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The Payout (clint x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

Part 1

clint x chef f!reader Word Count: 9.7K (she’s kinda long, grab a snack) Rating: E

Summary: Clint, a retired “tough guy” for hire, gets lured back into the game with a lucrative job offer: one last job for a life-changing payout. $5 million dollars. However, his plans take a twist when he meets you—his new neighbor who makes him question… everything.

Warning: clint is a widower (implied that his wife died at childbirth), clint is a daddy (like an actual dad), mentions of grief and guilt, angst, language, alcohol use, mutual pining, sexual tension, flirting, feelings, slow burn, family dysfunction (readers parents suck – especially her father), mentions of abandonment, quick mention of f! masturbation, dirty talk, pet names, size kink? praise, smut 18+ oral sex (m! receiving), mean!clint, mentions of bad & toxic relationships, smutty thoughts, let's pretend that in 1987 you could text...

A/N: Freaky Tales comes out on Friday! I’m so fucking excited. I’m releasing part 1 before watching the movie because I’m scared that if I don’t, I will end up re-writing it completely to make it more 'canon'. And I’m realizing it’s okay if this story is slightly AU. Next part is almost done, but I want to watch the movie this weekend to incorporate events from the movie if I can.

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging thots.

January

"Clint, fucking listen to me," the voice on the other end was frantic, almost desperate. It was Dawson, an old 'colleague' whose life had always been entangled in the murky underbelly of the world Clint had left behind. "We’ve got one more job for you. This would be…six months, tops."

Clint closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of Dawson's words pressing down on him. "You know I’ve been out of the game for three years. I’m not that guy anymore."

"It would be your last job." Dawson urged, his voice rising with urgency. "Five million dollars."

"Last time was the last, last job. I did it. I’m done. Fuck you."

"Okay, I do not have time for this. Do you have any idea what this could do for you and Valentina?"

Clint felt a tightening in his chest. "I can't just walk back into that life. It’s dangerous, and I don’t want to put myself at risk, let alone put Valentina at risk."

"You need this," Dawson pressed. "Your mamá can only do so much. This is your chance to take control again. You can do this."

His mamá had been a rock since the day Valentina was born, stepping in to help him navigate the chaos of fatherhood when he felt utterly lost. While he worked long hours at his job, his mamá had devoted herself to caring for his daughter, her hands familiar with the rhythm of changing diapers, soothing cries, and coaxing giggles from the tiny girl.

Every time Clint came home, he found his mamá in the same routine: humming softly to Valentina as she rocked her to sleep, or preparing meals that had become a comforting backdrop to the uncertainty of their lives. He’d watch them from the doorway, with a gnawing sense of inadequacy. He felt like he was a shitty dad who was never home.

In those early months, it had been especially hard. Valentina had looked so much like her mother. The first time Clint held her, he had been overwhelmed by grief. He could barely look at her without seeing the face of the woman he had lost, the woman who would never get to hold her daughter or watch her grow. It felt like a betrayal, feeling such love for a little being that reminded him so painfully of his wife.

"Six months," he murmured, almost to himself. "What do I even have to do?"

"You’ll be the asshole’s driver, the eyes and ears for our crew. This motherfucker is gonna be saying shit in front of you. You gain his trust, you gather intel, and then we’ll make our move."

Clint took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision. He was stepping back into a world he’d fought so hard to escape, but perhaps this time, it could be different. He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar tension creeping back into his shoulders. "This feels out of my wheelhouse, Dawson. I’m not exactly cut out for subtlety."

Clint had been a bone-crushing debt collector back in his day before becoming a personal driver, not some undercover spy. He dealt in intimidation and fear, not… whatever the fuck this was.

"You know how to handle yourself when things go sideways. That’s why you’re perfect for this. You’re not going to be out there swinging fists or breaking knees like you used to. You’ll be behind the wheel, mostly in the background without getting your hands dirty. Isn’t that what you want?"

"What if this fucker catches on?"

"Then you do what you’ve always done—think on your fucking feet." Dawson replied.

"One more job. When does it ever end?" Clint hesitated, picturing the life he wanted for Valentina. He glanced back toward the living room, where Valentina was now peacefully asleep during her nap, her tiny fists curled beside her.

"It ends when The Guy says it ends,"

With what fucking happened last time, three years ago, Clint knew he was treading a fine line.

"Alright," he finally said, "I’ll do it. But if I’m going to get involved, I need to know everything."

 "You’ll get the full rundown. But first, we need to set up a meeting with The Guy."

"Who’s the target?" Clint asked.

"He’s a big shot financial advisor. On the surface, he’s just this normal guy, but underneath, he’s neck-deep in illegal activities, with a side gig laundering dirty money for a Mexican drug cartel. He’s got a massive ego, and that’s where we can exploit him."

"Got it. What's our strategy?" Clint inquired.

"We need to uncover who he’s meeting with, what deals he’s orchestrating, and any secret projects he’s launching."

A large U-Haul truck had pulled up in front of the house next door, its engine sputtering to a stop. Clint watched as the back door swung open, revealing a woman struggling to maneuver a large cardboard box. Clint squinted against the afternoon sun, trying to get a better look.

"—and if anything goes wrong—"

"Uh-huh," Clint murmured absently, nodding but not really listening.

Clint's attention drifted, his gaze fixed on the scene outside. He barely registered Dawson’s words. He remembered when the 'For Rent' sign had been taken down just weeks ago. He hadn’t expected anyone to move in so soon. Now, here you were, wrestling with your belongings in the driveway.

Clint’s instinct was to ignore his new neighbor, but something compelled him to keep watching. He now watched you stumble slightly, nearly losing your grip on the box.

"Clint!" Dawson’s voice cut through his reverie, snapping him back. "Are you even fucking hearing me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m listening, but I have to go. Let’s talk later."

He turned back to the living room, where Valentina stirred slightly on the couch in her sleep. He approached her leaning down to brush a gentle kiss against her forehead. With a reluctant sigh, he stepped outside, the door creaking softly behind him. "Need a hand?" he called out.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder, surprise flickering in your eyes. Your expression shifted to one of relief as you straightened up, your shoulders dropping slightly as if the weight of the box had lightened just at the prospect of help. "Oh, that would be amazing, thank you!"

Clint approached, taking the box from your hands. It was heavier than he expected, filled with shit and odds and ends that clinked softly against one another as he lifted it.

"Thanks again," you said, brushing a few stray hairs behind your ear as you fell into step beside him. 

Clint nodded, keeping his responses clipped. "Yeah." He couldn’t muster more than that, too lost in his thoughts. He felt your gaze lingering on him, and he wondered if you were waiting for him to say more, to engage in some idle fucking chit-chat. But he was out of practice in the art of small talk. It had been a while since he interacted with anyone outside of his family and clients.

He set the box down inside your doorway, glancing around at the chaos within—cardboard boxes stacked precariously, half-unpacked furniture, and some takeout sitting on the kitchen counter.

You introduced yourself, extending a hand, a hopeful smile lighting up your face. An openness that felt foreign and unwelcome.

"Clint," he replied, his tone flat, shaking your hand briefly. He quickly withdrew his hand, shoving it into his pocket. He felt a flicker of annoyance at the forced pleasantries. Clint shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes scanning the messy interior before landing back on you.

"You should really invest in a fucking moving company," he said, his voice laced with a dry edge. "Looks like you could use the help."

The moment the words left his mouth, he saw your smile faltered, and you blinked, momentarily taken aback by his bluntness. 

"Yeah, well," you replied, recovering quickly, though the slight unease in your tone didn’t go unnoticed. "I thought I’d save some money and do it myself."

"Suit yourself," he muttered, shrugging as he turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the cluttered space around you. It wasn’t that he wanted to be an asshole. He just didn’t know how to be anything else. He turned away, the sight of you fading from his peripheral vision as he stepped back outside. With every step toward his own house, he felt the familiar weight of his wedding band against his finger, cool and heavy. His thumb instinctively began to twirl it, feeling the grooves and contours etched into the metal.

People were messy, and he was a mess—better to keep things superficial with a new neighbor.

But, god, he couldn’t help but keep thinking: you were fucking beautiful.

February

It was a Saturday night, and the restaurant buzzed with energy.

You had just received a glowing review from a well-respected food critic. As you worked, you couldn’t help but steal glances at the small framed certificate hanging on the wall nearby—the Bib Gourmand award. A recognition of your efforts to provide exceptional meals at reasonable prices.

"Hey, Chef! Table five needs their appetizers!" one of your line cooks called out. You nodded, quickly gathering your thoughts and the ingredients for the next dish.

With a flick of your wrist, you tossed the chopped vegetables into a pan, the sound of them hitting the hot surface accompanied by a satisfying sizzle. You added a drizzle of olive oil, the aroma instantly filling the kitchen.

As the night wore on, the kitchen became a flurry of activity, orders flying in and out, and your team working together. In the corner of your eye, you noticed a couple seated at a table, their faces lit up with joy as they tasted their first bites of your signature dish. You couldn’t help but smile.

You finally wrapped up the last of the dishes, the satisfaction of a successful service hung in the air, but your thoughts drifted to Clint’s mother and his daughter, Valentina. You had met them a couple of weeks ago, and despite Clint’s brusque demeanor, his mother had left a lasting impression on you—a gentle warmth that contrasted with her son’s more asshole guarded nature.

As you cleaned up, you set aside a couple of generous portions of leftovers, hoping to share a little with them. It wouldn’t do to have perfectly good food go to waste, and you thought Clint’s mother could use a treat. The thought of her kind smile made you want to brighten her day, especially knowing how hard it must be to navigate life after losing someone as close to her as her daughter-in-law.

You had stumbled upon this information on accident when you asked about Clint's wife. You had noticed his wedding band when he had helped you bring a box into your house and thought you simply hadn't met her yet. However, his mother's expression had changed, a momentary flicker of sadness crossing her face before she composed herself. "Clint’s wife passed away a few years ago."

You could feel your face heat with embarrassment. You had meant no harm with your question, but the weight of your words hung heavily between you. It was a moment that could have easily turned uncomfortable, but instead, Clint's mother reached out, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. "It’s okay."

The drive was short, and as you approached their home, you realized you had been meaning to drop by sooner, but life always seemed to rush by, leaving little room for social niceties.

You knocked on the door, the sound echoing softly in the quiet night. The door creaked open, revealing Clint, his brow furrowed as he took a moment to recognize you.

"Hey," you greeted, holding up the container. "Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here. Your mom said you usually work late on Wednesday's. I brought some leftovers from work. I thought your mom and Valentina might enjoy them."

He opened the door wider. "Thanks," he said, his voice short but not unkind. "She’s actually not here, she’s at her place tonight and Valentina is already asleep."

"Um—okay. Well, um—here," you stepped forward, extending the container toward Clint. He hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze flickering between the container and your face, before taking it from your hands.

"Thanks," he said again, this time a bit softer, though his tone still carried that familiar edge of reserve. "You didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to."

He nodded, his expression unreadable for a moment before he glanced back toward the interior of the house. "Have you eaten yet?"

You shook your head. "I was going to heat up some leftovers at home, nothing fancy."

Clint scowled, and after a moment's pause, he added, "Well, why don’t you come in and eat? I mean, you’ve already made the effort to bring food over. It’d be nice to share it, especially since I was kind of an asshole the first time we met,"

"Kind of?" you teased.

Clint smirked, revealing a beautiful dimple that softened the hard lines of his face. "Alright, I was a complete asshole,"

"Is this your way of apologizing? Because it kind of fucking sucks."

He laughed at that. A short, sharp chuckle. "Alright… I’m sorry."

You stifled a smile. "Well, I appreciate your apology."

And that’s when you realized or perhaps were finally admitting that Clint was handsome. Really fucking handsome.

"Come on in then," he stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. You followed him into the kitchen, and took a moment to glance around and admire the family photos that adorned the walls—images of Clint with his mother and a younger Valentina.

Then your gaze fell on a larger photo. It was a picture of Clint with a woman whose smile radiated perfection. She was stunning. She had long, flowing hair and eyes that sparkled with life. They stood together, arms wrapped around each other, both beaming at the camera as if the world around them had melted away, leaving just the two of them in their private paradise.

You turned your gaze back to Clint, seemingly unaware of your snooping, and you watched him set the container down on the counter. Silence stretched for a bit.

"Do you want to heat this up?" you offered, nodding toward the leftovers you had brought. "It might taste better warm."

"Sure," he grunted, pulling a couple of plates from the cupboard. As you worked together, there was a comfortable silence, punctuated by the sounds of the microwave beeping and the clatter of utensils. You could feel the tension in Clint’s posture begin to ease, even if only slightly.

"My mamá said you’re a chef," he said, glancing over at you as you plated the food. "That’s impressive."

"Thanks," you replied, feeling a bit shy under his gaze. "It’s a small restaurant.

"That's still hard work."

A tight knot formed in your stomach at Clint's compliment. You forced a smile, but the truth was a bitter pill. Your father couldn’t be more disappointed in you. He had made that clear just the other week when he had cornered you after a family dinner, his voice laced with condescension. "You went to boarding school in Switzerland, for fuck’s sake! And you’re running some dump in Oakland? Why not a fine dining spot in San Francisco?" His words echoed in your mind, a reminder of the expectations they had for you—expectations you felt you had utterly failed to meet.

You would always be the daughter who dropped out of business school to chase a dream of running a 'shitty little restaurant'.

Your mother, on the other hand, was a different kind of disappointment. Her tendency to drown her sorrows in vodka had created an emotional distance that felt insurmountable. You could barely speak to her, she often had that glazed look in her eyes, one that told you she was somewhere else entirely. You had learned to keep your distance, to avoid the awkwardness of her half-hearted attempts to engage with your life.

But Clint didn’t need to know all that. He didn’t need to know how you felt like a failure in your own parent's eyes when you were just trying to carve out a life for yourself. It was easier to keep those thoughts buried.

You cleared your throat, pushing those thoughts aside. "So, what do you do for work?" you asked, eager to shift the focus.

"I’m a driver," he answered gruffly, reaching for a plate and serving himself a portion of the food. "Personal driver for a few select clients. It’s nothing glamourous, but it pays the bills."

"Any celebrity clients?" you teased, hoping to draw him out a little more.

He shrugged, jaw flinching like he was trying not to smile. "Mostly it’s just business types. Rich people who think they’re too fucking important to drive themselves around."

"Sounds like a blast," you replied sarcastically, as you leaned against the counter, feeling a bit more at ease.

"Not the most exciting gig, but it has its moments. You see how the other half lives, I guess."

You raised an eyebrow, curious. "Like what? Any wild stories?"

He hesitated, glancing down at his plate as if considering what to share. "Once had a banker client who got so drunk at a gala that I had to carry him to the car. He insisted he could walk but ended up stumbling into a fountain."

You laughed, picturing the scene. "That sounds like something out of a movie. Did you get a tip for your troubles?"

He scoffed, a quiet rough sound. "Let’s just say I got a good story out of it, but the tip wasn’t anything to write home about,"

Just as you were about to ask him about his most memorable client, your phone buzzed on the counter, jolting you from the moment.

You glanced down at the screen and saw your father's name. With a small sigh, you picked it up, not entirely sure you wanted to engage with him tonight. "Excuse me for a second," you said to Clint, swiping to open the message.

Your heart raced as you quickly scanned his text. He had sent you a link to an article with the headline boasting the Bib Gourmand recognition your restaurant had received. You read his words: Good job. Why didn’t you tell me?

Maybe, just maybe, this was the moment he finally going to be fucking nice about something.

But then came the second text, a cruel twist that erased that initial spark of happiness: The picture they used of you is awful. Why didn’t you ask for a different one?

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, the disappointment crashing over you like an icy wave. You felt your shoulders sag and your heart sink as the weight of his condescension settled in. You forced yourself to swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

"Hey, you okay?" Clint’s voice broke through your thoughts, his eyes searching yours as he watched you closely.

"Yeah, I just—I have to go," you said, your voice tighter than intended.

"Alright," he drawled. "Is everything okay?"

You nodded, but the lie felt heavy on your tongue. It was easier to pretend. "Just restaurant stuff. I need to call my sous-chef back,"

"Sure," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and you could tell he wasn’t convinced.

"Say hi to your mom and Valentina for me," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Will do."

You grabbed your things, the container now empty. As you stepped toward the door, Clint leaned against the frame. "Good night."

"Good night."

With one last wave, you stepped out into the cool night air, the door closing softly behind you.

March

Clint navigated the winding streets in his sleek black SUV. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his ‘client’, the financial advisor, comfortably settled in the back seat, engrossed in a call. Clint had been working with him for three months now, and in that time, he had managed to weave himself into the fabric of the man's daily life. He had grown to trust Clint, often treating him like a right-hand man rather than just a driver.

"—no, I don’t want to hear about the fucking logistics," Yannick barked into his phone, his voice rising in irritation. "Just make it happen. We have the shipment coming in next week, and I don’t need any hiccups. The last thing we need is the feds sniffing around. Do you understand me?"

Clint’s ears perked up at the mention of a shipment. He kept his eyes on the road, but his mind raced to process the implications. He had already gathered a shit ton of incriminating evidence against Yannick—the man was knee-deep in illegal activities, from drug trafficking to money laundering. But they needed more so that Dawson’s boss, 'The Guy', could blackmail Yannick into compliance.

It’s not like The Guy was a good man either. He was a piece of work himself. He ran his own operations, but unlike Yannick, he was more brazen about his dealings. The Guy worked for a rival cartel and had a reputation for being ruthless. His methods were direct, often involving intimidation and violence to keep his business afloat. And, The Guy was not above using Yannick's connections to further his own agenda, seeing Yannick as a useful pawn in a much larger game.

But all this shit wasn’t Clint’s fucking problem. He was just here for a paycheck.

Yannick continued, his voice lowering as he leaned back against the plush leather seat, clearly unaware Clint was hanging onto every word. "I don’t care how you do it, just make sure the product is clean. If I find out you cut corners, you’ll fucking regret it."

As they pulled up to a private building—Yannick ended the call and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I’ve got a meeting with some investors. You don’t need to wait inside since we’ll be grabbing dinner afterward, so feel free to take the rest of the day off,"

"Okay, boss." Clint replied, forcing a smile.

Clint pulled his phone from his pocket as Yannick stepped out of the SUV, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. Scrolling through his contacts, he found his mother's name and hit call, the familiar ringing filling the silence of the vehicle.

"Hi mijo,"

"Hey, mamá. Just wanted to speak to Val before it gets too late."

His mamá had gone back to their hometown to visit family for the week and had brought Valentina with her. He heard some shuffling in the background as his mamá put his princess on the phone.

"Hi, Daddy!" she squealed, her voice bursting with excitement. "I saw a big, big ocean! A super-duper big one! And I made a sandcastle with shells! It was the bestest sandcastle ever!"

Clint settled back into the driver’s seat, a soft smile spreading across his face as he listened to the cheerful voice of his three-year-old. "Wow, that sounds amazing, Val. Did you build it all by yourself?"

"Uh-huh! And I put a flag on top! It’s red!" she exclaimed, her words tumbling over each other in her eagerness to share. "I saw fishies too! They swim like this!" She made little splashing sounds, her laughter infectious.

"Some fish, huh? That sounds fun. I wish I could see it with you. What else did you do today? Have you eaten any good food?"

"Yes! I had tacos! They were so yummy! And ice cream! Daddy, it was pink!" Valentina giggled. "I wish you were here! You would like it!"

Clint's chest tightened at her words. "I miss you so much, sweetheart. I think about you every day. I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures when you get back. You’re having the best time, aren’t you?"

"Yes! But I miss you too!" she replied, her tone suddenly shifting to one of sweet sincerity. "I can’t wait to see you, Daddy! I want to show you my sandcastle! Can we make one together?"

"Of course, we will." Clint promised, his heart melting. "We’ll make the biggest sandcastle ever when you get home. Just you and me."

"Yay! I can’t wait, Daddy! Love you!" Valentina chirped.

"I love you too, Val. Have fun and be good for Abuela, okay?"

"Okay! Bye, Daddy!"

"Bye, sweetheart."

Clint leaned back in his seat, staring through the windshield. Another day, another missed opportunity to connect with Valentina. He thought about his father, the man who had walked out on him and his mamá when he was just eight years old. That memory was etched in his mind. Clint had promised himself he would never be like him, yet here he was, working 14-hour days, chasing after a paycheck instead of spending time with his daughter. He felt the sting of self-doubt—a flicker of fear that maybe he was just as bad as that piece of shit who had left him behind.

He had the rest of the evening to himself, and he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He could clean the house, maybe tackle that pile of laundry he’d been ignoring, or even catch up on the pile of dishes in the sink. But none of those tasks seemed appealing.

Instead, he found himself thinking about you.

Since that night, you continued to bring his family food more times than he could count, each time managing to chip away at the walls he had built around himself. He had helped you fix the leaky faucet that had been a thorn in your side since you moved in, and he could still remember the way you laughed when water unexpectedly sprayed him, you erupting into laughter while you pressed your face into his shirt. It felt good to share those moments, to feel normal again, even if it was just for a little while.

And then there were the days when you offered to look after Valentina when you were off while he worked, giving his mamá the chance to run errands without having to juggle everything. He had watched you with his daughter—how effortlessly you engaged her. It felt so right, so easy, yet the guilt churned in his stomach like a storm. He didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t want to enjoy the help… or the companionship?

As he played with his band, memories flooded back—his wedding day, the vows he had taken, the promises made under that blue sky. He had once believed in them wholeheartedly, but life had a way of complicating the simplest of things.

