. Actually, you’re fine as in handsome too, but-“

Disaster. Two seconds in and it was a disaster.

He hands you the flowers and you thank Frankie, before gesturing for him to take a seat in front of you.

“Let’s start over, huh Frankie? We both screwed up there.” You say as you settle at the table.

“Sure, I could take a redo at that”, he laughs and he blushes a little when you laugh back.

You just looked so beautiful. Frankie wished Santi had warned him about that.

The rest of the date went better than either of you could have ever imagined. The chemistry was just as Santi had promised in his myriad of texts to you about it. He knew. He always knew. And you needed to thank him for this one.

Frankie was so pleased with himself, he had you laughing all night. Even in his truck, on the way home. The radio was on, the windows were down, and the conversation was flowing so effortlessly. It was a movie scene straight from a movie that the two of you had no idea was only the first part of many.

“I’d love to see you again,” said Frankie, as he admired the way you looked in the glow of your porch light. “If you feel the same, of course”.

“I feel the same, don’t you worry about that.” You smiled at him and kissed his cheek, which took the poor man by surprise. “Goodnight, Frankie”.

The look you gave him over your shoulder as you opened your front door would be thought about until you graced him with your presence a second time.

[favorite-fan-fic]

A Lesson in Temptation

Pairing: Reed Richards x female reader (Professor AU)

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: You're not happy with the grade you received on your most recent paper in Professor Richards class so you pay him a visit to sort it out (PS these two are already in an established relationship-most likely keeping it quiet lol and she's not necessarily a lot younger than him- as a matter of fact probably a grad student so could be any age you want bc we can go back to school whenever we want! :)

Author's Note: I had originally posted this with Javi in mind but it tanked royally and I just decided to chuck it and then after the Fantastic 4 trailer came out the picture below gave me some simple inspo and I tweaked it a bit and ended up here! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: it has some plot but it's mostly pwp lol, light dirty talk, and dom for both reader and Reed, p in v (wrap it up), and there is softness bc it's me

The faint scent of chalk and something sweeter wafts around you as you step through the door and into his office. Your eyes land on him instantly, and your heart jumps at sight.

He’s sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, hands fiddling with a broken piece of chalk as he stares off at the far wall. His dark hair is tousled as if he’s been running his fingers through it. Your own twitch at your sides.

He looks relaxed, but the frown that pulls at his lips tells you otherwise.

“Professor…” you start. “Are you busy?”

With a hum, his eyes open, meeting yours, their intensity making your steps falter.

“Depends…” he says, not moving from his position.

He remains quiet, his unwavering regard feeling like a physical weight. Your pulse hammers and you step closer, making your way slowly around his desk toward him.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I’m…”

“Stop talking,” you interrupt.

His brows draw together, and his dark gaze follows as you move between his legs.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

You don’t respond, trailing your fingers down his face and then closing them around his tie, giving it a slight tug to draw him closer. His eyes drift closed, an almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips as he surrenders to your touch.

You straddle his lap, and his muscles tense under you before he spreads his legs, providing you more space to settle onto him, his hands leaving the armrests to close around your waist.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and you bring yourself closer, chest pressed to his, and lean in, kissing his neck softly.

His eyes open, and he looks at you through long lashes.

“What game are you playing right now, sweetheart?”

You kiss him again, just below his ear, and his breathing grows shallow. His hands flex at your waist and he murmurs your name in warning.

“Be quiet,” you order. “If you don’t like this then stop me. Otherwise, zip it.”

His gaze grows dark with desire, and he stays silent.

Your hands find his tie once again and you fumble with the fabric until you have it untied, opening the top buttons of his shirt so it falls open to expose his chest. His muscles grow taut as you press a hand to his skin before slowly dragging it down to the waistband of his pants.

You keep your eyes locked on his face the entire time, watching him react to your attention. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip in anticipation.

His hands grip your waist, using you as leverage to tilt his hips up, grinding into you.

“No,” you say, pulling your hand from his now open belt.

“I’m going to ride you and you’re going to sit there quietly and keep your hands to yourself.”

His fingers dig into your skin for a moment and then he releases you, returning his hands to the armrests.

You push yourself off him to undress, starting with your shirt, slipping it over your head then moving to the zipper at the back of your skirt. You continue until you’re completely bare, and his heated gaze never leaves an inch of your skin.

Your hands go back to his belt, unbuckling it until his cock springs free, hot, and thick between your fingers. You can’t hide your reaction, your lips parting and your breath catching in your throat.

“Stay dressed,” you tell him, trying to keep yourself in control.

He smirks and shifts in the chair, so you have more room to sit. You place your hands on his shoulders, using him for balance as you straddle him again.

With an unsteady breath your gaze catches his and you reach between your bodies, taking him in your hand. At first you tease him, rubbing the head of his cock along your wetness until it coats him.

He lets out a low, impatient groan and his knuckles turn white with the grip he has on the chair.

You sink onto him, taking him all at once and relishing in the burning stretch. He inhales sharply and you watch the muscles in his throat work with his hard swallow. To his credit he remains still as you adjust to him, your legs already shaking.

“I love you like this Professor,” you whisper, lifting yourself.

He moans in response, and you sink back down. Increasing the pace, you slide up and down, gasping softly at the feel of him so deep. Every roll of your hips pulls another sultry sound from his parted lips.

Your fingers ghost along the broad width of his shoulders and down across the open buttons of his shirt. He bucks his hips, but you remind him not to move with a breathless warning.

His body trembles, the veins in his forearms prominent with his exertion of restraint. The sight has you moving faster, the need to watch him unravel making you frantic.

“Kiss me.”

He wastes no time in bringing his lips to yours, kissing you roughly and desperately. You spread your legs wider, trying to take him deeper and deeper. He lets out a hoarse groan against your lips, catching your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down.

His breathing becomes more labored, his moans increasing in between kisses as you roll your hips. You break the kiss, taking his jaw in your hand.

“Look at me. Tell me how good this is.”

His broken moan is all you hear before he finds his words.

“You have no idea how good this is, how good you feel gorgeous. I can’t get enough.”

He bucks his hips again, his restraint slipping.

“Don’t,” you warn.

His head falls back, and you lean forward to lay kisses and soft nips along his neck.

“I need you to do something for me Professor Richards,” you say, forcing yourself to focus.

His only response is the slight tilt of his head as sweat begins to bead along his brow.

“The grade you gave me on my gravitational lensing paper…”

His brows furrow, a small sign that he’s pushing through his haze of pleasure. You slow your movements to a teasing pace, making him savor every roll of your hips.

“I need you to change it.”

His parted lips move but nothing more than a strangled groan passes them, and you stop your movements.

“Well?”

“Why would I do that gorgeous?”

His voice is strained, and you start to pick up your pace again as you drag your nails down his chest and press your lips to his jaw, tracing the strong outline until you meet his ear.

“Because I should have gotten an A+.”

He growls out a curse but doesn’t respond so you stop moving again.

“Say you’ll do it, and I’ll let you touch me,” you purr.

With his jaw clenched tightly he holds your gaze, eyes dark and full of heat.

“Fine,” he hisses. “Now…say it. Tell me I can touch you.”  

You nod, feeling your release build.

“Say it!” he hisses.

“Touch me Professor.”

One of his hands grabs your ass, gripping it tightly, and he rises from the chair throwing you down on his desk. He spreads your legs, angling them back to push deeper.

He pounds into you, and you cry out at the intensity of his pace, loving how he’s taking over complete control now. He gathers your wrists in his hand and pins them above your head. His free hand slips between your legs to rub your clit.

You close your eyes, trying to breathe through the overwhelming sensations, feeling your orgasm grow closer. Your back bows as it washes over you, but he doesn’t slow his pace, his dark hair sticking to his forehead as he grunts, “again.”

Your eyes fly open. “I can’t Reed,” you pant.

“You can baby.”

His fingers continue to work over your clit, swollen and oversensitive.

“You’re going to come for me again,” he murmurs. “Beg me for it.”

“Reed…”

“That wasn’t a request,” he warns, and he slams into you hard enough to move the desk.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Louder,” he says.

“PLEASE!”

“You can do better than that gorgeous.”

“Please make me come Professor.”

He strokes you a few more times, pushing deep, and you come around him, feeling your legs give out even under his support.

His jaw tightens and his low rumbling grunt is all the warning you get before he spills inside you, filling you up.

He lets go of your legs, gently resting them along the desk on either side of him and leans over you. He presses butterfly kisses to your collarbone, lazily rocking inside you before pulling out.

After cleaning you up he helps you to stand, tucking you against his chest and pressing his warm palm to your cheek, sweeping his thumb along your jaw then kisses the soft skin below your ear.

“Is this how you plan to beg for all your grades from now on?”

“No.”

He smirks and you dip your head to his neck, burying it there with an inhale. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist as he takes your hand in his, kissing each fingertip.

“I knew what you were up to the moment you walked in here,” he whispers.

“That’s why you gave me a B…you knew I’d march down here to get what I deserve.”

“Whatever the reason you came here I wouldn’t have been able to stop you anyway sweetheart.”

You pull back, searching his gaze, a sassy quip at his soft words dying on your tongue at the unbridled desire you find in his eyes.

“You have a dangerous amount of power over me…and all I want is more of you,” he murmurs against your lips.

[favorite-fan-fic]

what remains of a man

qz!joel miller x f!reader (pretty eyes)

Summary: Joel Miller doesn't care. Not about Pretty Eyes. Not how she feels beside him. Not when she's under him. Not when she's hurt and she doesn't come to him. Not. At. All.

word count: 5k warnings: QZ!Joel. Canon typical violence. Canon typical mention/allusion to pills/drinking but nothing crazy. Mild smut. Cold!Sad!Joel 😂 (he’s as cold as iceeee) an: written for @almostfoxglove ‘s angst challenge, my prompt can be found here and the moodboard which was stunning is above. I hope you like bby!

READ ON AO3

[favorite-fan-fic]

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ ﾟ. °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

[favorite-fan-fic]

The Heart of Stone - Chapter 11

Series Chapter List | Previous Chapter

Pairing: Tim Rockford x OFC (Adeline Stone)

Word count: ~9.8k+

Rating: M (18+, minors DNI)

Warnings/triggers: The general warnings for this series are included on the main series page. Individual chapters will also contain warnings as needed for specific triggers. Mentions of food/drink, probably some mixed/shifting tenses (sorry), brief mentions of spouse death, family dynamics. A few physical descriptions are added for Adeline in this chapter - she wears glasses and has hair long enough to put into a bun, but she’s still pretty neutral. I’m sure I’m missing something…honestly this is a pretty tame chapter, but things are heating up a wee bit with our two lovebirds.

Author’s Note: This chapter jumps around a little bit…but picks up right where Chapter 10 left off. My apologies for the long wait on getting this posted - life and work have been pretty hectic lately and not only has my writing time been limited, I was a bit stuck on connecting some sections in this chapter. A big thanks to my friend @maggiemayhemnj for providing a some inspiration and letting me invade her mailbox with “does this sound right?” questions 😁 Thanks to everyone still here following along with these two!! 🥰

The fabric art images used in the header feature the work of textile artist Priscilla Kepner Sage.

As always, please keep in mind this is a fanfic written in my free time, not an in-depth-super-accurate ‘how-to’ guide or anything technical with police procedures or processes. Just use your imagination - that’s what I did. 😉

As with all things on this site - if you like my work, please reblog/leave a comment so I know you enjoyed it. If you don’t care for something or the story isn’t for you, take personal responsibility for what you choose to read or not read and simply move on - no need for negativity.

Chapter 11 - An Eventful Week

After questioning the manager of the storage facility and ensuring the forensics team had all the artwork carefully packed to take back to the station, it was nearly midnight when Tim headed for home. He called his parents during the drive, letting them know everything was fine and that he would stop by again tomorrow to spend more time with Jon and the rest of the family. Tim is walking into his house as he ends the call with his dad before he kicks off his shoes near the door and heads to his bedroom, his attention focused on his phone as he sits on the edge of his bed.

He had texted Adeline earlier letting her know he might not be able to talk tonight due to being called in to work. She asked him to let her know when he was back home, no matter what time it was, but he wasn’t getting his hopes up that she would still be awake as he types his message.

Just made it home. I know it’s late, so I can talk to you tomorrow.

He hits send and begins to get ready for bed. He’s just putting his police radio on the charger when his phone dings.

I’m still awake if you want to talk now. But if you’re tired, we can talk tomorrow. Thanks for letting me know you’re home safe. 😘

He smiles as he reads her message, quickly typing a reply before he walks into his bathroom.

Give me 5 minutes and I’ll give you a call.

Tim takes a quick shower, throwing on a clean t-shirt and boxer briefs before brushing his teeth and heading to his bed. He’s picks up his phone and sees that Adeline responded to his last message with a thumbs up emoji and the three dots of her currently typing appear on his screen. He waits a moment before a gif appears in his screen of Cookie Monster sitting at a desk drumming his fingers. Tim laughs as he dials her number.

“That was more than 5 minutes,” she attempts to sound annoyed, but Tim hears her giggle.

“Sorry, I wanted to shower and get ready for bed first,” Tim replies with a smile as he leans back against the headboard.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you rush,” she sounds slightly concerned as she mutes the volume on her television. “I was just teasing…”

“You didn’t rush me, I’m good,” he pauses a moment, “Hey, would…um, would you mind if we switched to a video call?”

“Oh, sure…you just have to ignore my messy hair and my…”

“I’m sure you look just fine,” Tim interrupts as he hears her soft giggle. He lowers the phone from his ear and activates the video call, waiting a moment before the image of Adeline shows up. She is also in her bed, adjusting slightly to lean up on the pillows against her headboard. Her hair sits atop her head in a messy bun, her dark-framed glasses slipping down her nose slightly before she pushes them back up. The soft light from the bedside table surrounds her with a warm glow as she smiles at the camera and gives a little wave.

“I was right,” Tim says with a nod and a growing smile.

“About what?” Adeline’s brow creases slightly.

“That you look beautiful,” Tim replies, making Adeline look down shyly before she looks back at him, biting her bottom lip. “And I like your glasses. You look good in those.”

“Oh, well…” Adeline scoffs, running a hand over her hair before she straightens her glasses with a nervous laugh. “I don’t know about that, but…thank you.”

“So how was the movie night?”

“It was good. I mean, I’ve seen that movie like 50 times already, but it was fun.”

“What did you watch?”

“Clue. You know, the one with Tim…”

“Tim Curry, yeah,” Tim finishes her sentence and chuckles, “Nate and I were just talking about that film.”

“So, how was your night? Everything ok at work?”

“Yeah…and again, I’m really sorry about that...”

“Tim, honey, you don’t need to apologize. You got called into work - it happens. I understand.”

He doesn’t respond right away, simply smiling at her choice of words.

“What?” Adeline finally asks, taking in his big grin.

“Honey?” He playfully raises his eyebrow at her.

Her eyes shift to the side for a moment as she recalls what she said.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t even realize I said…I’m sorry, I…”

“Adeline, honey, you don’t need to apologize…” he interrupts, giving her a warm smile as she registers his use of her own words.

“Ok,” she nods, “something we both need to work on…less apologizing. I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to…”

“Adeline,” Tim interrupts her again, “the only thing I was thinking…is that I like hearing you call me that.”

The corner of her mouth curls up into the slightest smile, “Really?”

“Of course! Why would you think otherwise?”

“I don’t know, I…I’m sorry…Oh!” Adeline’s hand quickly claps over her mouth as Tim starts to laugh at the shocked expression on her face. She lowers her hand before she speaks, “I did it again! I’m so sorry…oh, my god!”

She drops her phone to her lap, covering her face as the camera looks up at her. Tim chuckles at how adorable she looks, wishing he was there to pull her hands away.

“How about we try this again?” Tim finally speaks as Adeline looks back at the camera, relief washing over her face.

“Deal,” she exhales as she picks the phone back up, “So, how was work, Tim?”

“Wait, what happened to ‘honey’?” He asks playfully, pretending to be disappointed.

Adeline laughs, “Ok….how was work, honey?”

“Hmm,” Tim purses his lips and furrows his brow.

“Now what?”

“Well… now I need a name for you.”

“Um,” she takes a deep breath, blowing it out loudly,“well… a few friends call me Addy…”

“Ok…although I was thinking of something a little more…” he narrows his eyes, thinking for just a moment. “Just curious…what did Christian call you?”

She lets out a sarcastic laugh, “Are you kidding? Christian couldn’t be bothered with terms of endearment. I don’t even think he ever called me Addy.”

“Ok. Well, how about sweetie?” Tim notices her smile gets a little wider, “or maybe something like baby?”

Adeline feels a burst of butterflies in her stomach as she raises her eyebrows and hums.

“Ah, you like baby. Noted…” Tim winks as she rolls her eyes, but her giant smile tells Tim all he needs to know.

“Work was good, baby…” he smiles, liking the sound of that but enjoying Adeline’s response to it even more. There’s a brief pause before Tim continues, “Unfortunately, I can’t really say much more than that. You know, ongoing investigation stuff….”

“Oh, I understand…well, then…how was dinner with your family?”

“It was good,” Tim nods, “I mean, we were in the middle of dinner when I got the call from work, but things were going pretty well up to that point. My mom and I had a bit of a chat earlier in the evening.”

“Oh? Good chat or bad chat?” Adeline grimaces slightly trying to gauge Tim’s reaction.

“Good…and yes, Aunt Sylvia blabbed about seeing us in Auburn Springs.”

“Oh no! How’d your mom take the news?”

Tim hesitates for a moment before he decides to go with his gut on what to say next. “She was excited….she can’t wait to meet you.”

“She actually said that?” Adeline’s face shows a bit of surprise, a shy smile playing on her lips. Even behind her glasses, Tim notices an extra sparkle in her eyes.

“She didn’t have to say it. She was so excited about the news of me dating someone, she had already told my entire family that there’s a new woman in my life.” Adeline begins to laugh as Tim continues. “So, no pressure or anything, but my mother’s happiness now rests entirely on your shoulders,” Tim teases as Adeline’s laughter increases.

Their conversation continues for nearly an hour as they talk about their days and share lots of laughter. It’s just after 1 a.m. when Adeline tries to hide a yawn and Tim smiles.

“I saw that.”

“Sor…oh!” she quickly presses her lips together before she smiles at him, “Caught myself.”

“Nicely done, baby,” He winks at her as she bites her bottom lip again. They look at each other for a moment before Tim speaks, “I should let you get some sleep…and try to catch a few winks myself before I need to go deal with the family again tomorrow.”

“Ok…thanks again for letting me know you made it home safe. Will I talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll give you a call tomorrow night when I head home from mom and dad’s.”

“Sounds good. Sleep well, honey,” she says quietly, raising a hand to her lips to blow him a kiss.

He repeats the gesture and gives her one last smile, “Sweet dreams, baby.”

Monday started with Gallery’s heat going on the fritz, just as the chill of late October began to fill the air. On Tuesday morning, a clumsy customer spilled coffee on Adeline’s desk, all over her paperwork for the art auction she was attending next week. After the lengthy and contentious Arts Council meeting on Wednesday morning, Adeline was on her last nerve and wished the weekend was already here, convinced that dinner at Tim’s on Saturday may be the only positive thing to come out of this week.

“Hey, are you ok?” Emily nudges Adeline’s shoulder.

“I’m exhausted, Em. Between finishing up for Vera’s exhibit tomorrow, getting ready to be out of town next week at the auction, and now this damn Arts Council gala…” Adeline clicks a few things on the computer and turns toward Emily. She leans on the desk, rubbing her temples and letting out a big huff of air. “I swear, half of the committee members are more concerned about raising their own stock prices within the Ritchie Rich club than they are about actually raising money for the arts in this town.”

“I don’t know how you’ve put up with it this long. Haven’t you been doing this for like five years?” She asks as she takes a seat in front of Adeline’s desk.

“Yup…we started this shortly after I opened the gallery. Although back then, the group actually wanted to help bring more arts to Fox Falls. But then the bigger donors wanted to have a say in what we were doing and, well…here we are,” she points to the messages on her computer from donors demanding special treatment with the seating chart, Mrs. Putnam and other council members questioning everything Adeline was planning for the gala event or taking the credit for the ideas of others. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate their donations, but I really don’t need their sanctimonious, bull-headed opinions about everything we do.”

“Can’t you tell them to back off?”

“I could, but then we’d probably lose all their funding,” she sighs again and rolls her eyes. “So, I just suck it up and put a nice spin on my email replies so they don’t take their money and run. I don’t know…maybe it’s just not worth it anymore.”

Emily gives Adeline a sympathetic look, “I wish I knew what to tell you. But at least you have that talent to screw on a nice smile when you really want to tell someone to go…” the front door bell interrupts before she can finish her sentence, but Adeline giggles knowing exactly what she was going to say. Emily laughs with her as she walks around the shelves in front of Adeline’s desk to greet the customer.

Adeline goes back to typing her emails, so caught up in trying to keep her email replies professional, she doesn’t even hear Emily greet their guest.

“You have a visitor,” Emily peeks her head around the shelves after a moment.

Adeline’s head snaps up, as she silently mouths, “Who is it?”

“You’ll have to come out here to see,” Emily’s big toothy grin makes Adeline’s suspicions grow as she stands and rounds her desk.

“Tim!” Adeline squeaks as she spots Tim, standing in the middle of the gallery with his arms behind his back. “What are you doing here? Oh, crap, did I forget we’re having lunch today?”

“No, you didn’t forget anything,” Tim chuckles as he shifts what he is holding, “I had something that I wanted to deliver personally.”

Adeline watches as he pulls a frame from behind him, turning it to reveal the painting of Mrs. Patterson’s beloved dog. Adeline eyes go wide as she claps her hands over her mouth, muffling the excited scream that escapes her. Her eyes are brimming with tears as she lowers her hand and tries to find her words.

“What…how… oh my god! You found it!” 

She is half laughing and half crying when she reaches for the painting, not taking it from Tim, but barely running her trembling fingers over the frame, almost as if she doesn’t believe it’s real. Another second passes before she looks up at Tim, grabs his face and pulls him closer for a big kiss.

“Well…” Tim whispers when they finally break apart. “I’m glad I decided to bring this myself instead of sending Nate.”

Adeline laughs, wiping her tears before taking the painting from Tim. She looks at it for a moment, then carefully leans it against a nearby shelving unit. She turns back to him and wraps her arms around him for a hug.

“After the week I’ve had, I cannot tell you how much this means to me. How on earth did you find it?”

“Well…” Tim starts to search for the words as she takes a step back, her hands still resting on his shoulders.

“Oh, wait…you maybe can’t say. Ongoing investigation and all that, right?” she smiles, recalling his comment during their call a few days ago.

“Something like that. What I can tell you is we didn’t just find Mr. Chesterton. We recovered everything.”

“You’re joking!? You found it all?” Her eyes go wide again, her mouth slightly agape.

“Every last piece. The rest is still with forensics, but as soon as they said they were finished with that one,” Tim nods at the painting, “I decided you might want to see your long lost friend.”

“Tim, I…I don’t know what to say. You’re incredible,” she leans in for another kiss.

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” Tim gives her a playful salute as they continue to look into each other’s eyes.

“I’m gonna go get a coffee,” Emily mutters as she walks toward the front door with a big grin on her face. “You two kids behave while I’m gone…”

“Oh, shush!” Adeline calls after her, smiling and rolling her eyes before a series of tones from the computer draws her attention away from Tim. “Oh, what now…” she moves to her desk with Tim following. She looks at the screen and notices the new set of emails that arrived, closing her eyes for a moment before looking back at Tim with a sigh.

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah…no…I mean…actually, not really. It’s a long story,” she sighs, “but I…don’t want to bore you with that right now.”

“I’m all ears if you need to talk about it,” Tim walks closer to her, gently rubbing his hands up and down her arms. 

"There’s an Arts Council event coming up in a few weeks and…well, some of the people on the planning committee…” she sighs again and shakes her head.

“The old fusspots on the executive board?”

Adeline looks at Tim for a moment before she smiles, “Yes! You remember that from…”

“Our second date? Of course I do. I mean, several of those stories were pretty hard to forget,” he smiles at the memory of some of the outrageous tales Adeline shared with him. “So what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m head of the planning committee for the annual arts gala, which is the council’s biggest fundraiser of the year. It’s always a wonderful event, but this year, some of the committee members are just…a bit much. I want to be able to enjoy the evening, but it’s just becoming…” she trails off, her eyes darting around before she looks away, seemingly lost in thought.

“But what?” Tim asks as he ducks his head down, trying to meet her gaze. “Adeline?”

She gives her head a little shake bringing her back to the moment before she looks back to Tim, “I was just thinking…um,…would you want to come with me?"

"To the arts gala?"

"Yeah...I mean, it’s black tie and it’s really just a bunch of old money folks from the area trying to one-up one another, but the food is great and there's good music and…”

“I’m in,” he interrupts with a firm nod.

Adeline blinks a few times, “You…really?”

“Are you kidding?” Tim says excitedly. “Baby, not is this a chance to spend time with you, enjoy some good food, watch a bunch of old fuddy-duddies trying to out-do one another…but I also get the opportunity to see you in an evening gown and show off how good I look in a tux? Oh, I’m definitely in.”

Adeline laughs, letting out a relieved sigh before she wraps her arms around him in a hug.

‘Thank you, Tim. I really appreciate it…”

“Don’t give it a second thought. Whatever I can do to help you. Besides, the arts in Fox Falls is a great cause - I want to support that."