With a restless sigh, Clint turned the key in the ignition and pulled out, the tires crunching against the gravel as he drove away. After 20 minutes, your restaurant came into view. He parked a short distance away, his heart pounding in his chest as he sat in the vehicle for a moment, contemplating whether he was overstepping. He had never eaten here before.

He stepped out of the SUV and made his way toward the entrance. As he approached the door, he could see you through the window, laughing with a couple of patrons as you cleared their plates. You looked so fucking gorgeous—a genuine smile lighting up your face.  

Taking a deep breath, Clint pushed open the door, the bell above jingling softly. The sound drew your attention, and your eyes lit up behind the counter when they landed on him. "Clint!" you blinked at him, your surprise quickly morphing into a welcoming smile. "What are you doing here?"

"I, uh…" He squinted, suddenly acutely aware of how out of place he felt in his tailored suit. "I just thought I’d stop by. I had some free time tonight."

"Wow, look at you. Dressed to impress. What’s the occasion? Did you just come from a board meeting or something?"

Clint smirked, leaning casually against the counter. "Something like that."

"Do you have a reservation?" you mocked.

"Didn’t think I needed one? I mean, I know the chef," he added, the corner of his lip twitching.

"Oh, do you now? Well, since you know the chef, I suppose I can find you the best seat in the house," you replied, gesturing for him to follow you. As you walked through the restaurant, he could feel the eyes of other patrons drifting towards him, intrigued by the man in the sharp suit. You led him to a cozy corner table by the window.

Clint took his seat, the plush chair enveloping him in comfort. He leaned back, allowing himself a moment to absorb the atmosphere of the restaurant. It was perfect. It had you written all over it.

As you set down a couple of menus in front of him, your hand brushed against his shoulder. The brief touch sent a thrill through him, and then you leaned in closer, your voice low and teasing. "Spoiler... you’ve already almost tasted the entire menu," you whispered, your breath warm against his ear.

Clint inhaled deeply, caught off guard by the sweet and floral scent of your perfume that enveloped him. It was intoxicating, and he felt a rush of heat spread through him, an arousal that took him by surprise. "Is that so?" he replied, his voice a bit huskier than intended. "Then what do you suggest I try?"

"Well, that depends on what you’re in the mood for. But I’m sure I can whip up something special for you."

"Is that an open invitation to have something you haven’t brought back to my place?"

Before you could respond, you glanced back at the busy kitchen, your smile widening. "Let me see what I can do." You turned to leave, and then he called your name. "Wait, can I also get a drink?"

You nodded, glancing over your shoulder, and he began to rattle off his order. "I’ll have a—"

"A scotch on the rocks with a twist," you interjected confidently.

He rolled his eyes at you. It hit him then that it was his usual drink—the same one he poured for himself whenever you would come over. You on the other hand liked white wine. He always made sure to have white wine at home now.

You winked at him before disappearing into the bustling kitchen.

After a few moments, a member of your staff approached with a glass of amber liquid.

"Your drink, sir." the server said, placing the scotch on the table with a flourish. The ice clinked gently against the glass, and Clint nodded in appreciation.

"Thank you," he replied, lifting the glass to take a sip. It was a perfect blend of smoky and sweet, just like how he usually enjoyed it. Clint settled into the rhythm of the restaurant, savoring each bite of the dishes your team brought him. As the evening wore on, the restaurant gradually emptied out. Clint noticed the clock ticking closer to closing time, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Finally, as the last few customers left and you began to clear the tables, Clint leaned back in his chair, swirling the remnants of his drink. He caught your eye, which prompted you to saunter over, wiping your hands on a towel. "You know we’re about to close, right?"

 "Yeah, I noticed. But I didn’t want to leave just yet."

 "And why’s that?"

Clint hesitated for a moment, then decided to be honest. "I saw you took a taxi this morning." Your expression shifted slightly, and he continued, "Is your car okay?"

You shrugged. "Not really. It’s been acting weird. I had to take it to the shop yesterday,"

His heart tugged at the thought of you having to deal with the hassle of taxis and public transport. "Why didn’t you tell me? I can drive you to work and pick you up until it’s fixed,"

Surprise flickered across your face. "Really? You’d do that?"

"Of course," he replied, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table.

The truth was, he just wanted to spend more time with you.

And that scared him.

April

Your car had been fixed for weeks now, but Clint would still drive you to work every morning. If it worked with his schedule, he would pick you up from work too.

Clint was not just the man who drove you to work—he had become a constant presence in your life, a source of safety and comfort. You loved the way he looked when he smiled and the way he laughed with Valentina. You would watch him, mesmerized, as he played with her, his rough edges softening in her presence. He was a good man. A good father and a good son. The more you got to know him, the more you felt drawn to him.

However, Clint was still guarded. He was quick to listen but slow to share. He had a knack for asking questions that drew you in, making you feel seen and heard, but he rarely reciprocated. When you’d ask about him or his past, he would deflect and change the subject.

Like the scar on his face. You wondered how he had gotten it, but you were too afraid to ask. It looked painful. And the idea of him experiencing any type of pain somehow broke your heart.

It was wrong to want him. Clint was still wearing his wedding band, three years after his wife’s death. It was a constant reminder that he was not truly available, that a part of him still belonged to her. You knew that. But, sometimes you would touch yourself at night and moan out his name imagining his voice muttering filth in your ear and his hands on your body.

"Hey," he called out your name softly, bringing you out of your thoughts. "Here you go." He stepped into his living room, a glass of chilled white wine in hand, the light catching the rim and making it glimmer. The familiar chaos of toys scattered on the floor. It was Sunday. You had spent the day taking care of Valentina, and she was currently sound asleep, her small figure tucked away in her room. Clint had finally returned home after a long day, and you had waited up, curled up on the couch.

"Thanks," you replied, your heart fluttering at the sight of him. He walked over and handed you the glass, his fingers brushing against yours for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. The contact sent a thrill through you, and you took a sip of the wine, savoring the crisp, refreshing taste.

Clint took a seat on the couch and turned his attention to the movie. You took a moment to stretch out your legs, propping them up on the chaise across from you. But, then without thinking, you swung them over into his lap instead, the weight of your legs settling comfortably against him. You were about to move them, expecting him to shift uncomfortably or to suggest you move back to the chaise, but instead, he didn’t react at all. He simply adjusted his position, making room for you and his hand gently landed on your calf, rubbing gentle circles on your skin absentmindedly.

You watched him as he focused on the screen, seemingly lost in the mindless action and explosions. His thumb moved in slow, soothing motions, and you could tell he wasn’t even thinking about it. Your heart raced as you tried to concentrate on the movie, but your mind was consumed by his touch.

As the movie progressed, you found yourself leaning back against the couch, allowing your body to relax under Clint’s gentle touch. Your second glass of wine began to take effect, loosening your inhibitions and making you bolder. You shifted slightly, letting your leg slide up higher on his thigh, testing the waters.

Clint’s hand stilled for a moment, and his dark eyes met yours instantly. That made you panic—causing you to tilt your wine glass in your hand. Time seemed to slow as you felt the cool liquid slosh, and before you could react, it spilled over, cascading across the couch and splattering onto Clint's jeans.

"Fuck!" you exclaimed, your heart racing in embarrassment. You quickly set the glass down, panic coursing through you as you grabbed a nearby cloth from the coffee table, your cheeks burning as you realized the mess you’d just made.

"I'm so sorry," you said, your voice laced with mortification as you looked at the damp patches spreading across the fabric of the couch and his jeans.

"It’s alright," he murmured.

Without thinking, you slid off the couch and onto the floor, positioning yourself between his legs. You dabbed at the couch first, then focused on his jeans, trying to blot the wine away with the cloth, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you knelt there, the reality of your position hit you and you suddenly wished you could just disappear. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and stole a glance up at Clint, half-expecting to see a look of discomfort on his face.

Instead, he looked fucking wrecked, eyes dark and blown wide. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he watched you. His body was so close yet so far.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine. You leaned into his touch instinctively, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment. His fingers trailed down your neck, lingering longer than necessary, before they fell to the neckline of your shirt.

You opened your eyes, meeting his eyes again, and your breath hitched as you noticed his eyes flicker down your shirt.

It was also impossible for you not to notice that he was hard.

"Clint—"

He leaned forward, pouncing on you and kissing you. It was messy and all-encompassing—his mouth devouring you and confirming this hadn’t all been in your head—that he had been wanting this too. Your lips parted, and his tongue curled around yours, making him groan low in his throat.

You realized that you were obsessed with the sound and wanted to hear him do it over and over again.

You responded by leaning into him, deepening the kiss, your hands instinctively finding their way to the sides of his face, drawing him closer. Clint’s hands found their way to your waist, fingers pressing into your sides as he pulled you in, his hands were hungry, greedy in their exploration. Your fingers trailed down his torso, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt, and you could hear the sharp intake of breath he took as you brushed against the waistband of his jeans.

With a rush of adrenaline, your hands moved to the front of his jeans, your fingers deftly working to unbuckle the clasp. Clint's breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he pulled back slightly, and you rested back on your knees.

"Stop."

You pursed your lips, frowning. "What do you mean? Did I do something wrong?"

"You’ve been drinking," he grunted

"Barley," you whined, a playful pout forming on your lips. Your fingers squeezed his thighs, feeling the strength beneath the fabric. "You work so hard, I just want to take care of you," you cooed.

"It’s supposed to be the other way around, baby," he groaned, looking pained.

"You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had any guy turn down head," you smirked, tilting your head slightly to the side. 

Clint breathed out a long sigh, nostrils flaring. "I would rather not hear about you and other fucking guys," he replied, a hint of possessiveness creeping into his tone.

Your fingers continued to work his jeans open and pulled them past his hips. "Clint… I’ve thought about this. A lot."

Clint spread his legs a bit wider, clearly getting more used to the idea. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," you whispered, pulling his boxers down, as he helped pull his cock free.

And when you took a look at it, you found yourself at a loss for words. The sight was truly overwhelming. You were suddenly beginning to rethink this entire idea. You wet your lips at the idea of trying to fit it all in your mouth and looked up to find him staring.

"This all you think about?" he taunted, clearly used to the reaction. "Sucking my cock?"

You shook your head. "No."

"What else?" he asked, his voice shaky, his fists tightening around the couch cushions.

You licked your lips.

"Fucking tell me." he growled.

"You fucking me." you admitted, your face feeling hot.

He looked at you for a few seconds, and then finally made a low, dangerous sound. "Well then, you better make use of that fucking mouth so that we can get to the next part."

You nodded in agreement and wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, applying a soft pressure as you guided him into your mouth. It was challenging to take all of him at once, but you persevered, your mouth stretching to fit his leaking and heavy length.

He barely stifled a groan, choking out muffled curses. With each movement, you felt more confident, your tongue swirling around him as you slowly took him deeper into your mouth.

"That’s it. Take the whole thing. Just like that," he urged, his voice thick with lust as his hand found the back of your head. "Such a good girl. You’re doing so fucking good."

You looked up at him, moaning at his praise, and then focused your attention back on your task. You hollowed your cheeks, taking him in deeper, the weight of him filling your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down. His hips flexed with each bob of your head, his lips parting as he panted. You could feel the tension building in his body, his thighs flexing beneath your hands as you squeezed them tighter.

"Fuck," he hissed, his voice strained. "You look so good with your mouth full. You—" he gasped when he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat.

You gagged, but you kept going because you loved hearing him like this, the sound of him feeling good pushing you further. You pulled back slightly, swirling your tongue around the tip before sinking back down, taking him as deep as you could manage, with tears filling your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away. The salty taste of him was overwhelming, and you could feel the slickness pooling between your thighs, the heat radiating from your core.

His jaw clenched. "You’re gonna make me come." He tried to pull you off from him, but you kept going, stretching your mouth wider for him.

When he realized what you were doing, a guttural moan slipped from his lips, and he chuckled darkly. "You fucking filthy girl. You gonna let me fill that pretty mouth?"

You whined out a 'yes', causing your throat to vibrate along his length, which caused Clint’s eyes to roll back, and his head to tip back. His neck was straining as he fucked your throat with a feral grunt while you stroked the parts of him you couldn’t reach with your hand.

"Shit—" he started, but before he could finish, you felt him tense beneath your hands. With a few more deep thrusts, he found his release, moaning out your name and filling your eager mouth with his warmth. You met his dark eyes as he watched you swallow his hot sticky release down your throat.

Clint groaned, melting into the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes as he caught his breath, and you kindly shimmied his boxers back on him.

You were slowly getting up when Clint grabbed your waist and pulled you into his arms. He kissed your temple. It was a gentle gesture, yet charged with an unmistakable intensity. Slowly, he lowered you into his lap, positioning you so you faced him, your legs draped over his thighs. His lips were suddenly on yours, feverish and desperate. His hands roamed your back, fingers tracing patterns, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back.

Truth was, you couldn’t remember the last time a guy kissed you after they finished in your mouth.

You pulled away slightly breathless, and he started trailing soft kisses down the line of your jaw, pausing just above your collarbone.

"Um, I don’t know how to ask this but—" you hesitated as he tilted his head, finding a sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

"Just ask," his lips brushed against your neck softly before he pressed a gentle kiss against your pulse.

"Have you had sex since…" you trailed off.

Since your beautiful wife. A woman that you’re probably still in love with.

He pulled away from your neck to look you straight in your eyes.

"Yes," he answered simply.

"Oh," you said softly, trying to sound casual.

"But, I didn’t care about them. They were usually just one-night stands."

Them. For some reason you felt insanely jealous. But it made sense. A guy that looked like Clint obviously wasn’t struggling in that department

In one smooth motion, he lifted you off his lap and laid you back against the soft cushions of the couch, his body hovering over yours. "But I care about you," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a seriousness that made your head spin.

Just as you began to process his comment, a soft, trembling voice broke through the quiet.

"Daddy?" Valentina’s voice cried out from her room, shaky and small.

Clint’s expression shifted instantly, concern etched across his features. He pushed himself off you, pulling his jeans back up as he moved towards the sound of his daughter’s cries. "Val?" he called back gently.

You watched him go, as he disappeared down the hallway and into her room, a sudden rush of reality washed over you.

What the fuck just happened?

Clint returned about five minutes later, the mood shifting as he met your gaze. "I should go," you said softly, trying to mask your anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.

"Okay," he muttered, his eyebrows pinching together very briefly.

You gathered your things, feeling shy as you prepared to leave. "Um—goodnight," you managed to say, as you turned to head toward the door.

But before you could step out, Clint reached for you, his hand gently wrapping around your wrist. He leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a kiss. It was sweet yet charged.

"I’ll walk you home," he muttered against your lips, his voice serious.

You rolled your eyes. "I live across the street,"

He huffed, his stubble tickling your ear. "I know. But just let me."

You felt a flutter in your chest at the way he cared, but you were also acutely aware of the stakes, of the lines you were both toeing.

"Okay," you finally said, a soft smile curling at the corners of your mouth as you stood on your tiptoes, stealing another kiss.

The next day, you pulled into your driveway after a long day at the restaurant. You were exhausted, but the thought of seeing Clint made your heart race in a way that chased away the fatigue.

Stepping out of your car, you noticed Clint immediately— he usually wasn’t home at this time. He was hunched over the engine of his SUV, the hood propped open. He wore a blue flannel that clung to his broad shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms dusted with grease. His brow was slightly furrowed in concentration as he worked, and the sight of him made you smile.

You approached, the sound of your footsteps crunching on the gravel drawing his attention.

"Hey," you called out, standing beside him.

"Hey," he replied, his voice low, a hint of tension threading through it. He wiped his hands on a rag, but the gesture seemed more about needing a distraction than actually needing to clean up.

You stepped closer, emboldened by the memory of last night, and without thinking, you leaned in to kiss him. You aimed for his mouth, but at the last second, he shifted his face, and your lips brushed against the corner of his mouth instead.

Clint stiffened, his body tensing under your touch. "Uh, sorry," you murmured, pulling back slightly. The heat from your embarrassment crept up your cheeks as you registered the way he held himself, rigid and uncertain.

"What’s wrong?" you asked.

Clint's brow furrowed, and he wiped his hands on the rag again, avoiding your gaze. "Nothing," he replied curtly, the word clipped and devoid of the warmth from last night.

"Hey," you started. "Um—I know you’ve been through a lot in the last few years… with everything that happened." You hesitated, unsure of how to navigate the delicate territory, but you pressed on. "And if last night was too fast, I understand. I didn’t mean to—"

"Don’t," he snapped, cutting you off. His eyes flashed with a sudden intensity that made your heart race, but not in the way you wanted. "Don’t fucking do that."

"Don’t do what?" You felt a rush of confusion, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to read him.

"Don’t fucking act like you know anything about me or what happened to me," he shot back, his voice low but laced with a simmering anger that left you momentarily breathless.

The words hung in the air like a heavy mist, and your heart sank as you processed his words.

"Clint, where is this coming from?" You searched his face for answers, but the storm in his eyes only deepened.

"Last night shouldn’t have happened."

The whiplash of his reaction was jarring, and you felt your stomach twist in response. Last night when he walked you home, he had taken your hand, his fingers entwining with yours in a way that felt intimate. You could still feel the warmth of his palm against yours, a reassuring weight that anchored you in the moment.

As you approached your front door, he had stepped closer, releasing your hand only to cup your cheek with his calloused palm. And then he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours, and told you that he would see you tomorrow.

"Are you fucking serious?" your hands clenching into fists at your sides as your voice trembled with disbelief. You stared at him, searching for any sign of the man you were with last night.

"What?," he said, his tone harsh. "I got caught up in the moment, okay? That’s fucking all."

You felt your breath catch in your throat, disbelief washing over you. "You told me you cared about me."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, completely unbothered, the indifference in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. "I would have said anything in the moment. I was trying to get laid."

The words hit you like a slap, leaving you momentarily speechless.

"Why are you acting like this?"

Clint exhaled sharply, but there was a dangerous edge to it. "Like what?"

"Like you don’t give a shit!"

He scoffed, the sound filled with irritation. "Because I fucking don’t."

You stood there, frozen for a moment, as the weight of his words sank in. It felt like the ground beneath you had shifted. The happiness you had felt just moments before evaporated, leaving behind a cold, bitter taste in your mouth.

How could he say that? You had shared something—something real. You could still feel the echoes of his hands on your skin. But now, it felt like he was trying to erase it. Did he really believe it had meant nothing, that you meant nothing?

"I can’t believe you just said that to me."

"What? You want me to write it down for you?" he snarled.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream at him. You even contemplated slapping him, hoping that a physical jolt would bring him back to reality, make him see how much he was hurting you. But you knew better.

So instead, you fought against the swell of emotions. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words had cut you.

"Fuck you," you finally whispered.

Clint’s eyes flashed with something—anger, maybe, or frustration. It was hard to tell.

You thought of some of the previous men in your life who had taken and taken, leaving you feeling hollow and used. The ones who had treated you like an afterthought, like a convenience rather than a partner. Their selfishness had convinced you that you were nothing more than a means to an end, a fleeting distraction to fill their voids.

You remembered the late-night calls that never came, the promises made in moments of fucking that evaporated by morning. The way they would look at you as if you were merely a body rather than a person with thoughts, dreams, and feelings. You had poured your heart into those 'relationships', only to have it trampled on by men who didn’t know how to care, who didn’t want to try.

Maybe it was your fault. You seemed to be a magnet for terrible men. Or maybe you had a fucking type.

Assholes.

It was one of the reasons why you hadn’t been in a relationship in almost two years, and just decided to put all of your attention into the restaurant and focus on that.

But, you had never thought Clint would fit into that mold. He had always felt different—steady and strong. But now, in this moment, he was just like every other man who had ever hurt you. You felt stupid for having let your guard down, for daring to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was different.

You inhaled deeply, clenching your jaw, and turned on your heel, the 'fuck you' echoing in your ears as you walked toward your house. You felt the weight of disappointment pressing down on you, a familiar ache that you had hoped to leave behind.

As you stepped inside and shut the door, the world outside faded away. You leaned against the door, feeling the cool wood against your back, and let out a shaky breath.

This was a new kind of pain—one that you couldn’t even describe.

EARLIER THAT DAY

Clint maneuvered his car, the rhythmic hum of the engine was almost soothing, but his thoughts were anything but calm. He glanced over at Yannick, who was absorbed in his phone, fingers tapping away on the screen.

His mind drifted back to the night before. The taste of your mouth still lingered on his tongue, the way your body felt beneath his hands, and the sweetness of you. His cock coated with your saliva and spit while you looked up at him through thick lashes. The memory of your eyes, wide and filled with desire—made his cock fucking stir.

You had been so eager, so fucking willing.

And now, he desperately wanted to eat your pussy until you were sobbing and weak from the pleasure. He wanted to feel your fingers tugging his hair so hard it would sting. He wanted to hear the sound of his name leave your lips as he sank inside of you. He wanted to watch you jerk and writhe on top of him.

He just knew you had a perfect cunt that would take him in so deep and—

"Clint," Yannick’s voice sliced through his thoughts, pulling him back to reality.

"Yes?" Clint replied, forcing a casual tone. He focused back on the road, but his mind was still buzzing.

He glanced at Yannick through the rearview mirror, seeing him look up from his phone, his brow furrowing slightly. "I need to take a client of mine to Oakland for dinner," a hint of irritation in his voice. "I could use some recommendations. Don’t you live there? What’s good?"

Clint’s mind immediately flicked to you and your restaurant. He was clearly biased, but it had become a favorite spot of his, not only because of the delicious food but also because of the authenticity. He mentioned the name of your restaurant. "You should check it out. The head chef has created a menu that really showcases her heritage. It’s got a unique identity that you won’t find anywhere else."

Yannick raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips as he leaned back in his seat. He repeated the name of your restaurant. "I guess it does have a certain charm to it, doesn’t it?"

"Oh, so you’ve heard about it?" Clint grunted.

Yannick nodded. “My daughter owns the place. She’s the head chef.”

My daughter.

My daughter.

My daughter.

Clint’s breath caught in his throat. “Your daughter?” he echoed.

"Yeah. She came back to the Bay Area a few years ago after dropping out of fucking business school. Decided to do this silly fucking restaurant thing. But, the reviews have been solid, so I guess she’s doing a decent enough job with the place." he said rolling his eyes.

"Yeah." Clint managed to say, his voice strained. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white.

He caught Yannick’s gaze in the rearview mirror again. But he couldn’t really listen to anything else that Yannick said after that. Because all he kept hearing was:

My daughter.

My daughter.

My daughter.

Sorry if you're getting duplicative notifications. Had tagging issues!

Taglist (including folks who showed interest / clint stans - let me know if you want to be removed): @almostempty, @pedroscurls, @milla-frenchy, @aurorawritestoescape, @gothcsz, @almostfoxglove, @itwasntimethatdidit40, @greenwitchfromthewoods, @joelmillerisapunk, @letsgobarbs, @syd-djarin, @beefrobeefcal, @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall, @oliveksmoked, @bergamote-catsandbooks, @missladym1981, @sawymredfox, @picketniffler, @for-a-longlongtime, @brittmb115, @probablyreadinsmut, @bluestar22x, @604to647, @jethrojessie, @christinamadsen, @cxrsed-angel, @tuquoquebrute, @ovaryacted, @sunshinehaze1, @ak-vintage, @bitchwitch1981, @whocaresstillthelouvre, @schnarfer, @here-briefly, @mrsmando, @auteurdelabre, @deardev0teddelicate, @cowboy-like-m3, @pedropascalpng, @axshadows, @pascalaissance, @iwas19, @multiversed-daydreamer, @pinkypromisepascal, @salingers, @stellamarielu, @mandaloriankait, @94namkooksworld, @flawssy-227, @mushgloomz,

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Take My Hand Masterlist

a/n: at the moment, this is the only work i have posted here. if i write anything outside of this story, i will add a more in depth masterlist <3

18+ MDNI

status: ongoing pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: arriving into Jackson in the late months of autumn, your life turns around as you adjust to the community you have been welcomed into. as you get to know the people in town, you find yourself entering the life of Joel Miller and the girl he takes care of. series warnings and tags: 18+ language, fluff, angst, eventual smut, slow burn, slight enemies to friends to lovers, fem!reader, talks of grief, hurt/comfort, lore-accurate violence and gore, jackson!Joel, age gap: Joel is in his 50s and reader is in her 30s, reader has no description besides hair and can be lifted, no y/n

chapter warnings: each chapter will have more detailed warnings in the description for the specific content that will be included there. please feel free to reach out to me about any i should add a/n: please be sure to read the warnings labelled. my works are 18+ as they will contain descriptions of violence as well as sexual acts. you are responsible for the media you consume so i please ask that you do not read if you are not of age <3 i also will warn that i try not to include any physical descriptions of reader besides that she is afab, has hair, and can be lifted by Joel. if that is not what you are looking for then that is completely okay! i would love to share works from other authors who's content i enjoy that may be more suited towards you i also would like to say this is my first time writing anything, let alone fanfic, so i hope i do it justice <3 ao3 dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

chapter I: a horse with no name

chapter II: coming 04/12

more chapters will be added along the way!

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part x)

summary: Joel lets an important decision run him over.

a/n: MDNI, smut, rated 18+ and It's Christmas in March! you are simply not ready for this chapter. seated? tissues? fingers at the ready? alright, let's go.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Here’s the thing about being a pillar hermit: people leave you alone until they don’t. They let you be—until moments like these, where the whole damn town is out, where everyone is watching, where people expect you to participate in something you don’t much care for.

Joel had always been like this—off to the side, out of the way, hands tucked in his pockets while the world spun around him. He didn’t dislike Christmas. Hell, he wasn’t that much of a grouch. He could appreciate the little things: the smell of pinecones in the air, the bright ribbons and ornaments draped around a jewelled tree, the crackle of a good fire, the steaming mugs, the soft hum of carols carried by the wind. He had good Christmases once. With Sarah. And then there were twenty years of nothing but ruined memories.

But this Christmas?

Well, this great Christmas marked the birth of his miraculous little ray of hope.

Maya. She was over by the tree, bundled up in two layers of coats on Joel's insistence, the little white bunny-ear beanie on Leela's insistence, bathed in the golden glow of the twinkling string lights, big, curious eyes reflecting the light like they were seeing magic for the first time. Tommy was crouched beside her, pointing out different ones, probably spinning some grand tale about the meaning behind each that made her giggle, her tiny fists wrapped in thick mittens, reaching for the lower ornaments. Joel’s heart did that stupid and fragile twist in his chest.

She was the best thing to ever happen to him. A love so profound, so damn big, he didn’t know how to hold it all sometimes.

And this morning had been one of those times.

Joel had barely finished his coffee before she was yanking at his pant leg, a determined little thing, dragging him outside, dragging him toward that swing he and Leela had built for her birthday, right under the big old oak in their yard.

Leela had painted flowers into it, just to make it look pretty, but Joel? He had been thinking about something else entirely. The kind of things fathers do. The quiet things. The ones no one notices—the ones meant to keep her safe. He’d spent hours carving the wooden seat just right, smoothing it over, free of splinters, making sure it was perfect.

Little feet thumping against the wood floor, her whole body vibrating with barely contained energy, her curls a wild mess from sleep, she had practically screeched it, beaming up at him, eyes wide and expectant—“Swing, Da-da!”

“She’s not gonna let you breathe until you do it,” Leela noted knowingly.

He'd laughed with her as he set his cup down. He scooped Maya up with ease, pressing a smacking kiss into her belly just to hear her squeal, her laughter bubbling out, wriggling in his arms.

“Alright, birthday girl. Your wish is my command. Go, get your jacket.”

None of that safety shit mattered because once Maya climbed up on that swing and he pulled her back, the little girl in front of him—his daughter—was nothing but delight. Carefree. Head tipped back, breathless, laughing. Joel had long since forgotten this kind of joy.

He had been gentle at first, keeping his hands right there, afraid to let go, afraid she’d slip. Joel chuckled, kneeling beside her, his fingers tightening around the ropes. “Hold on tight, bug. Can't let go.”

She hummed, her nose scrunching, her mittened hands gripping tight.

At first, he was cautious. Careful. He barely pulled her back, only giving her the softest push, his hands staying by her, just in case—but Maya wasn’t having that. She rocked her body forward, letting out an impatient, “Up, Da-da! Up!”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Bossy little menace,” he muttered under his breath, but he was already pulling her back before she could whine again.

Then, he let go. And she went soaring like those birds she loved so much.

Not too high—he’d never let her go too high—but high enough that she tipped her head back, high enough that the wind kissed her soft curls, high enough that her giggle rang out in the crisp morning air, a song he didn't want to stop hearing.

He watched how her whole face lit up like a new lightbulb, watched the way her cheeks bunched under her eyes, how her little boots kicked out with each swing, how she laughed so loud, so bright.

She was his. His heart. His whole goddamn world.

Maya tipped her head back again, her little golden giggles turning breathless. “Da-da!”

He took a deep breath in, grinning.

And then he pushed her forward again. Again, again and again.

Until all he could hear was her laughter, all he could see was her so fragile and infinite at once, all he could feel was this. This big, big thing that definitely wasn't grief.

Now, standing here, it was that same feeling. That same terrible, wonderful thing inside him—so big, so damn big, he still didn’t know how to hold it all. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was okay to just feel it.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

His gaze flicked past Maya and landed on the next best thing in his life.

Another pillar hermit, just like him, though Leela never quite knew it.

She stood with Maria, who was introducing her to some couples—faces Joel recognized but didn’t care to remember. And Leela, well… she was trying her best—her polite, careful best.

She was smiling, nodding, fielding whatever questions they threw at her, but he knew her shorthand by now. The subtle language of Leela-isms. The way she kept tapping the back of her left toe—nerves. The absent scratching at the top of her ear—overwhelmed. The way her eyes flicked to Maya every ten seconds—ready to get the hell away. She was forcing herself to be here.

She needed rescuing. And Joel was waiting with his charger, white horse at the ready.

He exhaled through his nose, pushed off the post he was leaning on, and made his way to her, feeling that all-too-familiar clench in his stomach. That pull. That ache. It happened every damn time since that night in bed heaven—like a part inside him just locked into place, a restless nerve finally settling. It was instinct now, the need to reach for her, to touch her, to keep her close.

Because this girl—this woman—had torn down every damn wall he had ever built to keep him safe. And he had never, not once, been so glad to be ruined.

And tonight? Goddamn. Tonight, that girl was trying to kill his soul.

She had listened to him. That little suggestion he had made, all casual-like, about those unholy leather cowgirl boots? The ones that gave her just enough height that she could tilt her chin up at him all playful, stubborn and cute? The ones that made those fine legs look long as hell, in the long gypsy-inspired dress, hugging the curve of her ass, the adorable swell of her thighs under her coats?

She was all his. Not in the way that meant ownership, no—Leela was too independent for that, too herself to be possessed. No, he needed her to belong. Like a home does to an owner.

He eventually flanked her side, letting his palm rest at the small of her back, and it took everything in him not to let it slide lower, not to give her a squeeze that said exactly what he was thinking.

“Howdy, darlin',” he murmured, voice dipping into something only she ever got to hear.

Leela shot him a look, and he knew—knew damn well—just how much that molasses-smooth drawl affected her. Hell, if he didn't use it on her at home, just when he wanted to get something his way. Very proud of it.

But she melted into him all the same, her slender palm pressing against his chest, a quiet reassurance, warm even through his jacket. “Hi, Joel.”

And then she rose onto the tips of her toes and pressed the softest kiss to his jaw. That? Yeah. That would undo him every time, even if he hated to flaunt.

“I was just talking to, um…” Leela glanced at the man beside her, struggling to recall his name.

“Greg,” Joel filled in, giving him a curt nod, his fingers hooking into the belt loop of his jeans. He saw the guy out on patrols, too.

The conversation went on, but Joel had stopped caring about Greg the second he noticed the shift—the way the conversation turned into something else. Looking between Leela and him, and his arm on her, and her hand on him.

And then, there it was. The thing people always noticed.

“So, how long have you two been together?” Greg asked, clearly dancing around something.

Leela glanced at Joel, as if waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, she went ahead. “A long time now. Right, Joel?”

“Over a year,” Joel fixed smoothly.

“Huh.” Greg nodded.

He smiled, though a little too amused, something Joel recognized before the man even opened his mouth. “Didn’t take you for a cradle robber, my man.”

Fucking what? The laugh that followed was casual and easy, but Joel felt Leela stiffen against him, confused more than anything. And that was what really did it. Because she didn’t get it—not in the way Greg meant it.

Joel’s gaze flicked up, controlled and unbothered, but there was something else underneath it—slow, mindful, dangerous. The kind of look that made a man rethink his next words.

Greg’s smile faltered just a little.

Joel tipped his head slightly, like he was genuinely considering the statement, then let out a low, thoughtful hum.

“That right?” His voice was calm. “Well, I guess that makes you the poor bastard dumb enough to say it to my face.”

Greg let out a short, uneasy chuckle, shifting on his feet. “Just messin’ with you—”

Joel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure you were.”

He let the undeterred silence sit solemn between them just long enough before tilting his chin up, slipping a little smirk into his tone.

“You have a good Christmas now,” he wished well. Because he was gentleman on top of being a asshole. Or so he thought.

Then, with a gentle squeeze at Leela’s waist, he steered her away—leaving Greg standing there, watching, knowing damn well who had the last word.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

She let him, followed without protest, but once they were far enough from the crowd, she looked up at him, brows drawn together in quiet confusion. “What was that all about? And what's a cradle-robber?”

Joel sighed, ran a hand down his face. Of course, she wouldn’t understand. Leela had never been on a real date, never had anyone whispering about what was ‘appropriate’ or not when it came to love. She had spent most of her early life just surviving, just trying to make it from one day to the next. Just like him. The idea that someone might see something wrong with what they had? It wouldn’t even occur to her. Precisely why she thought he hung the damn moon on her sky.

He stopped, turning to face her fully. His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing over her jacket. “Nothin’ worth wastin’ your time on.”

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face. “But it was about you, wasn’t it?”

Joel shook his head, one hand reaching up to brush her hair behind her ear. “People like to talk. Doesn’t mean they got any sense.”

He knew her well enough by now—knew that look. Knew she wouldn’t move on until she’d made sense of it, turned it over in her mind, figured out what it meant.

He exhaled and tipped his head toward the tree where Maya was still marveling at the lights. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

Leela followed easily, slipping into his space the way she always did, like it was second nature. And maybe it was. Maybe she had never really known anything else.

They walked in step, but then, finally—softly—she said, “Just so you know, I don’t mind that you’re older.”

Joel glanced down at her, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”

She nodded, her breath curling in the cold air. “It’s… more familiar to me.”

His brows pulled together, and she must have seen the question in his face because she clarified, “I was raised by older people. My parents, my aunties and uncles… the few people who really looked out for me? They weren’t young.” She paused, glancing up at him. “You remind me of that. Of home. I feel safe.”

Safe. She found that in him. And she wasn’t saying it the way other people might, wasn’t calling him stable or dependable or anything that felt like a backhanded compliment. She didn’t just believe the words she said, but lived them.

Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw working. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure if he should say anything.

His hands flexed at her waist, gripping her just a little tighter, just enough that she might feel it through the layers. A silent answer. I got you. I always got you.

Only then—

“There’s my best girl! C'mere, come to auntie.”

Maria’s voice sliced clean through the moment, and just like that, it was gone.

Leela turned, her expression softening instantly, instinctively. And Joel—well, he exhaled like someone had cracked open a high window. Maybe he was grateful for the interruption. Possibly he wasn’t ready for what had just started.

A few feet away, Tommy was spooning Maya up, tossing her into the air just enough to make her squeal before catching her against his chest. She let out a high-pitched giggle, kicking her feet, nose twitching from the cold, mittens clutching onto her uncle’s coat.

“Kiss-mas, unca. Kiss-mas twee,” she chirped.

Tommy grinned, bouncing her once. “Yeah? Kissmas?”

Maya giggled, cheeks puffing out more steam.

“Alright, c’mon. Kiss-mas, I'll show you kiss-mas.” Tommy made a show of pressing a dramatic, smacking kiss to her cheek, loud enough that Maya shrieked in delight, kicking her feet in his arms.

Maria was standing beside them, arms crossed. “Y’know, if you rile her up too much, her daddy is gonna be the one stuck dealing with it.”

Joel arched a brow as they approached. “Damn right I am.”

Tommy turned back to Maya, brushing the snow off her coat. “You excited, peanut? It’s your birthday and Christmas. You got double the presents.”

Maya sucked in a breath, as if she was just now realizing. As if she understood every word Tommy had told her.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. Baby girl was ridiculous.

Leela finally spoke, leaning in, playing along. “It’s all downhill from here, sweetheart. Next year you’re getting socks.”

Maria grinned, reaching out to tug on one of her tiny boots. “Mama’s just messin’ with you. I'll make sure you entire your terrible twos with a bang.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. Let’s get this birthday girl inside before she freezes.”

Tommy pressed one last kiss to Maya’s curls before plopping her down onto her feet, letting her waddle toward Maria, arms stretched high, exactly like a baby bear.

“Leela!”

Joel heard the voice before he saw her.

A familiar call over the hum of the crowd, cutting across like a bullet through a fog. A name spoken in a voice he hadn’t heard in quite some time—every muscle in his body locked up.

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

He never thought he’d have that reaction to hearing her. Not Ellie. Not the kid he’d sworn to protect, the one he’d fought for, bled for, lied for. And yet, here he stood, rigid, his fingers curled into fists at his sides, his stomach pulling tight like a knot looped too thin.

Leela had turned, glancing through the parting bodies, a big grin blooming on her face. “Hi, sweetie. Over here.”

She pushed her way forward, shoulders squared with that defiant set he knew too well, wind in her short hair, face unreadable.

Joel felt himself stop breathing. It was like looking at a ghost now. A taller, older phantom. A little sharper around the edges, he realized so late. The baby fat in her face had hollowed out, and her eyes—God, her eyes—looked at him like they didn’t know him. Like she was seeing a version of him she couldn’t place.

For a moment, the world just stopped.

Then, Ellie’s gaze shifted. To the arm Joel had around Leela. To Leela, standing there with that confused tilt to her head, the one she got when she knew something was wrong but hadn’t put the pieces together yet.

Ellie’s mouth parted, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

Joel felt his throat close up. “Ellie.”

X

“You haven't changed one bit, you dumb old fuck.”

Jackson’s winter wind pierced into Joel’s jacket that night, growing through the seams and biting at his skin like something flesh-eating. The sky was rife with the promise of snow, greying clouds roiling over the town. However, Jackson was still awake in its quiet way—candles flickering behind curtained windows, the faint hum of conversation drifting from the mess hall, boots crunching against frostbitten dirt.

Joel should’ve been heading home. But Ellie was waiting.

She sat hunched on the steps of her porch, hood up, arms folded tight across her chest. He knew that posture. Knew the stubborn set of her shoulders, the tension in her limbs like a wound coiled too tight. Not just stubbornness—something else. A truth held in too long, stagnant enough to choke on.

Joel slowed as he approached, hearing those vindictive words aimed at him, boots scuffing against the wood. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, letting the frigid snows settle between them.

Ellie didn’t look up. Not at first.

“So you gonna tell her already?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp. Not yet. But there was an edge to it, dangerously close to fury, quiet and simmering.

Joel’s small smile tightened. “Tell her what, kiddo?”

A breath of laughter escaped her, humourless, cold as the wind slicing through the space between them. She shook her head.

“C’mon, man. Again with the bullshit?”

Joel barely had time to exhale before she turned, looking up at him, and there it was—that look. The one that saw straight through him. The one that didn’t need words to say I know exactly what you’re doing.

“How long were you planning on keeping this from her, huh?” she said. “Were you ever gonna tell her? Or were you just gonna let her—I dunno, let her live in the dark forever, like you did to me?”

The words landed like a strike to the ribs, but Joel didn’t flinch. Just breathed slowly through his nose. What could he say when she was looking at him like that? Like she already knew every goddamn thought running through his head. Like she’d seen the exact shape of the things he’d never say aloud.

She had every right to say what she’d said. But that didn’t mean he could let it go unchallenged.

“You don't know shit about this, kid.”

X

Snow still clung to the edges of Joel's new boots, leaving prints on the mat, but the second he crossed the threshold of the big, white house that now smelled of birthday cake and cinnamon, it was like stepping into something softer, something that held. Because, for once, he realized—he wasn’t leaving. This was his home.

His arms were full—Maya, slack-limbed and snoring against his shoulder, her tiny fingers curled into his shirt collar even in sleep. And Leela, tucked against his side, her hand warm within his jacket pocket.

It still hadn't fully sunk in. This house—this big, white house, the one he’d stepped into so many times before—was his now. Not a place he’d visit and have to leave before the night was over. No more boots set by the door only to be laced up again with that knot in his chest. No more catching glimpses of Leela through a window, of Maya’s tiny hands pressed against the glass, tearfully watching him go.

He got to stay. He got to wake up here. With the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the knowledge that when he kissed Leela and Maya goodbye before heading back to patrol or another morning in the barracks, it would only be until he came home again.

Joel sighed, adjusting Maya in his arms as Leela reached past him to flick on the lights and lamps as they went in, the glow catching in her dark hair. “Baby girl out cold?” she asked, laughing under her breath.

“Like a rock,” Joel murmured, pressing a kiss to Maya’s temple. “A pretty cute rock.”

They had spent the whole afternoon celebrating Maya’s first birthday in the kitchen, and the remnants of the day clung like echoes of laughter and warmth—twinkle lights looped around the large island, the fraying, browning “Happy Birthday” banner Leela had strung between the cupboard handles, slightly askew now, edges curling where the tape didn’t quite hold.

And the cake—his cake. Tommy would have a field day if knew about Joel's little baking endeavour. Wouldn't let him live it down.

The half-eaten thing sat beneath the lights, pink frosting uneven, green letters smudged where he’d tried to fix his mistakes but only made them worse because his hands had never been made for finesse. He had busted his ass working on that cake— hours. Spreading, smoothing, wiping away, cursing, and starting over. Terrible.

But Maya hadn’t cared.

She’d smacked her tiny fist right into the centre, the second he’d put it down, giggling so hard she nearly tipped over the counter where he'd safely stationed her. And Joel—Jesus, he hadn’t even been mad. Just laughed, caught up in her sweet joy, snapping blurry Polaroids while Leela tried, through her own laughter, to salvage what was left of it.

“Maya, what did you do!” Leela gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, already reaching for a towel.

Joel just stared for a second, his hours of effort reduced to a pink, squashed mess. Maya, unfazed, lifted her frosting-covered fist and squealed, “Da-da!”

He blinked, shaking his head with a huff of laughter. “Well, hell. Guess we ain’t needin’ a knife now.”

Leela let out a breathless laugh, nudging Joel’s arm. “Go on. You worked so hard on that cake, might as well capture the moment.”

Joel sighed, reaching for the Polaroid camera, but not before swiping a little frosting onto Maya’s nose. “Smile, sugar.”

She squealed, squirming.

The flash went off just as Leela threw her head back laughing, and Maya’s dimpled grin shone through the mess, knowing already that these would be the photos he’d keep close. Now, under the glow of the twinkle lights, the cake sat there, still dented, still messy, a perfect wreck of a memory.