She smiles and opens her mouth but her computer beeps a few more times and the phone rings before she is able to say anything.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Tim whispers as he leans in to give her a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the art exhibit, ok?

“Ok. Thank you again for everything,” she says as she sits at her desk and reaches for the phone.

Tim gives her a wink and heads toward the door, smiling as he passes the painting of Mr. Chesterton.

Tim and Nate walk past the front door of The Stone Canvas gallery, the windows dark and the closed sign facing out. The light radiates from the windows of the space next door, serving as a beacon to enter. The large open room is filled for the night with colorful textile artwork hanging from the ceiling and draped across free-standing divider walls and large pedestals. A few paintings sit on easels and hang along the walls, and several catering tables line the edges of the room. Catering staff dressed in crisp white shirts and black pants and vests carry trays of hors d’oeuvres and beverages through the mingling crowd. As they take a few more steps into the space, Tim quickly spots Adeline at the back of the room chatting with several guests. He simply watches her for a moment as she greets people, her bright smile and bubbly laugh enough to make him forget there is anyone else around when a familiar voice makes him look over his shoulder.

“Hey, Tim! Hey, Nate!” Gordon switches a small plate of food to his other hand and offers each of them a handshake.

“Hey, Gordy! Have you seen Em…” Tim doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Emily approaches, “Ah, there she is.”

“Hi, Detective Rockford,” she greets Tim before handing Gordy one of the glasses she was carrying. “And Detective Warren. So glad you guys could make it! Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

“I’m fine for now. I was actually hoping to say hello to Adeline,” Tim motions to where Adeline stands, still chatting with several guests, “but I don’t want to interrupt…”

“Oh, go right ahead. She’ll get interrupted all night long, so don’t think anything of it,” Emily smiles before turning to Nate, “and what about you?”

“I could eat…” Nate replies with a smile as Emily ushers him over to a catering table with Gordy following behind.

“So, what happened to your date?” Tim hears Emily ask Nate as they walk away. He turns, walking toward Adeline as his eyes scan over her, admiring her simple black dress and the way it perfectly accentuates her curves. The sheer bell sleeves, adorned with tiny embroidered flowers, gently sway as she gestures at the artwork displayed around the room. He’s still a few feet away when she spots him, her face lighting up as she waves a hand to invite him closer.

“Tim, I’m so glad you could make it!” Adeline leans in, placing a hand on his chest as she kisses him on the cheek, letting her lips linger just a moment.

He turns his head slightly, whispering in her ear before she can lean away, “You look beautiful, baby.”

A coy grin spreads across her face as she beams at him, trying to remain professional for the surrounding crowd. “Oh, let me introduce you… Mayor Santos, this is….

“Oh, Detective Rockford and I are good friends,” the Mayor interrupts Adeline with a smile as she shakes Tim’s outstretched hand. “He has been very helpful in recent months with all the changes over at the District Attorney’s office.”

“Just doing my job, Madame Mayor,” Tim replies humbly with a smile, “The police department is always happy to help the mayor’s office.”

Adeline smiles, quirking her eyebrow at Tim as the conversation moves on, the group beginning to dwindle as a few more people say their goodbyes, and soon the mayor’s assistant comes closer to whisper something to her. The mayor nods and checks her watch.

“Adeline, unfortunately I need to head to the next engagement on my schedule, but thank you again for the invitation. This was such a wonderful event. Very well done.”

“Well, thank you, but Vera and her artwork deserve the credit,”Adeline shrugs, “I just organized the event.”

“Which was no small feat, I’m sure. Well…I should go say goodbye to Miss Ortiz. Thank you again, Adeline, and Detective Rockford, always a pleasure.”

“Likewise, Madame Mayor,” Tim smiles as he and Adeline watch the mayor and her entourage stop to talk with Vera for a few moments before heading to the door.

Adeline looks around the room for a moment, finally turning toward Tim, “Wasn’t Nate coming with you or did he end up finding a date?”

“He’s here, but I lost him to the food shortly after we walked in,” Tim chuckles. “Have you seen Perry and Jasmine? They said they were going to try to swing by.”

“They were here earlier, but had to leave about an hour ago,” Adeline nods. “Jasmine said Carson had a basketball game.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’m glad they were still able to stop by.”

“Me, too. It was very sweet of them and Jasmine and I had a great chat,” she smiles before stepping closer to his side.

“I’ll bet you did,” Tim chuckles as he wraps an arm around her waist, feeling her let out a big sigh. “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m just…” she shakes her head slightly, “I’m just tired. It’s been a long week and…I know these events are great for the artists, but it gets a little exhausting to screw on my smile and mingle with people I hardly know for hours on end.”

Tim lets out a quiet huff of laugher, giving her a gentle squeeze where his hand rests on her hip, “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you make it look easy.”

“Hmm, thanks,” she replies before quickly covering her mouth to hide a yawn.

“Don’t start that already,” Tim looks at his watch, “it’s not even 8 o’clock.”

“I know, it’s terrible. I really need to go find some caffeine,” she replies as she turns to face him. “Do you want to go get some food or…” Her smile quickly fades and her expression shifts to disbelief as she spots something over Tim’s shoulder. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. What the hell is she doing here?”

“Who?” Tim turns slightly, scanning the crowd briefly before turning back to Adeline.

“Oh, and apparently she brought the boyfriend. Sorry, honey, I….I’ll be right back…help yourself,” she motions to one of the catering tables as she slides past him, forcing her face into a neutral smile.

Tim watches as Adeline approaches a petite, older woman covered in designer clothing, with perfectly manicured nails, enough makeup for three people, and perfume strong enough to hit his nose from 20 feet away.

“Adeline, darling, there you are!” Tim hears the woman greet Adeline in the most obscure, exaggerated accent he’s ever heard.

“Gypsy,” Adeline takes her former mother-in-law’s outstretched hands, "how nice to see you.” Tim watches for just a moment before he catches a glimpse of the man with Gypsy. He turns his back to them, scanning the room for Nate who has made his way to one of the nearby catering tables.

“Don’t turn around,” Tim says quietly as he approaches Nate, “but Edward Stein just walked in.”

Nate flinches slightly, nearly dropping the cracker he was holding as he looks at Tim with wide eyes and tries to quickly chew the food in his mouth.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Nate finally asks.

“Apparently he’s a guest of Gypsy Hartwicke,” Tim picks up a cheese cube from one of the trays on the table, biting it off the toothpick before he glances back in the direction of where Adeline stands. Edward had moved to the opposite side of the room where he was chatting with a small group of older men, but Gypsy still had Adeline in her grip, as if she was afraid she was going to escape.

“Well, of course, I couldn’t possibly miss one of Vera’s shows,” Gypsy’s voice echos over the hum of the crowd.

“Oh, I…I didn’t realize you knew Vera,” Adeline’s face shows a bit of confusion, but her smile never falters.

“Yes, darling. Her great-aunt Elena and I and I have been close for years,” Her voice begins to get louder, “I met her when I was president of the Women’s Auxiliary long ago and we just became fast friends.”

“That’s great….well, I’m sure you’re eager to look around, so…”

“You know, it was actually Elena’s brother, Martin, who wanted to go into business with my dear Albert, but we knew that was not a good idea,” she leans closer to her, but her so-called whisper is loud enough for most of the room to hear, “Not with Martin’s gambling problem and history of using those awful loan sharks, of course.”

“Of course. You know, I really should get…” Adeline tries again to excuse herself.

“Oh, speaking of criminals, I’ve been meaning to ask, has there been any update on the robbery at your quaint little store?” Tim tosses his toothpick into a nearby trash can and marches over to Adeline as Gypsy continues. “Poor Adeline. I can’t tell you how worried I was when I heard your little shop had been…”

“Excuse me, Miss Stone?” Tim says over Adeline’s shoulder in a volume loud enough to drown out Gypsy’s droning. Adeline turns her head to look at him, Tim doesn’t even acknowledge Gypsy’s presence, but out of the corner of his eyes, he catches the curt look she’s giving him.

“I was interested in purchasing a few of these pieces. Could I speak to you about them?” Tim asks, keeping his expression neutral as Adeline’s face quickly shifts from slight confusion to relieved realization.

“Yes! Yes, absolutely,” she smiles, turning back to her former mother-in-law, “I’m so sorry, Gypsy, but duty calls…”

“Oh, yes…of course,” Gypsy’s face looks like she just sucked on a whole lemon as Tim ushers Adeline over to a section of artwork, randomly pointing at one of the largest pieces hanging from the ceiling.

“Thank you for that,” Adeline whispers, letting out a relieved exhale.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding. She really is…”

“She’s a fucking pain in the ass,” Adeline murmurs quietly through clenched teeth, causing Tim to choke on a laugh before coughing several times. Adeline’s lips press together as she tries to stifle her laughter, while Tim clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure.

“Don’t hold anything back, tell me how you really feel,” Tim finally replies playfully as Adeline’s hand quickly covers her mouth, trying to hide her laugher.

After a moment, she clears her throat and takes a deep breath, “Ok, we need to stop or she’ll know something’s up.”

Adeline bites her lip in an effort to control her giggles as they both glance back, noticing Gypsy has joined Edward, chatting with the group of older guests near the front door.

“I couldn’t quite place that accent. Where is she from?” Tim asks quietly as Adeline looks at him with a smirk.

“Little town just north of here. The accent changes from day to day. I never could figure out what the hell she was going for,” she rolls her eyes and glances around again before turning back to Tim. “You know, I just realized - I’ve seen her more in the past few months than I have in the past few years,” Adeline’s eyes narrow as she thinks for just a moment.

“You’re kidding?” Tim asks, a tinge of curiosity growing in his mind.

“No…I mean, after Christian died, I was convinced she forgot I even existed, but…” she holds up a hand, counting on her fingers as she continues, “she’s here tonight, she was at the restaurant on our first date. Oh, she stopped by the gallery back in July, and then again about 3 days after the robbery. She’s never been to the gallery before and then suddenly, she’s interested? Maybe the new boyfriend is causing the sudden interest in art,” she shrugs before she raises her chin to Emily who is waving at her from across the room.

“How do you know they’re dating?” Tim asks curiously, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but that’s who she was with when I saw her at the restaurant. Excuse me just a moment,” she smiles at Tim before she walks toward Emily. The two of them continuing toward a gentleman chatting with someone who appears to be the evening’s featured artist. The man gestures at the piece of art hanging above them and the group conversation moves to a small table near the back of the exhibit space.

“So what’s up?” Nate approaches Tim with a plate of food still in his hand.

“Have you been eating this whole time?” Tim looks at his partner with raised eyebrow.

“No. I was chatting with Emily and Gordy for a few minutes. Why?”

Tim just shakes his head and smiles, “No reason.” He continues to scan the room, noticing how Gypsy and Edward seem to be keeping an eye on Adeline’s movements.

“You ok, Tim?” Nate asks as he tosses his empty plate into a nearby bin.

“Yeah…” his eyes continue to scan, “well….I’m not sure. There’s something going on with Stein…”

“Yeah, but we knew that,” Nate takes a drink as he looks around.

“And something with Gypsy Hartwicke just seems…off.”

“Is that the old crone that was talking smack about some poor guy’s gambling problem?” Nate asks quietly as Tim stifles a laugh and nods.“Well, then yeah, I’d say something’s definitely off. She seems like a bundle of fun,” Nate quips sarcastically.

Tim hums in agreement as he watches Gypsy and Edward finally make their way to the door. “Come on, let’s go get you another plate of food.”

Tim and Adeline’s dinner plans for Saturday turned into an entire afternoon together. Watching old movies and reruns of their favorite shows, cuddling on the couch with comfortable clothes and casual conversations - a perfectly relaxing day after a hectic week. They both felt such a sense of comfort with one another, more so than they would have expected after their short time together.

Tim chuckled softly as Adeline’s head rested on his shoulder when she dozed off during one of the action movies they were watching. Later, when Adeline switched the TV to a painting program, she smiled when she noticed Tim’s head nodding a few times before tilting back to rest on the back of the couch, eyes shut and his mouth falling open just slightly. A sense of calm draped over them like a warm blanket, filling them with a sense of contentment neither had felt for a long time.

Sunset begins to paint Tim’s living room with subtle shadows when he gets up to switch on a few lights before heading to the kitchen to get a snack. He pulls the bag of popcorn out of the microwave and pours it into a bowl before grabbing two cans of soda from the fridge. He walks back into the living room, an episode of a police drama he had seen at least a dozen times playing on the television as Adeline sits on the couch with a slight scowl on her face. “Addy, you look puzzled. Everything ok?” Tim hands her a soda as he passes in front of her on the way to his seat.

“Tim, honey… can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he hands her the bowl of popcorn as he sits down next to her, putting his feet up on the ottoman in front of him.

“You're a detective,” Adeline shifts slightly, tucking herself into his side and placing the bowl on her lap where they can both reach, “so you presumably do investigative work all day, right?”

“Yeah…?” Tim asks with some confusion as he wraps an arm around her shoulders and reaches for some popcorn with his other hand.

“So, why come home and watch these police shows? I mean, does it provide inspiration to solve your own cases or do you just love the your job that much? I mean…don’t you get enough of this at work?”

“Well, you’re an artist and you still enjoy watching that painting guy,” Tim shrugs as he takes a sip of his soda.

“Yes, but that’s completely different,” she grabs a handful of popcorn and tucks a leg under herself, shifting slightly in her seat so she’s facing him.

“How is that different?” Tim turns his head toward her, the corner of his mouth curling up in a curious smile.

“Well, for starters, Bob Ross isn’t painting disembodied gangsters or autopsy scenes,” she scoffs at him as the corners of her mouth begin to curl up.

“No, you’re right,” Tim laughs, “He just paints his happy little trees and happy clouds..”

“I knew you weren’t really sleeping when that was on earlier!” She pokes a finger at his belly as he laughs.

“It is a very relaxing show,” Tim replies.

“This?!” She points at the television in disbelief as Tim chuckles.

“No, the Bob Ross painting stuff. This is…,” he motions at the screen, “I don’t know…I guess maybe it’s a little relaxing for me.”

She raises an eyebrow, giving him a look of disbelief, “Seriously?”

“Well, I don’t really think about work when I’m watching this kind of thing. It’s more like background noise,” Tim shrugs as a scream and splattering noises come from the television, both of them looking toward the screen.

“Oh, my god! Yuck!” Adeline’s eyes squeeze shut and her hands covers her face as she turns away from the screen, “That is disgusting! Why would they show that?”

“That guy getting murdered is the case for this episode, honey. You need to know what they’re investigating or else there’s not much point of the show…”

“Tim!” She reaches for one of the small decorative pillows from the couch and smacks him in the chest with it as he starts to laugh again.

“Alright, alright, I’m turning it off,” he reaches for the remote and the screen goes dark. He sets the remote down and turns his head toward her. “You know that’s an actor and he’s not really dead, right?”

“Of course I know that, but ick,” she shudders slightly, “does it have to be that…gory?”

“It’s also fake blood, baby. Do I need to explain how TV works?” he asks sarcastically before a pillow hits him in the face as he lets out a huff of laughter, moving the bowl of popcorn to the side table next to him. He pulls the pillow out of Adeline’s hands and she smiles, holding her hands up like she’s preparing to shield herself. They are both still for just a moment before a devilish smile crosses Tim’s face. He tosses the pillow aside and begins tickling her, causing her to squeal as she reaches for another pillow that he quickly swats away.

“Where do you keep getting all these pillows?” Tim chuckles, continuing to tickle her knees before moving to her sides as Adeline’s laughter fills the room.

After a moment, she falls back into the couch in a fit of giggles, Tim hovering over her as his hands still. He gazes down at her as they both catch their breath and their laughter fades. Adeline reaches up to cup Tim’s jaw, her thumb lightly caressing the small spot in his beard that refuses to grow. Tim lowers himself, tilting his head to give her a kiss her before their arms wrap around each other as the kiss deepens. Adeline’s hands make her way down Tim’s back, beginning to pull the fabric of his t-shirt higher in an attempt to reach his golden skin. Tim’s hand slips under the hem of her shirt, slowly gliding over her soft curves as he feels the gentle scrape of her nails on his back. He lets out a soft groan before he shifts his weight to one arm, reaching the other over his shoulder, clumsily trying to pull his shirt up over the back of his head without breaking the kiss. A second later, his head snaps up, looking across the room toward the front door before looking back down at Adeline. Her eyes looking around before she focuses on Tim with a pinched brow.

“Did you hear a doorbell?” She whispers before Tim glances toward the door again, his shirt stuck halfway over the back of his head.

“I’m not sure,” he watches the door a moment longer before he shrugs, looking back at Adeline with a coy smile. “Guess we’re hearing things…”

His head tilts down again, his lips barely touching hers when the doorbell rings again, both of them certain they heard it this time.

“Son of a…” Tim mutters under his breath, lifting his head toward the door once more before his annoyed bellow echos through the room. “Who is it?!”

“Tim? Uh, it’s dad,” the muffled voice replies. “Mom asked me to drop off some books she got for you…”

“Oh, shit,” Tim whispers as he reluctantly untangles himself from Adeline. “Uh…I’ll be right there!” He calls toward the door, quickly sitting upright and helping Adeline do the same. He pulls his shirt back down, continuing to mutter under his breath, “Shit, shit…dammit…”

“Do you…want me to go into the other room?” Adeline asks quietly as she runs a hand over his hair to smooth it down.

“What?” He turns toward her quickly, his face showing a mix of confusion and concern, “No, no, of course not! Why would you ask?”

“Well, the way you’re hesitating to answer the door. I wasn’t sure if…maybe you weren’t ready for your parents to meet me or…”

“Oh, god, baby, no…no, that’s not it,” his hand cups her cheek before he looks down at his lap and a crooked smile crosses his lips. “I, uh…let’s just say…I need a moment.”

“Ok?” Adeline gives him a curious look as Tim’s smile grows.

“My gray sweatpants don’t, uh…well…” he glances down again as Adeline’s eyes follow his, suddenly realizing the problem.

“Oh,” she smiles and starts to giggle softly, “Gotcha…I guess I should take that as a compliment.”

“Hell yes, you should,” he leans forward to give her one more kiss as he stands, continuing to adjust his clothes as he walks toward the door. Adeline stands, straightening her own hair and giving the hem of her shirt a tug to make sure she’s presentable as Tim opens the door.

“Hey, dad,” Tim reaches for the large box his father his holding, “Here, let me take that.”

“Thanks, Tim. There is still one more box in the car and…” he begins to reach down for a smaller box sitting at his feet when he spots Adeline standing near the couch. He freezes for a second before standing upright again and looks toward Tim. “Oh, I…I’m sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting…”

“No, no, we were…just watching TV,” Tim replies as he sets the first box down on the nearby dining table and walks back toward his father.

“Ah. Ok…” Matthew replies slowly as his eyes dart to the living room, noticing the television screen is dark. “Well, I presume this is the young woman we’ve heard about?”

“Yeah, uh…,” Tim looks over at Adeline and motions for her to come closer. “Dad, this is Adeline Stone. Addy, this my father, Matthew Rockford.”

“Hello, Adeline,” Matthew smiles warmly at her as she steps forward to shake his hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Rockford. I hope you’ve heard good things,” Adeline smiles and steps back to stand at Tim’s side.

Matthew nods with a growing smile, “Of course. Tim has nothing but positive reviews.”

“So, uh…what are the books for?” Tim shifts the conversation slightly as he wraps an arm around Adeline’s waist, pulling her slightly closer, his fingers drumming nervously at her hip

“Oh, the library had one of their book sales and your mom said there were a bunch of books you might like, so...”

“And you said there was more in the car?” Tim asks as Adeline rests her hand over Tim’s, stilling his restless fingers.

“Oh, right, I’ll go grab those,” Matthew nods before he walks out the door toward his car in Tim’s driveway.

“Let me help you,” Tim calls after him as Adeline gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Tim looks at her, leaning in close before brushing his lips on hers.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, “Sorry about this…”

“No apologizing, remember? Besides, your dad seems great,” She smiles, giving him a wink before he turns toward the front door. She leans forward slightly, playfully smacking him on the ass as he walks away.

“Tease…” Tim grumbles as he quickly slips on a pair of shoes and walks out the door with a crooked smile.

“She seems nice,” Matthew says as he pulls a small plastic container out of the back seat and hands it to Tim, turning back to the car to grab another small box of books.

“Yeah, she is nice. What’s this?” Tim questions as he looks at the container.

“Your mom made cookies. There’s a double chocolate and a white chocolate with some sort of nut…those good ones that cost a fortune,” Matthew replies as he nudges the car door shut with his hip.

“Macadamia nuts, dad,” Tim couldn’t help but smile at his dad’s wandering conversation. “So is this it?”

“That’s all she sent for this trip. She said if there are any of the books you don’t want, she can donate them to the library at your old high school.”

“Ok. I’ll take a look and let her know,” Tim turns back to the house with his dad following behind.

“And if you want more cookies, just let her know. She made a huge batch, so there’s a bunch in the freezer.”

“I think this is fine, dad. There’s probably more here than I can eat,” Tim looks through the container noting how full it is.

“Well, give some to Adeline if you want. Or if she wants a container of her own, I’ll bring another one over…”

“I think I have plenty to share…oh, here, I can get that if you want to get going,” Tim stops and turns, reaching for the box is father is carrying.

“No, no. I’m fine. Besides, if I leave right now, I can’t say goodbye to your friend,” Matthew walks past Tim toward the house. “Can’t have her thinking I’m rude.”

“No, we can’t have that…” Tim mumbles under his breath as he follows him. Tim rolls his eyes as he hears Matthew start talking to Adeline almost as soon as he walks through he door.

“I was just telling Tim that if you wanted some cookies, I can bring over another container for you. Beverly was cooking up a storm the other day,”

“Oh, uh…thank you…” Adeline says with a smile, slightly confused about the change in subject matter until Tim walks in the house and hands her the container of cookies. He takes the box from his dad as he walks past, setting it on top of the other box from earlier before moving back to Adeline’s side.

“She used those really good Macarena nuts…” Matthew continues, Tim rolling his eyes again.

“Macadamia, dad…” Tim’s voice has a hint of frustration as Adeline peeks into the container, tilting it in her hands to show Tim the contents.

“These look amazing and they smell wonderful. She must be quite the cook,” Adeline smiles at Matthew as she reseals the container.

“Oh, she is. Her mother started teaching her how to cook when she was little…maybe 5? She loves to spend time in the kitchen,” Matthew smiles at Adeline who is listening intently.

“Speaking of mom, you probably need to get back, right?” Tim interrupts, raising an eyebrow at his father.

“Oh, I’m sure she’s…” Matthew starts before he catches Tim’s expression, “yeah, she’s probably waiting for me, so I should get going.”

Matthew holds out his hand to Adeline, “Adeline, it was wonderful to meet you. I hope to see you again soon,” he shakes her hand gently, patting the top of it with his free hand before he turns toward Tim.

“And you, my boy,” he pulls Tim in for a quick hug with several firm pats on the back, “I will see you next week for dinner?”

“I’ll be there. Thanks for dropping these off…and tell mom thanks.”

“You bet. I’ll see you kids later,” Matthew waves at both of them as he walks out to his car, Tim closing the door after him. He turns back to see Adeline looking through the boxes of books.

“You’re quite the history buff, aren’t you? Architecture of Ancient Rome, a History of the Industrial Age…Oooh! Artists of the 18th Century!” She pulls the art book out of the box and begins flipping through the pages. “Do you want help putting these away?”

Tim walks up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist as his lips brush against her ear, “I’d much rather get back to where we were before the interruption.”

“Mmmm,” she hums, closing her eyes and letting the book fall back to the box, “And just where were we?”

Tim turns her in his arms and leans in for a kiss. She wraps her arms around his neck, her fingers gently scratching the back of his head as a deep sigh escapes him. His hands begin to wander down her back, the tips of his fingers sliding beneath her the waistband when his phone rings.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tim grumbles as he walks over to the couch to grab his phone, rolling his eyes when he looks at the caller ID. “Hey mom, what’s up?”

Adeline slowly walks over to him, rising up to kiss him on the cheek before she sits back down on the couch.

“Yeah, he did, but he just left. How do you already…oh, yeah, I forgot dad finally got a cell phone. Glad to see he’s putting it to good use,” Tim says sarcastically, sitting down next to Adeline as she tries not to laugh.

“Mmm hmm. Yes, she’s still here….no, I’m not putting her on the phone. No, mom… I’m….no, I don’t think…”

Adeline’s lips press into a firm line as she tries not to laugh watching Tim try to get a word in, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mom, I’m….alright, alright. I can ask…..I said I’d ask…oh my god, mom, fine you win. Hang on,” He moves the phone away from his ear and mutes his phone’s mic. “My mom wants to know if you would like to come over for dinner next week. You don’t have to, if you’re not…”

“Oh, I’d love to…but I’m out of town all week for that art auction.”

“Oh, damn, that’s right. What time tomorrow do you fly out?”

“Early…I actually need to head home after dinner to finish packing. What about the week after?”

“Nate and I have a training conference that week.…” he unmutes his phone and holds it back up to his ear. “Hey mom, schedules don’t look great for the next few weeks. Can we take a rain check?”

Adeline reaches past him to reach the bowl of popcorn, sitting back in the couch eating a few pieces while trying not to laugh at Tim’s exasperation.

“No, I swear I’m not…why would I…of course I want you to meet her. She wants to meet you, too. Yes, she…mom, I said I’m not putting her on the phone…no, I… mom…mom! Remember that chat we had last weekend? I…” he rolls his eyes again as Adeline holds out her hand. “Fine, ok.. here…yup, here she is…” Tim hands the phone to Adeline as she winks at him.