And whilst in the living room—his gaze flicked over, quieting—Where there had once been blackboards stacked against the walls, books scattered across the coffee table, and notebooks stuffed with numbers and theories—now, all gone. Packed away.

It was so... empty. Not a trace of Leela's endless pursuit in evidence. If it weren't for the pencil stand and textbooks of Analysis in Euclidean Space and Ordinary Differential Equations on the mantlepiece, he wouldn't have known what Leela was really capable of.

A week ago, she'd done the purge herself. She’d sat cross-legged on the carpet, on purpose, flipping through each notebook, running her fingers over the faded scrawl of her father’s handwriting, the precise lines of logic and numbers her mother had etched into the pages. She’d held them to her chest, laughing softly at the curvy doodles and the scribbled notes left for her, the little photographs tucked between the pages—her parents, young and bright-eyed, caught in moments before the world had turned hostile.

Joel had sat on the staircase behind the living room wall that night, out of sight, listening to her sniffles, hands curled around his knees. He had let her press her forehead to her knees and cry through the quiet. This wasn’t a grief he had any part in. There was no fixing this, no way to take away the ache.

So he’d waited. Ready, if she needed him. She never called for him, never reached out—but he was there. Always. Even as she boxed it up, put a pin in it and sent it off.

And in the morning, when he woke up, it was to his home strongly scented of pine. In the place of numbers, a big Christmas tree stood by the wide windows, draped in ornaments and tinsel. Elegant, decorated like something straight out of a home magazine, all soft gold and deep red, twinkling lights woven through its branches. She’d strung the garland around in perfection that screamed Leela, hung the star at the top, and—most importantly—placed a single red stocking over the fireplace for Maya.

There weren’t any gifts beneath it—things were tight, and the world wasn’t what it used to be—but that didn’t matter. They had made do. They had done their best. And, goddamn it, it had been enough.

They had made it suffice for themselves, making sure her first birthday and Christmas were perfect. And Leela—she’d done all this. After everything, after the long, aching week of packing away the past, she’d still done this.

All for him.

She’d made his favorite lamb koftas, the ones he used to effuse about to her in passing, but she remembered. An overflowing casserole, those roast potatoes that he loved, a Christmas pudding so rich he swore he’d never eat again—only to go back for seconds and leave no leftovers. She’d done all that, while he’d figured old ham and ruined birthday cake would’ve been enough.

He’d said as much, somewhere between scraping the last of the pudding off his plate and leaning back with a groan, patting his stomach.

“You say that now. But you nearly cried eating those koftas,” Leela teased.

He snorted, tipping his head back. “I’m a simple man. Meat and love. That’s all I need.”

She laughed softly, leaned forward to brush a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and said, almost like it wasn’t anything at all—“Good. ‘Cause you’ve got both.”

Joel had made sure to capture everything and didn't leave anything out.

The camcorder had been rolling all through, his hands quick to snap photos, catching every moment, every laugh, every flicker of candlelight on Leela’s face as she smiled at their daughter. He’d flicked through the Polaroids already—some of them sat on the coffee table now, beside the two unfinished glasses of mulled wine sitting where Leela’s feet had been, curled up in his lap hours ago whilst his hands worked circles over her sore calves and aching heels. He had wanted to take care of her, needed to. After all the effort she had put in today, for them.

She had sighed when he’d started, a deep, bone-weary sound, the kind that told him just how much she had pushed herself today.

“Really, you didn’t have to go all out,” Joel murmured, his thumb depressing slow, steady strokes into her arch. As if this wasn't enough, he lifted to give her instep a kiss.

Leela hummed, eyes half-lidded as she set the glass down after a little sip. “I wanted to. It's my baby's first Christmas. Our first Christmas.”

“Still,” he huffed. “Shoulda sat down, let me help you more. Or you coulda just… let it be another day. No big deal.”

She cracked a tired smile. “You did plenty, Joel.” He really hadn't, but she held his gaze for a moment, searching. Then, gently, “You think I don’t want to do this for you?”

“What, be my wifey? Take up all my jobs around here?” Then, mumbled, “Should be callin’ me wifey.”

“Take care of you,” she snickered.

Joel worked his jaw, looking away. He didn’t know how to answer that without saying too much.

Leela shifted, pulling herself up, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “I love you,” she murmured, with a surety he could never say aloud. “And I love what we have together. That’s why.”

Joel let out a breath, nodding. Then, gruffly, a bare breath, still not used to hearing it—“Yeah, I um. Love you, too.” His fingers traced one last, slow pass over her ankle before he hauled her closer, tucking her in against his chest. He stroked a few fingers down her back. “But next year, you’re sittin’ your ass down, lettin’ me do the gruntwork.”

Leela smirked against his shirt. “We’ll see.”

And for all that Joel had ever wanted with her—the longing, the ache, the terrible, quiet craving—he never thought he’d get this. Not just the heat of her body beside his. Not just her palm clutching his when the night got too dark. But, this.

A rhythm. A routine. A system that ran like a slow-beating heart. Something sacred, lived-in. Something built—not struck like lightning, not born from a single moment—but grown, cultivated like a garden in drought, fed by every mundane minute. It was ivy creeping up the big, white house's walls—imperceptible until, before you knew it, the whole damn thing was covered.

It was normal. And, god help him, he loved it. The predictability. The predictability. The soft domesticity. The way she moved in sync with him, like they'd been together a lifetime. Like muscle memory.

He’d step into the shower last, warm water would run out halfway through, but he didn’t mind—he’d stand beneath it anyway, working out the aches in his back, the stubborn stiffness in his knees, and by the time he stepped out, shaking out his soaking hair, she’d be by the sink, brushing her teeth, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, her long hair damp, clinging to the curve of her spine.

And she'd hold out his towel for him, saying something to rile him up on purpose, like, “I think Maya prefers owls more than sparrows. You know what a group of owls are called, Joel? A parliament. They're so cool.”

Sighing, he tied the towel around his waist, rifling through the drawer for a Q-tip. He'd been feeling deaf as a post with this weather. “I told you, we're not getting an owl.”

She frowned around her toothbrush. “Dull.”

“If you want a pet that bad, get one that's big and furry. Eats all the leftovers. Sticks to its business.”

She reached up to pat his damp chest, toothbrush now hanging off her lips, muffling her words. “I already have one of those. He's quite handy, too.”

That earned her a sharp smack in the ass. “Wiseass.”

And he’d put Maya to bed—pressing one last kiss to her forehead, cheeks and palms, smoothing her curls back, tucking the blankets snug around her little body—he still couldn’t stop himself from doing that, even now, the same way he did the first night he had slept in their home—while Leela went through the house, turning out the lights one by one, checking the latches, rearranging things no one else would ever notice. It was her way of making peace with the night. Her version of prayer.

And sometimes, when the noise in her head got too loud, she settled into her own space—the basement, where her tools were, her projects, the half-assembled parts she liked to fidget with, or fixing up whatever had caught her interest that night—and he’d find her.

He never rushed her. Never told her to get up and come to bed. Just sat nearby, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the soft furrow of her brows as she worked, how a single curl escaped her braid, which she'd tuck behind her ear every now and then. If she muttered to herself, he listened. If she was quiet, he let her be. If she needed help, he'd be there, rolling up his sleeves.

And when she was finally done, he’d take her hand—always her left, where her knuckles were a little more sore, where he'd thoughtfully rub her ring finger and imagine a gold band resting—and walk her upstairs, one foot in front of the other, like he was guiding out of a storm.

Up to their space. Their bedroom. Amber-lit. Warm. Enormous but quiet. Soft shadows stretching long across the wooden floor. Hers in a way that made it his, too. Her notebooks were stacked neatly on her nightstand, pages folded at the corners. The book he’d been “reading” for the past weeks was on his, barely ten pages in. A jug of water beside her lamp, which he refilled every evening, without fail.

And now, watching her in the bedroom—seated at the vanity, running a brush through her hair—it hit him, like it always did—how easy it had been to fall into this life. How damn natural it felt. He was sure he'd been waiting, failing, outliving for this his whole, long life.

And how hard—how impossibly hard—it would be to let it go when the time came. When something came knocking again.

And yes, it already did.

Now, his love wasn’t loud. It was this, soft, unremarkable intimacy. The brushing of hair. The warmth of a towel passed to him. The sense of a playful baby curled between them in the morning.

And Joel knew—deep in his gut—that he’d claw through the earth to keep it. To keep them.

X

“We have a life together. A family, a baby, a future. I... It ain’t that simple right now for all this.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Ellie shot back, shoving up to her feet. Her breath curled in the air, hanging between them. “You know some people’d want to hear what she’s got to say. People who could actually do something with what she’s figured out. The right people.”

The right people. Those do-good fucking cunts.

Joel knew exactly who she meant. The Fireflies, or what was left of them. The idiot ones still searching for remnants of the old world, still clinging to the past like stubborn weeds, for answers to questions that didn’t matter anymore—not when the world had already moved on without them. People who hadn’t let go of the idea that something better could still exist.

Leela had never been one for fairy tales. But this was the closest thing she had to one. And she’d chase it, no matter the cost.

He could already see it playing out. The way she’d set out on some wild chase across the country, searching for ghosts in the ruins. The way she’d throw herself into danger, into unknown places, into hands that might not be as kind as she expected.

And for what? For a world that was already done for? For parents who weren’t here to see it? For something bigger than herself, because Leela never knew how to put herself first?

He couldn’t let that happen. Not as long as he breathes.

Joel folded his arms, gripping the thick fabric of his sleeves, ready to return like for like. “Enlighten me, kiddo. And how do you know they’re still out there?”

Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “I hear things. You think I don’t listen?” She gestured vaguely toward the town. “Maria’s got scouts. People come through. Fucking Eugene. And maybe the whole world isn’t what it used to be, but not everyone’s given up trying to fix it.”

Joel let that sit in the cold air between them. But that didn’t mean it was real. And even if it was—

He sighed, running a rough hand over his beard. “Ellie, you don’t—”

“Don’t what?” she snapped. “Understand?” Her voice had teeth now, cruel, sharp ones. “I understand just fine. I'm not a kid anymore.”

Joel clenched his teeth. His patience was fraying, unraveling at the edges.

“You have to stop,” he muttered.

Ellie let out a breath, shaking her head. “Jesus. She deserves to know, Joel.”

His throat worked up. “And what if there’s nothin’ out there?” His voice was quiet now, but firm. “What if she goes searchin’ and doesn’t find a damn thing? Or worse—what if she does?”

Ellie stilled. Joel stepped forward, yielding the words into the space waiting between them.

“What if she finds the wrong people?” His voice was almost a growl. “You ever think about that? About what happens if it gets her helpless, in front of a gun? If she leaves everything good she’s got right here and doesn’t come back? Have you thought about Maya? Our kid who depends on her... delusional mama? Will you answer for her?”

His voice caught on those last words. The thought of them was objective in his throat, scraping raw on the way down.

Ellie’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t look away. “Whatever it is, that’s not your choice to make.”

Joel inhaled sharply through his nose.

Not his choice, yes. But wasn’t it? Hadn’t it always been? Hadn’t it always been him, standing between the people he loved and the things that would take them away? Hadn’t it always been his job to make those choices—ugly, unimaginable choices—because someone had to?

Hadn’t it always been him who paid the price?

Ellie took a slow step forward, voice quieter now but cutting deeper than anything she’d yelled. It dropped ten-tonne stones in his stomach.

“You did it to me. Not this time, Joel.”

X

Joel watched Leela in the mirror for a long moment, one hand braced against the frame, taking in the endless pull of the bristles through her dark strands, the way her mouth softened in concentration. How she winced when she smoothed over a particularly large snarl, and manoeuvred it in little pulses of the brush.

Then he stepped behind her, crossing the room, steeling his palms against the vanity, on either side of her, lips against the back of her head—

“Darlin’?” The word was muffled in her hair.

She hummed softly, big, dark eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass. And goddamn, she looked pretty. Undeserving of him. The golden light from the lamp traced over the delicate curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the deep, dusky gleam of her skin.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you look?”

Her mouth curled, amused. She dragged the brush down again, glancing at him through the mirror. “Including now? Seventy-three times.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You keep count, dork?”

“I keep count of everything.” She spun on the leather stool, ticking her fingers off. “How many times you walk up the stairs in a day, times you kiss me, times you call Maya with endearments or her name, times you use the bathro—”

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. Stop.”

She simply grinned at him, all innocent. “It’s a pattern. Symmetry. Helps with the theory.” A beat, then softer—“Well… helped.”

Joel eyed her. That sadness, the loss. The piece of her that was still grasping at things that had slipped through her fingers long ago. He wasn’t about to let that take root.

Then—clearing his throat—he shook his head, voice wry. “I was workin’ up to somethin’, and now I’m just creeped out.”

Leela tilted her head, curious. “Working up to what?”

He leaned in, voice dropping, little rougher, little lower. “Well—” His eyes flicked to her mouth. “I was gonna kiss you real hard.”

A flicker of something crossed her face—delight, fondness, maybe a little bit of shyness. That part he loved. Her lips parted slightly, nevertheless.

His smirk deepened. “How many of those am I at today?”

She let out a quiet, breathy laugh, gaze lowering. “Seven.”

“Hm. I can do better.”

Joel reached for her, fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up as he kissed her—incredibly soft lips brushing his, building and deep, taking his time, savouring the sweetness of her. She sighed into him, her fingers grazing against the explosive pulse on his wrist, slipping up into his hair, her body melting just a little.

Then—just as she did—he moved.

With a swift movement, he shifted, dipping down, hands gripping firm before he hoisted her up, throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed no more than a feather.

“Oh—Joel!” She yelped and earned himself a swat at his back along with a girlish giggle. “Put me down!”

Joel just grinned, gripping the back of her thighs as he carried her toward their bed. “No can do. Seven kisses, my ass. I'll make that seventy tonight.”

She was laughing. Laughing like she couldn’t help it, like it just spilled out of her, like it bubbled up from somewhere deep, warm, and real.

And shit, Joel thought—if this was his life now, if this was what he got to end his days with—then he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

Leela was still giggling her head off when he set her down on the bed, mattress dipping with her weight, her legs hanging a little off the edge.

Joel stood over her for a beat, his large hands dwarfing her thighs, squeezing into the warm, smooth skin. His heart was thudding that fierce, familiar rhythm—like it always did when he was close to her. Just like this.

Christ, she was unfairly beautiful. Her freshly combed hair tumbled wild over her shoulders, her nightdress slipping a little at the straps as if knowing what was coming, teasing the soft swell of her collarbones. And her legs—bare beneath the hem—were parted just enough to accommodate his broad form and step between them.

He did, dropping down to his knees, like a man come to confess, knowing damn well he was about to sin a hundred times more.

And from here—from this angle—he could see everything. His whole world condensed to that space between her legs. The way her nightdress pooled over her lap, the black fabric of her panties peeking out just beneath it, the little white bow at the waistband that always drove him insane.

Leela only hummed, slender fingers buried into his hair, combing through the damp, silver-brown curls, another reminder of how too fucking old he was for her. Joel exhaled, tilting his head into her touch. Her fingertips dragged lazily over his scalp, nails scratching just enough to make his skin prickle.

God, he loved that. The way she touched him, she was allowed to now. Like she wanted to. Like she owned him. Because hell if she didn’t, every damn broken shard, every scar, every weary, blood-worn inch.

He let his eyes slip shut under her touch, sinking into it, jaw flexing slightly with the effort it took not to simply fall apart in her hands. She noticed. Of course she did.

Her mouth curved knowingly. “You want to…? I thought today is a godly day and all that.”

Joel huffed, eyes blinking back open. “You know what the Bible says?”

Leela smoothed his hair back from his face. “What does it say, Joel?”

His hands squeezed her thighs. “To be fruitful and multiply.” He let his lips ghost over her knee, just barely touching. “From one godless person to another—I say we fuck seven ways til Sunday and call it worship. Just like the big man intended.”

Leela laughed, hands hiding her face, and Joel felt it like sunlight cracking through old stone.

She wasn’t always like this with him—so easy, so light. It had taken time, so much time, to bring her here, to let her settle into herself with him, to let her know she didn’t owe him a damn thing. Not her body, not her trust, not her affection. That he’d still want her, still love her, no matter what her body could or couldn’t do.

But now? Now she sat before him, knees fallen open, fingers tangled in his hair, looking down at him with fondness. His, in the way someone chooses to stay.

He ran his hands down, slow, tracing the gentle slope of her calves, the dips and hollows of her knees, until he reached her feet. He rolled her socks off one by one, tossing them over his shoulder.

Then he groaned. Because right there, around the delicate bones of her ankles, were those thin gold chain anklets. Wrapped around the bones of her ankles like they were made to live there.

He swallowed, fingers trailing over the fine metal, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the bone. “The shit you do to me.”

Leela bit her lip to fend off a smile, fingers playing in his hair. “I make you very, very happy?”

“Absolutely. And,” he pointed to the goddamn rock-hard monument in her name, right between his legs, “there's your proof.”

Leela’s laugh was still in the air when Joel pushed her knees up, folding her into the mattress, urging her onto her back. He gave those pretty gold anklets a kiss.

She didn’t just let him. She rose onto her elbows, watching him, that playful little grin still tugging at her lips.

Joel let his hands slide up her thighs, tracing a path over warm, bare skin before pulling back just long enough to grab the back of his shirt. Then, in one motion, he yanked it over his head. Didn’t care where the damn thing landed.

When he looked down again—her lips had parted, awed, curious, fingers already reaching for him.

He knew where she was going before she even touched him.

Knew the exact path her hands would take—starting from the thick, angry scar slashed deep into his torso, the one that never quite faded, the one that should’ve killed him all those years ago. Her cautious fingers traced along the pale, ragged edge of it, weightless, lingering—because she knew. Knew how close he came to never having this. Her.

Then—down. Lower. His stomach caved as her touch skimmed over the soft plane just below his ribs, down to where the trail of little tufts of hair disappeared beneath his waistband.

“Still got a thing against underwear?” she whispered, mocking.

“Knock it off. You have your patterns, I have mine.”

Joel wasn’t sure what had him losing his breath first—her touch, maybe it was the way she looked at him right now, lips parted, waiting, as if she already knew exactly what this was doing to him. Just a whisper of pressure before she hooked one single finger into his waistband—one. Didn’t even tug, just held him there, wanting permission.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, lips twitching slightly, instinct kicking in before he could even think about it.

“My turn first, darlin’.” His voice was collected, low despite the heat winding through his blood. “I wanna take a nice look at my stakes tonight. You mind?”

A hesitation—just a beat. And, slowly, she shook her head.

Hands sliding back the hem of her nightdress, he dipped his head to claim his said stakes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He took his time; he was about to taste every last bit of her tonight. Let his hands smooth over her hips, his thumbs skimming under the elastic of her panties, catching at the sides. The fabric worn soft against her skin, and he dragged it down, inch by inch—savouring the reveal of her, the friction, the soft unveiling of something that was already his.

And then he leaned down, eyes never leaving hers—flattening his tongue right into her belly button, teasing, hot, wet, possessing, before rolling it there like he was stamping himself into her, telling her exactly what the fuck she was in for.

Her head fell back, exposing her throat, as his stubble scraped at her, the delicate skin of her hipbones fluttering.

Joel knew it before he could venture downward, awaiting what was fit for a king.

The hesitance. The way her body reacted before her mind caught up, old ghosts whispering, instincts catching up—the quick snap of her knees closing, her fingers curling into the sheets, like she could hide, like she should.

Like she expected him to pull back, turn away, confirm whatever she’d already convinced herself was true.

“It's all ruined, Joel,” she whispered, too quiet, barely cupping his cheek. “It really isn't worth it. Just come up here and kiss me.”

A firm reminder of the patience he had to hold, no matter how much his control slipped past him, replacing it with something hot and aching and furious, because—who the fuck put that in her head? Who made her think that the resilience of her body, the proof of what it had endured, made her less than?

Who made her believe that change was a goddamn loss instead of something earned?

Although he knew what she saw now when she looked in the mirror. Knew the way her fingers traced over her own skin with careful, detached curiosity—like she was separate from herself, like she was still trying to understand what had happened to her.

So, he had to be careful now. Temper himself. Had to remind himself to slow down, hold back, not push, not snap with the heat—even though every part of him wanted to touch, to hold, to make her feel what he saw.

He ran his hands over her thighs, slowly warming her back into him, into this moment. Let her feel him. Let her know he was still here.

“Let me in, sweetheart.” His voice rough, full of something he didn’t have the words for but needed her to feel. Reassurance. A truth. “'S'okay, I promise.”

She was quiet. Fingers still tight in the sheets, body torn between wanting and fearing.

And Joel hated it. Hated that she was waiting for something bad to happen, for him to hesitate, to pull away, to confirm whatever bullshit lies had been inside her, planted deep and rotting.

And the marks left behind? The softening, the lines that claimed her, the change, the things she thought had broken her?

That was proof. Proof that she’d survived something brutal and still held onto love. That she’d carried something beautiful—someone—through pain and blood and numbness and came out the other side still standing. Hell, Joel had never been prouder of anyone in his whole miserable life.

So he did what he always did when words failed him—he showed her.

He spread her open again—took his time, no rush, no pressure, his fingers dimpling into the flesh of her thighs, easing, coaxing, waiting.

And she let him. Her breath wavered, shaky—but she let him.

So, he took her in. Saw everything he called his now. Jesus, and he wanted everything.

He dragged a hand slowly over the soft heat of her, his palm molding to her curves, his thumb brushing carefully along her folds—warm, wet, waiting for him. Felt the little stuttered breath as he traced his fingers along the slit, that dewy, sensitive nub of her clit, anticipating like the mother of pearl, parting through the folds, and he treated it like a man committing scripture to memory.