“Hello?” Adeline answers tentatively, a big smile crossing her face. “Yes, it’s nice to finally talk to you, too, Mrs. Rockford.”

Tim grabs some popcorn as he watches Adeline listen and nod, voicing agreement every now and then.

“I would love that. Absolutely - as soon as we can find a time that works. That sounds great,”

Tim smiles and shakes his head, holding up his hand making a ‘blah blah’ motion as Adeline picks up a piece of popcorn and playfully throws it at him, trying not to laugh.

“Nope, I’m not allergic to anything…yes, that sounds perfect. Ok…I’ll let you talk to Tim again. I look forward to it, Mrs. Rockford. Ok…bye.” She hands the phone back to Tim with a smile.

“Hey mom…yeah, it sounds like you have it all planned out. Alright. Yes, I’ll still see you in a few days…ok, love you, too. Bye, mom,” Tim sets down his phone on the coffee table and leans forward onto his knees, putting his head in his hands for just a moment before sitting up and turns to Adeline.

“Adeline, I’m so…”

“Tim,” Adeline interrupts, giving him a serious expression, “your parents seem wonderful. You don’t need to apologize.”

He just looks at her for a moment as the corner of his mouth turns up. He leans forward, cups her face in his hands and places a gentle kiss on her lips.

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He whispers as she shyly bites her lip. “Do you really need to go home right after dinner?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she whispers. “My flight leaves at 6am, so I need to make sure I get some sleep.”

“Ok…” he sighs, leaning in for another kiss. “Between your schedule and mine, we won’t see each other for two whole weeks…”

“We can video chat,” she smiles at him, “and we’ll talk on the phone.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Tim pouts, making Adeline giggle.

“I know…but I think we’ll survive,” she gives him a soft kiss, his lips gently chasing hers as she pulls away. She stands up and walks around him, heading towards the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Now, speaking of dinner, should we start cooking or did we just want to eat popcorn and Macarena cookies?”

Tim hangs his head for a moment before he hears her giggling, a big grin spreads across his face before he jumps up from the couch and chases after her as her laughter fills the air.

Adeline yawns as she locks her apartment door before she quietly makes her way out of the Pillars lobby. Pulling her suitcase behind her, she tugs her coat a little tighter as the chill of the air sends a shiver down her spine. Her cab is waiting at the curb, a nearby street lamp shining its light on the car as the rest of the street is still blanketed in the darkness of early morning. As she walks down the sidewalk, she notices headlights approaching, a smile growing on her face as soon as she recognizes the vehicle.

“What are you doing here?” She hands her luggage to the waiting cab driver as Tim walks toward her carrying a small paper bag and a to-go coffee cup from Giovanni’s.

“I know you told me last night that you didn’t need me to take you to the airport, but I wanted to make sure you had breakfast before you got on the plane.” He is about ready to hand Adeline the items when the cab driver finishes packing Adeline’s bags and clears his throat.

“It’s a pretty easy drive to the airport at this hour, ma’am, so there’s no rush,” he smiles at them before he closes the trunk, “I’ll wait in the car.”

Adeline thanks him as Tim places the bag and cup on the hood of his vehicle before he turns back to Adeline, reaching for her hand and pulling her closer.

Her hands run up his chest and over his shoulders before she straightens the collar of his jacket, “This was very sweet of you. Thank you.”

“Well, someone once told me how important it is to eat a good breakfast,” he smirks before he leans forward, resting his forehead on hers and lets out a big sigh.

“Are you going to miss me?” She whispers as she lets her hands run across his shoulders and down his arms, eventually making their way around his waist. Tim pulls his head up, his deep brown eyes looking a bit like a lost puppy, which makes Adeline feel like she could melt right on the spot.

“Yeah…I am. I’m going to miss you a lot,” he continues to gaze into her eyes before he takes another deep breath, “You’ll call me when you get there?”

“I promise….and I’ll call you every chance I get,” she smiles before continuing, “because I’ll miss you a lot, too.”

Tim wraps his right arm wraps across her shoulders, the other gripping her by the waist before his lips meet hers. He tips her back slightly, deepening the kiss as Adeline’s hands move to Tim’s upper back, partially to keep herself upright, but also because she doesn’t want to let him go. He breaks the kiss and stands up straight just as Adeline swears her knees are about to buckle.

“I better get going,” she swallows and leans up to place one more quick kiss on Tim’s lips. He turns to grab the coffee and paper bag before following her to the cab, handing them to her once she’s settled in her seat.

“Be safe,” he says quietly, giving her a wink as he hooks and arm over the open door.

She nods, giving him a small smile, “I will. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Tim nods, smiling warmly as he closes the door, stepping back to the curb with one last wave. He tucks his hands into his pockets as he watches the taillights of the cab disappear into the distance.

A hint of pink sunrise begins to line the horizon as Tim drives the familiar route, mindlessly turning into the driveway before turning off the engine. He looks toward the house at the dim light coming from the kitchen window, thinking of how that glow has welcomed him so many times. A moment later, he’s quietly opening the front door, making his way toward the kitchen.

“Hey dad,” Tim says softly.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Matthew looks up from his paper as Tim sits on the stool next to him at the kitchen counter. “What brings you here so early?”

“Just saw Adeline off to the airport. I didn’t feel like heading home just yet…but I knew you’d be awake…”

“Hmm,” Matthew nods, standing to grab a coffee mug from the nearby cabinet, pouring Tim a cup from the carafe sitting in front of him. He slides the cup over to Tim, taking his seat again “You need cream or sugar?”

“No, this is fine. Thanks, dad,” Tim wraps his hands around the mug, feeling the warmth spread through his fingers as he watches the steam rise up from the top, finally lifting the cup to take a drink.

“It’s new,” Matthew comments as he turns the page on his newspaper.

Tim looks at his dad for a moment, “What’s new?”

“The coffee. Your mother said it’s a breakfast blend or something like that. Apparently your Aunt Sylvia was telling her about this coffee shop downtown and she just loves the beans you can buy there.”

“Are you talking about Giovanni’s?” Tim asks with a smile.

“Yeah, something like that. You know it?”

“I’ve been there a few times, yeah. Adeline knows the owner, he’s a good guy.”

“Well, he makes a great cup of coffee,” Matthew lifts his mug toward Tim with a nod before taking a drink.

“Yes he does,” Tim nods, taking another sip from his own mug. He smiles for a moment, remembering the first time Adeline took him to Gio’s cafe. Then, he thinks back to the last time they were there together, and the way she pulled on his tie, bringing him closer for a kiss that almost made him dizzy. Tim’s smile fades, realizing how much he already misses her. He knows his dad would be happy to listen, but honestly, the last thing he wants to do is talk about her and remind himself how much he wishes she was here. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, trying to think of something else.

As if he can read Tim’s mind, Matthew reaches for a pencil from a nearby basket and slides the paper over to sit between them on the counter.

“Want to help me with the crossword?”

Tim smiles, an almost silent chuckle escaping his lips, “Yeah, dad. I’d like that.”

Chapter 12 - coming soon

@maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @goodwithcheese @jennaispunk @harriedandharassed

@sixhours @typewriter83 @thesluttylittleknee @anoverwhelmingdin @pasc4lfuzz

[favorite-fan-fic]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 6

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time's up.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 Additional 🚨: self-harm, suicidal thoughts

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 Thank you for your patience, I appreciate you all SO DAMN MUCH. See you in the end note 🧡 @frannyzooey you're a warrior and I'll go all gothic on you: I will keep loving you long after I'm dead, long after I'm gone, long after love ceases to exist. Thank you for your invaluable help 🧡

Word count: 14.5k

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Chapter 6: Never Let Me Go

Benny bends forward with a huff, and drops the bulky card box he’s carrying next to a pyramid of similar boxes, all labelled “LIVING-ROOM” in black Sharpie. It hits the hardwood floor with a loud thud that resonates in the empty room. 

“Fuck me, that’s heavy. Okay. I think that was the last one,” he pants, lifting his baseball cap and wiping his sweat-damp forehead on his shoulder.

“That went fast,” William observes. His brother whips around to face him with a scowl. 

“That’s because you took the bags labelled ‘clothes’ and you let me haul up all those fucking books! Fish, what the fuck do you have so many books for, man?” he adds, as Frankie steps into the room, two solid oak planks propped over his shoulder.

“To read,” Frankie answers absent-mindedly, setting down the wood against a wall.

Silence falls over the small square room as the two brothers exchange another wary glance. Frankie doesn’t notice. He hasn’t noticed much since morning, too focused on the task at hand, too caught up in his head. 

“What’s this for?” Will asks patiently, pointing at the wood. 

“Shelves. For the books. I left the old ones to Lupe.”

“You mean there’s more books over there?” Benny snarls. Will glowers at him, and the younger man pouts, adding in a softer tone, “You know you could save yourself some money and trouble and get shelves from Ikea or somethin’.” 

“Nah, I don’t like these things, they’re full of solvents. You’re just breathing toxic shit. Don’t want that for my kid.”

Don’t want that for Lee. 

Frankie straightens up and takes a quick look around him. The room is small, yes, but luminous. Clean, and well ventilated, which had been selling arguments. The house itself is no frill, a bit soulless even, but functional. There’s a separate dining-room he plans on converting into a playroom for Lua. Maybe a TV room or an office, when she’s older. The kitchen came equipped and is large enough for a table and four chairs. There are two bedrooms upstairs and, most importantly, a spacious basement where he can work wood. 

The front lawn is fine, but the backyard will require a lot of work, the previous owners seemingly having had no interest in tending to it. 

It’s good enough for his kid and him, but will it be good enough for you? 

He assumes you could afford two houses like this one with what you make in a year. He assumes you live downtown, in one of those lanky glass towers that cast their haughty shadow over the harbor. 

He assumes you hate it. 

And maybe you hate it enough to break your cage open and leave. Maybe someday soon, your Russian literature will sit next to his engineering books on those shelves he’s going to build for you. 

“You got more wood like this at the other house?” 

Will’s voice brings him back to the square room. To all the things that remain to be done. To the urgent necessity of furnishing the house so it’s habitable for a two-year-old. A tiny bed with tiny linens, rainbows, stars and suns. Rails to secure the stairs, a shower curtain, drapes and rugs. Safety outlet plug covers. 

And the question he has yet to ask you. 

“Yea, in the garage. But I can take care of it later.”

“No, let’s get to it, buddy. We can wrap up everything today so you don’t have to go back.”

Benny swipes the hem of his Kiss t-shirt over his face and nods, walking toward the front door. Will’s gaze follows his brother’s tall silhouette before it returns to Frankie, steely eyes of blue openly trained on his face. 

The allusion is not lost on Frankie. This house is a mere couple of blocks away from the one he shared with Lupe. He’s not keen on the idea. If it was up to him, if he moved through life alone, he would have already crossed three or four state lines, at the very least. Head north, and maybe west. Closer to his sister. 

But he’s not alone. He’s a father. Living nearby makes the everyday logistics of co-parenting that much easier. Daycare, then school. Family doctor, friends and sleepovers. Lua will be able to walk between her two parents’ homes. That’s not exactly a functioning family, but for now, it’s the best he can provide.  

“I’m doing what I can, here, you know?” Frankie murmurs, dipping his head under the brim of his hat.

“I know. I know you’re doing what’s best for them.”

Will runs a palm over his nape and winces, hand flying to his left flank. 

Frankie has noticed him clutching his side every so often. He can’t tell if it’s pain or remembrance. He’s never encountered anyone with the Millers' capacity to endure physical injuries. Only he knows first hand that guilt-tainted wounds are another deal entirely. 

“You okay there, man?” Frankie frowns.

“Oh yeah. Golden.”

“We can take a break. Finish after lunch. There’s beer in the fridge and–”

“Let’s get to it, Fish,” Will insists, patting Frankie’s arm as he walks past him.

Frankie firmly believes that no one over thirty should ever, under any circumstance, ask their friends to help them move. Which resulted in him calling the Millers on very short notice. He had decided early on to leave all shared belongings to Lupe, thus hadn’t anticipated there would be so many things left to move. It seems to him that, until three years ago, his entire life could fit in a single rucksack.  

When he saw the two brothers stepping out of Will’s truck this morning, it felt as if a formidable weight had been lifted off his chest. He’d woken at the crack of dawn, setting all the bags and boxes on the front lawn, to spare Lupe the ordeal of having his friends trampling all over her carpet. Not that she’d said anything. She’d gotten up shortly after him, preparing a large pot of coffee, placing a fresh box of donuts on the kitchen table.

“You’re a good man, Francisco,” she’d told him back in early April, when he’d asked her if he should move out, if she wanted him to. “And you’re always going to be the father of my child. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. We’re just not a good match, I guess. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he’d said, holding her gaze. “I just– I want you to know I’m sorry. And grateful. I’m grateful for you, Lupe.”

She hadn’t answered. Lupe was made of heavy silences and sharp thoughts. A perceptive gaze in a movie star's face. She’d pushed away from the kitchen counter, and reached out for his shoulder, giving him a strong squeeze. A gesture that meant, you’ll be alright.

He’ll be alright. That much he knows. When he wakes up every morning between sheets that bear your luminous scent, when your mug is drying on the dish rack next to his and when your clothes are hanging in the closet next to his clothes. Then he’ll be alright.

He cannot wait for you to meet his kid. It’s a childlike anticipation, a fantasy, really. The only thought that keeps him going. That enables him to ward off the crippling dread spreading black and murky inside of him. 

When you came back to him with that fresh wound on your forehead, a clock got set off in the back of his head. A distant ticking, at first, stifled by what you hadn’t yet extinguished of his rage and regrets. But every week since, the timer has been growing louder, pulsating faster in his temple like a swollen vein, ominous, threatening, he needs to get you out of there. Out of there, out of your cage, away from this man. 

This pain rooted in his chest whenever he thinks of you, that piercing ache has become a hindrance, he can’t keep a clear mind, that one obsessive thought obstructing everything else, he needs to get you out of there. Keep you by his side, where he can make sure you’re safe. 

Every Saturday morning, when he parts from you, reluctant and exhausted, the fear that you’ll get caught cheating clenches his hands into vengeful fists. 

Cheating is a filthy fucking word that feels all kinds of wrong to describe what you share and everything you mean to him. Bitterly, he remembers how he tried to scare you off, that first night at the motel. Everything he’s done to keep you at arm’s length, letting you believe he belonged to another woman. How he failed and fell hard, beyond the point of no return, how he was doomed to fail from the very first look you exchanged. 

How does he fix it, now? Does he step into the motel next Friday and flat-out ask you to move in with him? No preamble, no casual dating, none of that bullshit? Would you get scared? Would you trust him? Would you laugh in his face, reject what he’s offering? Does he get you into the truck and drive away with you into the sunset, like he’s dreamed of doing since the first time he took you for a ride, five months ago? 

Will you forgive him? You’ve trusted him so far. Can he push it a little further?  

How much more time can he afford to waste, before your safety is seriously at stake? 

He needs to get you out of there.

—

There’s a latch on the left side of the window frame, concealed in the sleek aluminum panel. It’s difficult to find, to say the least. Purposely, you suppose. 

The pads of your fingers run over the cool metal until you feel a tiny groove in the flat surface. With a satisfied hum, you slide a fingernail into the ridge and lever it up. It’s thin and sharp and it bites into the soft flesh of your thumb. 

“How many times do I have to tell you not to open the windows?” Adrian’s voice comes in from behind you, and you whip around like a cartoon thief caught red-handed, catching your balance with the flat of your palm on the glass panel. “There’s no need for it. And It messes up the thermostat.”

His tone is reprimanding. It makes your toes curl.

He’s been gone the entire weekend. Since Friday morning, as far as you can tell. His bespoke, royal-blue suit looks slept in. It probably is. Somehow, even when you’d been buzzing with gin and numbed out on pills, you’ve always maintained enough clarity to notice these kinds of details. To pay attention to him. 

Tonight, you’re entirely sober. Like you’ve been for weeks. And you have no trouble seeing the white collar of his shirt smeared with lipstick, the faintest trace of a flaming red pigment. You nearly scoff at the cliché. The flap house motel, the lipstick stain. So much for 2010 Bay Citizen’s power couple.

There’s an unkept air to his general demeanor. The dip of his collarbone peeks out from his unbuttoned shirt, his pale skin is flushed. His hair tousled, fairer without the matting pomade he normally applies to sleek it back, loose strands falling on his forehead, casting a shadow over his brow. 

He looks different. A younger, rougher version of himself. He looks handsome. It strikes you, with a sense of guilt to the realisation, like something you’re supposed to know but forgot everything about. 

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“So you thought you’d open the window?” he asks flatly, breaking eye contact to take off his jacket and drape it over the Stark chair.

“I need fresh air. Real air. It’s too stuffy in here,” you mumble. You sound like a scolded teenager. You hate it. 

“Is that literal?” he snarls, throwing you a glance over his shoulder, sliding his undone tie off his neck. 

You sink your teeth into your cheek, strong enough to taste blood. You pivot toward the window. The soft pad of your thumb finds the latch and you swiftly lift it, ignoring the bite of the metal. The window frame cracks open. The dried out joints part with a crunching sound. 

It’s a mundane sequence of actions. Insignificant, inconsequential. Nothing like following a stranger to a dark, deserted parking lot behind a bar. But inside you, the wild creature stirs, awakened by what you’ve set in motion. You don’t know it yet. But it’s too late to back down. 

A briny evening draft rushes in, carrying the bustling city’s noises on its tail, distant traffic, siren’s wails, fracturing the seal of your glass cage. 

When you turn back to face him, a smirk is forming on Adrian’s thin lips, one that can only be interpreted as an expression of condescension for your poor attempt at rebellion. 

The notion riles you up. 

“Actually, it’s not stuffy, it’s suffocating. But you wouldn’t know, you haven’t been here in three days.”

The air stills between you. It’s tangible, ironically, despite the open window. His expression freezes mid-smirk, and your eyes quickly scan his face. That long ingrained apprehension in the back of your brain, desperately, frantically trying to set off all the alarms, but something within you won’t let it. Something new. Something brazen.

Adrian straightens up. For a fleeting second, his expression shifts, unclear, undecided, as though he’s still making up his mind on how to deal with you.

And then, his face settles. 

“Well, that’s rich, coming from the woman who’s been deserting her home every Friday night for over half a year.” His lips purse in disdain around the word woman. 

It’s rage. That something new and brazen inside you is rage. It’s white-hot, and it’s growing fast, too fast for you to even try to contain it. It fills up your brain, smothering your inner voice and muffling the blaring alarms, overpowering everything else. You can feel it swell inside your chest, powered by the wild creature between your lungs. It takes up so much space between your rib cage, you can barely breathe, and yet you embrace the sensation. It’s not discomfort. It’s strength.  

“Another thing you wouldn’t know, since you’re out all night playing poker.” In turn, you scoff at the word, at the lie, at the hypocrisy of this long-overdue squaring up.

His eyes narrow on your face before he delivers the next blow.

“Maybe I had you followed. Maybe I know exactly where, and with whom, you spend your Friday nights. Have you thought of that, babe?“

Blood rushes down to your feet as you break in an instant sweat. Prickling scalp, nape and armpits. The sheer idea is unbearable. This life, or whatever’s left of it, colliding, trespassing on your time with Frankie. At your back, the weak breeze wafts in, and your eyes clench off the vision of the fourteen-story void. 

The sound of Adrian’s delighted snigger jerks you out of the intrusive thought. Your eyes are wide open again. 

“I don’t think you care enough about the details of my whereabouts to spend money on a PI,” you start, lifting your chin as if your heart isn’t thumping in your throat. “In fact, I think it suits you just fine that I haven’t been on your ass about your whereabouts.”

There’s the faintest hint of a wince altering his smug expression at your profanity, but the words keep pouring out of you. 

“Most of all, I think that if you really had me followed, you wouldn’t have missed the chance to ruin whatever you think this is for me. Like you do with everything I–” 

“Ruin whatever…? Oh, I’m the one ruining things?” he cuts in, lunging toward you in a movement so sudden you recoil against the open window frame. “When you’re the one who’s single-handedly destroyed our relationship with your fucking pills and your fucking depression? And now you’re having an affair with God knows who! I hope you haven’t been dumb enough to pick him among our circle of friends. And I fucking hope to God it is a man. Maybe you’re a degenerate, just like your sister.” 

You hit the mark. He doesn’t really care, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but his blatant lack of interest still hurts. After all those years, it still makes you bleed. The pain is washed over by anger, and the cruelty of his grossly redacted and biased narrative of your history. Doubt and guilt tighten your throat. 

He’s taken a step back. Hands on his hips, he’s seemingly waiting for you to counter. After a few dragging seconds, when he’s satisfied that he has silenced you for good, he faces away, and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

“I— You’re— you’re so fucking unfair,” you stutter, deflating, miserable.

“I’m going to shower. Make sure that window’s closed by the time I get out of the bathroom.”

“I’m leaving.”

The words rise from between the folds of your existence, overdue, evident, irreversible. They slip through your lips, and panic pervades your body at a molecular level. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Adrian retorts with an audible smirk, sliding his shirt off his lean frame, “the Grants are coming over for dinner. That’s the only reason I came home.”

Tim Grant is Adrian’s most valuable client after your father. He’s in politics, in some office or other, you know you should know. His wife Cheryl is a flawless, sculptural blond. A Stanford graduate who has mothered five children. She’s three years younger than you. 

You need to get out of here. 

You are rooted to the tiled floor, vaguely aware of the lingering taste of blood on your tongue, and your right hand pinching your thigh. 

“I’m leaving you,” you clarify. 

Adrian turns around and pauses. He looks at you. Looks at you for what feels like the first time in months. At last, you caught his attention.

The alarms are bellowing inside your skull. You have nowhere to go. Ava is over a thousand miles away, everyone you know is primarily Adrian’s friend, and there’s no way you’re going back to your parents. 

Beyond the window, the indigo dusk is shifting to blue. The breeze is soothing. It’s Sunday, April 26th, 6.52 pm. You’re standing on the threshold.

“You’re what?” he asks in a thin voice. 

“I’m leaving you.”

Something flashes across his face, something you’ve never seen before. This is uncharted territory, for the both of you. He scrunches his brow, narrowed eyes flickering between yours. Lifting both hands, palms outstretched toward you, he speaks in a slow voice, detaching each word. 

“Alright, okay, I get it. You’re angry. You can leave the window—”

“I don’t care about the window, Adrian, I am leaving you.”

“Lee, this is not the fucking time for this, the Grants will be here in half an hour and the catering–”

“I don’t give a shit about the Grants!” you burst out.

Adrian’s hands fall limply to his side, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. He licks his lips, an attempt to regain some countenance. 

“Okay,” he concedes in a strained tone, “I guess we’re doing this. Where do you go every Friday? Who are you fucking?”

“Now, you care? Now, you want to know? When I’m halfway through the goddamn door? I gave you ten years of my life, Adrian! Ten years! I loved you! I gave you everything!”

“You loved me?” he yells back, pocking a finger to his chest. “You gave me everything? Are you fucking serious? You are never here, Lee. You’re checked out, 24/7. Is that what you call love? Let me laugh! You never ask me any question about work, you never once came golfing with me. You can’t even pretend to care!”

“You are so fucking unfair! Tell me, how does it feel, to treat me like you do?”

“I am not unfair, Lee, I am realistic! Yes, maybe you loved me, but as soon as shit got real between us, you fucking checked out! An eight-year-long engagement? Really? Is that your idea of giving me everything? I am the laughingstock of everyone at the firm! You want to know how it feels? How it feels when I see your face closing off every time I try talking to you? You don’t know how to love, Lee. You know nothing about love. Unrealistic expectations, that’s all you got. Dreams. Childish fantasies. You’re heartless. Remote. Fucking hollow. Completely unfit for reality.”

The walls ring out with his acid rant. He stands before you panting, unmasked, with his shaking frame and his unfiltered anger, with his truth and his raw pain openly displayed. With his hurt and his loss and regrets. It’s vertiginous, unbearable. Your body recoils into the glass panels, tears spilling down your face. 

He straightens up, and takes in a quivering breath, a pointed but vain effort to recompose his face.

“Now would you please be so kind as to clean up, and instruct the maid to set the dinner table before catering gets here?”

But his vulnerability lingers in his voice and your crying intensifies, your chest convulsing under the weight of your sobs, of his words, of all your mistakes, and you slump down onto the cold hard floor, weeping uncontrollably. 

“I’m– I’m sorry,” you blubber, “I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

He sniffles, taken aback. Standing awkwardly, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand and takes a tentative step closer.  

“Babe, come on. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Go get cleaned up, we’ll talk about this later.” 

But you can’t stop crying, your life is folding in on you, all of your certitudes, your broken heart and your grievances exposed, ugly and distorted, through a drastically different lens.

“I’m so sorry, Adrian. I– I loved you wrong. I wasted– wasted your time,” you sob.

“Shh no, come on,” he coos, crouching down beside you, brushing the hair from your face in a gesture so gentle it only makes you cry harder, hot tears scalding your eyelids, “I’m sorry I lost it. I’m tired. Let’s not talk about this now.”

All you want is to reach out and wrap your arms around him. Hold him tight, stop shaking. Go back to the start, take away the pain you’ve caused. But there’s no going back, and your hands are clenched around your shins, pressing your knees into your chest.

“I’m not the one you need. I failed you. I’m not the woman you need and I tried to be and I led you on– and I wasted your years and— and mine, I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

“Babe, stop crying,” he pleads again, panic skirting his tone, “I’m sorry I lashed out. Fuck, I know I can be an asshole sometimes. We can work this out, we always work things out.”

His clear-blue eyes shine with unshed tears. Everything inside you hurts. Everything inside you bleeds.

“I should have done this sooner. I was so scared. I’m such a fucking coward, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t leave, Lee,” he rasps. “We can– Please. Stay.”

—

You stay, inexplicably. You stay to host the Grants. 

Adrian lets you use the shower first, guiding you to the en-suite bathroom, his arm wound around your waist. You keep crying under the hot stream of water, unable to control your sobbing, choking on the hot steam with every shaking gulp of air you take in. 

And perhaps it’s the only way you’ll ever get out of here. Dead, chocked up on grief. 

You let the water run while you step out of the cubicle. Adrian stores the double-edge blades for his razor above the sink, inside the cabinet behind the backlit mirror. The sharp metal slices a shallow cut in the pad of your ring finger when you grab one. You adjust your grip, splay your hand at the top of your thigh, and slash the blade through your tender flesh, underneath the old scar Frankie likes to tease with his thumb. 

Trembling hand, straight line. The pain is searing, your relief immediate. Back in the shower, the blood runs down your leg in crimson rivulets, and your crying finally ebbs. 

In the bedroom, you swallow an anxiolytic, then another. The tablets catch at your throat going down, burning your esophagus like shame and failure.

You’re no longer a person, not really, not anymore. You’re the sum of your pains and discomforts. You’re that cut on your thigh and those pills in your throat. You're the black mascara that coats your eyelashes and burns your eyelids, you’re the red lipstick that dries out your lips. Fragments of you, held together by the snug material of a dress that you hate, a gift from Adrian, the figment of someone else’s desire. 

When the doorbell rings, your hair is still wet.

The dinner is an awkward mess. Adrian looks shell shocked, powerless to summon his usual charming persona. His answers are monosyllabic, incoherent. To you, it’s a complete blur. You drink fast, and too much, hanging your dazed gaze on Cheryl’s double row of natural pearls. Every time you shift in your seat, a sharp pain stings your thigh. You smile through it. 

The poorly executed charade goes on for about an hour before the Grants make a hasty exit. 

Tethered by a thinning thread of lucidity, you go straight to your bedroom, Adrian on your heels. He watches you from the threshold as you heave your shabby college suitcase onto the bed, his pale face twisted, clouded eyes, pinched lips. You try to avert your gaze, you need to hurry, to gather your brains, gather your things. 

But your eyes flicker back up to him. One last look. One last tear. You stare at each other in silence for a brief moment, until a draft closes the bedroom window with a muted bang. Adrian slides his hands in his pockets, turns around, and walks away. A few seconds later, the front door opens and slams shuts behind him.

Your heart trips and plummets. Somewhere far away, long ago, a small voice implores you to run after him. To beg for his forgiveness. To mend your faded dreams. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

Nausea lurches in your stomach, and you lower your head to the empty suitcase stretched open across the bed. You need to get out of here. 

But what are you supposed to pack? The apartment is filled with reminders of what you’ve destroyed. Photo albums, art, trinkets and souvenirs, Christmas presents, birthday gifts. It’s like slicing through ten years of your life, ten years of yourself, of the person you’ve been and never again will be. Letting that woman die and disappear. What do you need to take and what do you choose to leave? 

Completely unfit for reality.

Fighting a sense of urgency, your vision getting more unfocused by the minute, you go through the nightstand and dresser. Prescription pills in rattling tubes, a little box of old Polaroids and Ava’s maternity hospital bracelet, your e-reader and random books, two chargers coiled on the floor like resting snakes… You throw everything indistinctly into the suitcase. It swallows your belongings like a chasm, like a crevice, like a monster with unhinged jaws. 

Staggering to the walk-in closet, you slide some clothes off their hangers and shelves, throwing them blinding behind you. With precarious balance, you rise on your tiptoe to retrieve a leather-bound edition of Anna Karenina hidden on the upper shelf. A gift from your Russian lit professor for your graduation, with an inscription etched in his distinguished cursive on the cover page. Something about you being a promising young woman. You haven’t looked at it in years.  

Completely unfit for reality. 

You pull out a travelling bag, and stuff the book inside it, along with some shoes, and in the bathroom, cosmetics and lotions. 

When you try to change out of the dress, blood has glued the fabric to your skin. You have to rip it off like a band-aid, like a life-threatening habit. The slit starts bleeding again. 

The suitcase’s tired wheels swivel with a loud squeak over the tiled floor of the corridor. The bag keeps sliding off your shoulder. It’s all too cumbersome for you to drag, heavy like your spinning head, swaying like your vision. 

In the living-room, the city’s night lights twinkle and dance behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. You search the room in the semi darkness for something else, something more. Your laptop perhaps, before you realize it’s in your office. Do you need a laptop? You probably do. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

You grab your I ❤️ NY bag and drop the apartment’s keys on the console by the door. Propelled by the creature in your chest, by decades of silence, by an obscure promise for peace, you leave. 

You are in no condition to drive, but you don’t need to be. Your drowsy body’s on autopilot, and the traffic on the 589 northbound is fluid. 

You pull up in front of the motel a mere 54 minutes later, and stagger over to the office, where the young clerk with his blond hair in a bun is hunched over his phone. 

The suitcase refuses to roll over the gravel. One of the wheels folds and breaks off. You have to walk back to the reception and ask the young man to help you carry everything to the room. Your voice is slurring. You rummage in your bag for some cash to give him, only to find him already gone when you triumphantly pull out a tenner from your wallet. 

You don’t fold the dirty bedspread. You don’t clean up your face or brush your teeth, you don’t undress. You kick off your sneakers, and slip under the sheets, Adrian’s words ringing out in your ears. The truth they carry deafening, inescapable. 

You’re unfit for life. For reality. You went out of your way to create a relationship with a stranger, exempt of responsibility, of commitment, of any kind of difficulty. So you could revel in the illusion of a bond, of something greater than you. So you could romanticize a hope, without having to materialize its promises.  

You cry yourself to sleep. 

—

Buried at the bottom of your bag, your iPhone chimes for a solid 14 minutes before you can crack open an eyelid. Your hangover is vicious. It’s a wildfire raging inside your brain. It’s your body thrown off a cliff. 

Cautiously, you sit up on the edge of the bed, brain sloshing inside your skull, nausea lapping up at your esophagus. The harsh denim of your jeans rubs over the slit on your thigh, abrading the cut. A brownish stain of dried blood smears the fabric, and you scoff, thinking you didn’t pack any band-aid. 

The prospect of dragging your body under the shower and putting on clean clothes feels like medieval torture, but presenting yourself at the office reeking of alcohol and in yesterday’s blood-stained jeans is not an option. Not a satisfaction you’ll grant your father, anyway, and the thought gives you strength. 

In the bathroom’s black-edged mirror, your reflection is haggard. Downright cadaverous.

You’re sick a first time, emptying the content of your stomach crouched over the chirped porcelain bowl of the toilet, and then a second time, in the parking lot, after gulping down a tepid coffee from the vending machine in the reception. With the tip of your shoe, you scuff the gravel over the small mess and get in your car, not in the least ready to face the morning traffic, your father, or the rest of your life. But proceeding anyway.  

When you step out of the elevator, your father’s senior secretary is waiting for you in the lobby. Adrian has made some phone calls. Kaytee ogles the scene from her desk, a petty glee lighting up her dull features. 

You follow the older woman to your father’s office, unfazed, obedient. Absent-mindedly watching her restricted gait, encased between her pencil skirt and 5 inches heels.

Richard is calm. An impassive look on his handsome face concealing all thoughts and emotions, the sleeves of his Armani shirt rolled-up to his elbow. He lets you speak first, he listens in silence. 

I’m resigning with immediate effect, the words come out of your mouth easy, and you, too, listen to them. 

You expect to be chastised. Scolded like a rebellious teenager. Sent back to your desk with a mention etched in red on your permanent record and a slap on your hands. You brace yourself for the usual words, his favorite weapons, designed and crafted to humiliate and defeat. 

Instead, he reasons. He bargains. Calling you a valuable partner. A genuine asset for the company, he says, with irreplaceable experience and unique expertise. 

Shadows shift across the glass surface of his desk. His cellphone buzzes, and remains unanswered as he keeps talking, his attention focused on you for longer than it’s ever been. What would your trajectory have been, if he’d paid attention to you from the beginning? If you’d heard his praises as a child? 

What did Adrian say? How did he sound?

After a while, it’s your turn to speak. At the first mention of your shares, Richard’s posture and demeanor switches instantly. Before long, you know you’re never getting this money Ava has instructed you to fight for. 

You don’t argue, you know better. You’ve witnessed firsthand his power of nuisance. His sense of entitlement and his twisted passion for meticulous revenge. But your father’s ire escalates, until he’s standing next to you, pulling you up your seat by your arm and manhandling you toward the double glass doors. 

You wonder how far he’ll go, if he’ll make this public, if he’ll risk the scandal. You soon find out. You’re a rag doll in his hold, as he drags you toward the elevator, seething and sputtering threats.

“You have dishonored me, the name I gave you, your family. You’ve been nothing but pointless ever since you were born. Don’t ever try to come back here. I don’t care if you’re starving.”

As you stumble inside the cabin of the mirror-lined elevator, you realize you never got to retrieve your laptop. You turn to face your father and, looking straight at him, you cover your ears. 

Before the doors close with a cheerful ding, you see his face distorted by wrath, turning a violent shade of purple. 

—

“What do you mean, the room is taken? Taken by whom?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I cannot disclose that kind of information.”

Raul’s affected attempt at hotelier’s etiquette has Frankie scoffing into the receiver. Or is it Joachim? No, you’d said his name was Raul.

“Wait, it’s taken now, but is it booked on Friday? I just need it on Friday. Why did you give them that room, anyway? I’m pretty sure you got plenty of vacancies.”

The real question is, why is he behaving like an ass to this poor man who’s only trying to do his job properly? Why is he getting so nervous over this? How does it matter if you’re not in room number 2, this week?

“I don’t know if the room will be available on Friday, sir. I am afraid the lady hasn’t specified a date for the end of her stay.” 

Frankie’s spine grows rigid. Like a bucket of ice is being poured over his head in slow motion. That ominous ticking fires in the back of his head, so rapid and loud it might fracture his skull open.

“What lady?” he rasps, his throat suddenly parched. “Who’s in there? Is it the– Is it the woman who comes in every week? With me?”

Raul doesn’t answer, and his silence tells Frankie everything he needs to know.

“Alright, thanks,” he snaps, hanging up and throwing the phone on the desk. 

An hour and a half later, he’s pulling up into the motel’s parking lot. Lupe has been gracious enough to agree to pick up Lua from day-care, even though Monday is his day, so he’s got the rest of the afternoon to sort this out. 

This is foolish, though. He, is foolish. Your car is not even here. He’s probably overreacting. 

The thing is, his gut instinct tells him he’s not. It’s a potent, familiar dread, one that sets all his senses on alert. One he’s sworn himself never to ignore again, after Tom’s death. It’s that vision he had on Christmas evening. Your lonely silhouette sitting by the window on the edge of the bed. It’s that pull in his chest. That ache in his flesh.

He gets out of the truck swiftly, with a quick glance at the reception office, and walks straight to room number 2. The place looks even shittier in the bright midday sun. The contours of the low building are pressed flat by the blinding light and the heat. The lime wall between room 2 and 3 is streaked with deep, long winding cracks. The paint on the porch’s poles is chipped, coming off the sun-baked wood in large, crispy flakes. The hanging lights are covered in rust, the base of the railing in mold. 

Once more, guilt squeezes his chest tight at the thought that he’s made you come here, week after week. That you docilely agreed to it, and never said a word. That you kept coming back. Back to this place. Back to him, too.

The door is locked. He rattles the doorknob harder, more to shake off his own frustration than to achieve anything else. The yellow curtains are drawn, and no matter how hard he squints, he can’t see jack shit beyond them. 

He’s probably overreacting. 

What if he picked the lock? Just to make sure you’re not in here?

“Jesus,” he sighs, running a palm over his face, “the fuck is wrong with me?”

He stands in front of the door a while longer, head hung, hands propped on his hips, so still he can feel the sweat beading on his nape. Eventually, he lifts his cap and combs his fingers through his hair, then turns around and steps down the porch. 

He’s halfway to his truck when your sedan appears at the end of the road.

—

On the drive back to the motel, you roll both front windows down, and let the warm breeze blow your hair in every direction.

Yesterday, the pain was all encompassing. So sharp and piercing, you wanted to cease existing. Now, thoughts and images come and go, carried by the draft from the opened window. Kaytee moving into your office, and your employment prospects, nonexistent in the Bay Area. Your forgotten laptop. The talk you need to have with Ava. Your financial situation. 

Everything seems distant, another woman’s problems. You are numb. Remote. Hollow. 

The tears will come back, though. When you ask yourself if this tragicomic public humiliation was your final interaction with your father. If the formal lunch you shared with your mother last Thursday was the last time you’ll ever see her, the last time you’ll hug her frail figure. When you realize you won’t see Agatha grow up. 

You will reject the pain. The sense of loss. Of isolation. But it’ll sweep you away anyway. 

The fact that you have voluntarily orphaned yourself. 

You will choke on your grief. 

“I need to start making plans,” you inform the empty cab with an even tone. 

Or you could simply hide away in the motel for the rest of your life. Waiting for Frankie, Friday after Friday. 

Frankie. 

A strangled gasp ricochets inside your throat. You push the thought of him away, bury it deep between the folds. 

Completely unfit for reality.

But when you turn into the parking lot, the red truck immediately pops into view, stationed in front of your room. Frankie’s standing a few yards away from it, eyes trained on you through the windshield. 

Your body tenses up, a lump grows inside your throat, your grip on the steering-wheel white-knuckled as you maneuver to park. 

When you kill the engine, Frankie walks up to your door. There’s a suspended beat, as he motions to grab the handle. But he seems to reconsider, taking a step back and waiting for you to get out. 

Raw nerves and flayed skin, you exit the car. 

“Are you okay?” he asks when you’re standing in front of him. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Lee, are you okay?” he repeats, detaching each word, his large hands coming to frame your face. 

Shaded by the brim of his hat, his dark eyes skip nervously over your features. You know what you look like, puffy eyes, ashen face, and you squirm nervously in his hold.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. I didn’t fall again,” you add with an empty chuckle, trying to pull away from his grip, evade his scrutiny. 

“Jesus fuck, Lee,” he sighs, shaking his head. 

Your spine grows stiff, but his hand is already cradling the back of your head, drawing you in. Hunched around you, he presses your rigid, reluctant form into his chest, into his heat, breathing you in. Face tucked into the curve of his neck, you stand awkwardly still between his arms, terrified of your body’s reaction should you let go and relent, should you lose yourself in the reassurance of his solid figure, of his soothing embrace, of his comforting scent. 

Eventually, you wrap your arms around his torso, skimming your hands over the soft, cottony fabric of his shirt. 

“Why are you here?” you ask again, your voice muffled against his collarbone. 

“I called to book the room,” he starts, talking into your hair, “and this Raul guy said it was taken. By a woman.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I don’t know. I just knew.”

Clenching your eyes shut, you ball his t-shirt in your fists. 

“Listen, Lee, I can help you. With whatever it is that’s going on. I can help you. Let me help you.”

“I know. I know you can. But I… I think I need to help me.”

Prove yourself, and that collective we, that you can make decisions, be resourceful, be resilient. Other than through silence and disappearance and pills. Stand on your own. Face reality. Deal with it.

You feel the working of this throat against your temple. His hands span your back, spreading warmth in their trail, finding purchase on your waist with a vice grip, as if to make sure you’re really here. 

“I understand.” The deep, velvety roundness of his voice envelops you. “Would you tell me if you needed my help?”

You nod, your cheek brushing the pebbled skin of his neck. 

“I promise.”

His heart beats strong and steady against your breasts. You lean into the slow, pulsating rhythm, into his life force. 

“I need to talk to you,” you start, and his hold on you tightens. “Can we go inside your truck?”

“Sure,” he answers, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move, and you grow anxious, afraid you’ll lose courage, and the momentum will fall to a halt. 

Completely unfit for reality. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he finally says, and you lead the way, walking in short strides toward the passenger side of the vehicle. 

Once you’re both seated, Frankie turns on the ignition. The AC immediately kicks in. In the harsh, unforgiving daylight, the dashboard is not black, but a faded shade of anthracite gray. 

When you turn to face him, he’s already looking at you, the dark pools of his eyes boring into you, searching. 

“I left,” you say in a flat tone, your voice as hollow as your chest feels. “I left Adrian. My fiancé. And I felt my father. The company, I mean. I quit.”

He registers the news, the crease in his brow deepening, lips slightly parting. 

“Okay,’ he nods. “How did it go?”

“It… I don’t know. It went? I’m not sure if they realize I’m never coming back. Adrian especially. Well, my father too, actually. Although he made it clear that he never wants to see me again. I don’t know. Maybe I’m mistaken. I really torched those bridges,” you shrug.

A myriad of fleeting expressions animate Frankie’s features, too fast for your overwrought brain to read into any of them, before they settle into the familiar frown.

He swallows hard, before he asks, “How are you feeling?”

In turn, you furrow your brow, searching the abyss inside your chest. 

“You know the movie, The Dragon Tattoo Girl? Or whatever it’s called? The one with the James Bond actor?”

He lifts a puzzled eyebrow, but nods for you to keep going.

“You know toward the end, when they’re in London and they go tell this woman that her brother is dead, the killer guy. Her abuser, basically. They go back to the car to monitor her computer activity, and she’s just… shopping online?”

“Yea?”

“That’s how I feel.”

He huffs, and you don't know how to interpret his reaction. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For you, I mean. My sister’s in New York, she got away some time ago and I–”

“Lee,” he cuts in, his hand flying to grab yours, but you recoil from his touch, “I told you, you can ask me for anything. Anything you want. Anything you need.”

His gaze pierces through you, soft sad eyes, cold hard stare, and you can’t withhold it any longer. You face away, turning to the brass number 2 hanging upside down on the wooden door. Behind it, there's a travel bag and a beat-up suitcase with a broken wheel that contain all of your belongings. 

You’re thirty-five years old. You only just broke free, and everything you want is in this cab. 

This man, his past, the burden of his sins. The strength and resilience weaved within the fabric of him, his tender touch, too, and the promise of his future. The sense of safety he provides you, unlike anything you’ve ever known in all your years. 

His solid body’s thrumming next to yours, steady vibrations caressing your skin. The air between you ripples as if it were liquid. It’s the only thing you can feel. The first thing you’ve felt since you woke up this morning. 

His words come back to you, from so many Fridays ago, pained and yearning, Are you real? You never questioned the realness of him. You gave yourself blindly to the reality of this. This inescapable and electrifying living thing between you. It’s not the reason behind your emancipation. But it has propelled you toward it.  

Was it all just a dream? 

“Do you sometimes think…” you trail off, hesitant. You’re still not looking at him. The heel of your palm comes to rest over your denim, over the thin wound that brings you relief. You press down on it. You wince. “I don’t know how to ask you this.”

His voice rumbles with tension. “Just shoot it straight.”  

“Do you sometimes think you’ve replaced cocaine with— with me? With this? Whatever this is?”

You risk a glance in his direction and watch him take the blow, eyes lowering to his hands. He releases a deep sigh, cocking his chin. 

“Aren’t you scared you’ve replaced an addiction with another?” you continue. “What if… what if I’ve traded my pills for you?”

His eyes flick up to yours. He stares at you in silence for a while. When he moves, it’s to take off his hat. He props it on the dashboard, assuring its balance, before his gaze returns to you, and you brace yourself, chewing on your cheek.

“Yea, it’s… It’s a valid question. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it. At the beginning, at least. But the answer’s no. I don’t think I’ve traded cocaine for you. I like the man I am when I’m with you. You make me want to be happy. You make me feel good. Coke never made me feel good. It was a means to escape… pretty much everything. I don’t want to escape anymore. I don’t need it. I don’t think I can ever unlearn what you taught me.”

Frankie pauses, letting his words settle over your tense, motionless body. You grit your teeth, your jaw aching. 

He breathes in deep. His voice drops to a murmur, low, but firm.

“I love you, Lee. I was never in love with drugs. I don’t think I was ever in love, not really. Not the way I’m in love with you.”

Your body shudders, tears rising like high water inside your throat, face flushing. All of your suppressed emotions come back rushing. Guilt and fear, remorse, rage and resentment. Hope and elation, too. They tumble inside you like boulders falling off a mountain, in a formidable landslide.

“You can’t love me,” you say in a choked up voice.

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t know if I can be loved. I don't know if I know how to love back.”

“That’s bullshit,” Frankie grunts. 

“It’s not,” you retort, aggressively brushing a rogue tear from your cheek with the flat of your palm, angered by the confidence of his statement. “You don’t know– I’m faulty, Frankie. I’m fucked up. Defective. I can’t handle reality.”

“How about you stop talking about yourself like you’re a machine? Nobody can handle a shitty reality they feel trapped in, Lee. Nobody. Just look at me,” he adds with a shrug.

His words open a floodgate, more tears spilling out of you, streaming down your face in scalding rivulets. 

“But what will happen when you don’t love me anymore?”

“That’s never gonna happen. I can promise you that much.”

“No, that’s bullshit!” you spit out. “Everything passes! Everything ends! Everything, and you know it!”

“Not this. This never ends.”

His assertive tone, his steady demeanor, your stupid, uncontrollable tears, everything sets off your temper. Yet, something throbs inside you, longing and want, stronger than your rage, pulling you toward his still, solid body. His gaze pins you down, not like a dead butterfly in a glass frame, but like a benevolent shadow stretching over you, seeping through your flesh to wrap around your heart and protect it, keep it safe. 

You push back against it, back into the door, the handle biting into your spine, covering your mess of a face with trembling hands. 

“I know what my track record looks like,” he says. “But I’m asking you to trust me. My love for you has no end.”

The seat bench creaks under his weight as he moves closer to you. 

“C’mere, baby.”

His hand circles your arm, pulling with gentle little tugs until you give in and let him tuck you into his side, his arms keeping you firmly pressed against him. His scent engulfs you, his quiet strength, the rumble of his voice felt through your chest as he hums quietly into the crown of your head, Don’t be scared, you got this, I got you. 

Surrendering, you allow yourself to cry, weeping loudly into his shirt, full-body sobs quaking your frame. You might break apart in a million scattered pieces, should he let go of you, but you’re not scared, you got this, he got you, resolute, unyielding, and you weep until the tears run dry, until your rib cage is too sore to heave, until the convulsing of your throat is reduced to a silent tremor.

Releasing his hold, he guides you over his lap to sit you between his legs, and you burrow into him like a small child, eyes drifting close, finally resting. 

—

Around the truck, the sky has gradually changed. The crushing, white-hot afternoon light slowly gave way to a fuzzy, faded coral atmosphere. 

Frankie’s lost track of the time. His arm is numb, his shoulder sore, but he’s not moving. He won’t risk disturbing you. Your breathing comes in deep and regular, you might be sleeping. 

From orange to pink to indigo, the day dies out into the night. 

It’s almost dark when you quietly call his name, and he can hear the toll grief has taken on you in the rasping of your voice. 

“Is it okay for you to be here?” you ask. “Are you going to leave?”

The questions send chills down his spine. Now is the time to tell you. Now or never. It’s been years since he’s known such a fear. 

“No, it’s fine.” He marks a pause, then takes a leap. “What did you mean, earlier, when you said it doesn’t change anything for me?”

Releasing his shirt, your fingers splay over his chest, and with an apparent effort, you push away so you can look at him. In the dim dusk light, he can hardly distinguish your expression. 

“I meant just that. I didn’t leave Adrian on your account. I’m not expecting you to do the same for me. I’m not going to ask you to divorce your wife and abandon your child.”

He runs a palm over his face, sighing heavily.

“I’m not married, Lee. I never married Lua’s mother, and we split up a little over a year ago. Right after that… after that bullshit mission I told you about.” 

Your silence is unbearable. His heart thumps painfully in his throat.

“We kept living together. Until a week ago. Lua’s still young, it was more convenient. I owed them that much.”

You’re still silent, your mind probably working over the implications, measuring the extent of his betrayal, when he’s asked you mere moments ago to put all your faith in him. 

“Why did you never tell me?”

Sweat prickles over this nape. 

“It was easier at first. I could keep you– keep you at a distance. I was scared.” 

“Scared of me?” 

Your eyes glimmer in the darkness of the cab, boring intently into his. He’s reminded of that very first night at the bar, when they bore into his back. When he swiveled on his stool and your gazes met for the first time. When your lives collided. He thinks about how much your eyes have come into focus, since. 

“Scared of what you made me feel,” he breathes.

“What did I make you feel?” 

“Like I’m worthy of you. What I saw on your face when you looked at me… I didn’t want it, but I also didn’t want to lose it. I didn’t want to risk changing anything. I’m sorry, Lee. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

He straightens up imperceptibly, moving to touch you, but you lean back into the steering wheel.

“What did you see on my face?”

The words come out of him in a husky murmur.

“You were burning inside. Burning with life. And you wanted me.” 

Everything stands still.

Slowly, your hand goes up to his cheek. It rests there, light and soft. A cool and soothing touch. Like it’s always been. Your thumb strokes his scruff, and he leans into your palm, exhaling painfully.