All his. He'd burn the fucking world, the goddamn galaxy, twice over for this.

He curled his fingers into the soft crease, just enough to feel her reflexively dig her feet into the mattress, anklets clinking, to feel her shiver and melt, just a little, into his fingertips.

And then he looked up at her from above her hips. Held her in place with nothing but his eyes, voice rough, gaze burning.

“Ain’t a damn thing ruined, darlin'.” His fingers flexed, his grip tightening, close to worship. “All I see is you.”

All he ever fucking wanted.

She brushed her thumb across his chin. “Joel.” As if that was the only word she could make out from her lips right then.

“Jus’ look at you,” he murmured, like gravel soaked in honey. “Fuckin’ made for me. Starvin’ me all this time.”

Joel didn’t rush a goddamn thing, as was his catchphrase for life these days. Didn’t tease. Didn’t press fleeting kisses or featherlight touches—no, he gave her everything.

Firm, unrelenting, deep.

He wasn’t fumbling, wasn’t searching—he knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what she needed. He’d learned the way her breath hitched when he latched his lips there, on the pearly bud—where she was warm, where she was soft, where she trembled at the first graze of his tongue.

Surrounded her with his mouth, covered her with the heat of him, and Leela broke beneath it. Shivered with his name on her lips, her breath catching, her thighs tensing just a little before she softened, liquefied for him.

God, that sound—that soft, choked little whine. Like she didn’t know whether to hold on or fall apart.

It hit him low, somewhere in his gut, aching, wanting, that had his own hips going off on a tangent, grinding right into the mattress beneath him. Fucking embarrassing, but he couldn't help himself. One-track mind here, and she was all of it.

He lingered this time, slower, mouth dragging over slick, sensitive skin, his nose brushing the hollow of her hip, right down to her warm slit, as he breathed her in, that scent, let himself sink. Wasn't news, but he was fucking done for.

And when his tongue flicked out—light, teasing, just enough to make her breath stutter—he felt her body jerk, spine curving toward him, soft, shaking, helpless as her elbows buckled, trying to hold herself together, trying to brace against what she already knew was coming.

“Joel—” She sounded ravaged already—close to a whimper, pleading.

“‘M right here, baby, ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he murmured over a mouthful. His fingers dimpled over her perfect ass, holding her close, spreading warmth in their wake.

Like hell he was about to fucking let up.

She was trusting him. Letting him touch her, take her apart piece by piece with every lave of his tongue, every twist of his fingers, breath by breath. He wasn’t about to let her regret it.

And then—he felt it. That quiet, beautiful surrender. Her body arching toward him, not just allowing, but asking. Needing. Her fingers carding through his locks—not to push, not to pull, just to hold.

And fuck, he wanted this for her. Needed her to have it.

So he gave it all to her.

He had the work cut out for his mouth, relentless, coaxing, toying. Soft when she cried, firm when she begged. He mapped her with lips and tongue and teeth, bit, rolled, traced her open with his fingers, worked her under, spreading out her soaked folds, wringing out every last breathy moan from her throat, every sweet little gasp, every sweet, desperate, whispered Joel. Music to his fucking ears.

And when his fingers traced down, teasing, ring and middle fingers easing inside—pressing, curling, giving her just enough, just right—

“Oh, my god—Joel—” and some nonsensical sounds for which there was no right spelling, which made him chuckle right into her.

She choked on the words, hands flying to clutch his shoulders, nails digging into healed wounds, breaking skin, breaking him. Good. Let her. Let her take a chunk of his flesh. Sink right in and pluck out his heart, bloody and beating. Take a piece of me, sweetheart. It’s yours.

A wicked little thrill curled in his gut when she whined his name, echoing off the walls. “Mm,” Joel hummed right into her, tongue working her through the vibrations, rasping, “there she is… That’s my good girl. Let me hear you, baby.”

Her body was shaking, her glistening thighs trembling, toned stomach tensing, hips rolling idly into the convex slope of his nose—chasing it, taking it. And he was simply watching her, an avid fanatic, drinking her in.

She was so close. He could feel it in the way she clenched around his fingers, suckering him in, in the way she tasted so much sweeter, in the way her voice went soft and shattered, in the way she whispered his name, over and over, a prayer for him, like she was half-lost, falling apart.

Yes. He wanted this for her. Wanted her to have this, to take it, to know—that he was here, that she was safe, that this was hers. All of it. Him.

So he pushed her higher, higher, dragged her right to the edge, pushed himself in, in, in, unstopping—until she crashed.

“There's my girl,” he rumbled, unfathomable. “There you go, baby.”

Held her up, took her in, eased her apart, let her come hard against his mouth, his hands, all over him. Let her shatter—hard, helpless, fucking beautiful—until she was unraveling all over him, gasping, crying out, tears in her eyes, curling around him.

“Joel!”

And he didn’t stop. Not yet.

So licked it through, sealed it with a kiss, worked her open, dragging her down, down, down—until she rode out every last tremor on his tongue, his fingers, sure hold of his hands. Tasted her, lapped her up, let the sweetness linger, soaked his nose and beard.

When she finally sagged back against the sheets—loose-limbed, trembling—he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh.

He lifted his head, and looked up at her—past her swollen lips, stomach tensing and caving, sweating, wrecked, absolutely fucking ruined—Joel swore he’d never seen anything more perfect in his life.

Leela stared unseeingly back at him, blinking the wetness from her lashes. Joel grinned at that. Smug, slow, feeling too damn good about himself.

“Wow... that was...” She trailed off, breathless. Then she blinked again, locked eyes with him. “I don't know what that was.”

Joel chuckled, pressing his mouth to her thigh again, scratching his beard against sensitive skin, loving the way she twitched beneath him.

“Somethin’ good, I’m hopin’. You happy?”

She let out a weak, disbelieving laugh—then gasped as her gaze landed on the state of him.

His hair was a mess, thick curls sticking up where she’d yanked at them. His shoulders bore the sharp crescent moons of her nails, blood beading in little spots where she'd really lost herself.

Her eyes went wide. “I did that?”

Joel looked down at himself, at the evidence of her all over him—his skin, his lips, his stubble, his fucking soul.

“Technically,” he mused, meeting her gaze, making her squirm a little, “I did you.” That grin of his was pure sin. “Mark me up all you want, darlin'. Next time, plant those pretty nails right on my neck, I want the whole fuckin' town to know.”

Leela was still blinking at him, looking stunned, lips parted like she was trying to find words but couldn’t quite pin them down. Her chest rose and fell in sharp little breaths, the aftershocks still working through her limbs, loose and boneless beneath him.

She swallowed hard. Then—

“I liked feeling that. Felt so... liberating,” she admitted, almost in awe, like she was holding some shimmering thing in her hands and turning it over in the light.

His fingers traced the sharp dip of her waist, a promise to himself. “Get used to it, then,” he murmured. “Plan on givin’ you plenty more of that.”

Leela let out a contented little sigh, stretching her arms over her head, her ribs shifting beneath his touch. That lazy smirk curled at her lips, all pleasure and mischief.

“Don’t wanna overwork my machine,” she teased, with the comfort she only let herself have with him.

Joel smirked right back, tilting his head over her thigh, watching her through the low burn of hunger—the kind that never really left him, not when it came to her.

“Nah,” he muttered, dipping down, dragging his mouth over the taut skin of her belly, letting his teeth scrape against muscle, feeling the shudder ripple through her. “You promised to fix me up. Hundred-and-twenty years guarantee, remember?”

Leela quieted a laugh, sighing as he nipped at her side, her fingers sliding lazily into his hair again. “Might’ve exaggerated the warranty terms.”

Joel grunted into her skin. “Figures. You rich girls are all charm and no fine print.”

She hummed, running her nails over the back of his neck, aimless. “Don’t lump me in with your admirers.”

“You ain’t in the same class,” he said without hesitation, lifting his head to look at her. “They’re just noise. You’re the whole damn signal.”

Leela closed her eyes, her smile too soft. “God help me.”

“Don’t need god, baby,” he rasped, mouthing against her hip. “You’ve got me.”

X

“You took away my choice. And now you’re doing it to her. I won't let it happen.”

Joel hated when Ellie did this. When she carved him open with words and left him standing there, raw and exposed, with nothing to hold onto. When she infected the space with silence, the kind that didn’t just sit in the air but sank into his bones, into the spaces between his goddamn heartbeats.

Ellie exhaled, eyes burning, breath curling white in the cold air. Her fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to ball them into fists but hadn’t quite committed. “You always say it’s about protecting people,” she murmured. “But maybe it’s just about you. About what you can’t handle. About how you're too fucking scared to admit it.”

Joel clenched his jaw so tight it ached. It would’ve been easier if she’d just screamed at him. If she’d thrown a punch. Cursed him out. Told him she hated him.

Instead, she looked at him with those sharp, unforgiving eyes and waited. Waited for him to give her something real, to use against him.

Joel swallowed, his voice rough. “It ain’t like that.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed, a cold, sharp flicker. “Okay, what the fuck else is it, Joel?”

His jaw flexed, the muscle jumping. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because what the fuck else was it like? That was the goddamn problem.

It was too much and not enough all at once. It was him waking up every morning with the gnawing fear that something would take this life, his love, all of it away from them, that all this peace was just borrowed time. It was the ghost of what almost happened to Ellie still sitting in his ribs, a wound that never really closed, and he never bothered to check. It was looking at Leela and seeing someone else teetering on the edge of a choice she didn’t fully understand—one that could swallow her whole, just like it would’ve swallowed Ellie.

It was knowing that if he let it happen—if he stood by and watched—he wouldn’t survive it.

Joel sighed, like he could push it all down. “It’s just different.”

Ellie let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Bullshit.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and something in his expression must’ve shifted, because she stilled. The fight was nonetheless in her, but she was really watching him now.

He wet his lips. His mouth was dry. “I ain’t doin’ this to hurt her.”

Ellie’s face flickered, something cracking just beneath the surface. “Yeah?”

Joel nodded once, firm. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head, voice dropping quieter. “And when you lied to me?”

The ground might as well have been yanked out from under him.

Joel felt it in his gut, the way his stomach twisted all that time back, the way his hands twitched at his sides under her stare. The brutal memory slammed into him, relentless.

Salt Lake City. The cold, sterile hum of machines. The blinding white of hospital lights. The dripping consequence of innocent blood on his hands. The drive back. The silence in that goddamn car. Ellie looking at him, uncertain—Swear to me. And him, looking right back, the lie already fixed in his throat.

Joel’s mouth opened, then shut. There was no answer he could give her. Not one that wouldn’t taste like ash on his tongue.

Ellie sighed, shifting. “You know what this fucking means to her,” she muttered. “You know, better than anyone else, how long she’s worked for this. How much she’s lost for it.”

Her voice wavered slightly. But she caught it, swallowing it down, steadying herself.

“If you take this from her—if you make that choice for her...”

Joel’s hands flexed at his sides, then curled back into fists. Whatever was at the end of that sentence, should she finish it, was a bomb to his nerves. And he wasn't ready for the explosion.

Ellie wasn’t angry anymore. No—this wasn’t just anger. This was something old. Something that had never left her, no matter how much time had passed.

She wasn’t fighting for Leela. Not just for her.

She was fighting for herself. For the girl she used to be. The one who had woken up in the backseat of a sedan, stitches still fresh, lungs surging with breath she hadn’t agreed to keep. The one who had been fed a lie, one meant to protect her, but a lie all the same.

The one who had never gotten to decide.

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. This was fucking agony.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the same. That this was different. That he wasn’t making this choice out of selfishness, but love—a love so deep it bordered on terror. That he wasn’t trying to take anything from Leela—he was trying to keep her safe, keep them safe, because for the first time in years, he had something he couldn’t bear to lose.

But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to Ellie. Not after what he’d done.

She’d already made up her mind. And maybe the worst part—the part that chewed at him—was that she had every right to.

Ellie wasn’t waiting for an answer. She took a slow step forward, eyes locked onto his, and there was no hesitation in her voice when she said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

He took a step forward before he even realized he was moving. “Ellie.” His voice was low, edged with warning. “Don’t even think about it.”

She didn’t back down. Didn’t even blink. “Try and stop me.”

Joel clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His nails pressed deep into his palms, fists tightening like he could squeeze the fear right out of them.

Yeah, she goddamn meant it. Stubborn kid.

Ellie had always been a storm—a force too wild to be controlled, only barely tempered by the years between them. She was his unfortunate mirror. But this? This was her line in the sand.

She wouldn’t ask again. She’d do it. She’d tell Leela everything. She’d make sure she knew exactly what Joel had been trying to keep from her. She’d rip open the truth and let the chips fall where they fucking may.

And Leela—she would leave him. Leela would walk right out of Jackson, surrender herself to death for bullshit science, just like Ellie almost had. Just like Sarah would’ve, if she’d lived long enough to grow up and push against him like this. Just like every goddamn person Joel had ever loved. And maybe Leela wouldn’t come back.

And fuck—maybe the kid was right. Maybe he was a coward, or selfish, or just too goddamn scared of losing the people he loved to ever let them make their own choices.

But wasn’t that what love was? Protecting them? Keeping them safe, no matter what it costs? Even if it meant they’d never forgive him when he made the hard choices for them.

X

Leela's little giggles carried through the warmth in the glow, squirming under Joel, fingers threading into his hair, gripping without thought.

And that sound—he fucking loved that sound. He grinned against her skin, bit again, firmer this time, just to hear it again, to feel that little flash of light and joy in her, like she was finally letting herself be wanted. Letting herself be held.

And then he climbed, nosing up her ribs, her sternum, pressing his mouth over her heart, sensing it hammering against his lips, wild and unhidden.

Her hands smoothed over him, like testing the strings of a guitar, gliding through his curls, down his jaw, tracing the rough plane of his throat, over his shoulders, his chest. Touching him the way she knew he liked, the way that made him feel like something more than a man with rough hands and too many ghosts.

“Joel?” His name, soft, uncertain. Almost shy.

He lifted his head, finding her eyes, finding the way she watched him, the way she wet her lips.

She smoothed a hand down his chest, fingertips feather-light, following the rise and fall of his breath, tracing each ridge, each scar, committing them to memory. And then, quieter—hesitant, but knowing.

“Do you want to—um—put it inside?”

Christ above. That should’ve been an innocent few words. Put it inside me. Something to smirk at, something to tease her over. But God, the way she said it—soft, like she wasn’t sure she should be saying it at all, but wanted to. The way her lips parted, how her voice went quiet, how her fingers dragged over his ribs, winding into the fuzz there, down, down, trailing heat in their wake.

She reached for her nightdress, carefully plucked the buttons open, so much more sexier when she did it, lifted herself up a little, yanked it over her head and draped it aside.

His stomach tightened, his cock twitched, already aching from just looking at her like this—glistening everywhere, a dusky miracle, warm and ready, legs parted beneath him, wet and waiting.

Joel nodded—too fast, too eager, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when it came to her.

“Sure, honey. Yeah,” he rasped, voice rough, barely there, already fumbling with unbuttoning his fly. His hands were shaking, actually shaking, Christ, but he got it undone, got his zipper down, freed himself.

Hot, hard, already leaking against her stomach.

Leela’s breath caught, a small, instinctive sound in the back of her throat. Her lashes fluttered as her gaze flickered downward, wide-eyed, her lips parting, breath turning shallow.

“Please,” he tried, hoping she would take the hint.

She hesitated for just a second before her fingers wound around him—delicate, cautious, still learning him, still getting used to the stiffness and heat of him in her grasp.

Joel sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking into her fist, completely out of his control. The touch wasn’t even tight, wasn’t even sure, but fuck, it was his goddamn girl, and that did it for him. His fingers tightened against her waist, digging in, as if grounding himself in her, in this moment, in the softness of her skin around him.

And then she looked up at him—a little sceptical, but wanting him anyway. Wanting him.

That hit him deep. That did something worse than arousal, worse than need. It twisted through his ribs like a fish hook, unaware and sharp, leaving him breathless.

He leaned in, urging their foreheads together, drinking her in like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You with me?” A plea as much as a question.

Leela nodded, her nose stroking his, breaths soft. “Always.”

And that was all he needed.

He kissed her then—deep, slow, sinking into her like he could crawl inside, like he could get closer than skin, closer than breath. His hands roamed over her, memorizing her like a man starved, like she was holy, transient, and he had to push her into his hands, his mouth, his memory before the moment slipped away.

She was all his warmth beneath him, quiet sighs and tremors, fingers tracing slow, aching patterns over his back and shoulders, waiting for him.

And Christ, he wanted to give her everything.

Joel settled between her legs, powerful thighs bearing up hers that bracketed his hips, and the heat of her—the sheer, impossible heat of her—made his head spin, made his pulse hammer in his throat, made his grip tighten against her like she might evaporate if he wasn’t careful.

The last shreds of restraint in him frayed, pulled apart by the way she looked at him, by the way she breathed him in.

His heart was a battering ram in his chest, slamming against his ribs, a rhythm only she could pull from him.

He wanted to remember this. Not just the way she felt beneath him, soft and warm and willing, but the way she looked at him—like she trusted him, like she wanted him, not just in this way but in a way he didn’t know how to name.

His hand slipped between their bodies, guiding himself, the other cradling her face, thumb sweeping slow over her cheek, tracing the corner of her mouth.

Joel clenched his jaw, swallowed thickly, and let himself memorize her. Because he had to remember this. He didn't know when he'd do this again.

And then—he pushed in.

Gradually. Painstaking. Inch by inch. Sinking into her. Into that breathtaking heat, that unbelievable tightness, into all of her.

A gasp tore from Leela’s throat, sharp and caught, her nails biting into his back, dragging up, her whole body tensing beneath him.

Joel groaned, rough, broken, the sound shuddering from deep in his chest.

His forehead dropped to hers, breath uneven, harsh, like he’d just been knocked off his damn feet. Because, no, not even after a decade into this would he get used to it.

He felt everything. The heat, the softness, the cushioning stretch around him, the way her body clung to him, wrapped around him, pulling him in. Taking him in, welcoming him in.

“Goddamnit, baby…” His voice came out strained, barely there, just breath and heat.

Leela shuddered, exhaling in a stuttering breath against his lips.

Her fingers curled into his hair, gripping tight, and he could feel her trembling beneath him, every little hitch in her breath sending him to a free fall. But she didn’t pull away.

No—she arched into him instead, drawn to him, pressing herself closer, holding onto him like she needed him just as much as he needed her.

Joel clenched his jaw, forced himself to still, to breathe, to let her adjust. His hands soothed over her, one stroking slow along her hip, the other slipping into her hair, cradling her, holding her.

Yeah, he wasn’t some young buck anymore. And Christ, he felt it now. Felt it in the deep-set aches in his joints, the dull protest in his bad knee, the slow burn in his lower back where years of hard labour and harder living had left their mark. Felt it in the way his breath came harder, rougher, how his body was slower to catch up to the fire in his blood.

It wasn’t new. Wasn’t something he complained about—because what was the use? His body wasn’t what it used to be. That was just a fact.

And Leela—well, she was younger. Not some girl, not by a long shot, but still, there were nights he glanced at her beside him, and caught himself wondering—what the hell was she doing with him? With a man who hurt more than he moved, whose reflexes weren’t what they used to be, whose hands bore the years in thick, rough calluses.

Joel didn’t know how to explain it—what was happening to him in that moment. What was settling deep in his chest like a slow, burning ember, lighting him up from the inside in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with her.

No person on this shitty planet deserved any of what she did for him.

The way Leela moved beneath him, not with urgency, but with a kind of quiet knowing—like she understood him down to the marrow.

It wasn’t just the way she adjusted her body so his weight wouldn’t bear down too hard on his back, accommodating him to rest on her, or how her legs curled tighter around him, drawing him in, deeper, to give his knees something solid to press into. It was how she didn’t make it a conversation, or a concern, or some goddamn mercy.

She simply… let him be. Let him be a man with age in his bones, with pain in him and knots in his shoulders, and still, still, looked at him like he was the only man she wanted. He was enough for her, making her feel this.

More than the fucking, this felt a lot more like love.

Joel grinned a lazy one, nipping a kiss to her jaw, murmuring against her skin. “How’d you know?”

Leela’s fingers curled against the back of his neck, threading into the softer curls there. “I just felt it.”

Of course, she did. She always did.

Joel groaned against her throat, his thrusts growing deeper, surer, like he was trying to carve himself into her, leave something of himself behind. He wanted to thank her in the only way he knew how.

He kept to the tempo. Circle, push, circle, push.

Until Leela gasped, nails biting into his back, her body rising to meet his. Her breath was uneven, her voice the barest whisper.

“Joel—!”

Right there, yeah. He found that sweet spot. He breathed her in with a victorious grin, nose tracing against her shoulder, low and ragged, his chest pressing to hers, his hands wandering in adoring sweeps—over her hips, her waist, the curve of her spine.

“Wanna give you everything. Everything, take everything,” he said, the words rough and meant only for her.

At that exact spot. Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push.

Because he knew what it took for her to open up like this. Knew what kind of ghosts she’d had to stare down just to let someone in—to let him in. She wasn’t a woman who gave herself lightly. She didn’t owe him this. She didn’t give because she was afraid of being alone or needed something to fill a space.

Joel—God help him—he felt like his heart couldn’t hold all of it.

His lips brushed against her cheek, the bridge of her nose, slow, reverent, until their mouths met, and he kissed her—tongue roaming, teeth knocking, like he was trying to pour something real into the space between them.

“Feel so good,” he murmured into her mouth, voice frayed, like barbed wire catching on skin. “So damn good, baby. You don’t even know.”