“I still want you, Frankie,” you whisper, leaning forward, your lips meeting his lips. 

—

You step out of the truck feeling drained, acutely aware of every aching bone and tissue in your body. Frankie by your side, watching over your balance, you walk back to your car to get the room’s key. The brown diamond-shaped keychain fits in your palm with a homely feeling. 

The room has been made. The artificial perfume of the industrial detergent blends with the musty scent woven into the curtains and rug.

Frankie swallows you in his embrace as soon as the door closes behind you. His mouth slanted over yours, his face pressed into your face, his kisses are deep, needy, desperate, and so are yours. His arms wound up tight around your waist, you cling onto his broad frame. 

With infinite care, with measured movements, he starts undressing you. You’re docile, pliant like a sleepy child, giving in to the solace of his touch, relenting to the safety of his devotion. 

Kneeling at your feet, he slowly slides down your jeans, revealing the mess on your thigh. Clumps of rusty-colored blood are caked around the flushed, raised skin. The sight stops him. Your heart cowers, your breathing suspended as he stares at your self-inflicted wound. 

His left palm skims your leg upward, until the small cut is framed between his thumb and index. When he looks up, you can’t tell if the tears gleaming in his eyes are anger or sadness. You cup his face, so many words stuck inside your chest. So many fears, so many regrets. 

Soon, you’re crushed under his weight, spread around his breadth, ankles locked over the small of his back as he fucks his love into you, his hands hooked over your shoulders. His skin rubbing against yours, long, languid, thorough strokes splitting you open. The painful ecstasy only he can give you, when he buries himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. Healing all of your wounds. 

He’s breathing you, his heart thumping inside your rib cage, I love you, Lee, I love you, but your words still won’t come out, so you nod, and he knows. Your nails sink into his back, and you pray that he knows. 

For the first time ever, you sleep in his arms throughout the night. His chest to your back, a thin shin of sweat between your two bodies. His steady breathing fanning the hair on your nape. You wake up together, on a Tuesday morning. 

Stirring out of sleep, he pulls you flush against him. His plush lips trace a wet path of open-mouth kisses along your neck, exploring the expanse of your skin, drawing ephemeral patterns, warm and unhurried. Softly humming, he tastes you, licking your sweat, inhaling your scent, nuzzling the edge of your jaw and nibbling your earlobe, his cock hardening against your cheeks, his calloused hands kneading the soft swell of your belly. 

His mouth rounds over the slope of your shoulder, and he sucks in sharply. You jerk between his restraining hold, his tongue peaking out to ease the blooming bruise. 

You lift a sleep-heavy eyelids and the morning light hits your iris. Dust particles suspended in the golden sunbeams, the musty smell from the sun-warm curtains carried in the air. His teeth sink in sharp at the base of your neck, a low growl rumbling from his chest, primal and possessive, and it dawns on you. What he’s doing. 

The realization thrums along your nerve-endings, courses through your veins, it blooms wild and spreading inside your chest. He is yours. He was always yours. He was never running away from something, not really. He was running to you. 

He chose you, remote and aloof. A bottomless well of craved affection, lonely scars, lost ideals, and he filled you. Imprinted on you his want and his need, his trust and reverence, in all the ways you let him. 

You summoned him. He found you. He appeared. 

You push back into him, granting him access to the line of your throat, and his bite sinks in deeper. Your fingers card through his hair, heart bursting, body like a fever, arousal pooling slick and sticky between your hips. 

He fucks you slow. Shallow thrusts, the fat head of his cock teasing your entrance, inching further inside your heat with each dragging stroke. His arm banded across your chest and his hand between your folds, he commands your pleasure, flooding all your senses, until you cry out his name, until he comes with you, until your bodies are spent. 

You shower together, and drive to a nearby diner for breakfast. Sitting in a red pleather booth, you drink strong filter coffee and devour thick, buttery pancakes, Frankie’s spend trickling down your panties as you watch him shovel scrambled eggs inside his mouth with a ravenous appetite, his face beaming with a dimpled grin. 

Your smile is so wide, your cheeks hurt.

On the way back, he stops by a CVS to get plasters, gauze and an antiseptic ointment. In the room, kneeled between your thighs, he lets you twirl his curls around your fingers while he dresses your small wound in silence, cautious and meticulous, deft and experienced. 

You know you should talk, know you should start making plans, but he carries his heart in his hand, and his touch is soothing, and your want is restless. High after high, your body tenses and breaks, as he fucks your cunt, your ass, your face, fills you up with his come, greedy teeth sunk into your flesh. 

After making a few calls, he stays another night, and when he leaves for work on Wednesday morning, you spend several minutes observing your reflection in the bathroom’s black-edged mirror. You look good, if not rested, your skin gleaming with a flattering post-orgasm glow. 

You detail the bite marks adorning your skin. They’re everywhere. He hasn’t been gentle. He hasn’t been careful. Some of them still a little sore when you poke a finger into the bruised, tender flesh. The mild pain draws a buzzing, electrical line from your heart to your core. You smile at your reflection. Stop me, you challenge the woman in the mirror. She smirks back at you. She’s so beautiful, so confident, your breath hitches. 

Eventually, your current situation resurfaces. Calling Ava sits at the top of your mental checklist. You wait for a couple of hours, until her lunch break, to dial her number. The first ringtones send you into a brief panic. Above the desk, the woman in the mirror is looking at you. You anchor yourself to her image. 

When Ava picks up, you tell her what happened in terse words: you broke up with Adrian, then quit. You’re currently staying in an out-of-town motel. 

She hollers into the receiver, and you wince with an uncertain smile, holding the phone away from your ear. There are a few cheerful curses as she expresses her pride and surprise, but she quickly gets back on track. 

“So when are you coming here? You’re coming here, right? Richard is gonna make sure you never work again over there. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know,” you concede ruefully. 

That’s the part of the conversation you should have planned ahead. But you’re still riding high on the fuck-drunk euphoria of the last two days. She questions you for more details, demanding an elaborate report of the events that you’re not too keen on remembering, nor submitting to her judgment. She left without a word, without a goodbye, unnoticed, unacknowledged. You had to confront not one, but two of them.

It occurs to you that you don’t have to tell. Nothing forces you to. Maybe, for the first time ever, you can curate your own experience. Refuse to give in to peer pressure, however benevolent. Define your own story. Be its main character, and its sole narrator. 

“What would I do in New York, anyway? Crash your couch? And then?”

“I told you, Polly has a job for you.”

“No, you said Polly could help me find something. Now she has a job for me? What kind of job?” you frown. “At her practice?”

“No, no. Something in a publishing company one of her clients owns. I don’t know, nothing fancy apparently, but enough to get you started.”

“And what, they’re holding a position for a woman without any qualification and zero experience in their field?”

“If Polly says it’s a sure thing, then it’s a sure thing. Call her. She only mentioned it in passing, we never actually thought you’d fucking leave, Lee! And our couch is very comfortable, I’ll have you know.”

This goddamn collective we. 

When you hang up, nothing is decided. Frankie won’t be back until Friday evening. You're going to be on your own to stew over the crossroads for the next two days. 

Lost in the liminal sequence. 

Ava is right. You could never find a decent job in Tampa. You can’t stay here. You don’t even want to stay. You hate this city, you hate this fucking state. It has been your life-long dream to break-free and get away. The idea of staying inside your father’s radius of influence, within reach of Adrian, gives you the wrong kind of chills. 

But New York? Do you really want to live there? The city has always mildly scared you, with its buoyant history and its mythical aura. Too big, too noisy, too stressful. Completely anonymous. It would be so easy for you to drown in there. Forever disappear.  

The truth is, there isn’t any place you can see yourself living in, because you don’t want to live anywhere without Frankie. 

Only right now, the sheer thought of being despondent on another man rises bile in your stomach. You will never be that woman, ever again. 

“Here is fine,” you sigh with a pout, looking at the one-dollar store painting of the Appalachian. “Why can’t I just stay here forever?”

Completely unfit for reality. 

Adrian’s words seem to find you everywhere. They followed you all the way here, in your hiding place, plucking at the safety blanket Frankie’s care has swaddled you in. You shudder in the warm, quiet room. 

Well, fuck Adrian. Fuck your past. Fuck his words and their condemning truth. 

Step by step. That’s how you’ll proceed. You need to secure your financial situation. You need a new laptop. You need to buy underwear to replace the ones you forgot to pack. And you need food.  

You get dressed and drive to an Apple Store in town, where the price tags on the MacBooks make your eyes bulge. You’ve truly been living inside a despicably privileged bubble. Guilt makes your skin grow tight. 

After running a quick search on your phone, you find a second-hand electronic store, where you purchase a refurbished laptop for a quarter of its original price. You feel stupid for feeling so smart. After all, you’re only experiencing most people’s life. The thought helps you follow through with the rest of your errands, starting with the bank.  

When you come back to the motel with your shopping bags and some takeaway Thai, however, the problem of your immediate future remains unsolved. 

Deliberately stalling, you start fiddling with the computer. The motel doesn’t have Wi-Fi, but you manage to tether the laptop to your phone. The small victory alleviates your anxious sadness. You settle over the bed, back propped against the pillows, and watch brainless social media content as you eat. A warm breeze wafts in through the cracked-open window. This is good, you think. The life-altering decisions can wait. 

Over the next couple of days, you gravitate within a few miles radius of the motel, only going out to buy food and take short walks in the surrounding area. Exploring its vicinity in broad daylight anchors the motel in a reality you are not ready to confront. The fact that it’s always felt like an isolated island is what brought you a sense of safety in the first place. 

But being on your own is exhilarating. You can sleep in late without having to put up with the nagging beeping of an alarm-clock that’s not even yours. Choose to shower, or not, skip a meal or eat pancakes for dinner. You can watch Parks and Recreation bloopers all night long and never tune in to a financial show ever again. You can sleep with the window opened and listen to Disintegration fifty times in a row. Your newfound freedom is in every little detail. 

When Frankie comes back on Friday evening, carrying a six-pack and a takeaway bag, he finds you bare-faced in your sleeping t-shirt, sitting cross-legged on the dirty carpet, watching SNL Digital Shorts on your good-as-new computer. 

He sets the beer and the bag on the desk. An appetizing aroma fills the room. Freshly made burritos from his favorite place. 

Silently patting the space next to you, you invite him to join, but he faces away, hiding his soft smile from you. He takes off his hat, then toes off his boots, and your heart somersaults at how far you’ve come since your early rituals. 

Walking over to you, he crouches at your side to inspect the bandage on your leg, that you changed every day, per his instructions. Seemingly satisfied with your handiwork, he pivots to sit down, his knees protesting with a resounding POP that makes him grunt, and you're overcome by a powerful wave of fondness. Oblivious to the food and the videos on the screen, you unfold your legs and climb over his lap in a straddle. 

“Evening, baby,” he greets you with a round chuckle, soft as velvet, as you lean in for a greedy kiss, prompting him to open with a swipe of your tongue over his plush lips. 

He responds in kind, voracious mouth slanting over yours, tongue licking inside you. Your arms wrap around him, fingers burrowing into the plane of his strong back, the heady scent of him, leather and musk, filling your brain with static and your belly with want. His warm hands slide under your shirt, calloused palms roaming the expanse of your naked chest. He swallows your wanton moans, thumbs playing over your peaked nipples and you take, back arching into his chest, nails digging, hips rolling. 

His touch gets rougher, his hands a kneading grasp over your soft breasts, over the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass, desire pooling hot at your center as his tongue licks and twirls inside your mouth. Chasing the contact of his growing bulge, you bear down over his harsh denim, and his breathing comes in shorter, fingertips teasing the elastic band of your cotton panties. You exhale heavily through your nose, slick soaking his jeans through the soft fabric. 

His lips curve into a grin, thick fingers sliding under your panty-line. He presses into the dip underneath your hips to part your leaking folds with an explicit sound. You push harder into him, into the wall of his chest, forcing him to lean back, your need coiled like a wound spring, angling his face with a harsh tug on his curls to catch his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck, okay,” he growls, straightening up with a cinch. 

His fingers clutch the swell of your ass and in one swift motion, the room around you swivels, you’re on your back, legs bracketing his waist. 

As he unbuckles his belt, your gaze follows the rippling of his lean muscles along his forearms to the shifting bulk of his biceps, lingering on the round of his shoulders and his corded neck, up to his gorgeous face. Tousled hair, kiss-swollen lips, cherry-red, curved in a boyish grin. Black, lust-blown pupils that watch you watch him. 

A clear laughter rises from your chest and bubbles in your throat, its music beautiful to your ears, almost alien, long forgotten. 

His grin widens, dimpling his face, and he tugs off his shirt, throwing it at random in the room behind him. Your laughter dies in your throat; it steals your breath away, it always does, the sight of his naked chest, towering over you, gleaming golden in the soft hues from the bedside lamps. The dips and planes, the pattern of his freckles, the scars you could trace with eyes closed. The stories they tell, your precious secrets, your treasured knowledge.

A flat press of his palms over your knees, and he spreads your legs open, exposing the wet patch on your underwear to his gaze, and his smile falls, his expression turning wilder, dark and hungry. 

“Fucking soaking wet,” he husks, chucking down his jeans, pulling out his stiff length from his boxer briefs, and you squirm over the rough rug with a pleading whimper. Spiting in his hand, he starts stroking himself, eyes trained on your core, deft fingers loosely circling his cock in a slow up-and-down motion. Saliva pools in your mouth, you clench around nothing. 

“What’s that t-shirt?” he asks, bending closer to you, slotting his cock between your folds over the slick-drenched fabric of your panties.

“Oh god,” you gasp. “That– what?” 

“That t-shirt you’re wearing.”

You can feel the throbbing weight of his sex, feel its heat as it rubs back and forth over your swollen clit, and your mind scrambles.

“From– from college.”

“You’re gonna keep it on,” he tells you, his left hand finding your breast and giving it a tight squeeze through the worn-out material. “You look so young, it’s like I’m fucking you in your dorm.”

The fat head of his cock nudges at your entrance, pushing the soaked fabric in, and your mouth falls open, hips arching into him.

“Like I knew you back then. Like I’ve always known you,” he rasps after a thick swallow. “Like a second chance. You know?”

“I know,” you mouthe with a short nod. 

Hooking the tip of his finger, he slides your panties aside, just enough to line himself up, slowly inching inside your heat with a strained groan. 

“Shit, baby, you’re tight.”

The stretch is impossible, the size of him blinding, and you hiss and squirm, but his hold on your waist is bruising, keeping you in place as he thrusts inside you inch by inch, thick cock catching at your entrance. 

There’s the working of his throat as he gathers saliva in his mouth, and he locks eyes with you, making sure you’re watching, before he lets it slide along his tongue straight onto your cunt. The rough carpet scraps your ass as you writhe against his restraint, against the terrifying notion that he always knows just what it is that you want, that he always makes sure you get it. 

“You wanted it, now you gotta take it. You’re gonna take it like a good girl.”

“Yes, Frankie,” you breathe out, nodding again, surrendering, bucking your hips into him.

“Oh yea, good girl, that’s it,” he coos. “Gonna stretch that pretty little cunt on my cock, until you come all over it,” he says, moving inside you, “until you beg me to stop–”

“I’ll never beg you to stop,” you breathe out, brows furrowed, sweat beading at your temples as you take his first shallow, labored strokes.

“Wanna bet?” he asks, drawing your legs over his lap with a sudden tug, deepening his thrusts at a blinding angle. 

You thrash your head, back arching off the carpet, a guttural sound vibrating in your throat as he starts fucking into you at a steady pace, his cock dragging along your walls, leaving you no choice but to accommodate his girth. 

With a small grunt, he thrusts in deeper, the round head of his cock grinding against your center and your fingers scrabble frantically, flying to his chest and clawing at the meat of his muscles.

“That perfect fucking cunt,” he says, eyes trained on where he disappears into you, “you feel so fucking good, Lee. You’re so beautiful. Say it.”

“I’m beautiful,” you say in a warped voice.

“You’re fucking perfect. Say it, Lee,” he husks, drilling inside you faster, with undiluted strength, clutching your waist and sliding you over his cock so you meet him thrust for thrust. 

“Oh god, Frankie,” you beg, after all, taking hold of his wrists, a desperate attempt to slow down his merciless pace. 

Leaning forward, he covers you with his broad frame, crushing you into the rug, spine undulating as he thoroughly wrecks you, unrelenting, his speed escalating.

The heady musk of his scent fills your nostrils, so thick you can taste it. His hot breath scalds the shell of your ear, brutal shockwaves radiating from your center with each of his strokes, each of his words.

“Be a good girl, and say it,” he pants, “say you’re perfect.”

—

You’re mine, Lee Abbott. 

Celadon green, and a pale shade of yellow. He knows your scent will haunt him long after you’ve left him. You’re a part of him now. He made you so. You’ll forever be woven into his flesh, into his very soul. 

You’re mine. Lee Abbott.

He never speaks those words out loud. He’ll sooner die than compromise or be a hindrance to your newfound independence. 

But god, you’re his. Your entire body bears the mark of his desperate plea. Bite marks on the swell of your hips, the round of your ass, the curve of your neck. Heart shaped flecks of crimson, blossoming underneath the surface of your thin skin along the line of your throat, your collarbone, and the weight of your tits.

Every night, he covers you in his sweat and his spit, before he fills you up with his come. 

I love you, he said instead, that first night, and you never replied. In a few days, you’ll be gone, and it might very well kill him, but he will let you go. 

And maybe, from the start, he was more yours than you ever were his. A part of him knew it. The part that tried resisting your pull. The part that compelled him to run away from you that very first night.

Two weeks. Two weeks, and you’ll go north. Live with your sister in New York. Start over. 

There was this talk, over cold burritos and warm beer. He ate with reluctance, desirous to keep your taste on his tongue. Forever preserve the flavor of your orgasm that he lapped from your folds.

That talk that tore his bleeding heart right out of his chest, when you hinted you might have to leave town. You couldn’t explain, you said. Couldn’t make sense of it. You said, I just want to stay here in this room, with you. I don’t want anything to change. 

But it made sense to him. You had to leave, put physical distance between yourself and those who’d wounded you continuously throughout the years, so you could rebuild your life, rebuild yourself. And you needed to be on your own to do this the right way. Once more, he reveled in your courage. He admired your strength. 

He hadn’t measured the extent of his hatred for this man until you pronounced his name. Adrian. Your fiancé. This shit stain. Ever since you broke free, he’s had violent dreams about him. A faceless, lanky silhouette, he beats him to a pulp until his knuckles burst over the man’s skull. He wakes up feeling blood spilling warm and gooey between his fingers.

The local newspapers continue to allude to your departure from your father’s company. Short, carefully redacted articles downplaying the event with meticulously curated talking points. Typical PR damage control bullshit. 

He looks them up, and never mentions them, of course, but every so often, when he arrives from work, he finds you hunched over your laptop, brow furrowed, bloodshot eyes. Quickly shutting the computer close as soon as he approaches. You’re preparing the after, you say. Scouting for jobs, apartments, and once more, he chooses to believe you. 

But then, you cry at night. Silently heaving next to him, your face buried into the pillow to muffle the sound of your heavy sobbing. He pulls you into him, into his chest, wrapping his body around your shaking frame. Chin tucked over the crown of your head. Humming into your hair. You seem so frail, so vulnerable in his hold, and he wishes to absorb your loss, annihilate the pain, rip it from you and make it disappear. 

I got you, Lee. Don’t be afraid, you’ll get through this. 

Can you hear him, then? Do you believe his words of reassurance? You fall asleep with your hands clutching his shoulders, exhausted, the wrong kind of spent. 

You need to go. And he’ll let you leave. Your needs are his needs. They dictate his life. He’ll be right here, waiting for you on the other side.

He said, This never ends, and he meant every word.

But the fucking pain. 

Constantly ripping through his chest, it’s in everything he does, tainting your last days together. In every look at your gorgeous face, in every kiss, every stroke, every embrace. It’s there when he marvels at the graceful ways in which you move, at your recovering appetite, at your patience with him when you let him dress your wound that’s long healed. 

It’s in the blissful domestic routine you two have so naturally fallen into. It’s in his every thought, at work, with his kid, with you. When he comes to you at night, in this shithole that feels more like home than his new house does.  

And whenever he opens his mouth, he fears he’ll betray himself. The words are always there, in the back of his throat, ready to pour out of him. I want you to meet my daughter. I want you to move in with me. I’ll provide for you. You can be whoever you want. Stay. Stay with me. 

You’re mine, Lee.  

Two weeks isn’t enough. Two lifetimes wouldn’t be. 

—

The small cantina is crammed, swarming with boisterous kids and their harassed parents. A continuous clamor hangs over you like a lead lid, you don’t think you’d be able to hear your own voice if you were able to speak. 

Frankie’s head is dipped, his face half concealed behind the brim of his trucker hat, his broad frame hunched over his tray. He hasn’t touched much of his food, and you have yet to start on yours. When you left the motel, a quick lunch had sounded like a good idea. A welcome distraction from the impending separation. 

Now, it feels like moving through a bad dream, like running away in slow motion from an ineluctable disaster.

Inside your palm lingers the ghost sensation of the room’s keychain. You balled your fist around it before checking out at the reception. You raked your brain for an excuse to keep it, and found none. 

Two weeks ago, you’d thought leaving was the right thing to do. He said he understood your decision. He said, I’ll wait for you. 

And when you booked the flight, the date, however close, seemed surreal. Somewhere in the distant future, intangible. As the day drew near, you did what you do best. You refused to acknowledge the reality of it, eluding the prospect, reasoning with yourself that you were merely preserving your last moments with Frankie. 

Now, the take-off only a couple of hours away, your luggage stored in the truck’s tailgate, you can’t shake the feeling that this is a terrible mistake. You don’t care about rebuilding your life. You don’t give a damn about having a job, about emancipating, about being an independent woman. You want to build a home with him. You want to become his wife, to raise his daughter. You want to be his forever. 

You’re going to be sick, is what’s going to happen. 

“Should we go?”

You meet his shadowed eyes, fighting the tears that fill up yours, and nod in agreement. 

Outside the cantina, the heat hits you like a brick wall. Thoughts rush to your head, about the New York winters, the harsh, icy winds, the snow. The clothes you’ll have to buy. Wool sweaters, boots, a coat. Familiarize yourself with the subway. Those dark, underground tunnels. The ramifications of what this new life entails are overwhelming. 

You look up at Frankie and there is no cold hard stare. Only his soft sad eyes, and the gentle caress of their mahogany light, and the pleading arch of his brow. You’re hanging off a cliff, suspended over the abyss, grasping at the dirt, like the wild creature in your rib cage, trying to claw its way out and back to him, where it belongs. Where you belong. 

Nothing makes sense anymore.

“Okay, I’ll call a cab,” you say into your bag, looking for your phone, heart thumping in your throat, tears prickling your nose.

Frankie sighs, a constrained, pained rasp of a breath. He props his hands on his hips, cocking his leg to the side, and the heel of his boot scuffs over the asphalt. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport?”

The swelling lump in the back of your throat won’t let you talk, so you shake your head no. 

“I can drive you all the way there, if you want. New York, I mean. We could… we could make a detour. Through the Appalachian. See that ugly painting in the real.”

His attempt at a cocky smile fails to reach his eyes. 

A first tear spills out from the corner of your eyes. A fat, angry droplet that rolls down your cheek to hang on the edge of your jaw. 

“Hey now, don’t cry. C’mere.”  

Your bag falls to the floor when you crash into the solid warmth of his chest. Winding his strong arms around you, he cups the back of your head in a gentle, careful cradle, lifting you up in his hold.

His cap falls to the ground when you thread your fingers through his hair. You burrow into his neck, into him. You want to live inside his body, meld with his bloodstream, wrap around his heart, become his heartbeat. 

He breathes you in, the plush press of his lips a warm caress on your temple, and more tears flow out of you.

“I wish you could come with me.”

“I know, baby. I wish I could come with you.”

“I would—” you start with a sob, “I would love her like a mother. I could. I know I could.”

“I know you would. Of course, you would. Hey, look at me,” he says, putting you down and pulling away just a notch, cupping your wet face with both hands. “This is not over. It can never be over. It’s just the beginning. The beginning of something different.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you tilt your head to the side, his calloused palm grazing your cheek, to place a kiss on the inside of his wrist. Over the small tattoo you never got a chance to ask him about. You inhale him there, musk, leather, safety. You let your head rest between his hands, the same way you placed your life between his lips, many months ago.

“Frankie, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“Why… That very first night, in the bar. Why did you turn around? What made you look at me?”

His face falls. The crease in his brow deepens as he visibly ponders over his answer. The sun backlights his curls with a golden halo. When he speaks, his voice is a low rasp, a round aching husk. 

“I’d been searching for you for a long time.”

He thumbs away a stray tear from the apple of your cheek; he scratches his throat. 

“Call me when you get to the airport, okay? And when you board. And when you land. Okay?”

A wistful smile lifts the corner of your lips. Looking at him through hanging tears, you say, “I just realized we’ve never ever talked on the phone.”

Frankie breathes in deep, his smile mirroring yours. So beautiful, so strong. So soft. Yours.  

“See, baby? We got so many things to look forward to. It’s just the beginning.” 

*****

Thank you so much for reading and for your patience 🧡 I hope you liked it. Remember, there's still an epilogue. It will be shorter, so it shouldn't take me too long to birth it, if my brain cooperates 🤞���

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Nothing will get in the way of gun ownership. Even being blind. Insane stupidity.

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Infinite Horizons

PAIRING: Reed Richards x reader

WORD COUNT: 1159 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The Baxter Building hummed with the quiet energy of invention. Fluorescent lights cast a cool glow over the laboratory, where papers, holograms, and whiteboards filled with intricate equations surrounded a single figure.

Reed Richards stood before a towering chalkboard, writing with swift, precise strokes, his mind working at a speed no ordinary person could match. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with chalk. His dark curls were slightly tousled, and his eyes burned with concentration as he scrawled symbols in a methodical yet fluid rhythm.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him. Admiring him.

There was something about seeing his mind at work that left you breathless. The way his brow furrowed, the way he whispered numbers under his breath, the way his fingers absentmindedly tapped against his chin when he hit a snag in his calculations—it was mesmerizing.

And he hadn’t even noticed you yet.

Smirking, you finally spoke. “You know, Reed, most people don’t spend their Friday nights romancing a chalkboard.”

His hand stilled mid-equation. He turned, his sharp eyes softening the moment they landed on you. “Y/N,” he said, and just like that, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted in playful scrutiny. “You were too busy proving the meaning of the universe to notice, Professor Richards.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not quite. Just solving a little problem in quantum instability.”

You raised a brow. “A little problem?”

He turned back to the board and gestured at the dizzying array of symbols. “I’m attempting to stabilize the quantum field distortions in our multiversal gate. Right now, the energy fluctuations are unpredictable. If I can refine the equation, I might be able to prevent spontaneous breaches.”

You stared at the equations, pretending to consider them seriously. “Mmm, yes. Of course. Looks like... numbers.”

Reed laughed—a warm, low sound that made your heart flutter.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his fingers brushing over your wrist as he pulled you closer.

“And yet, here you are, madly in love with me,” you teased.

His lips quirked. “Madly.”

Your heart did an embarrassingly giddy flip, but you disguised it with another playful remark. “So, what happens if you don’t solve this equation?”

Reed sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Worst case scenario? Unstable dimensional rifts. Possibly reality imploding. Best case scenario? I get a headache and need coffee.”

You gasped dramatically. “A headache? We’re doomed.”

His eyes twinkled. “Not if you stay here and keep distracting me.”

You smirked but didn’t move away. Instead, you stepped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his back. You felt him exhale, his muscles relaxing under your touch.

“Your brain is my favorite thing,” you murmured. “Well, one of my favorite things.”

His hand covered yours, fingers lacing together. “That’s comforting.”

“What’s the other worst-case scenario?” you asked, tracing lazy circles on the fabric of his shirt.

Reed hesitated, then sighed. “The math isn’t adding up. If I don’t find the missing variable, I can’t stabilize the distortions. Which means—”

“—which means no experimental travel through the multiverse anytime soon,” you finished.

He turned in your arms, facing you fully. “Exactly.”

You studied him for a long moment. “How long have you been at this?”

His silence was telling.

You groaned. “Reed. Have you even eaten today?”

He pressed his lips together in thought. “I had coffee.”

You placed your hands on your hips. “That’s not food.”

He exhaled through his nose, amused. “I was in the zone.”

“You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand. “Come on, genius. You’re taking a break.”

He resisted for half a second before relenting. “Fine,” he murmured. “But only because you’re bossy.”

You smirked. “And because you love me.”

He squeezed your hand. “That too.”

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the lounge, watching Reed as he leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. The kitchen was bathed in warm, golden light, making him look impossibly soft despite the sharpness of his intellect.

“So,” you started, “what’s the missing variable?”

Reed sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That’s the problem—I don’t know. The math should work, but there’s a fluctuation that keeps throwing it off.”

You tapped your chin. “Couldn’t it be an external factor? Something you haven’t accounted for yet?”

He hummed in thought. “Possibly.”

“Have you considered... I don’t know, the energy signature of whoever’s opening the breaches? Maybe the anomaly isn’t in the math but in the source itself.”

Reed’s eyes widened slightly. “You might be onto something.”

You grinned. “Of course I am. I’m brilliant.”

He smirked, setting his mug down before walking over and placing his hands on either side of your head, trapping you in. “You are. And now, I’m going to need your help.”

Your brows lifted. “My help? In quantum physics?”

Reed grinned. “I need a second set of eyes. Even if they’re skeptical ones.”

You sighed dramatically. “I suppose I could lend my expertise.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “Then let’s get back to work.”

Hours passed as you sat together in the lab, Reed scribbling equations while you sat beside him, offering insights where you could. It was a strange dance—you weren’t a scientist, but Reed valued your perspective. He thrived on discussion, on the challenge of explaining concepts in ways you could understand.

And you? You just loved watching him work. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Reed froze.

Your head shot up from where you’d been resting it on your hand. “What? What is it?”

His eyes flickered with realization. “You were right.”

You blinked. “Obviously. But about what?”

He grabbed your shoulders, excitement radiating off him. “The anomaly wasn’t in the equation itself—it was an external force! If I adjust for the unique energy signature of the breaches, the entire system stabilizes!”

You grinned. “I mean, I did suggest that hours ago.”

He shook his head, grinning. “You did. And I was too busy overcomplicating it to listen.”

You leaned closer, whispering, “Say it.

He narrowed his eyes. “Say what?"

“That I was right.”

He sighed dramatically. “Y/N was right.”

You smirked. “And?”

His lips twitched. “And Reed Richards was wrong.”

You gasped. “A historical moment. I need this on record.”

He kissed you before you could gloat further, his lips warm and insistent. You melted into him, savoring the quiet triumph in his touch. When he pulled away, his voice was soft.

“You’re my favorite variable.”

Your heart clenched in the best way. “And you’re my favorite genius.”

Reed exhaled, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you for keeping me grounded.”

You smiled, fingers brushing through his curls. “And thank you for reaching for the stars.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the universe pressing against him, Reed Richards knew—no equation, no discovery, no multiverse could ever mean more than you.

[favorite-fan-fic]

Nicest Thing – A Joel Miller Story Masterlist

Neighbour!Joel x f!reader

Rating: Over 18’s only please Summary: As Kate Nash sang: All I know is that you're the nicest thing I've ever seen, and I wish we could see if we could be something (OR let’s fall madly in love with neighbour!Joel Miller) Series content: Rom-com style fluff and eventual smut, tiny bit of angst due to who I am as a person, Joel Miller AU, no ages mentioned (everyone is over 18 but they can be whatever you would wish), alcohol reference, big swears, gratuitous Jane Austen references, bad boyfriend mentioned (so… infidelity?), minimal descriptions of reader but just so you know, she is of course wearing A SUNDRESS even if I don't mention it. Always Fleabag coded. Listen to: Kate Nash Nicest Thing   A/N: Did I write what was supposed to be a one shot (part one Kindness of Strangers is already up and ready to read) and then it turned into a little mini series, again? Yeah...yeah, maybe I did. Sorry not sorry? Look at least I didn’t write the ending first and then have to backtrack madly… If I’d realised what sluts you all were for the Joel Miller x Jane Austen references I would have done this series much sooner to be honest! So, what’s this all about then Al? Well, you’re spending the summer at your Uncle’s house in Austin, Texas and when you meet his unreasonably hot neighbour!Joel Miller. Yeah, you’re going to catch some feelings real quick. Just the small issue of a long-term boyfriend waiting at home, holding you back. Thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being my original Austen inspiration, and to @pascalssbabyy @luxurychristmaspudding and @toomanytookas for being such wonderful pals.

The plan is (but it will probably change, so if you see me fucking about with this, no you didn’t):  

✨Part 1: Kindness of Strangers

✨Part 2: Our feelings prey upon us

✨Part 3: Most Ardently

✨Part 4: Her Heart Did Whisper

✨Part 5: Almost

✨Part 6: My favourite girl

✨ Bonus! Sweet Nothing - A Valentine's Joel Miller one shot

I hope you all enjoy!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics all images from Pinterest

Tagging in peeps who enjoyed Kindness & some lovely moots, but let me know if you'd like to be added/removed:

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @yxtkiwiyxt @rizzraa @bitchwitch1981

@axshadows @holacia3 @ghotifishreads @wannab-urs @burntheedges

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @undercoverpena @5oh5 @bitchesuntitled @futuraa-free

@sawymredfox @sin-djarin @survivingandenduring @indiegirlunited @janaispunk

@tuquoquebrute @danaispunk @mothandpidgeon @morallyinept @freelancearsonist

@chronically-ghosted @sp00kymulderr @secretelephanttattoo @fhatbhabie @beskarandblasters

[favorite-fan-fic]

Summary: The journey continues with quiet tension as you adjust to your injury and the isolation of the open road. After setting up camp, you find yourself navigating the discomfort of shared space and thoughts of the danger that lies ahead.

no warnings apply

The road ahead stretches long and unforgiving. The world feels so… vast, and you, so small. Out here, in the open, in the middle of nowhere.

The engine hummed beneath you as you slowly pulled yourself from a heavy sleep. Joel was still in the driver’s seat, Ellie next to him. Sharp, unrelenting aches shot up your leg, and you reached down to check the wound.

Not bleeding anymore, at least. But fuck, did it hurt.

After an hour of driving that first night, you’d stopped on the side of the road. Joel had done his best to check the wound for any remaining bullet fragments. He’d torn your pant leg off, soaked in crimson blood. You were ‘lucky,’ he’d said while stitching you up. The bullet had gone clean through the other side of your thigh without hitting the main artery. But you didn’t feel lucky. Not with the pain still searing through you all night. Not while you were praying for no infection.

Now, the handkerchief around your leg isn’t as soaked as your jeans had been, now cut off into shorts. The stitched skin is aching and painful, but bearable–no longer white hot and blinding. Your knees bruised and scuffed from the fall to the ground.

“Hey,” Ellie says from the front seat, turning to look at you. “You okay?”

You rub your eyes, still groggy from sleep, and run a hand through your hair, looking at her. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” you sigh, “How long was I out?”

“’Bout six hours,” Ellie said softly, glancing at Joel.

You looked out the window, surprised to see… nothing. No towns, no road signs, no signs of life at all. Just open overgrown fields against lush forests.

You don’t bother to even ask where you are. It’s not like it really mattered anymore since being forced from the only thing you’ve ever known.

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes heavy, your body still aching from the sharp pull of your leg. The road’s monotonous hum is almost soothing, but the emptiness of it all—the nothingness that stretches out endlessly—settles over you like a thick blanket of hopelessness. It’s so quiet, the kind of silence that makes you feel small. You close your eyes, feeling the exhaustion creep in again, the weight of everything catching up to you, settling in your bones.

Maybe if I just sleep long enough, this will all feel a little less real.

But it doesn’t. You try to push the thoughts away, to bury them under the dull throb in your leg, but they keep coming. The feeling of loss. Of being so far from everything. Of not knowing where you’re going, or if you’re even meant to get there.

The truck bumps over the uneven terrain, jolting you back into consciousness, and you blink up at the roof of the cab. Joel’s voice breaks through the haze of your thoughts. “That’s enough for today,” he says, his tone quiet but resolute.

You hear the truck slow, tires crunching over gravel as he pulls off the road, deeper into the woods. The truck rocks and bumps, the suspension straining as Joel drives farther in, trying to get as far from the road as he can. You let your eyes flutter shut again, fighting the overwhelming urge to just sleep, but the quiet around you weighs on your mind.

The truck comes to a stop, and you feel the sudden stillness in the air. The engine cuts off, and Joel’s voice breaks the silence again as he shifts in his seat, getting out of the truck and opening your door, “Come on now,”

You drag yourself out of the truck, wincing as your leg protests, but you don’t complain. Ellie’s already moving around, taking a look around, chattering about something to Joel that you don’t care to pay attention to. Once out of the truck, Joel’s eyes sweep over you, almost as if he’s making sure you’re able to stand on your own, then begins setting up a small camp for the evening, getting out some plates and forks and a can of something with a faded label.

You reach into your bag, fingers brushing over the pack of chicken you grabbed back at the house. “Might as well eat this,” you mutter, pulling it out with a small sigh. “It’s gonna be bad by tomorrow.”

You hear Joel grunt in acknowledgment, and Ellie offers a quiet “Yeah, sounds good,” but neither of them push you to say more. They know. The silence hangs between the three of you, tense and awkward. You can’t stand the idea of them pitying you, but you don’t have it in you to snap back.

You open your bag and start divvying up the chicken. It’s not the best meal, but it’ll keep you moving. Better than whatever 20 year old substance was in that can they were about to open. You glance around the clearing, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest. You’d never been out in the open like this before, nothing outside of Lincoln. Not without your secure gate, tall fences, your alarm system.

“How long are we staying out here?” Ellie asks with her mouth full.

“I figure I sleep tonight,” Joel answers her with a straight tone, no nonsense. “Drive tomorrow all day, all night. Get us to Wyoming by next mornin’.”

“Wyoming?” you ask, mid-chew, not entirely sure you want to hear the answer.

Joel’s eyes flicker to you from where he’s hunched over his food. “Been tryna find my brother—”

“Tommy, right?” you cut in, something in the back of your cobwebbed memories stirring. The name rings familiar, but you’re not sure why.

Joel hesitates, maybe realizing he might’ve said too much in the past when you were just a kid, not realizing how much you’d remember. He looks uncertain about continuing, but after a long moment, he does.

“Tommy joined the Fireflies years ago,” he says, looking down at his plate, “Course, last I heard he left them too. But he might at least know where they are. Last I heard he sent word through the radio from a town outside of Cody, Wyoming. Gotta go get him.”

You pause, your fork halfway to your mouth. So Tommy had been with the Fireflies. That’s the group Joel’s told you about—freedom fighters against FEDRA. You don’t know much beyond that, just enough to make sense of it.

But something about it rubs you the wrong way.

So he’d keep up with the radio for his brother, but not for Bill and Frank. And certainly not for you.

Swallowing hard at the lump of food in your mouth, you do your best to ignore the way the feeling crawls up your throat. It shouldn’t matter. It’s not like you expected anything from him.

Tess and Joel had made it a point to be a part of your life, a part of your dad’s life. And yet, over the years, they’d gone silent. You didn’t know the details, and you sure as hell weren’t going to pry them out of the surly bastard. You were stuck with him now, even though he never showed a care in the world for you, for how you were holding up. Nothing in the past seven years to even ask if any of you were still alive. 

But he’d gotten you out, saved you last night, despite everything. You couldn’t ignore that. So, you supposed you’d have to accept that part of him, even if it didn’t make the rest of him any easier to figure out.

“So, can we start a fire? I’m freezing.” Ellie asks, popping a bite of chicken into her mouth.

“Now why am I gonna tell you no?” Joel looks at her, exasperated and terse.

She rolls her eyes, “Cause infected will see the smoke,”

“Infected aren’t that smart,” you mumble, but Joel hears you.

“That’s right.” he nods, still looking at Ellie, “Fungus ain’t that smart. Besides, this is too remote for infected anyway,” he adds, but his eyes still dart around the clearing you’ve gathered in.

Ellie pauses her chewing, “People…?” she says, her eyes widening. Without an answer, she takes it as an assertion, “So what’re they gonna do, rob us?” she asks, almost sarcastically, but there’s an underlying tone of seriousness to her as she waits for his answer.

“Oh they’ll have a lot more in mind than that.” Joel says darkly, “Did you learn nothin’ from what we just faced?”

You swallow the last of the chicken, and the weight of his words presses down on you. Your dad had never really talked about what was out there. He’d always said that what mattered was the land you could protect, the food you could grow. People? That was something your dad never bothered to explain to you—that was the world he kept hidden from you. As much as he hated the world, he never told you about what the world had turned into. Maybe he was just as sheltered from it all. Only things you know were what Joel and Tess had shared, brief words exchanged, more like scary stories that you never took note of, until now.

You look at Joel, his expression harder than usual, and the knot in your stomach tightens. You wonder what he’s seen, what he knows, that makes him sound this way. All you’ve ever known is the small, isolated world of Lincoln–of what you and your dad created.

You wonder if that was the right kind of world to be raised in. You wonder if you're prepared for what's ahead.

Then your eyes land on the sleeping bags they’ve rolled out. Two, that look awfully a lot like the ones your dad and Frank had.

You can’t help it. “Really?” you call out, voice dripping with sarcasm and thankful for a change in subject. “You were just gonna take my stuff, huh? You didn’t think maybe, you know, asking would’ve been a thing?”

Joel glances up, an eyebrow raised, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, like he’s not sure whether you’re joking or pissed.

You shake your head, “No warning, no nothing—just raid my place for sleeping bags and head out, huh? You’re no better than those guys who came for my shit last night,”

Ellie, not missing a beat, looks over at you with a lopsided grin. “Hey, at least we didn’t shoot you for it.”

“Ellie.” Joel reprimands.

After rolling your eyes, you glance at the sleeping bags, and then back at the truck. You should’ve thought to bring one in those last few moments of packing. The idea of sharing one of those with either of them—Joel, especially—makes your stomach churn with anxiety. Besides, it’s warm enough that you don’t necessarily need the extra warmth of the down-stuffed sleeping arrangements.

You shake your head, standing up. “I’ll take the backseat,” you say, a little too loud. You’re not sure if you’re talking to them or just saying it out loud to justify it.

Ellie looks at you, eyebrows raised. “You sure?”

“Better than sharing one of those with either of you,” you mutter, your voice edged with more than a little sarcasm. “Besides, it’s hot as hell out here.”

You climb into the backseat, using your jacket as a blanket, your leg throbbing under the weight of the day. It’s cramped, but it’s your space, and you can rest without feeling like you’re suffocating in the heat of the sleeping bag.

A few minutes pass, the night stretching longer as the sounds of the woods surround you. The crickets chirp faintly from outside, and for a moment, you feel your body finally beginning to relax, the exhaustion catching up with you.

Then, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You try to ignore it, but then the side door by your feet opens.

Joel’s voice, low and rough, filters through the space. “How’s the leg?”

You sigh, looking over at him from where you lie in the cramped backseat. “It’s fine. Just a little sore.”

Joel grunts in acknowledgment, his shadow falling across the truck as he leans in to look at the wound, “You don’t gotta be stubborn,” he mutters, his tone almost too quiet. “Let me check it.”

You stay still, letting him move closer as his body moves inside the door over the bench of the backseat. You can hear the faint clinking and rustling of things as he pulls items out of his med kit. His presence is steady, not quite intrusive, but close enough that it feels a little too... personal. It’s just him, his hands rough and worn, as he reaches in carefully to check the bandage around your thigh.

The touch is gentle, but his movements are stiff, as though he's trying to be as careful as possible without drawing attention to the fact that his hands are on your bare thigh. You force yourself not to think about it. It's just a wound, just a necessary task.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just focusing on the gunshot, checking to make sure it’s as clean as it can be and that the stitches are holding. His hands are careful, methodical. You try to keep your breath steady, not allowing your mind to wander, but it's hard. He’s the only man you’ve known outside of your family, and this... this proximity is something unfamiliar.

Joel doesn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable you are, or maybe he’s trying not to. His attention is entirely on your leg, but you can’t help but wonder if he knows how awkward this all feels. Maybe it’s just you.

You catch yourself thinking about it again and shake the thought away.

“Could be worse,” Joel says, his voice gruff, but there’s something underlying in it. A quiet kind of care, like he’s trying not to make a big deal of it, “Don’t think it’s gon’ get infected,”

You look at him, trying to gauge what’s in his eyes, but the dim light makes it hard to read. His face is shadowed, but you can still make out the familiar furrow in his brow. He’s doing this because he has to, but there’s a softness behind it that you don’t want to acknowledge. It makes the silence feel a little too thick.

You shift uncomfortably, ignoring the flush that creeps up your cheeks, “Uh... thanks,” you mutter, not sure what else to say.

Joel glances up at you, his expression unreadable. There's a flicker in his eyes, like he's debating whether to say something or just move on. Finally, he snorts, breaking the silence. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

You offer a tight smile, trying to brush it off, but you can’t ignore the awkwardness hanging between you. You pull the jacket tighter around you, wishing you could disappear into it. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

He finishes adjusting the bandage, his hands careful, deliberate. “Alright, that should hold you for now. Don’t do anything stupid and it’ll heal fine."

You nod, still trying to process the weirdness of the moment. He stands up, his boots shifting against the dirt as he hesitates for a second, glancing down at you.

“Get some rest,” Joel adds, his voice softer now, quieter than you’d expect. “We’re gonna need it.”

You’re not sure how to respond, so you don’t. Instead, you pull the jacket closer, settling back into the seat. You hear the sound of him walking away, the rustle of them getting comfortable in their sleeping bags crinkling in the distance. You let the quiet settle in again, the warmth of the night and the heavy pull of sleep taking over.

[favorite-fan-fic]

Tonight you belong to me

Series, ongoing

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?

Set a few months after the TF events. 

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.

A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡 

A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.

Chapters

Prologue - In The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Dirt

Drabble - Wrecked

Chapter 2 - Closer

Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier

Chapter 4 - Frankie

Chapter 5 - Time In A Bottle

Chapter 6 - Never Let Me Go coming Feb 7th

Epilogue - ...

Playlist

[favorite-fan-fic]

7 summers

joel miller x reader

summary: After seven years apart, you see Joel Miller again, and what once felt like a fleeting teenage fling comes rushing back, forcing you to confront the love you never truly let go.

a/n: suggestive scenes, kissing, angstyish, fluff

joel miller masterlist

The summer I was eighteen, I fell in love with Joel Miller.

Not that I ever admitted it—not to him, not to myself, and certainly not to Tommy. Joel was Tommy’s older brother, and Tommy was my best friend. He was the one person in my life who knew everything about me, who’d always been there when I needed him. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin that. So, when Joel and I started sneaking off together that summer, I convinced myself it was just a fling, a secret I could lock away and never think about again.

But it wasn’t.

That summer was everything. Stolen kisses by the lake, his rough hands trailing down my arms, the way his voice turned soft when he called me “darlin’.” He wasn’t just my first love; he was my whole world, even if I couldn’t say it out loud. I wanted to. God, I wanted to tell him. But every time I opened my mouth, the fear of what would happen—the fallout with Tommy—kept the words stuck in my throat.

By the end of the summer, I was gone. Off to work, off to whatever life waited for me outside of our small Texas town. I swore to myself I’d move on, forget him, and never let myself feel that way again.

But some loves don’t fade.

Seven summers later, I was doing just fine—at least, that’s what I told myself. Then I ran into Tommy at a bar. Same grin, same easy laugh. For a second, it felt like we were kids again, back when everything was simple.

“y/n l/n,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Where the hell have you been hiding?”

We talked for hours, catching up, reminiscing about all the trouble we used to get into. By the end of the night, he’d convinced me to come over for dinner. “It’s been too damn long,” he said. “You gotta come by. I’ll cook, just like old times.”

I didn’t think twice about it. I should have.

When I walked into Tommy’s house two nights later, I saw him. Joel.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, a beer in his hand, looking exactly like I remembered—but somehow more. Broader, older, rougher around the edges in a way that made my stomach twist. The second he saw me, he froze, his eyes locking onto mine.

“Y/n,” he said, my name soft on his lips.

“Joel,” I whispered, my heart hammering in my chest.

Tommy, oblivious as ever, waltzed into the room and clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “You two know each other, right? Y/n used to hang out all the time when we were kids.”

Joel glanced at me, waiting, and I knew he was asking me to hold the line. To keep the secret we’d buried all those years ago. Somehow, I found my voice. “Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “We’ve met.”

seven summers ago

The room was dark, the only light coming from the soft glow of the moon streaming through the thin curtains. It painted faint shadows across the walls, moving slightly with the breeze that didn’t quite reach us. The night was warm and heavy, the air clinging to my skin, and the constant chirp of crickets outside filled the silence. I lay flat on my back, my head sinking into the flat pillow of the old, creaky bed in my family’s lakehouse.

Joel was beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His shoulder brushed against mine every time one of us moved, a gentle reminder of how little space there was between us. We hadn’t spoken for what felt like hours, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy. Dense with the weight of things neither of us wanted to say.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to look at him. The moonlight caught the angles of his face, his jawline sharp and his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to untangle some thought that wouldn’t let him go. I swallowed the lump in my throat and fidgeted with the frayed edge of the blanket resting around our waists, trying to quiet the thoughts spinning in my head.

“What do you think you’ll be doing in ten years?” I asked, my voice soft. It felt like the kind of question that belonged in a moment like this, one that could break the silence without shattering it.

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, like I’d caught him off guard. He turned his head to look at me, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that small, shy smile he did so well. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice low and easy. “Probably still workin’ construction, maybe startin’ my own business if I’m lucky.”

I smiled at the thought of it—of Joel running his own business. It felt so… right. “You’d be good at that,” I said, meaning it. “You’re good with your hands.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head like he didn’t believe me, but his gaze lingered. “What about you?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “What’s y/n gonna be doing in ten years?”

I bit my lip, my smile faltering as I stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” I said after a pause. “Just something far away from here.”

I felt Joel shift beside me, his voice hesitant when he repeated my words. “Far away?”

“Yeah,” I said, keeping my eyes on the ceiling. “I just… I’ve always felt like there’s something out there, you know? Something bigger. I don’t want to stay stuck in one place forever.”

There was a long pause, and I could feel his gaze on me even though I didn’t look at him. Then, slowly, I felt his hand brush against mine. My breath caught as his fingers tentatively laced with mine, his palm warm and a little rough.

“You won’t be stuck,” he said softly, his voice sure but carrying something else—something deeper.

I turned my head to look at him, our hands still tangled between us. “How do you know?” I whispered, my voice unsteady.