A gentle pull at his curls and an echoing moan had him reeling. He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, sweat beading at his brow, spine screaming at the strain—but he didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not when she felt like this, sounded like that.

Circle, push, circle, push, circle, push, push, push—

Joel could feel her getting close. Best damn thing in his life, that's for sure.

He could feel it in the way her breath hitched, in the little shudders that ran through her body, in how she clenched around him—tight, fluttering, like she was right there, teetering on the edge. This might just be it.

And this time, this time, there was no pulling back. No hesitation. No slipping out of reach like before—where her body had tensed and her eyes had gone glassy and distant, that wall confusedly sliding back into place, shutting him out without a word.

No, tonight was different.

Tonight, she stayed with him. Held onto him. Let him see her.

And Joel felt his own climax building—not just in himself, the tight, coiled tension in his spine—but in her.

He slowed, deepened his thrusts, each one thick with ache and purpose, his breath coming hard and uneven, gruff voice encouraging. “You gonna come for me, baby? You feel that?”

Leela nodded, fast, her mouth falling open, a whine catching in her throat. Her hands were in his hair, holding him close, her thighs locked around his hips, skin slick, hot, quivering.

“Say it f'me, now. Need that smartass head of yours to know. Tell me.”

She started in a whisper. “I'm gonna—” one greedy slam of his hips and she cried out, “gonna come!”

“Yeah, you are. Gonna make a mess all over me.” Joel gritted his teeth, a fresh wave of heat breaking over him. He was sweating hard now, the kind of sweat that came with effort, with strain, with love like this—not frantic, not desperate, but fierce. Devoted. He had this in the bag.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple, another dripping from his jaw, splashing hot against the swell of her pulsing breasts. God, so fucking sexy. Unfairly sexy.

She gasped—not from discomfort, but from how deeply he filled her, how close she was, how it all felt.

Her body arched, and he felt the tension spiral tight—so tight—under his hands.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, “come on, let go f'me. Such a good girl.”

The air between them was thick, the rhythm of their bodies like a heartbeat, their skin slapping softly, wet and warm and intimate, it felt too surreal. The sounds were bare, natural—Leela’s tiny gasps, Joel’s deep grunts, the slick slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings beneath them.

“You’re doin’ so good,” Joel rasped, his hand cradling her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye, “that’s it, darlin'. I got you. Come on.”

And then—she broke.

“Joel!”

Her body seized around him, back arching, a high, wrecked whimper tearing from her throat—raw and real and so damn incredible it hit him like a freight train. Joel felt her come apart underneath him, clenching, fluttering, her limbs trembling, thighs tightening, fingers digging into his back like she didn’t know how else to stay tethered to the earth.

Her release hit hard around him, rolling through her in wave after wave, hips jerking, breath catching, chest pushed tight to his. And Jesus, she held on. Clung to him like she wasn’t afraid anymore.

All it took was that. Joel was undone.

The way she came for him, the way she gave him that—trusted him with that—a broken, breathless sound ripped from his chest as he followed her over the edge, everything tightening—his thighs, his spine, the aching stretch of his lower back—and he spilled into her, wrung all of him out, deep, full, trembling like a man who hadn’t known softness in years. He held her close, rested his forehead to hers, breaths harsh, the kind of release that didn’t just steal his strength—it stripped him down to the bone.

There was no disappointment this time. No silence. No turning away. No false promises.

Just Leela, breathless and dazed beneath him, her arms still around his neck, her heart thudding wildly against his chest.

Joel stayed there, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin, his hand smoothing down the side of her thigh. He couldn't let go; if he did, he’d lose the one good thing he still had. Within him, he felt raw, scraped clean. As if something old had finally broken open and something new had taken its place.

He was feeling the burn right in his bones, alright. Worth it. Every slow ache, every deep pull of soreness? Worth it.

How was this time much better than the first? Maybe it was how he knew the terrain of her body, all the dips, the curves, the valleys. Maybe this was the way it was going to be, the next one always besting the first. Good, he could use a bit of that excitement from time to time.

“Goddamn,” he mumbled. “That's my girl.”

And she smiled—barely there, exhausted and dazed and flawless. One of those little Leela-smiles that barely tugged at her mouth but said everything.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, gaze hazy and warm. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

For the first time in too many years, Joel didn’t feel like he was chasing something he couldn’t hold. He didn’t feel like he was trying to fix what had already broken. He didn’t feel like he was failing someone.

He felt like he’d given her a new reality. And she'd taken it. Held it. Come apart with it.

Her thumb lingered at the edge of his mouth, tracing over the rough bristle of his beard. Joel let her, watching her through half-lidded eyes, too damn comfortable—too damn content—to move just yet.

Then, deliberately, he dipped his head and caught her thumb between his teeth. Just a little pressure, just enough to make her giggle.

Leela shifted beneath him, her fingers still trailing over his jaw, drifting down the column of his throat, tracing absent-minded shapes into his damp skin.

Then, her gaze flicked downward. He watched her, half-lidded, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips as her brows lifted just a little. He could practically see the realization dawn on her face, could feel the way her body tensed just slightly beneath him.

“Why are you still inside?” she whispered.

“Wanna keep feelin' you. Best nook in the world.”

“Nook!”

And then—she dropped her head back and laughed. A real big laugh, one that could've woken Maya right up. Breathless and unfiltered, shaking both of them right where he still was—deep inside her, buried in the heat they’d made together.

Joel propped himself up on an elbow, watching her with the kind of fond disbelief that had been sneaking up on him more and more lately. The kind that made him feel like he was standing too close to the sun, and somehow, it wasn’t burning him alive.

Her laughter fizzled into breathless stupor, and she reached down between them, fingers grazing her own skin, the slick mess he’d left inside her. She was flushed and glowing and completely disarmed—this beautiful, brilliant creature half-dazed from how thoroughly he’d loved her.

“I am so wet,” she giggled, almost amazed—like she was taking inventory, like she was cataloging the sensation, her big science brain working even now. Marveling at her own body, her own pleasure—his doing.

Joel huffed a laugh, watching her hand linger where he was still seated inside her. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, hoarse. “That’s ‘cause I filled you right up. Feel that?”

He slid his hand over hers, guided it lower, toward that soft pressure, until she felt exactly where they were joined—her swollen, sensitive folds stretched around him, the sticky heat dripping out around his length.

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he added, lips brushing her jaw, his voice dark and a little smug now, all gravel and honey. “Felt you take every drop. My girl.”

She shivered.

He was still hard, still inside her, and now he rolled his hips just once—willful, greedy as fuck—letting her feel the way she squeezed around him, the aftershocks still rippling through her.

Leela moaned, body twitching with oversensitivity, but her eyes fluttered open—glassine, gentle and loving. And fuck if he didn’t want to sink back into her all over again.

He liked this quiet after with her. The comedown. The afterglow. Oh yeah, he was luxuriating. It wasn't silence—not really—but that comfortable kind of quiet, where everything was still warm, where he could just be with her, where their breath was still slowing together, tangled up in something that felt more real than anything he had words for.

Leela turned her head, sighing, meeting his gaze, brow furrowing slightly.

She was thinking. And fuck. Joel knew that look.

That faraway gleam in her eye, the way her mouth twisted like she was mid-thesis. It meant she was about to crack the entire moment open with some clinical, over-intelligent monologue that would have his brain short-circuiting—turning this molten, messy, perfect aftermath into a goddamn science lecture.

And he just couldn’t have that. Not now. Not when he was still inside her. Not when she was glowing and flushed and breathing like that.

So he cut her off the only way he knew how—his mouth, slow and unhurried, trailing down the delicate column of her throat, dragging over the heat of her skin, still damp with sweat. Let his mouth roam over her breast, tongue flicking lazily, tasting the salt on her skin, leaving a wet track, the warmth still lingering there, and he groaned against her. Possessive. Content. Still hungry.

“Oh, Christ, you’re gonna start talkin’,” he muttered, words muffled by the perfect weight of her in his mouth.

She ignored him, playing with his curls absently. “You know what? I think I finally understand the physiological means at play—”

Joel growled, deep in his throat, rolling his tongue around her nipple. “Don’t do it,” he warned.

She kept going. Of course she did. “Listen, it’s not just blood flow, Joel. Amazing, right? It’s the whole nervous system—my body registers stimuli—”

He bit her.

Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp. Just enough to leave a little mark. A love bite. A warning. She swatted at his head, already giggling as she squirmed beneath him.

He grinned against her skin, running his tongue over the spot in apology, soothing the mark. “Thought I told you to knock it off.”

Leela huffed, exasperated but smiling, palm flat against his chest like she might push him off of her. But no, never. Not really.

Joel caught her wrist, slow and firm, and pinned it to the mattress beside her head. Brought his mouth back to hers, hovering just above.

“Next time you start talkin’ again,” he rasped, brushing the words against her lips, “I’m gonna make sure you can’t get a single word out. Just like this.”

He dipped his hips, just enough to remind her he was still there, thick and deep, still throbbing inside her.

“Sounds fair to you, smartass?”

And the look in her eyes when she nodded? Had him grinning like a damn fool. Another open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her breast before he was going easy on her, pulling out of her and back, bracing himself above her again.

Leela let out a contented sigh, stretching like a purring cat beneath him, and he just took a second to look at her. All sprawled out. All soft, spent, smelling of him and filled with his come. Why would he ever move when his view was this good?

But he should probably move. Should probably clean her up, maybe get some more food in his system. He was utterly sapped, but when he felt her curious fingers drifting, absently over his shoulder, his back, tracing back up to his jaw, the trail of hair down his chest, stroked across his ribs then—

“Don’t start with me,” he murmured, preemptively, because he knew that look in her eye.

Leela blinked, all too innocent. “What?”

“At least let me grab somethin’ to eat before we get to the clinic.”

Leela propped herself up on her elbows, anxious eyes flicking over his face. “Oh my god. Did I send you into cardiac arrest? Was it that intense?”

Joel snorted, rolling onto his back beside her with a tired grunt, relieving the pangs up his spine. “Figure of speech. I’m not dyin’ with ‘killed in orgasm’ on my epitaph.”

Leela dropped her head against his shoulder, shaking with laughter again. She exhaled against his chest, still grinning. “Why do you talk about death so much after...?”

Joel groaned. “I do not—”

“You do.”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Christ.”

Leela lifted her head off him, her fingers skimming absently over the scar on his stomach, delineating a slow, thoughtful path on the uneven edges.

Joel shot her a look. “Leela.”

She blinked up at him, all naïveté, though her fingers were still moving.

“I just think it’s fascinating,” she mused. “Is it because of the endorphin drop? Or maybe it’s more of a psychological—”

Joel rolled them, pinning her beneath him again with a huff, pressing his forehead against hers. If she wanted a third, she was getting a third. It was Christmas, he'd give her a fourth and fifth, too, and face all the consequences in the morning.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, dropping an unhurried kiss to her lips. “Now, you've really done it.”

X

“You don’t have to lose this, Joel.”

Ellie saw it in his eyes. All of it.

Saw the way his shoulders had gone tight, the way that darkness, so raw, dashed behind his eyes. The way his whole body coiled like he was bracing for a blow he couldn’t take.

And for a second—just a second—she softened. The anger didn’t vanish, not completely, but it damped the edges. Beneath the frustration, the hurt, the sheer stubbornness of it all, there was understanding.

Because for as much as she wanted to push against him, for as much as she wanted to be right—she still fucking cared about his ass. About him. About the life he’d built here. About every step he'd taken to give himself that. And she knew he cared, too. Too much. That was the problem.

Ellie exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The space between them stretched, thin and brittle, like the ice that formed along the edges of the rooftops in winter—one wrong move and it would crack, and there’d be no stopping the fall.

She tipped her head slightly, studying him. Like she was trying to see inside his head, figure out how the gears turned, how the walls had been built so damn high.

His jaw clenched. The muscles ticked, the tension burning through him like a slow, smoldering fire. “Kid, I don’t need you to—”

She shook her head, cutting him off before he could finish. “No, I know. You think if she finds out, she’ll leave you.” Her voice wasn’t unkind. Just certain. “And maybe she will. But maybe she won’t.” She hesitated. “You don’t know that.”

Joel swallowed hard, his throat working against the lump rising there. His hands flexed at his sides, clenching and unclenching, like they needed something to hold onto. Like they were looking for a fight, but there was no fight to be had.

His voice came out rough, hoarse. Quiet. Like he was afraid saying it too loud would make it real. “And if she gets herself... killed?”

Ellie’s gaze flickered.

There it was. Not just the stubbornness. Not just the fear of repeating the past.

The grief. The bone-deep, gut-wrenching terror of watching someone else die for something they believed in. Joel had been here before. She knew that. She also knew it didn’t change the truth.

Ellie let out a slow breath, shoulders shifting with it. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even particularly strong. But the firmness couldn't be denied.

“Then you trust her to make the right call.”

Joel’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Trust. That was what she was asking for. Not just for Leela. For him. To trust that if he let go—even just a little—the world wouldn’t fall apart. That not every choice had to be his.

He couldn’t breathe.

Because the truth was, he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust himself.

He knew what happened when you let go. When you left things in someone else’s hands. The Fireflies had proven that. Salt Lake had proven that. He’d come too close to losing Ellie—to losing everything—and he couldn’t. God, he couldn’t ever.

Fear had constructed a home inside him a long time ago, and he’d let it stay. Let it bow into his bones, let it keep him moving, keep him surviving, keep him from making the kind of mistakes that got people killed.

This was not about survival. It was about choices. And he was stealing it from her.

His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling, uncurling. His breaths came quick, his whole body was coiled, taut, like something about to snap.

Ellie studied him a moment longer. And then—quietly—she gave him an out.

“You tell her, Joel. I don't care when, but you're gonna tell her before I do.”

She didn’t say it cruelly. Didn’t wield it like a weapon. Just a fact.

A choice. A small, simple one. But a choice, all the same.

She turned for her door before he could answer, before he could say a damn thing at her, leaving him there—standing in the cold, alone. Watching the space between them widen

Pushing him away. Again, again, and again.

X

Joel felt every damn inch of last night in his body.

His back ached, deep and determined. His thighs burned like he’d run halfway across Texas. And his arms—hell, they’d felt strong enough to hold up the whole damn world last night, but now? Large. Leaden. Like he’d spent the night hauling lumber instead of ploughing his girl down into the mattress and making her moan.

Still worth it.

He pushed a hand into his eyes, scrubbing sleep out before Leela's aggravated exclamation pierced the stillness like an ill-timed cuckoo clock.

“No, no, no—don't make me wake Daddy up!”

Joel winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. But still, that stupid smile bloomed on his lips.

Maya had her own shrill objection in return. “No, Mama!”

“Then get in here and finish your breakfast right now.”

Oh yeah, their baby girl had definitely slunk off into the blackberry brambles outside the kitchen door. It hadn't taken him too long for them to sprout once he set them in the beds a few months ago, especially after he found out it was Maya's favourite snack.

Joel eventually forced himself upright, taking longer than he wanted to admit, shoving the covers off with a grunt, rolling his complaining shoulders until his back gave a nice, satisfying crack. That was how he knew he was sleeping better. Real sleep—the kind he hadn’t had in decades. His ears didn’t ring, and he didn’t have to sit there for ten full minutes, waiting for the will to drag himself up.

It still felt strange, some mornings. Waking up without the usual dread clawing at his throat. That didn’t mean he took it for granted.

Eventually, he hauled himself into the shower, knees popping, let the water beat down on him, sadly washing away all the sex, sweat and Leela off him. He dragged on something half-decent, and while combing a rough hand through his damp hair, he crossed the room, caught movement outside his window.

Maya, right where he thought she'd be. That little menace. Out in the yard, barefoot in the snowed down grass, thoughtfully picking at the blackberry bushes like she wasn’t covered in scrapes from doing the same thing yesterday. He knew those nasty thorns. Knew her damn stubborn streak even better. And, sure as the sun, before he could even get the window open to warn her—

“How many times do I gotta tell you? Wait for me. Honey, you’re gonna get—”

“Ow!”

Joel sighed, hanging his head. “—hurt. Goddamnit.”

But she didn’t cry. Didn’t run inside calling for her mama. Just sucked at her scratched-up fingers, picked the thorns off her jacket sleeves, and went back to stuffing her mouth with berries—ripe, unripe, no difference at all to her.

“Yum-yum-yum,” he heard her whisper.

Leela was gonna have her ass if she came in covered in scratches again. And he was going to be the one to clean her up.

Joel shut the window and took off downstairs, shaking his head. And nearly swerved right into the wall at the kitchen entrance. Because—damn.

Would he ever get over this? Over her?

Leela stood at the stove on the island, in front of a sizzling griddle of bacon, dark hair twisted up in a towel, skin fresh and bare, scented with lemons.

The nightdress she wore today from her usual rotation was soft grey, thin-strapped, slipping from the curve of her shoulder. Matched his shirt, the one he’d buttoned on this morning without thinking. And her face—

Jesus, there were a thousand ways to love her, but this? This was the one that got him in the gut. When she was just that sleepy, persistent, clever girl. Stripped of all the careful edges she carried through the day. When she was still shower-warm, soft with sleep, her face stark and beautiful in the morning quiet. He was a lucky, lucky bastard.

She glanced up and caught him staring. A slow, lazy, heart-breaking grin. Her voice warm as honey, came out with, “Good morning, Joel.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, smiling. “Mornin’.”

He made it to her side, hands finding her hips, pressing close, pressing in, letting his nose graze against the damp skin of her nape before kissing the spot, slow and deep. He saw her skin prickle up when he did, bowing his neck to hide a smile.

“What's our number now, hm? Five? Six? Damn near broke me last night.”

Leela bit her lip, trying to hide a smirk.

“And I said I'd fix you,” she said, flat, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Casually flipped the bacon over. “See? I'm fixing you a big, fat breakfast.”

Joel gave her ass a playful squeeze. “So wifed up for Daddy.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. But then—she whipped the spatula up between them, blocking his next move, eyebrows arched. “Joel.”

He deadpanned. “Leela.”

She smacked his chest lightly with the spatula. “Hands off, please.”

Joel hummed, letting his teeth scrape lightly along the shell of her ear. “You loved my hands last night.”

She turned back to the stove. “I love not burning breakfast.”

Joel reached past her and plucked the spatula from her fingers. “I got this,” he murmured, tugging her even closer. “You just take it easy.”

Leela glanced him up and down, assessing. Gave him one last suspicious peek before backing away. Joel shook his head, grinning to himself as he took over the stove, the sound of bacon sizzling beneath his hand.

She smothered a laugh, already reaching for the coffee pot. “Look at that—Joel Miller making something that isn’t coffee for once.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “You’ve been around Tommy way too much. Sounding like that little fucker.”

Not that Joel was showing off. But—yeah. He was. Look, he'd been practising for weeks just to impress her.

He cracked two eggs, smooth and clean, and whisked them up quick with a fork. Salted them good, peppered them up. Poured them into the pan, waited just long enough for the edges to set, then, wrist flick—cue the flip. Boom. Scraped them right onto her plate, firm, perfectly golden, just the way she liked them. Unlike the way he liked them—over-easy, yolk spilling out over the toast.

Leela, however, unimpressed, lifted a brow.

Joel leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, chin ticking up. Go on. Say it.

She just smirked, cutting into the eggs. “Do you want a medal for making eggs?”

He reached up to brush a thumb over her bottom lip. “A gold one to bite on.”

She rolled her eyes. But the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her.

Joel turned away, glancing out the screen door behind him. A fresh dusting of snow was still coming down in slow, lazy drifts.

Maya was still tangled in the blackberry brambles, completely ignoring the fresh scratches blooming on her wrists and a tiny cut on her cheek. She was in deep, reaching further, wincing every now and then, but never stopping. Stubborn little thing.

“Maya, get your peanut butt in here before you freeze,” he called.

She turned to look at him, grinning wide, cheeks puffed out, berry-stained. “Mmmmno.”

Joel clicked his tongue. “Mm. Fine.” He reached for the screen door lock and latched it shut. “Stay the hell outside.”

For a second, she just blinked at him, unbothered. But then—realization. Her little fingers flexed in the air, and suddenly she was moving. She ran to the deck, curls bouncing, using all her might to clamber up the three little steps, baby boots thunking, hands full of berries.

“Da-da?” she called like she'd just been betrayed.

Joel ignored her, reaching for the coffee pot instead. Poured himself a slow cup, breathed deep, and let the steam curl up in ribbons into the morning air.

“Da-da!” Maya exclaimed. Then, for backup—“Mama, mama!”

Joel barely glanced up. “Mama's on my side. You got yourself into this, baby girl. Shoulda listened to me.”

Joel hid his smirk behind the rim of his mug, watching from the corner of his eye as Maya tiptoed, huffing and whining, arms stretched high, teeny arms attempting to stretch for the knob. Not a single bit of regret.

“Oh, Joel, open the door. Poor thing,” Leela murmured to him.

He pointed at her from his mug-holding hand. “Don't fall for that. It's what she wants. Goddamn spoilt for trouble.”

But he was weak. Weak and pathetic. But it was about to happen, like the countless other times before.

Maya had made a calculated decision: push Daddy’s patience right up to the edge. Dangle her toes over the line, and make eye contact while doing it. Then—the grand fucking finale.

A full-bodied, betrayed-to-their-core meltdown. Bottom lip trembling, berries angrily tossed to the wooden boards, brows screwing together, a cry pulling straight from her little belly. She was a genius little manipulator. Joel could practically see the gears turning in her head—how long she could hold out, how fast she could weaponize those big, Bambi-brown eyes.

And, she won. Every single time.