His eyes didn’t waver as they held mine, dark and steady. “’Cause you’re different, y/n. You’ve got somethin’—a spark or somethin’. You’re meant for more than this little town.”

His words hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for, filling me with equal parts hope and fear. I wanted to believe him—to believe that I was different, that I was meant for something more. But the thought of leaving, of leaving him, made my chest ache.

“What if I don’t want to leave everything behind?” I asked, my voice so soft I wasn’t sure he’d hear it.

Joel’s expression softened, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of my hand. “Then don’t,” he said simply. “But don’t let anyone hold you back, either. Not me, not Tommy… no one.”

His words settled over me, heavy and full of meaning. He was giving me permission, I realized—not that I needed it, but it still felt like he was handing me something. Something I wasn’t sure I could take.

I turned my gaze back to the ceiling, my throat tight and my heart pounding. There were a thousand things I wanted to say to him, things I couldn’t untangle from the knot of feelings twisting inside me. I didn’t want to leave him. He was the one thing that made staying feel worth it.

But I didn’t say any of that.

Instead, I squeezed his hand, letting the silence take over again. It stretched between us, thick with everything we weren’t saying, everything we might never say.

Joel didn’t pull away, and neither did I. We just lay there, our hands still tangled together, the weight of the moment pressing down on us as the warm summer night carried on.

The smell of grilled steak and warm buttered rolls filled Tommy’s kitchen, a scent so familiar it made my chest ache. It was the kind of meal I’d had a hundred times at the Miller house, back when summer nights were spent on their back porch, laughing over cold beers and fireflies.

I hadn’t expected to feel so at home here after all these years. But I also hadn’t expected Joel to be sitting across the table from me, looking at me like I was some kind of ghost from his past.

It had been seven summers since I last saw him—since I left. Seven years of growing up, of moving on, or at least trying to. But sitting here now, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“So,” Tommy said, leaning back in his chair as he nursed a beer. “Y/n, what the hell have you been up to? Feels like forever since we’ve seen you.”

I smiled, shrugging slightly. “Oh, you know. Work, life. Moved around a little, but I’m back now.”

Joel, who had been quiet most of the night, finally spoke up. His voice was lower, rougher than I remembered, like time had left its mark on him. “Didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

His words weren’t harsh, but there was something underneath them—something I couldn’t quite place.

“Neither did I,” I admitted, meeting his gaze. “Guess life doesn’t always go the way you think it will.”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head as he cut into his steak. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Tommy grinned, oblivious to the tension thickening between us. “Well, now that you’re back, maybe we can finally convince you to stick around for good this time.”

I gave a small laugh, but before I could answer, Joel spoke again. “Surprised you ain’t married yet.”

I blinked, caught off guard. His tone wasn’t teasing—if anything, he sounded genuinely curious.

“Yeah,” Tommy chimed in, smirking. “I figured some poor guy would’ve snatched you up by now.”

I rolled my eyes at Tommy’s comment, but it was Joel’s reaction I was focused on. His fork was still in his hand, his knuckles just a little too tight around it, his eyes steady on me like he was waiting for an answer.

“Guess I just haven’t found the right guy,” I said finally, keeping my voice light.

Joel’s jaw tightened slightly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just nodded, his gaze flickering away as he took a slow sip of his beer.

I felt my stomach twist. There were a hundred things I wanted to ask him, a hundred things I wanted to say, but none of them felt safe—not here, not with Tommy sitting between us, completely unaware of the unspoken history filling the room.

“So what about you?” I asked, tilting my head. “Married yet?”

Joel let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “Nope”

I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.

And just like that, the conversation moved on, Tommy rambling about something from work, and I forced myself to laugh along, to pretend like my heart wasn’t pounding, like Joel’s words—and the look in his eyes—hadn’t completely thrown me off balance.

But I could feel it.

That pull. That thing between us that had never really gone away.

And by the way Joel kept sneaking glances at me across the table, I knew he felt it too.

Dinner stretched on, filled with Tommy’s easy conversation and the occasional laugh, but I barely heard any of it. My mind was stuck on Joel—on the way he kept glancing at me, on the weight behind his words, on the tension that hummed between us like a live wire.

It felt like the past was pressing in on us, slipping through the cracks of time as if the last seven years had been nothing more than a breath between moments.

When the plates were cleared and Tommy started rambling about a game he wanted to watch, Joel stood, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He hesitated for a second, then looked over at me.

“Come out back with me?” His voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story.

I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve made an excuse, said my goodbyes, and walked out that door before I let myself slip any further into something I wasn’t sure I could handle.

But I nodded anyway.

I followed him through the screen door onto the back porch, the night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and warm summer air. The old wooden planks creaked under our weight as we stepped out, the sound familiar in a way that made my chest ache.

Joel leaned against the railing, taking a slow sip of his beer as he looked out at the yard. I stood beside him, hands gripping the edge of the wood, waiting for him to speak.

After a long pause, he exhaled and said, “Didn’t think I’d ever see you sittin’ at our dinner table again.”

His voice was softer now, quieter—just for me.

I swallowed, staring down at my hands. “Didn’t think I would be, either.”

He was quiet again, then he asked, “Why’d you come back?”

I let out a slow breath, watching the way the fireflies blinked lazily across the yard. “Needed a reset,” I admitted. “Life didn’t exactly turn out how I thought it would.”

Joel hummed, like he understood that better than he wanted to admit. “You runnin’ from somethin’?”

I hesitated before answering, because maybe, deep down, I was. But not in the way he thought.

“Not running,” I said carefully. “Just… trying to figure things out.”

Joel nodded like he got it, his fingers tapping absently against the neck of his beer bottle. He looked over at me then, his eyes dark under the dim glow of the porch light. “Seven years, y/n. That’s a long fucking time.”

I met his gaze, my throat tightening. “Yeah,” I whispered. “It is.”

Another pause stretched between us, thick and heavy. Then, so softly I almost didn’t hear it, Joel said, “I missed you.”

The words knocked the breath right out of me.

I turned to fully face him, my heart hammering in my chest. “Joel…”

He shook his head, setting his beer down on the railing before rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You don’t gotta say anything. Just—” He exhaled sharply, like he was fighting some internal battle. “Hell… It’s just… weird, you know? Havin’ you here again.”

I nodded, because it was weird. It was terrifying. It was everything I hadn’t let myself feel in years rushing back all at once.

“I missed you too,” I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Joel’s eyes flickered with something—something deep and unreadable. His fingers curled around the railing, his knuckles flexing like he was holding something back.

I should’ve walked away then. I should’ve let the moment pass before it became something bigger, something neither of us could take back.

But I didn’t.

Because the truth was, I didn’t want to.

And judging by the way Joel was looking at me, like he was seconds away from breaking, neither did he.

The night stretched thick between us, heavy with words we weren’t saying, with memories pressing in like ghosts we couldn’t shake. Joel was still gripping the railing, his fingers tightening and loosening like he was trying to talk himself out of something.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to.

“Feels like a lifetime ago,” he finally murmured, eyes still locked on me. “You and me. Sneakin’ around, swearin’ we weren’t—” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “—feelin’ things we both knew damn well we were.”

His words hit deep, settling somewhere behind my ribs. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? We had never admitted what we were, never spoken those words out loud, and yet, we both had known.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady. “We were just kids.”

Joel turned toward me then, slow and deliberate. “That what you tell yourself?”

I didn’t answer, because we both knew the truth. We hadn’t been just kids. Maybe we were young, maybe we didn’t know how to say it back then, but it had been real. As real as anything I’d ever felt.

Joel took a step closer, not enough to touch me, but enough that I could feel the warmth of him, could smell the mix of beer and cedarwood that clung to his skin.

“You happy?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more careful.

The question caught me off guard, not because it was unexpected, but because I wasn’t sure how to answer it.

I looked up at him, at the way the years had settled into him—lines at the corners of his eyes, a little more weight in his stance, a quiet kind of tiredness in his gaze. But underneath it all, he was still Joel. Still the boy who once laid beside me on a summer night, our fingers laced together, talking about the future like it was something we had all the time in the world to figure out.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Are you?”

Joel exhaled, his jaw clenching just slightly before he shook his head. “No”

The word settled between us, bare and unguarded.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the night filled the silence—distant laughter from inside, the low hum of crickets, the creak of the porch as Joel shifted closer.

Then, softly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask, he said, “You ever think about it?”

I knew exactly what he meant.

I wet my lips, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. “Think about what?”

Joel’s gaze dipped down to my mouth for half a second before coming back up. His voice was lower now, rougher.

“Us.”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Joel took another step, and this time, he was close enough that I could feel the heat of him, could see the way his breathing had slowed like he was holding something back.

“I think about it all the damn time,” he admitted. “What it would’ve been like if you stayed. If I—” He stopped himself, his hand flexing at his side before he finally met my gaze again. “If I hadn’t let you leave without sayin’ somethin’ real.”

I felt my breath hitch.

seven summers ago

The morning air was crisp for late August, the kind of cool that hinted at the coming fall. The sun hadn’t quite broken through the haze yet, and the lake behind Tommy’s house was still and gray, like it was holding its breath. My car was packed, the trunk stuffed to the brim with clothes, books, and the small reminders of home I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

Tommy leaned against the side of my car, his arms crossed and his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him look this serious. His dark hair was a mess, like he hadn’t bothered to brush it, and his shirt was wrinkled from where he’d probably pulled it off the floor.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked, his voice low and unusually hesitant.

“Yeah,” I said, though my voice wavered. “I think so.”

He shook his head, a small smile breaking through. “You’ve been talking about leaving since we were ten. If anyone’s ready, it’s you.”

I tried to smile back, but my chest ached too much to manage it. “Doesn’t make it any easier,” I admitted.

Tommy’s grin softened, and he stepped forward, pulling me into a hug that was tighter than I expected. He smelled like summer—grass, lake water, and a hint of the cheap cologne he always overused.

“Don’t forget about us little people when you’re out there changing the world, alright?” he said, his voice muffled against my hair.

I laughed, but it came out watery. “I could never forget you, Tommy. You wouldn’t let me.”

“Damn right,” he said, pulling back. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, but he blinked fast and didn’t let it show. “Call me, okay? I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night. I wanna hear about everything—college parties, classes, annoying roommates, all of it.”

“Promise,” I said, my voice thick.

He stepped back, giving me a mock salute before wandering toward the house. And that’s when I saw Joel.

He was standing on the porch, leaning against one of the wooden beams like he’d been there the whole time. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t moving, just watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. His dark eyes locked on mine, and for a second, it felt like the whole world had gone still.

I hesitated, my chest tightening as I took a shaky breath and forced myself to walk toward him. The porch creaked under my weight, and when I stopped in front of him, he straightened, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans.

“Didn’t think you’d come say goodbye,” I said softly, my voice catching in my throat.

Joel’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away, staring out at the lake like it held the answer to whatever he was struggling with. “’Course I’d come,” he said after a long moment, his voice low and rough. “Wouldn’t let you leave without it.”

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides to keep from reaching for him. “I’ll miss you,” I said, the words barely above a whisper.

His gaze snapped back to mine, and for a second, I thought he might say something—something I’d been waiting to hear for what felt like forever. His mouth opened, but then he closed it, his shoulders stiffening as if he’d talked himself out of it.

“Don’t let anyone hold you back,” he said instead, his voice steady but distant. “Not me, not Tommy… no one.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. They were the same ones he’d said to me that night at the lake house, the same ones that had stayed with me long after the summer ended.

I wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to tell him that he wasn’t holding me back—he was the only thing making it hard to leave. But I couldn’t. The words stuck in my throat, too tangled up in everything I felt for him to come out right.

Instead, I nodded, blinking hard against the tears threatening to spill. “Take care of Tommy for me,” I said, my voice trembling.

Joel’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Always.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched so long it felt unbearable. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

For a moment, he didn’t move, and I thought he might pull away. But then his arms came around me, strong and steady, holding me tighter than I’d expected. I buried my face in his chest, breathing him in—sawdust, sweat, and the faint trace of cologne he only wore when he had to.

I wanted to stay there forever, to let the rest of the world disappear, but I couldn’t. I pulled back, my hands lingering on his arms for just a moment before I let them fall to my sides.

“Goodbye, Joel,” I said, my voice barely steady.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded, his dark eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name.

I turned and walked to my car, my chest aching with every step. As I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Joel was still standing on the porch, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching me drive away.

I didn’t look back again. If I had, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave.

“You think it would’ve changed anything?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Joel’s throat bobbed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He ran a hand over his face, letting out a breath like he was fighting with himself. “But I do know one thing.”

“What?”

He lifted his hand, hesitant at first, then finally brushed his fingers along my arm, his touch featherlight but enough to send a shiver up my spine.

“I ain’t ever felt nothin’ like I felt with you,” he murmured. “Not before. Not after.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, my body swaying toward his before I could stop it.

“Joel…”

He shook his head, his hand trailing down my arm until his fingers barely skimmed mine. “Tell me you don’t feel it,” he said, voice rough and strained. “Tell me you don’t feel like we lost somethin’ we weren’t supposed to.”

I wanted to lie. Wanted to say that I had moved on, that whatever we had back then was just young and reckless, something that wasn't meant to last.

But I couldn't.

Because I did feel it.

I felt it in the way my chest ached just looking at him, in the way his touch still sent a shiver down my spine, in the way every moment we spent apart felt like time wasted.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling slightly under his. "I can't tell you that," | whispered.

Joel's breath caught, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around mine, like he was holding onto something he wasn't ready to let go of.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick, humming with something too strong to ignore, too real to pretend wasn't there.

The air between Joel and I crackled with so much unspoken tension, it was almost unbearable. My heart pounded against my chest, every nerve alight with the pull between us, but neither of us moved. We were so close, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, his hands lingering on my waist as if he were just waiting for me to make the next move. And I almost did.

But before I could, the sound of the screen door creaked behind us.

“Hey, you guys coming back in?” Tommy called out from the doorway, his voice loud and clueless as ever. “I got that game on, and I’m not drinking alone out here.”

I froze, every muscle in my body locking up, and for a split second, it felt like the world had just stopped. Joel pulled back, almost imperceptibly, his hands still resting on my waist but no longer holding me so tightly. We both turned toward the door, where Tommy was standing with a grin, completely unaware of what had almost happened.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly as he took a half step back. “Yeah, we’ll be right in,” he called back to Tommy, his voice rough, like he was trying to hide the tension that had just exploded between us.

Tommy, oblivious to everything that had just passed between us, gave a lazy wave and turned back inside. “Don’t take too long, man! You know I need company for the game.”

I watched him disappear into the house, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. A long, silent moment passed between Joel and me, and I could almost hear the words that neither of us was willing to say. But we both knew it—what had just happened. What had almost happened. It hung between us like a heavy fog, and yet, neither of us moved to bridge the gap.

Joel was the first to break the silence, his voice low and rough. “Guess that’s our cue.”

I nodded, my throat tight as I tried to process everything. The heat between us hadn’t gone away, not even with Tommy’s interruption. If anything, it only made it stronger. But now, standing here with Joel so close, with everything hanging in the air, I wasn’t sure where to go from here.

“Yeah,” I managed to say, my voice shaky. “Guess it is.”

Joel let out a breath, running a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture that always made him look like the same guy from years ago. He didn’t seem as certain as he had just moments before. There was hesitation now, uncertainty.

He gave a short nod, turning toward the door. “Come on. Let’s not keep Tommy waiting.”

I followed him back inside, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on me. The door swung shut behind us, and we both slipped back into the routine of being around Tommy, pretending like nothing had changed.

But it had.

I could feel it in the way Joel’s eyes lingered on me when he thought I wasn’t looking, in the way my chest tightened every time he spoke, like I was trying to hold myself together while something deeper, something real, threatened to spill out.

I wasn’t sure how we were going to handle this. How we were supposed to go back to the way things were. But for now, we were both content to pretend. Pretend that everything was fine, that Tommy hadn’t just unknowingly interrupted something that could change everything.

I stepped out onto the porch, the cool night air brushing against my skin, but my body still felt warm from the tension that lingered between us. I hadn’t expected things to go the way they had tonight—especially not after so much time had passed. But there was no denying it. The pull I felt toward Joel had never truly gone away.

“Let me give you a ride home,” Joel said, breaking the silence as he stepped up beside me. His voice was low, a little gravelly, and there was something in his eyes—something that made my heart race.

I hesitated for a moment, looking back toward the door, knowing I should just leave and get some space to clear my head. But the desire to be close to him again, even just for a little longer, was stronger than any of the reasons I told myself I should go.

“Yeah,” I said, finally giving in, “okay.”

We walked to his truck, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound between us. The night felt different now, charged with something neither of us wanted to acknowledge—at least, not yet. When we got to the truck, Joel opened the door for me, his eyes never leaving mine as I climbed in. The truck door shut with a soft thud, and I settled in, trying to steady my breathing.

The drive was quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. But the air between us was thick with everything unsaid—the years apart, the memories we couldn’t forget.

When we finally pulled up to my place, I felt a lump form in my throat. I didn’t want to say goodbye—not yet, not like this. But what else was there to say?

Joel’s truck rumbled to a stop outside my house, but neither of us moved immediately. The air felt thicker now, heavier, charged with all the things we hadn’t said. My heart was racing in my chest, the silence between us louder than any words could’ve been.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said quietly, trying to force some kind of normalcy into the situation. But my voice trembled, betraying everything I was trying to hide.

Joel didn’t answer at first, just stared at me for a moment. His brow furrowed, his jaw tense, like he was struggling to keep control. Without another word, he climbed out of the truck and walked around to my side, his movements slow but purposeful.

I froze for a second, wondering what he was doing. But when he reached the passenger door, he opened it, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity I couldn’t ignore. “Let me walk you to your door,” he said softly, as though it was a question, though neither of us needed permission.

I nodded, my throat tight, and stepped out of the truck, trying to steady myself as I moved toward him. His presence was magnetic, pulling me in as we walked together, side by side, toward the porch.

The night was quiet around us, but everything felt loud—our footsteps echoing, the rush of my pulse in my ears, the space between us that felt far too small for both of us to be standing in. My mind raced, but my body seemed to know exactly what it wanted, gravitating toward him with every step.

When we reached the front door, Joel stopped, turning to face me. There was something in his eyes, something raw and desperate, like he couldn’t stand to let go of this moment. The weight of the unspoken hung between us, and for a split second, I almost thought he would say something, but he didn’t. He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, a quiet, gentle touch that sent a shock through my body.

“Y/n…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His hand lifted to my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he took another step closer. My breath hitched in my throat as I looked up at him, barely able to hold his gaze.

The moment felt too fragile, and I couldn’t make myself say anything else. Slowly, I turned toward the door, my hand reaching for the handle. “Goodnight, Joel,” I said, my voice barely audible.

He didn’t speak as I opened the door, stepping back just enough to let me through. I kept my gaze focused ahead, not trusting myself to look back at him, afraid of what I might see, afraid of what I might feel.

The door clicked shut behind me as I walked into my house, the weight of the night settling around me. I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I'd told myself I wasn't going to give in, that I was going to walk away and let things be, but Joel's words, his touch, had made it impossible to ignore the truth l'd buried for so long.

I slipped out of my shoes and made my way into the living room, my heart still racing from everything that had happened. As I sank into the couch, the silence in the house felt suffocating. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Joel-his face, his hands on me, his kiss.

I was trying to talk myself down, to convince myself that I could move on. That I should. But just as I was about to stand, I heard a knock on the door.

I froze. My heart skipped a beat.

I walked slowly to the door, trying to calm the rush of emotions flooding my chest. When I opened it, there he was— Joel. Standing in the dark, his posture tense, but his eyes searching mine like he had to say something, like he couldn't leave without it.

“I can’t walk away from you again,” he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

Before I could even respond, his hand reached out to gently tug me closer, and his lips crashed onto mine. The kiss was fierce, urgent, as if he was trying to make up for the years apart, as if he couldn't stand the space between us anymore. I gasped, my hands coming up to clutch at his shirt as I kissed him back, my body pressed against his, needing him as much as he needed me.

He pulled me fully into the doorway, his hands moving to my waist, guiding me backward into the house. The door closed behind us with a soft thud, but neither of us paid attention to it.

All that mattered was the way his lips moved against mine, the way his touch made me feel like I was finally coming home.

Joel's kiss deepened, his hands sliding up my back to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer until there wasn't an inch of space between us.

I felt the heat of his body, the way his muscles flexed as he held me, the way his breath caught when I tugged him.

When we finally pulled apart, I was breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. His forehead rested against mine, both of us struggling to catch our breath, to make sense of what had just happened.

My fingers curling into his shirt as I pulled him back to me, not wanting to let go, not wanting to fight this anymore. Neither of us was ready to say goodbye—not yet, not when the night was still young and the truth was finally out in the open.

The world outside disappeared, leaving only us in this moment, the only sound the rush of our breathing, the pounding of our hearts in sync.

He pulled away briefly, his forehead resting against mine, his breath shaky.

"I can't pretend anymore," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never stopped wanting you, y/n. Not for a second."

My heart twisted in my chest, and I didn't care anymore about what we had to lose. "Neither did I," I whispered, before closing the space between us again, kissing him with everything I had left to give.

This time, there was no holding back. We were finally done running from the truth.

[favorite-fan-fic]

Joel Miller x Reader Just Coffee

fluffy Joel drabble to help clear my head. I was a barista for 8+ years and loved my regulars, so this is like a little slice of my life when I worked for a family owned coffee shop in the downtown of a city. Hope you enjoy! lmk if you want a ptII cause im thinking hot car sex w these two after their first date.

Inspired by that tlou (game) scene where Ellie asks if Joel used to go to coffee shops, and he admits, ‘All the time.’ And when she asks what he would order, he says, ‘Coffee, just coffee’ 

Vanilla latte, iced—extra pump of vanilla, three pumps of caramel, swirl, whipped cream. Chai latte, soy milk—hot, extra hot. Cold brew with sweet cream, shot of peppermint. London Fog—extra foamy, not too hot.

"Coffee. Just coffee."

You could’ve kissed him right then and there. And he was handsome enough that you wouldn’t even have to close your eyes. He must’ve caught the way your shoulders relaxed, how the sigh left your body like a weight lifted.

“Comin’ right up,” you smiled, ringing him up as he slid a few ones into your very, very empty tip jar.

‘Just Coffee’ guy settled at the small bar along the window, joining the usual morning stragglers—people who took their time with their warm mugs, occasionally ordering a bagel or a scone to go with it. He sat next to your crossword regular, an older gentleman who always had a puzzle in front of him, filling in the blanks with unwavering confidence. Always pen, never pencil.

You left them to it, but your eyes drifted toward ‘Just Coffee’ now and then, making sure his mug wasn’t too low, wasn’t getting too cold.

The morning flew by in a blur of orders and chatter, the shop filling and emptying in waves. By the time you checked back on ‘Just Coffee’ guy, he was gone.

A pang of disappointment sat low in your stomach. You wished you would’ve gotten him talking—he had that air about him, the kind of presence that carried stories. The people who sat at your bar top, the ones who weren’t rushing in and out for their nine-to-five caffeine fix, were always the most interesting.

You were surprised to see him the next day. A smile lifted at his lips as he stepped up in line, cash at the ready in his large, dirt-greased hands. A man who worked manual labor, clearly.

"Coffee," he said, his twang deep and velvety. "Just coffee, miss."

"You got it," you said with a smile, handing him a warm mug of your house roast as he took his new usual seat at the bar.

"Dammit—" the man next to him muttered, scratching his chin with the tip of his pen. Steve, your crossword regular. Under his nose, the day’s puzzle sat partially filled in, his brow furrowed in frustration. “What in the hell is the ‘process of leveling or smoothing wet concrete’? Seven letters?" He called your name, exasperated. "You got any idea?”

"Steve, if I knew anything about construction, I’d be way further along on my home improvement projects," you called over the hiss of the milk frother.

"Screedin’ is the word you’re lookin’ for, I think."

‘Just Coffee’ spoke casually, like it was second nature, his voice rolling low behind the lip of his mug. Steve blinked at him, like he hadn’t even realized the man was there, his wide eyes darting between him and the crossword.

"I think that might just work! How do ya spell that now? S-C-R-E—"

"S-C-R-E-E-D-I-N-G," ‘Just Coffee’ said slowly, the drawl thick and steady as the letters tumbled off his tongue.

You smiled to yourself, glancing his way. Knew he had to be manual labor. But before you could turn and ask him about it, he was already stepping off the stool, giving a quick nod of thanks, and heading for the door.

A couple of ones landed next to his empty mug—more than the cost of his coffee.

He didn’t come the next day.

Or the day after that.

By the fourth morning, you caught yourself lingering by the bar, staring at the empty stool where he sat. The coffee shop was just as busy, orders coming in waves, regulars dropping their change into the tip jar, Steve grumbling over his crossword. But something was missing.

You’d gotten used to those hazel eyes meeting yours across the counter, the quiet weight of his presence. The way his dark, unruly hair framed his face, always a little windswept, a little messy, like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into a long shift. His hands—rough, calloused, dirt still lingering in the creases—wrapped steady around a warm coffee mug.

It had only been a handful of mornings, but somehow, he’d settled into your routine like he belonged there.

And now, the absence of him gnawed at you in a way that surprised you.

You should’ve asked him his damn name.

By the sixth day, you convinced yourself it didn’t matter. He was just another customer, just a passing figure who needed a caffeine fix before moving on. Maybe he found a different coffee spot. Maybe he’d never been the type to stick around anyway.

But on the seventh morning, as you wiped down the counter, movement by the door caught your eye.

You turned, heart kicking up against your ribs.

There he was.

Another worn flannel, same dirt-streaked hands, same heavy-lidded gaze scanning the shop like he hadn’t been gone for a week. And when those hazel eyes finally landed on you, a flicker of something warm and familiar crossed his face.

You pushed off the counter before you could stop yourself.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” you said, trying to sound casual, but you knew he could hear the lilt of amusement in your voice.

“How are ya, miss?” he drawled, stepping up to the counter, cash already in hand. “Been busy.”

You nodded, trying not to stare too long at the way his fingers curled around the worn bills. “Let me guess—coffee, just coffee?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You got it.”

As you poured, you finally asked the question that had been itching at you since the first day he walked in.

“You got a name, or am I just supposed to keep callin’ you ‘Just Coffee’ forever?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly as he watched you.

“Joel,” he said.

You smiled, setting his mug down in front of him. “Well, Joel—hope you don’t disappear on me again.”

His fingers brushed the warm ceramic as he settled onto his usual stool. “Jobs come and go, just depends on the day, hunny.”

Hunny. It was damn near like honey dripping from his tongue in that slow drawl, thick and warm. The way it rolled off his lips curled low in your belly, heating your cheeks as you turned to the next customer, hoping to God he didn’t notice.

The middle of the week was always slow, which worked in your favor today. By the time the morning rush faded, you found yourself wiping down the counters, clearing dishes near the bar, and finally getting the chance to ask Joel about his life.

You rinsed out a mug, letting the warm water run over your fingers as you glanced toward him. He was nursing his coffee slow, one hand wrapped around the mug, the other resting loose on the bar. His posture was easy, relaxed, but you could tell there was something there, something deep in his bones that he carried.

"So, what kinda jobs come and go?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

Joel glanced up from his mug, considering you for a moment. “Construction, mostly," he said, rolling his shoulders like the very word made them ache. "Been a contractor for years—fixin' up places, layin’ concrete, buildin’ what needs buildin'.”

Figures. Those arms—strong, steady—the kind that looked like they knew the weight of real work. His hands were large, rough and calloused, the kind you’d feel long after they touched you. But, Joel was a customer. You weren’t thinking that, of course not.

"Guess that explains why you knew the crossword answer last week," you teased, tossing the rag over your shoulder. "Steve still talks about it like you pulled magic outta thin air."

Joel huffed, shaking his head. "Man’s usin’ a pen for a crossword, and I’m the one impressin’ him?"

You grinned, leaning against the bar. "Hey, knowledge is power around here, Joel."

He let out a quiet hmm and took another sip of his coffee.

Before you could press further, the bell above the door jingled, and you got up hastily to take the newcomer’s order.

“Don’t worry about him,” Joel called over, sitting up straighter, setting down his coffee mug as his gaze flicked toward the man.

He stepped inside, his dark hair long, face clean-shaven, dimples deepening as he took in the scene. Something unspoken passed between the two of them—something that made it hard to tell if they were coworkers, friends, or something else entirely.

Then the man clapped Joel on the shoulder, grinning wide, “So this is what you’ve been ditchin’ the mornin’ crew for, huh, big brother?”

Your brows lifted. Brother.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, eyes narrowing with obvious irritation, but his posture remained loose—like he was used to this, used to him.

“What ya got for me, Tommy?” he asked.

You barely had a second to process before Tommy’s attention shifted to you. His gaze swept over you, warm and playful, before he leaned a little too comfortably against the bar, ignoring his brother.

“Well now,” he drawled, flashing you a grin that could probably talk its way out of a speeding ticket, “if I knew this was the kinda place Joel was sneakin’ off to, I would’ve tagged along a whole lot sooner.”

Joel muttered something under his breath and rubbed his forehead.

You crossed your arms, biting back a smile. “And here I thought he just liked my coffee.”

Tommy let out a low chuckle, tilting his head. “Can’t say I blame him, darlin’.”

Joel let out a long, long sigh, already done with whatever this was turning into. He stood, tugging his jacket over his broad shoulders before clapping a firm hand on Tommy’s back—firm like a warning.

“C’mon,” Joel muttered, steering him toward the door.

Tommy let himself be dragged, but not without a final wink in your direction. “I’ll be seein’ you around, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips as Joel shoved him out the door with far more force than necessary, the bell jingling wildly as they disappeared outside.

Joel glanced back once, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the last two minutes of his life before heading off into the distance.

You just smiled, shrugging as you wiped down the counter.

But things changed after that morning.

Tommy only needed to step through the damn door before Joel was tensing at the bar, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his coffee suddenly the least interesting thing in the room. He continued to show up every morning, still ordered just coffee, still sat in his usual spot—but now, his eyes lingered on you more.

And now, he stayed just a little longer.

Not by much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did.

You noticed how his gaze flicked toward you between sips, how his fingers tapped idly against his mug whenever you laughed at something a customer said.

His brother joined him more too. You noticed the way he cut Tommy off real quick anytime his brother got a little too comfortable leaning against the counter, that exasperated “Tommy” carrying a warning underneath it.

And you noticed how his tips got just a little bigger after that morning, a couple extra bills tucked under his mug like an unspoken thank you.

So when a week passed—no sign of Tommy this time, no interruptions, just Joel sitting at your bar—you wondered if today might be different.

And it was.

Because today, as you cleared a dish from the counter, Joel cleared his throat. Not the casual kind, not the I’m just readjusting in my seat kind.

The nervous kind.

You glanced up, brows lifting. “What’s eatin’ ya, Joel?”

Joel exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Just—uh.” He scratched at the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “You, uh… ever eat anywhere that ain’t this place?”

Your lips twitched. “You askin’ if I leave my own coffee shop, Joel?”

His jaw tightened, clearly close to regretting whatever he was doing, but he powered through.

“I’m askin’ if you’d wanna get somethin’ to eat. When your shift is done.” He finally met your gaze, voice a little gruffer than usual, but there was something hesitant in his expression—like he was braced for you to shut him down, “With me.”

You leaned back against the counter, arms crossing as you took your time, letting him sit in it for a second. Watching the way his fingers curled around his coffee mug, how he resisted the urge to shift under your gaze.

Then you smiled. “Are you asking me out?”

His eyes flicked away, like he really hated how direct you were, but you could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Then, after a pause—“That…a problem?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Not at all.”

Joel’s fingers flexed against his mug. “Good.”

You grabbed a napkin and a pen, scribbling something before sliding it across the counter. “Then you’re gonna need my number.”

He eyed it, then you, something unreadable in his gaze before he finally, finally reached for it. His fingers brushed yours as he folded the napkin, tucking it into his pocket without another word.But you swore—swore—you saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took another slow sip of his coffee.

Part II is here :)

[favorite-fan-fic]

Damp, Dirty, His

Summary: Joel’s been through a lot, but mysteriously damp flannels? That’s a new one. When he sneaks home to investigate, but what he finds is far filthier than he imagined. His housemate’s got a thing for his shirts… and from the way she’s moaning into one, she’s got a thing for him too. And Joel’s got every intention of making it worse.

Warnings: 18+ afab and fem reader, p in v sex, alludes to curvy reader, unspecified age gap, no description of reader but has big boobs and ass, some dubcon but she’s into it, dirty talk, no use of y/n, unsafe sex, oral (m! receiving), fingering, finger sucking, creampie, degradation, praise kink, ass play

Word count: 4.3k

Joel Miller wasn’t a man who jumped to conclusions. He was a man of patience, of careful observation. Years of surviving had drilled that into him. But something wasn’t sitting right.

For the past few weeks, his flannels had been turning up… different. Damp in places they shouldn’t be. Not rain-soaked, not sweat-stained—just wet. He’d pick one up from where he left it, and the fabric would cling to his fingers, the scent of something faint but unmistakable lingering in the fibers. Something warm. Something intimate.

At first, he thought maybe the laundry had been left out too long. Maybe it was just one of those things. But it kept happening. And every time, it was one of his favorites. The ones he wore most. The ones she seemed to watch him in. His housemate.

She wasn’t careless. Wasn’t the type to spill something and not say a word. But Joel had noticed the way she lingered when he pulled on one of those flannels, how her gaze dragged over him, how she hesitated just a little too long when handing one back. He already had a feeling. And today, he was going to confirm it.

So instead of heading out on patrol like he was supposed to, Joel doubled back, moving quiet, careful. The snow crunched beneath his boots, but he knew the sounds of Jackson well enough to weave between them, to slip into his own home without so much as a whisper.

The house was still. The kind of stillness that came with someone who thought they were alone. He gently turned the knob and pushed the door open, the hinges whispering a soft protest. The warmth of the house enveloped him like a lover's embrace. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and his gaze fell upon a sight that made his blood boil with desire and possessiveness.

And the moment he heard it—soft, breathy, a sound that hit him low in his stomach—he knew.

Her.

His flannel—his—draped over her frame, too big, the sleeves bunched around her wrists, the hem riding up as she moved. She was bent over the kitchen table, the flannel riding up to expose her round, bare ass. The shirt was too large for her, but it clung to her in all the right places, revealing her voluptuous figure, hips rolling into her own hand, her face turned into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to this moment.

And Christ, if that wasn’t a sight that damn near knocked the air from his lungs.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and deep. He should leave. Should turn around, pretend he hadn’t seen a damn thing.

But instead, he stepped closer, the floorboards groaning a little under his heavy boots. She gasped, spinning around with a start, her cheeks flushing a deep red. The flannel was open, and she had been using his shirt to muffle her moans. The sight of her, so vulnerable and caught in the act, only served to fuel his desire. He set the rifle against the wall, his eyes never leaving hers, and strode purposefully across the room.

"That why my flannels keep turnin’ up damp, darlin’?"

"Joel," she stuttered, her voice a mix of shock and arousal. "I-I can explain."

He didn't wait for her excuses. The sight of her flustered and exposed only added to the power he felt surging through him. "I don't want explanations," he said gruffly, his voice a low rumble. "I want to know why you're using my things for... that."

Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating as she took in the look on his face. It was a mix of anger and something else, something darker and more primal. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt. Joel was never one to mince words, and his directness only served to turn her on even more.

"I-I just..." she stuttered again, trying to find the words, but they were lost in the thick haze of lust that had settled over the room. The flannel fell open further, revealing her naked chest, her nipples hard with arousal. She reached for it instinctively, but Joel's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and stopping her.

"You like wearing my shirts, huh?" he said, his voice thick with a challenge. "Let's see how you like the real thing."

With that, Joel closed the distance between them, pulling the flannel from her body. She didn't resist, instead letting out a shaky breath as his calloused hands grazed her bare skin. He tossed the fabric aside, his gaze raking over her nakedness. The sight of her made him want to conquer and claim, to show her who was in charge here.

He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her closer until their lips almost touched. "You're playing with fire, darling," he murmured, his voice a warning and a promise. He felt her pulse racing under his fingers, her body trembling with anticipation.

Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills, but Joel knew he'd already won. She was his for the taking, and she knew it. With a smirk that barely touched his lips, he claimed her mouth with a bruising kiss. His tongue pushed past her teeth, tasting the sweetness of her mouth as his hands roamed over her curves, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She moaned into the kiss, her body melting into his, and he knew he had her.

Breaking away, Joel stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. "On your knees," he ordered, his voice low and demanding. She obeyed without hesitation, the submissive side of her bubbling to the surface, eager to please the dominant man before her. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, letting them fall to the floor. His erection sprang free, thick and proud, pointing straight at her plump, parted lips.

"Open," he said, and she did, her eyes never leaving his. He took a fistful of her hair, guiding his length into her mouth. She gagged slightly, but took him deeper, her eyes watering with the effort. Joel's hand tightened in her hair, controlling her movements as he began to fuck her face. He watched with a mix of pleasure and possession as she struggled to keep up with his rhythm, her cheeks hollowing with each thrust.

He could feel her submission, the way she eagerly took him in, and it only made him harder. "You like that?" he growled, his voice thick with lust. She nodded, unable to speak around his cock, and he chuckled darkly. "Good girl." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, the gesture oddly tender amidst the aggression.

Joel pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, his cock glistening with her saliva. "You've been a bad girl, using my things," he said, his voice a teasing purr. "But I'm going to show you how to use them properly." He stepped back, grabbing a chair from the nearby table and spinning it around. He sat down, his erection still standing proud, and gestured for her to straddle him.

With trembling legs, she obeyed, her pussy wet and aching as she settled over his lap. He reached between them, stroking her clit with a rough thumb before plunging two fingers into her heat. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he began to pump them in and out, his eyes never leaving hers. The way he touched her, so rough and yet so precise, made her feel alive, like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff and only he could save her from the fall.

"Beg for it," he demanded, his voice a dark whisper that sent shivers down her spine. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to give in, but the pleasure was too much. "Please, Joel," she whimpered, her voice barely a breath. "Fuck me."

The words hung in the air, heavy with need, and Joel's control snapped like a twig under a boot. He yanked her onto his lap, the chair groaning under their combined weight. He positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance, feeling her wetness and heat against his skin. With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her, making her cry out.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body tightening around him like a vice. Joel's eyes rolled back in his head as he savored the sensation of her warmth. He began to move, his hips rocking into hers, each thrust punctuated by a guttural grunt. She met him stroke for stroke, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm, the friction sending waves of pleasure crashing through her body.

He leaned in, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he whispered filthy words, degrading her in the most delicious way. "That's it, take it," he growled, his breath hot against her skin. "You're such a slut for me, aren't you?" She whimpered, her body responding to his words, her walls clenching around him. He liked it when she played the brat, but now she was all his, all submission.

He could feel her climbing closer to the edge, her breaths coming in ragged pants. He reached up, grabbing one of her breasts, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pinch sent a bolt of pleasure through her, making her moan around his cock. He smirked, knowing he had her right where he wanted her.

Joel's other hand slid down to her ass, giving it a firm squeeze before his fingers delved between her cheeks. She gasped as he found her tight hole, teasing it with a single digit. "You're mine," he murmured, pushing into her untouched entrance. "All of you."

The sudden intrusion made her jolt, her eyes flying open. But instead of pulling away, she pushed back into his hand, eager for more. He chuckled darkly, his grip on her hip tightening as he began to fuck her with his finger, the dual sensation making her pussy clench around his cock. "So greedy," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You're going to take everything I give you, aren't you?"

Her only response was a muffled moan, her voice lost in the fabric of his shirt. Joel could feel her orgasm building, her walls fluttering around him like a caged bird desperate to fly. He leaned back, watching her face contort with pleasure, his own climax approaching like a storm on the horizon. His strokes grew faster, his hips snapping into her with a ferocity that left them both gasping for air.

He withdrew his finger from her ass, reaching around to pinch her clit as he fucked her harder. She bucked wildly, her nails raking down his back as the first wave of her climax washed over her. He felt her pussy clench, her juices flooding his cock as she screamed into the fabric of his shirt. The sound sent him over the edge, and with a roar, he emptied himself inside her, filling her to the brim.

Her orgasm was a symphony of sounds, her moans and gasps echoing through the small house. Joel held her hips firmly, ensuring she took every last inch of his release. He watched as she rode the peak of pleasure, her body shaking with the intensity of it all. When she finally collapsed against him, panting and sated, he couldn't help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction.

He kissed her neck, his breath warm and ragged against her skin. "You're mine now," he murmured, his voice thick with possessiveness. "And you're going to wear my cum as a reminder." He felt her shiver in his arms, the dirty talk only serving to excite her further.

Joel's thumb continued to circle her clit lazily, keeping her on the edge. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his voice a dark promise. "You liked being caught, didn't you?" She nodded, unable to form words, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure.

He pulled out of her with a wet sound, the head of his cock glistening with their combined juices. He stood, lifting her off his lap, and spun her around to face the kitchen counter. "Bend over," he ordered, his voice still commanding. She complied, her knees wobbly from the intense orgasm.

The cool countertop sent a shiver up her spine, and she gripped the edge, her knuckles white with the effort. Joel stepped behind her, his eyes feasting on her reddened, swollen pussy. He grabbed her hips, positioning himself again. With one swift movement, he plunged back into her, making her gasp. He was still hard, still insatiable. He began to fuck her from behind, his thrusts deep and powerful, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the room.

Her breasts bounced with each impact, the painful pleasure sending her spiraling back towards the edge. She could feel his grip tighten, his hands leaving bruises on her hips, and she loved it. He was claiming her, marking her as his own, and she reveled in the feeling of submission. She pushed back into him, taking him deeper, her walls clenching around his length.

"You want more?" he growled, his hand reaching around to pinch her clit again. She moaned, the sensation too much, too intense. He chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing her ear. "That's my girl." He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into her, the suddenness of it making her cry out.

The kitchen counter was slick with their sweat and desire, their bodies moving in a dance of passion and dominance. Joel's hand reached up, wrapping around her neck, his thumb pressing lightly against her throat. The subtle hint of control sent a thrill through her, making her pussy clench around him. She pushed back, eager for the pain, for the feeling of him owning her completely.

He groaned, his hips pistoning into her with renewed vigor. The angle was perfect, hitting her g-spot with every thrust. She could feel another orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces. "Beg for it," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "Tell me you want it, tell me you need it."

Her voice was a desperate whine as she pleaded, "Please, Joel, please let me cum again." He tightened his grip, his thumb pressing slightly harder on her clit. "Not until I say so," he said, his voice a dark command. She whimpered, her body writhing under his control. He knew exactly how to play her, how to tease and taunt until she was begging for release.

He slowed his pace, drawing out each thrust, savoring the feel of her tightness around him. The anticipation was intoxicating, a sweet torment that made his balls ache with need. He watched in the flickering candlelight as her ass cheeks clenched with each movement, her pussy gripping his cock like a vice. The room was a cacophony of their harsh breaths and the wet sounds of their bodies colliding.

"Please," she moaned, her voice desperate. "I need it."

Joel's hand slid from her throat to her clit, his thumb circling it with the perfect amount of pressure. "You're going to come for me," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "But not yet." He watched her body tense, her muscles tightening around him, desperate for release. The power was intoxicating, the way she trembled under his touch.

He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back. "You're going to take it all," he breathed into her ear, his voice a seductive growl. "Every inch of me, until I say you can come." She whimpered, her head dropping forward as she tried to push back against him, her hips moving in a silent plea for more.

The room was a blur of sensation, the smell of sex and sweat mixing with the faint scent of burning wood from the fireplace. The candles cast shadows across their bodies, flickering with each thrust. Joel's hand slid down to her ass, his fingers tracing the line between her cheeks before pushing into her again. The feeling of fullness was almost too much, but she craved it, her body begging for the painful pleasure that only he could provide.

"You're so fucking tight," he murmured, his voice strained with his own climax approaching. "I'm going to fill you up until you can't take anymore."

Her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she felt his thumb push past the tight ring of muscle, invading her ass. The pain was sharp, but it only served to heighten the pleasure. She was lost in a whirlwind of sensations, her body no longer her own as he controlled her every movement. Joel's other hand wrapped around her hip, guiding her to move back onto him, her pussy clenching around his shaft as he pushed deeper into her.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice harsh. She opened her eyes, her vision swimming with lust. Their gazes locked, the intensity of his stare piercing through the fog of pleasure. "You're going to come for me," he said, his thumb moving in time with his cock, pushing her closer and closer to the precipice. "Now."

Her body obeyed, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed his name, her nails digging into the wood as she came apart in his arms. Joel's own climax followed swiftly, his cock pulsing inside her as he filled her up with his seed. He groaned, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself completely.

For a moment, they remained like that, panting and spent. Then Joel pulled out, his cock slipping from her with a wet sound that made her shiver. He stepped back, watching her with hooded eyes as she slowly straightened, her legs shaking. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his hand.

"You're mine now," he said, his voice low and possessive. "Every inch of you." She nodded, her cheeks still flushed, her breaths coming in shallow pants. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me you're mine."

Her eyes searched his, a mix of shock and awe at the intensity of what had just transpired. "I'm... I'm yours," she finally managed to whisper, the words thick with desire. He leaned in, his mouth claiming hers in a brutal kiss, his tongue demanding entry. She melted into him, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her climax.

Breaking the kiss, Joel grabbed her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "And don't you ever forget it," he warned, his voice a low rumble. "You wear my shirts, you take my cum. You're going to be walking around with a constant reminder of who's in charge." He smirked, watching the way her pupils dilated at his words.

Withdrawing his cock from her, Joel reached down, his thumb sliding through their mixed juices, and then back to her pussy. He pushed two fingers inside her, her walls still spasming from the aftershocks of her orgasm. She whimpered, the sensation overwhelmingly intense. He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made her knees buckle, and began to pump his cum back into her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her body jolting with each thrust of his digits.

"Look at me," he ordered again, his voice a gravelly whisper. She forced her eyes open, meeting his fiery gaze. "You're going to wear this," he said, pulling his fingers out and holding them up, glistening with their combined release. "Every drop." He brought his hand to her mouth, and she obeyed without question, licking and sucking her taste from his skin. He watched with a dark satisfaction as she swallowed, her eyes never leaving his.

With a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, Joel leaned in, his breath hot against her cheek. "Now, tell me how much you liked being caught," he said, his voice a sinful purr. She blushed, but the brat in her couldn't resist a little sass. "I liked it," she admitted, her voice a mix of defiance and arousal. "But maybe next time, you could be a bit more... creative with your punishments."

Joel's eyebrow shot up, and he stepped back, his cock still semi-hard and glistening. "Is that a challenge, darling?" He grabbed the flannel she'd been wearing earlier, now discarded on the floor, and wrapped it around her trembling body. "Because I've got plenty of creative ways to keep you in line."

Her heart skipped a beat at the promise in his words. "Maybe," she replied with a smirk, her voice still breathless from her recent climax. "But I'm not promising to be good."

Joel chuckled darkly. "That's what makes it fun," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. He pulled her closer, his cock brushing against her stomach. She could feel it thickening again, a testament to his insatiable desire. "But for now," he murmured, "we should clean up before I have to be back out on patrol."

The water was cold when Joel turned on the faucet, but it did nothing to cool the heat that still lingered between them. He grabbed a cloth, soaking it before gently cleaning her up. The tender act was a stark contrast to the raw passion they'd just shared, and she found herself leaning into his touch, craving the comfort he offered. When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside and picked her up, carrying her to the bedroom.

He laid her down on the bed, his eyes raking over her naked body. He was still dressed, a stark reminder of the power dynamic they'd just established. "You're going to be the death of me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. She couldn't help but giggle, the sound light and airy in the tension-filled room.

The bed dipped as he climbed onto it, his weight pressing down on the mattress. He hovered over her, his hand sliding up her thigh, his thumb brushing against her still-sensitive clit. She gasped, her body reacting instantly. He chuckled, the sound dark and seductive. "I can see you're eager for more," he said, his voice a tease.

He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was both punishing and gentle. His tongue danced with hers, tasting the lingering flavor of their passion. When he pulled away, she was left panting, her eyes glazed with lust. "But I've got patrol," he murmured against her skin, his lips moving to her neck. He bit down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make her moan. "You're going to have to wait for it."

Her hands found his shoulders, her nails digging in as she tried to pull him closer. "Please, Joel," she begged, her voice needy and desperate. He chuckled, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "You're insatiable." He kissed her again, his hand sliding down to cup her breast, his thumb teasing the nipple until it was a hard peak. "But I like that about you."

With a final groan of protest, Joel rolled off the bed, his cock still semi-erect. "I'll be back," he said, his voice a promise. "And when I do, you'd better be ready for me." He strode to the bathroom, the muscles in his back flexing with each step. She watched him go, her body still trembling from the aftermath of their encounter.

The cold water from the sink brought Joel back to reality, the chill a stark contrast to the heat of his desire. He washed his hands, taking a deep breath to compose himself. He couldn't believe he'd just taken her like that, in the kitchen of all places. But the sight of her in his flannel, her face flushed with arousal, had driven him over the edge.

Wiping his hands on the towel, he returned to the bedroom, his eyes devouring her again. She lay there, a mess of tangled limbs and desire, the flannel barely covering her curves. He couldn't resist leaning down to kiss her, his hand caressing her cheek. "I'll be back soon," he whispered, his voice hoarse. She nodded, her eyes still glazed with passion.

Joel pulled on his patrol gear, his mind racing with thoughts of her. The way she'd looked at him, the way she'd taken him, it was all he could think about. He had to get out there, had to focus on the job at hand, but she was a siren's call he couldn't ignore.

He stepped out into the cold night, the chill air slapping him in the face, a stark contrast to the heat they'd generated in the kitchen. The patrol was quiet, his mind wandering back to her, to the way her body had responded to his every touch. He found himself smiling, a rare occurrence in this post-apocalyptic world.

Hours ticked by, the moon casting eerie shadows across the deserted town. Joel's thoughts remained fixated on her, his cock twitching at the memory of her moans and whimpers. He'd never felt such a potent mix of lust and tenderness before, and it unnerved him.

When Joel finally returned home, the house was quiet, the only sound the crackling of the dying embers in the fireplace. He shed his gear, stripping down to nothing but his skin, his cock already hard with anticipation. As he padded silently towards the bedroom, his eyes fell on her, sprawled out on the bed, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, but Joel knew the fire that burned within her, the desire that she kept hidden.

With a smirk playing on his lips, he stepped into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open to find him standing over her, naked and gleaming with sweat. He leaned down, his hand trailing up her thigh, his breath hot against her ear. "Are you ready for more, darlin'?" he whispered, his voice a dark promise.