Joel sighed, already defeated, and set his coffee down. He reached for the lock, slow, resisting, but really? He was already gone.

The second he nudged the door open, Maya barreled inside, practically collapsing against his legs, her whole little body shaking with the effort of her Oscar-worthy sobs.

She clung to his jeans, damp little fingers curling into the fabric like she’d just narrowly survived the harshest winter known to man.

“Da-da,” she wept, mouth wide, tears wetting her cheeks, dramatic as hell.

Joel sighed, rubbing a rough palm over his face before scooping her up. “C’mere.”

The second she landed in his arms, Maya melted. Like the tragedy of the last thirty seconds had never even happened.

She sank into him, berry-stained mouth pressing into his collarbone, curls tickling his neck, those sticky little hands smushing his face between them, kneading at his scruff and cheeks like he was made of playdough.

Joel sighed, tilting his head back against the fridge. “You’re playin’ me every time, baby girl.”

Maya beamed up at him, all wet cheeks and gap-toothed triumph. It was disgusting, the absolute glee. She hadn’t just won—she’d obliterated him.

Leela, across the kitchen, was no help whatsoever. Just sipped her coffee real slow, entirely too pleased.

Joel huffed, shaking his head, but pulled Maya closer anyway, pressing a grumbling kiss to her curls. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t even say it.”

Leela smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she lifted her cup to her lips. “Didn’t have to.”

Soon enough, he'd ushered himself to the breakfast nook, settling back, bench creaking softly beneath him. The cushion had lost some of its firmness, the corners curling, fabric rubbed raw from the times Maya had clambered across it in her little socks, chasing sparrows like a puppy.

Leela paddled close behind, carrying her breakfast and Maya's, baby girl at her feet, clutching her dress, face wiped clean now, and coughing a little from the cold.

Joel shifted, noticing that cough, rubbing a hand over his thigh. “Heater’s kickin’ on kinda slow again.”

Leela set the bowls down, gave him a look. “You mean the one you said didn’t need fixing?”

“Didn’t need fixin’ last week,” he muttered.

Grabbing his fork, ready to dig into his plate, piled high with a nice strip of sausage, two still-warm eggs, bacon crispy the way he liked ot, and a slice of sourdough toast, butter melting into the notches.

An arm outstretched behind Leela, he took in his surroundings.

His kitchen ahead, he singled out as the best space in the house.

Leela's favourite room, even if she spent half her time holed up in that damn basement of hers. He loved how neat she kept it, how it spoke of her quiet rituals and the neatness that came from knowing where everything was. Labelled jars and boxes stacked just right in her lazy cursive scrawl, the intricate little mushroom motif on the backsplash tile, the clean knives slotted in by height, the copper pots and pans hanging scratched and gleaming from the rack above the island.

And his favourite—the wall of ceramic cups, all different colours and shapes, none of which she ever used, but kept up there like some kind of shrine. Collecting dust in their cubical brackets.

He had his own, though. A deep green mug, wide enough to sit firm in his palm, heavy enough to make him feel like he had a real grip in the mornings. She always made sure it was there for him, even if she never said it outright. Just like how she never touched his coffee spoon when she was rearranging the drawers, or how she was working on fixing up that old, fancy cappuccino machine for him.

Their things sat together now. His mug was next to hers on the rack, the dark red one with the tiny chip at the rim, the one she never let go of. His plate stacked alongside hers—hers finer, older, precious, from a set that had belonged to her mother.

Maya’s, though, had their own space. Lined up tidy and sterile, like Leela wanted to keep them untouched by the rest of the house. Kid-sized bowls and ceramic cups, all in soft, neutral colours, because Maya didn’t like anything too bright.

His plate sat untouched. The coffee had gone lukewarm. But he couldn’t take his eyes off them—his girls.

Leela sat across from him, knees drawn close under the table, her nightdress brushing her thighs. Her face was turned down toward Maya, and her hands moved steadily—one curled around a little ceramic bowl, the other bringing a tiny silver spoon up to Maya’s mouth.

Blended porridge. A morning essential for baby girl. With blackberries smashed into near-purple. He winced internally—so many seeds. Maybe he shouldn't have planted those things, it could hurt her little stomach. But Maya took it all. Obedient for once, chewing thoughtfully, her sticky fingers tapping against the wood of the table as she babbled to her mama between bites.

She was pointing to her scratches. “Ow—... mm-mean be-lli-es, Mama. See, see. Ow.”

“I know, baby,” Leela murmured, brushing a thumb across Maya’s cheek where a thorn scratch had already crusted over. “You were so brave. But you’ve got to wait for Da-da.”

“Wait fo' da-da,” Maya repeated dutifully, even as she reached for another bite.

Joel grinned into his mug.

He wanted to take a picture. Not with a camera—Christ, no. That’d be too easy. He wanted to etch it with a chisel. Burn it straight into his soul. Freeze this one sliver of morning like amber, hold it somewhere eternal, so even when time came clawing, when the world turned crueller—this would still be there. Untouched.

The light was soft, pouring in through the frost-laced window, silvering everything it touched. It kissed the slope of Leela’s cheekbone, caught the copper in her lashes. And Maya—God, Maya. Her curls were lit like a halo, tiny nails still carrying the stains of her berry mischiefs, lips sticky as she babbled away.

The record player crackled from the living room, some funky rap tune threading through the air, not to his taste. Yet, everything felt warm. Real. Good.

It was so much. Too much.

And he knew, with that dull ache behind his ribs, that it wouldn’t last forever. Mornings like this—soft, slow, untouched by worry—were the rarest kind. The kind the world didn’t let a man keep. So he held onto it. White-knuckled.

He watched as Leela licked the corner of her thumb and gently wiped a smear of berry from Maya’s chin. Watched as Maya leaned into the touch, eyes half-lidded, content as a cat in the sun. No resistance. No fear. Just easy love.

Joel leaned back slightly, coffee cooling between his fingers, the other hand resting low over his stomach—where the echo of last night still thrummed. Her. All her. He would die for that trust if he had to.

“Eat your food, Daddy,” Leela warned, not looking up, voice lilting with that dry affection she saved just for him. “You’ll be a shell of a man by noon.”

Joel grunted, winking when that little honeyed nickname hit him. “You sucked the life outta me, girl. Least you could do is let me sit here and suffer.”

Leela huffed a sigh, but her smile lingered, tucked in the corner of her mouth like a secret.

He finally dug in, scooping a forkful of still-warm eggs, letting the bite settle on his tongue. The bacon was perfect—salty, crisp, just the way he liked it. Maya was halfway through her toast, now telling her mama some long, winding tale about a squirrel she saw yesterday, and Leela listened with full attention, humming at the right parts, dabbing honey from the corner of her mouth with a towel.

Joel soaked it all in, and he didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to breathe too deep, like the air might shift and knock it all loose—the quiet, the sweetness, the warmth bleeding in through the windows.

But Joel wasn’t the kind of man who got to stay still for long, was he?

Eventually, he set the mug down carefully, as if the sound of it touching the table might wake the morning from whatever fragile spell it was under. Then he pushed up from the bench with a grunt, his hand bracing the table as his knees cracked under him.

“Joel? Want me to get something for you?” she asked, confused.

He waved her off. “Nah, carry on, sweetheart. I'll be right back, gonna check on this damn heater.”

She smiled at him, knowing. “I'll do it later. Come, sit, relax. Sun's so nice today.”

He swallowed, shaking his head. “I got this.”

He crossed behind Leela, brushing her shoulder as he passed—just enough to feel the slope of her bones under his palm—and slipped down the hall, heading for the closet under the stairs.

The latch always stuck, just a little. Had to lift it from the bottom and pull at a slant. He didn’t turn on the light. Just let the shadows welcome him in.

The pack was right where he’d left it, tucked behind the empty storage crate of Christmas stuff they hadn’t gotten around to putting back in the attic. He dragged it out, careful not to let the canvas scrape the walls or alert Leela to check on him.

It was already half-packed. It had been for weeks now.

He crouched, fingers moving over the supplies like a checklist he’d memorized. Water tabs, ammo, and the last map Tommy drew for him. Flashlight. Spare batteries. A couple of cans of rations to last him a few weeks.

Joel lingered, fished in the side pouch for the small tin of oil he used for the revolver. Checked it, capped it, slipped it back.

It wasn’t that he wanted to leave. But he didn’t know what waited for him in LA. Didn’t know if there was anything real left to hope for at all.

And if it went bad… he wouldn’t let it come back here. Wouldn’t let it bleed into his house. Into Leela’s clean little kitchen, or the sound of Maya’s laugh echoing down the hallway.

He tugged the zipper closed and stood. Paused, just for a second. Just to look around. The light from the kitchen reached a little down the hall, spilling across the hardwood. He could hear Leela’s laughing voice, trying to follow the lyrics to the rap song while Maya jabbered along with her.

He squeezed his palm to the wall, breathing in, breathing deep, breathing through, breathing out. He rubbed at the space near his heart, feeling that invisible crack, soothing it.

No turning back now.

Then he turned, and quietly tucked the bag back into place.

X

Joel hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even laid down. There was no use pretending.

Behind his shaking shoulders, the house was still.

That rare kind of stillness that only came in the dark hours before dawn, when even the wind didn’t stir and the world felt like it was holding its breath, suspended, waiting for someone to move first.

Joel didn't.

He stood by the front door, dressed head to toe, gear strapped and jacket zipped. Boots laced tight. Holsters fitted snug, a silent verdict. His pack was full—every inch packed with supplies he might need, every pocket loaded with things he couldn’t risk forgetting. His rifle was slung across it, waiting.

He wasn’t.

His hand flexed at his side, then curled into a fist. He looked at it like it belonged to someone else. Now, if he picked it up, he wouldn’t be Joel anymore. Just a man on a mission. Just another ghost on the road.

He should’ve been gone already, nearly an hour ago. Hell, he told himself he’d leave before the light even touched the windows. He’d promised himself it’d be clean. Sharp. One quick motion. No dragging feet. No second thoughts. No lingering.

But his boots didn’t move.

Instead, he turned—slow, heavy-footed, drawing himself down the hallway, deeper into the house. Like his body was already mourning something his mind refused to name.

He didn’t need to count doors and stairs. His feet knew where to go. He’d walked this very path a hundred times—midnight walks with a bottle in one hand and a wailing baby in the other. The boards beneath his feet creaked like they remembered him.

The nursery door sat half-open, the smallest sliver of the blue blush of pre-dawn bleeding out from the crack beneath. He paused just outside, staring at the grain of the wood like it might rise up and stop him.

His hand hovered over the doorknob for a long time. Too long. Like the wood was hot. Like if he opened it, he wouldn’t be able to walk back out.

Then, with a soft creak, he pushed it open.

The room was quiet but not silent. The hush of the old white noise machine whirred low, and the radiator let out the occasional soft ping, heating the small space with its familiar rhythm, the faint scent of powder and old baby soap. Warm. Lived-in. Gentle.

And in the center of it, curled on her side beneath a blanket patterned with little stars, was Maya.

Joel's heart cracked wide open, giving a low throb.

She was chaos and peace, both at once—one sock halfway off, curls sticking up in every direction, her pacifier lost somewhere on the mattress. Her tiny hand was balled into a fist near her face, her mouth slightly open as she breathed in soft, fluttery snores.

His little miracle.

He stepped in quiet, like the floor itself was sacred, like the air around her might shatter if he breathed too loud. He crouched beside the crib, elbows resting on the railing, just watching her.

A full year of her. Not enough time, not nearly enough. A whole year of firsts and fumbling through fatherhood again. Every moment—her first laugh, her first steps, the first time she reached for him—etched into him like blotches.

And now he might miss the rest.

He wouldn’t see her walk to school with her funny backpack. Wouldn’t hear her say daddy like she really meant it. Wouldn’t see her sing, or scowl like her mama, or run barefoot through the summer grass without holding his hand.

And just like that, the consequences came crashing down.

All the things she’d never know.

If he didn’t come back… she wouldn’t remember him. Not really.

She’d grow up with photos from the Polaroids, old videos on the camcorder. Stories Leela would try to tell—how he always smelled like cedar and flannel, how he was the best singer in Jackson, how he played her favourite ‘comma, comma’ song every night on the porch, soft and slow, until she was giggling her head off on his lap.

Maybe she'd even recall the scratch of his beard when he kissed her cheek goodnight. The feel of his calloused thumb brushing her palm as she fell asleep. Remember how he had brushed her teeth with the gentlest fingers, even when she hated it, or how she liked to hold the clippers when he trimmed her tiny nails, so she felt like she was helping.

But not him. Not the way he knew her.

Not the way he knew how she loved the blackberry brambles behind the house. How she'd squeal and wiggle when he pretended to eat her fingers. How she'd copy everything he did—from the way he wiped his mouth after a sip of beer to the way he said goddammit when he stubbed his toe.

She'd grow up. Learn to read. Learn to argue. Learn to sing. Maybe pick up a guitar like he always swore he’d teach her. And she'd be brilliant. Smartass like her mama. Strong like her too.

And maybe… maybe she’d find bits of him in the quiet moments. In her love of old country songs. In the way she counted the stars. In the way she looked at her hands and wondered where she came from.

He reached down, brushing her tiny fist with his fingertip. None of that would be him.

Her palm twitched, then curled her fingers around his in a soft, instinctive squeeze. Still asleep.

Joel closed his eyes when he felt them sting. “Hey now,” he murmured, barely a whisper. “Don’t do that.”

He leaned down, nose brushing her cheek, and pressed the gentlest kiss to her skin.

She made a tiny noise in her throat, face scrunching as she rolled away, curling into her blanket again.

Goddamn it all. Goddamn this world. Already, his baby girl had carved a place so deep into his soul he couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.

He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, stifling a chesty cough, then reached down, rolled up her sock again and gently tucked her foot back under the blanket.

“Be nice to your mama ‘til I get back,” he whispered, voice thick, broken down to gravel. His throat closed around the rest. The part he couldn’t say. If I don’t come back.

He went on quietly, breaking. “You hear me? Be good, baby girl.”

He slowly stood back up, bones aching from more than just age, shoulders screaming beneath the weight he hadn’t even picked up yet.

Back at the door, he paused. Turned for one last look. Maya, curled up safe. Unknowing. A piece of his heart he couldn’t take with him.

He stepped back into the hall and turned his eyes toward their bedroom.

The door was wide open. It was worse, somehow. If she’d closed it, maybe it would’ve hurt less. Of all the times he despised open doors...

Leela. His partner. His wife. The smartest goddamn person he’d ever known. And she didn’t even know he was leaving. Didn’t know that he was taking her work—the most beautiful thing she’d ever made, apart from their daughter—and walking it straight into the fire.

Yet there she was—sound asleep on her side, arm resting in the warm, empty space he should’ve been. Her braid trailed over the pillow, thick and unraveled, like a line drawn he couldn't cross. The curve of her waist beneath the blankets rose and fell with every slow breath. Her hand twitched, like it always did when she was dreaming.

He didn’t go in. He didn’t kiss her goodbye.

It was too much. Too cruel.

If he kissed her now, he wouldn’t leave. If she opened her eyes, if she asked him to stay, he’d give up everything. Just to crumble and crawl back under those sheets and pretend the world or these fucking Firefly shits in LA didn’t exist. Pretend the world hadn’t started turning again, like it always did—hungry, relentless, cruel.

The responsibility of the decision sat in his chest like a millstone.

He couldn’t tell Leela.

Because if he did, she’d go. She’d insist. Perhaps, fight back. She’d kiss Maya goodbye and pull her braid back, swing on a measly backpack, and look him in the eye and say, “If there’s a chance to make the world better, I’m going.”

And he’d never stop her. Couldn’t stop her.

So he didn’t give her the choice in the first place.

He’d take the burden instead. The road. The fire. The chance of death. Whatever waited in LA.

If the Fireflies were even real. If this wasn’t just another cruel lie—bait strung up on rusted faith. If all of this wasn’t just another fucking false hope strung up like bait.

But Joel had already seen the ending. He'd already stood in that surgery ward, gun in his hand, red lights flashing, Ellie bleeding somewhere behind a locked door while surgeons prepared to carve hope out of her brain.

He wasn’t doing it again. He couldn’t.

That’s why he didn’t tell Leela.

Why he packed the notebook in secret. Wrapped it in cloth and slid it between rations and bullets, behind the photo of Maya with jam on her cheeks.

Because this wasn’t just numbers. It was her life's work. Her mind. Her goddamn heart, her family's legacy, scrawled in ink—proof that she’d cracked something open the world had long given up on. Proof that she could change everything.

He didn’t know what was left anymore. All he knew was that he couldn’t let the two people he loved most take that risk.

So it would be him. Not Ellie. Not Leela. Him.

If someone was going to carry that discovery to L.A.—risk being gutted, betrayed, used—it was going to be him.

Not the girl he’d once saved. Not the woman he loved. Not his baby girl.

Because they deserved to live. Deserved to wake up in warm beds. To feed Maya mashed pears and read her books, and braid her hair. Deserved time and softness and mornings without fear.

The man who started it. The man who lied to keep Ellie safe. The man who couldn’t bear to see that look on Leela’s face if she had to choose between her family and her fight.

He’d choose for her.

If Leela found out—if it broke her, if she hated him for it, if she never forgave him—so be it. At least she’d be alive.

Accepting that, however half-hearted, Joel stepped out, easing the door shut behind him until it clicked. He stood in the hallway for a second, just breathing deep. Eyes on the wood.

Then he bent down, shouldered the pack, swung the rifle into place.

And without another sound, with the first breath of dawn just starting to warm the sky, Joel Miller walked out into the dark, leaving behind the only thing that ever made him believe the world might still be good.

X

Leela darling,

I’m sorry. I had to go. It’s something I need to do. NOT you.

I took the notebooks and the recorder. I know you’d want to be the one to carry it. I know you’d try but I can’t let you. Not with Maya. Not after everything.

I - I lo - I wanted to find the right -I wish things were -Don't hate -I

This isn't about not trusting you. It’s about loving you too goddamn much to let you die.

If I don't make it back - If I die - If -

I can’t risk you. Not again. I’d rather it be me. So let me do this for you.

Please keep our baby girl safe. I’ll find my way back to you in a bit. I promise. I love you.

—J

X

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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If anyone is wondering —

Clint’s last name is Flood

Clint Flood.

I have nothing else to say except go watch the movie if you can.

Note: Since I was asked how I figured this out — for some reason my movie theatre had closed captioning on. His full name is used in a particular scene. They said Clint Flood. Honestly if it wasn’t for the subtitles, I wouldn’t have caught it and just would have known it started with an F.

Flood my punani please and thank you

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PEDRO PASCAL and Lux Pascal dancing at his birthday party

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Photo fest of Pedro Pascal as Clint, from Freaky Tales (2025). 😊

Source: X

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Look at this whole ass husband.

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This is the sweetest thing ever. Instagram Stainsofpascal.

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Departure

Jack Daniels x F!Reader Mature/ 18+. (Swearing, Implied Sexual Relationship). Minors DNI please. Word Count: 1.3k Notable tags/warnings: Friendship/Love, Friends to Lovers, Long-distance friendship/relationship, Breakup, Slight Angst, Fluff, Non-Canon.

After a weekend together, the time arrives for you and Jack to part ways. But how do you say goodbye to someone who you don't want to be apart from?

A/N: This was a little drabble I had whirring in the back of my head, based on all-too-familiar events. Of course I had to make this about Jack.

A03 link: Departure - LadyBess - Kingsman (Movies) [Archive of Our Own]

How do you say goodbye to somebody you don’t want to even leave in the first place? You weren’t sure this morning when you woke up, and you were even less sure now you were stood in front of him, ready to bid him farewell.

“Well, this has been lovely, sugar,” Jack drawled, pulling his suitcase out from the back of your car. You smiled bright, a forced smile yes, but you had to pretend that this didn’t kill you inside. It wouldn’t be fair to show your pain. You shut the lid to the back of your car once he’d got out all his belongings, then turned to face him.

“It’s been so good to see you, Jack,” you said, wrapping your arms around the cowboy’s neck. He chuckled under his breath and hugged you tight around the waist, pressing you against his body. You sighed in contentment, letting his warmth envelop you, and you wished to any and every God on high that this moment could last just a little longer. Not forever, no, but just longer than the short time you had left.

Jack’s train would leave in about twenty minutes, and at that he still had to find his platform. You’d dropped him off here, but neither of you could stay any longer. You had your own home to go back to, so for as much as you didn’t want to this is where the two of you would have to part ways for now.

It had been so long since you’d last seen Jack that you worried that any spark you had initially felt all that time ago might have dissipated. But as the weeks turned into months since the two of you reconnected by chance, it was obvious that this was never going to be the case. Countless nights you’d spend on the phone to one another, texting daily, sharing everything about your lives. In a way it felt like the most natural thing ever, the two of you coming together. Alas, it would be staying together that would be the hardest thing.

You didn’t live close by, so this weekend you’d used as an opportunity to finally see each other after a long anticipated wait. You’d picked a city that was between where the two of you lived, but for both of you that still meant a three hour commute in opposite directions back to where you resided. Neither of you had stopped to think about what might come after this weekend was over – truthfully you weren’t sure either of you wanted to.

Jack’s arms loosened around your waist and you smiled faintly, knowing what was about to come. Lifting your head, your eyes locked with his. His dark brown eyes softened as he looked down at you, his own sadness reflected in them. He was a man of few words when it came to things like this, but right now he didn’t need to be able to say what he felt - his face did the talking for him.

Gingerly, he leant down to your height. His lips skated across yours, planting three soft kisses to your lips. You kissed him back, so desperately wanting to do more, but not pushing it in the moment. You wanted your hands thrust into his hair, his tongue in your mouth, and his body pressed firmly back up against yours. This weekend hadn’t been enough, even though every second with him had been so perfect you so badly wanted to go back in time and do it all over again.

Jack smiled down at you as he pulled away, the first genuine smile you’d seen since he got into your car half an hour ago. You’d spent the morning wrapped up in each other’s arms in bed before heading into town, having lunch together outside while the sun was high in the sky and warming you nicely in spite of it being October. Both of you had firmly been in denial about this moment the entire day, not acknowledging the inevitability until now.

“I’ll see you again, sugar. Don’t you fret your pretty little head about it,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You shrugged softly, knowing he was right and that you’d be damned if you never saw him again, but not knowing when that would be didn’t exactly fill you with much hope.

“I know, Jack. I know. I just wish we had longer here,” you said. Car troubles had meant that you didn’t actually make it to this town until really late on Friday night, and it wasn’t even mid-afternoon on Sunday by the time you’d packed the car up with your luggage to head home. Less than 48 hours together was cruel.

“Me too, angel…,” he said solemnly, and you could have sworn he was going to say something else. But whatever it was, the buzzing of his smartwatch stopped him. He pulled his hand away, checking it, only to see the alarm he’d set for getting the train going off. He sighed, silencing it, and you saw his whole body deflate under the weight of the sadness which enveloped him.

“You better go,” you said, stepping back slowly so he could grab his luggage, and he nodded. It was a phrase that neither of you wanted to hear, but one of you had to inevitably say. If not there was the very real possibility that both of you would say “fuck it” and run away from your lives entirely to be with one another.

Perhaps someday.

Jack grabbed his luggage and tipped his hat towards you. You giggled, never truly being able to resist the cowboy charm in spite of how long you’d know Jack. He smiled wide as he heard you laugh, then turned on his heels as he headed towards the train station, sending one last wink towards you which warmed your cheeks.

You sniffed, holding back tears, and slumped into your car. He wasn’t even in the train station yet, but you couldn’t watch him walk any further from you. The pain of seeing him leave you side, not knowing when you’d next get to see him, was almost too much to bear. As you closed the door, plugging your phone in to charge, you sighed. It was the biggest sigh you’d ever done, and with it you let out so many anguished thoughts and feelings. This wasn’t fair.

You started the engine, already blinking away tears. You’d see him again, you knew that, but not knowing when would surely eat away at you for the next few weeks. Breathing steady to compose yourself, you left the station. As you turned down some narrow streets towards the main road, leaving behind the city, your phone buzzed with a message. The text message came up on the dash screen of your car; it was from Jack.

“Made it to my platform – I miss you already”, it read. You smiled faintly, a watery smile, sniffling back more tears. It was real now, the fact that you were leaving one another. This whole weekend had been fantastic with Jack. After so long of not seeing him, spending this time together had only confirmed to you that there was definitely a spark between the two of you – something you were so eager to explore. Although it would be difficult, deep down in your heart you knew you’d yearn for him from now until the day you next united.

There was only one thing on your mind as you drove away though, back to your sleepy home town – something that did rather make this whole endeavour far more complicated and difficult than it ever needed to be;

Why did I have to fall in love with you?

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Joel Miller fic recs 😩

I have been in this fandom WAY too long to not be interacting and giving these amazing authors the flowers they deserve. it’s time to me to get my scared ass of of anon and start posting what i want!

These are probably half of all of my recs but i got bored so lmk if anyone wants more if not it’s fine i’ll just cry myself to sleep (/hj).

red basically means it’s the best fic ever and you need to drop everything on your ‘tbr’ list and read it immediately

Joel Miller

method acting - @junojoel

stuck here like me - @oldsoul007

nice and slow - @joelsknees

dirty laundry - @pedgito

Cold - @rockwoodchevy

the feel of you - @majestyeverlasting

unmasking the mandalor - @absurdthirst

what he didn’t do - @pedrospatch

when the leaves turn - @pandapetals

a burning desire - @honeyedmiller

that funny feeling - @bluebeary-jay

silver springs - @itsaintmebabe

sun kissed - @daryltwdixon

7 summers - @oldsoul007

so much to lose - @auteurdelabre (one of my fav series and writers)

oh, your love is sunlight - @joelspeach

solstice - @covetyou

ma’am - @mssalo

Evergreen - @punkshort (she’s basically joel miller fanfiction jesus)

i'm empty without you, so come grow within me - @chronically-ghosted

after she left - @eff4freddie

swept away - @punkshort

guns and roses - @joelsrose

are you mine - @eupheme

Mr. bakery man - @honeyedmiller

sun kicks out - @5oh5

invisible string - @toomanystoriessolittletime

the moments in between - @majestyeverlasting

In another life - @punkshort

a stranger's heart without a home - @morning-star-joy (THEE best fic ever in existence like ever ever)

roommates - @punkshort

helen - @kiwisbell

Din Djarin

Touch - @slimybeth69 (i luv her)

touching din - @archieimagines

long gone - @burntheedges

riduur in training - @absurdthirst

best kept secret - @lincolndjarin (ONE MY MY FAVS)

night shift - @punkshort

Frankie Morales

take me home tonight - @80ssong

the summoning - @absurdthirst

stick buddies - @auteurdelabre

and then they kiss - @burntheedges

do me yourself - @jolalibrary

fucked royalty - @toomanystoriessolittletime

If anything is tagged or linked incorrectly PUHLEASE bare with me this is my first time posting like ever basically

[favorite-fan-fic]

okay. i see how it is. i’ll see myself out of the window 🥲🥵🫠

[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

Epilogue - In The Beginning

Playlist

[favorite-fan-fic]

Tonight you belong to me, epilogue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Lee discovers life on her own.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 Here we are, this is the end! I'll see you on the other side 🧡 @frannyzooey marry me? 🧡

Word count: 8.6k (I'll never learn)

[prev] * [series masterlist] *

Epilogue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday, in the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone. 

Hey, baby.

Hey, Frankie.

How’s my girl doing?

The caress of his voice convokes the memory of his touch, of the bedspread’s synthetic fabric, stained and slippery, and the rough material of the brown rug abrading your knees. 

You close your eyes, so you can see it better. His freckles, his dimple. The dip between his collarbones. His skin of gold, the smoothness of his curls, gliding between your fingertips. 

His cold hard stare. His soft sad eyes. 

I’m good. 

You close your eyes and smile, because he’s there, still, another week, true to his word, and the modulated sound in your earpiece lets you hear his own relief, breathed out in a smiling exhale. 

Through space and distance, through memories, his hands ghost your skin. 

Sometimes, the round accents of his low husk guide your hand downward, down between your legs, wringing wistful waves of pleasure out of you. 

Let me hear you come, baby. 

It’s a distant echo. A forlorn imitation of what his body did to yours in the motel room. Outstretched shadows on a cave’s wall. 

And afterward, his voice sounds pained, hurting the same way your heart feels bruised. 

Sometimes, most times, he just wants you to talk. 

Tell me. What’d you do this week? Learn anything new?

Is it worth it? What you've learned in this seven day gap, this open wound of a time-stretch, waiting for his voice to fill your ears like his body once filled your life, is it all really worth it? 

Your bones are worn out, your skin feels too big. Your heart is shrunk, aching, heavy like lead, blackened like coal, near the wild creature crying ruby tears. 

And yet, you learn. Every week, you have something new to tell him. Every week, intently, he listens. 

In the loneliness of your room, in the hollow space of your life, through the cold hard rectangle of your phone, your love continues to grow, nurtured by words and silences. 

—

In a surprising turn of events, you don’t entirely dislike New York. 

The city still mildly scares you. Its buoyant history feels like a sparkling secret you’ll never be let in on. Its mythical aura makes you feel small and provincial. It’s definitely too big, too noisy, too stressful. And, you’ve learned at your expense, ridiculously pricey. 

But it is also completely, blissfully anonymous. People don’t only ignore who you are, they also do not care. Since you got here, your name hasn’t once elicited the silent gasp or double take it never fails to provoke down in Tampa. 

And instead of drowning, forever disappearing, you wake up every morning and breathe in a big gulp of saturated New York air, making the conscious choice to tame the current. 

Spring is undecided, imprecise. It oscillates between chilly mornings and warm afternoons, cumbersome jackets and disorientation. 

Your shabby blue suitcase stands out like a sore thumb in a corner of Polly and Ava’s living-room, styled with slick 1950s furniture, straight lines, confidential art pieces, and quality material. 

Thrown from a life sentence in a glass tower into this transient condition, you vacillate, but hang on tight, and you wait, in between Fridays, to be tethered by the thread of Frankie’s praise and encouragement. 

On weekdays, from 9 to 5, you sit behind a black square desk on the third floor of a modest Manhattan publishing company, proofreading copies of psychiatric essays for typos. 

The work is dull, tedious, an entry-level position hardly above an internship, but the task is concrete, its results tangible. It provides you with a decent salary you might owe entirely to your connection with Polly, and the priceless satisfaction of a job accomplished when the working day is done. 

You miss him. 

Summer is unforgiving. The entire city smells like hot trash, melted asphalt, car exhaust and overwrought engines. The combined heat from millions of strangers' bodies pressed together in urban proximity is otherworldly. 

The nearby presence of the Atlantic Ocean, centuries of waves, dark and unfathomable, is impossible to conceive. Your frazzled eyes search the city sky in vain for the line of the horizon. 

The commute from your furnished studio apartment in Jackson Heights is uncomfortable and never-ending. You read voraciously, to prevent your mind from wandering to the square window with the yellow curtains, the black-edged mirror and the one dollar store painting of the Appalachian. Your lost paradise. Your unexpected home.

At night, you’re too tired. Too tired to eat, too tired to read any more, or even watch television. You stumble onto your empty bed and pray for an empty sleep.

On weekends, you seek refuge in air-conditioned museums. There, in the bustling silence, among crowds of eclectic tourists snapping performative pictures in square format, your life is suddenly, quietly upturned: art understands. Art heals. Art is the key to translating your raw feelings. A catharsis for your searing emotions. 

You miss him. 

With fall come crisp winds, clear lights and yellowing leaves, and the city turns another kind of spectacular. You finally seem to find your bearings. 

At work, you’re given more responsibilities, along with your very own intern. A tall, polite young man in an awful suit that hangs off his lanky frame, he stops blinking every time you address him, hungry eyes snapping to your lips every now and then. It makes you smile, what you do to him. 

In your kitchenette, which is really more of a narrow corridor than anything else, you’ve taped a world map on which you pin a round, colourful thumbtack for every new cuisine you taste. Cold burritos shared with Frankie on the motel’s dirty carpet are hard to beat. But Columbian chicharrón ranges at a close second. 

Forsaking rest, you spend your Sunday afternoons in a 1st Ave cinema, which specializes in pre-war films. In the solitary darkness of the red velvet-lined theater, you fall in love with Louise Brooks, with Pabst’s German realism, and Murnau’s Sunrise. New names and faces crowd your thoughts during your daily commutes: Bette Davies, Theda Bara, Marion Davis... Slapstick comedies have you kicking your feet, and you devour every book and article you can dig out on the Hays Code. 

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you clock off early and hurry uptown, where you attend evening classes in art history in a small overheated classroom decorated with faded museum postcards from all over the world. 

The attendees form a small mismatched crowd of second-chancers, seeking meaningful connections more than a proper education.

Thierry is the first to approach you. A stupidly handsome, late twenty-something man, sporting a dark Mohawk and second-hand bespoke shoes matched with a leather perfecto, Thierry claims to be French Canadian, and you know better than to call him out on the obvious fib. If anything, you’re more than willing to play along. Thierry takes you out as often as you’ll let him, sometimes to cafés and thrift stores, but more often to gay bars. He says you’re the best wingman he’s ever had, with your distant demeanor and the melancholy in your gaze. 

“My peers love your brand, bébé,” he says.

On one of these drunken late-evenings turned early-mornings, in a Brooklyn dinner with greasy pleather benches, over eggs Benedict and burnt filter coffee, Thierry tells you he was born Travis, in Nowhere, North Dakota. His voice remains surprisingly steady when he explains how, tired of living in fear, he ran off to New York with less than 18 dollars to his name. But his eyes won’t meet yours. Too shiny. Too liquid. 

He tells you about the straight man, married with children, who once broke his heart, and asks you about the one who broke yours. 

“I didn’t need a man to do that,” you answer in earnest. You watch the tears brimming in his dark blue eyes. You hear him say, “I love you, Lee. You’re the best friend I have,” and you believe him.

Around mid-October, Vera joins the Thursday evening class. She’s prompt to initiate conversation, and soon, you spend every other Saturday afternoon in her quaint Brighton Beach apartment, eating blini with homemade jam, mesmerized by her deep gravely voice as she recounts tales of her life in the USSR. Of how she fled the country, back in 1986, with nothing but grit, a suitcase full of photographs, and a heart bleeding memories. She speaks, you find, simply because you are willing to listen. Before you leave, she hugs you strong enough to crack your spine. 

Vera was a mother, once. To a blond boy named Igor, who died of undiagnosed leukemia not long after he’d learned to walk.   

When you leave her place, your clothes are impregnated with her scent, bergamot tea and vanilla tobacco. You take a long stroll to Coney Island in the brisk dusk, clutching your scarf high on your face. The sharp Atlantic wind makes your eyes water. Shivering, you sit on a boardwalk bench, and marvel at the Wonder Wheel’s lights, brightening the crepuscular fall.

You miss him.  

Ava seldom has time for you in her ever busy schedule. Sometimes, the two of you meet for a quick lunch, and every once in a while, she takes you to an art performance where young adults with edgy haircuts douse their naked bodies in paint in front of a live audience to protest climate change or human trafficking. You don’t always understand, in truth, you rarely do, but you always welcome the opportunity to broaden your horizon. 

Polly makes sure to have you over for dinner at least once every two weeks. The regularity is touching. Some nights, you feel like indulging, and take a cab back to your place.

You learn. Every day, you learn. Through sweltering heat and ice-sharp cold, through lively chatter and the crackling of dead leaves. Through loneliness, yours and other’s. You learn. 

Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes, home is people. 

And you miss him, you miss him, you miss him… 

—

Twenty-nine Fridays. 

Frankie once more sat down behind Lupe’s desk at the dispatch center, to count down the weeks since your departure on the large cardboard calendar. 

There’s 29 of them now. Soon, those empty Fridays will outnumber the ones you filled with your skin and your scent. 

Your absence has torn a gaping hole inside his chest, and loneliness came pouring in to fill it. The feeling is alienating. It’s worse than shame, worse than fear, fear of hurting and fear of dying. The grief is all encompassing. It’s worse than everything he’s ever been stricken with. 

“Time will help, hermanito,” his sister had said shortly after you’d left. “Time is gonna make it better, don’t worry. Paso a paso.” 

Will hadn’t said anything. Will would never lie to his face. 

Frankie knows, just like Will does, that time ain’t gonna do shit. If anything, time will only make it worse.

Time has forsaken him. Everywhere around him, people go on with their lives, moving forward, making plans. 

Lua’s curls grow longer, her babbling evolving into fully formed words, and her balance becoming surer as she explores the world around her with her big bright eyes wide open. His beacon. His pride. His little miracle. 

Marcus moved in with Lupe. There was a proposal, quickly followed by talks of a spring wedding.  

Tess’ll be starting college soon, sponsored by the Redfly Family trust, her little sister already attending middle school.

Will went back to Colorado, where he found a counseling position at the VA office in downtown Aurora. 

Benny quit the MMA circuit and followed his brother, like he always does. Met a girl back home, a brunette with water-clear eyes, a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor. Now, they work together on her father’s tree farm, and he says things like, “she gave me a purpose.”

And Frankie’s stuck here. Stuck inside his pain, locked up within his loss with a hole the shape of you inside his chest, surviving on the promise of your voice every Friday at 7pm. Of your cheery tone when you talk about what you’ve discovered and learned, your new friends, your new tastes, your unassertive victories. Your steady healing. 

Only he knows your life up there can’t always be milk and honey. But you won’t tell him about the hardship. Bottling it up for his sake, he assumes, but then, where’s his fucking purpose? 

His longing just follows him everywhere, dimming the sun, turning his food all wrong, turning his friends to enemies, places that once brought him solace no longer meaning relief. The cab of his truck devoid of your scent, a song on the radio that you’re not here to hum, and his blood turns to lead. The whole world around him, a reflective surface to reverberate his grief. 

So Frankie waits. Minutes, hours, and days. He aches and simmers and he waits. He’s cut for grit and patience and restraint, anyway. He waits for time to remember about him, to let him hop back onto that fast-paced train, he waits to be alive again. Hold your body close to him, feel the coolness of your touch, breathe in the scent of your perfume. Be your man. Keep you safe. Forever and always. 

He waits, until one afternoon in early December, when Lupe approaches him in the break room after his shift. 

“We need to talk,” she says. 

The following morning, a Thursday, an incoming call wakes him up. The sound of your sobbing comes in shaky and muffled through the receiver, and his spine grows rigid.

“I need to see you,” you say.

And Frankie knows he’s done waiting. 

—

The front door rattles with three successive knocks. Like a bloodhound, you still, head perking up, a near white-knuckle grip on the vacuum handle. You press the tiny button on your headphones to pause the music, and Kate Bush’s voice fades to silence, allowing the vacuum’s roar to resurface. You kill it, too. 

It’s impossible you could have heard anything over all this din. 

You balance the vacuum handle against the dresser to grab your phone that’s lying there, and check the time on it. 

Noon. Frankie’s plane just took off. He isn’t due here for another three hours. Leaving you just enough time to finish tidying up the apartment, take an everything shower and hop on a cab to go pick him up. You purposefully postponed the cleaning until the very last minute, so you wouldn’t go insane waiting for him in these last hours.

A little pang of guilt flares hot across your neck and cheeks, quick and sharp, at how shamelessly you begged over the phone, a couple of days prior. Letting him hear your sniffling, the sound of your tears rolling down your face, if you could have, just because you couldn’t bear the misery of crying on your own anymore. Unabashed and so very selfish in your need of him. Of his hold and his warmth. His eyes and freckles. The weight of his body, the low thrum of his heartbeat. Petulant like a child. Please, please come here.

You snatch the headphones off your head. The room is silent. Three floors down, the neighbor’s yelling at her husband again, their baby crying. No one in the hallway knocking on your door, then.  

“Damn it,” you mutter, tossing the headphones on the dresser and padding over to the minuscule entryway. Wearing nothing but your sleep shorts and ragged college t-shirt, all of which should have been in last week's laundry load. If someone’s here, they’re in for a smelly treat. 

You wrench the door wide open, like a dare, like a vain wish, and you’re met with the solid wall of Frankie’s broad chest. 

A gasp, yours, short and high-pitched, and he collides into you, his arms circling your waist, pulling you flush against him. His face burrowing in the curve of your neck, his hat knocked off his head with the force of the collision. A hard press, a sharp inhale, he’s hoisting you up and carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Your heart, black and shrivelled, is suddenly too big for your rib cage. The wild creature’s purrs are deafening. Dopamine floods your brain, you’re madly happy, a relief so intense you’re trembling. 

“I’m not leaving this stupid city until you’ve given me this t-shirt,” he says, his mustache grazing the tender skin behind your ear. 

He smells like cold air, and underneath it, him. Old leather, a hint of sawdust, blond and taffy-sweet, and you smile through the tears lumping the back of your throat, wrapping your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading through his curls, digging into his thick jacket, socked feet dangling an inch above the floor. 

“It’s gross. I’ve been sleeping in it for a week, at least.”

“Yea, well, that’s the point, baby.”

You laugh, a choked up sound, half elation half sob, the curve of his own grin felt against your throat. 

“I’ve missed you. Fuck, Lee, I’ve missed you so much,” he groans, and his words, rasped and warped, bear the weight of his loneliness. Months worth of sleepless nights. 

His large hands span your back in all directions, a needy grasp at the soft curves of your hips, back up to your shoulder blades, and down to your waist, making sure —Are you real?— making up for everything that’s been lost. Your back arches into his chest, into his pulsating life force, your leg hitching up along his cold denim. 

There’s all of his strength, all of his need in this embrace. Forever imprinting the shape of you into his flesh. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” you whisper. 

His right hand leaves your back, barely, just long enough to slide the strap of his black rucksack off his shoulder, before it returns to you. Fingers curling around your nape, his forearm aligning with your spine. The metal of his belt digs into your belly as you push into him with a near matching strength, no space left between your bodies for anything but this bright beaming bliss. 

Entwined like honeysuckle and ivy, you stand there, in the entryway, under the dangling naked bulb. Basking into each other’s scent. Bodies thrumming high and strong like a power line of the highest voltage.

“Let me look at you,” he says after a while, hands cupping your face, dark eyes raking over your features under his creased brow, “how are you feeling, baby?”

His gaze flicks over to the thin scar in your hairline before it locks with yours, and it’s a binding spell, again, always, intact and unaltered. Black magic and fate, things that aren’t even real except he makes them. 

“I’m good!” you laugh, your fingers curling around his forearms, a stubborn little tear hanging from your lashes. “I’m good, now.”

“Yea? Good,” he nods. “You look good. You look fantastic.”

Your lips pinch down a bashful, incredulous smile. He leans back into you and presses a pointed kiss to your lips, greedy, wet, open-mouthed, and you respond in kind, eager, starved. He tastes of coffee and him, and you might lose your sanity with how content you are feeling, how happy, how frighteningly complete.

His hands snake under the hem of your t-shirt, and there’s the cold tip of his fingers, the warm cup of his palms, spanning the expanse of your back, roaming over your shuddering skin and your body ignites in their wake, coming back to life, inch after inch after touch.  

You’re the first to break the kiss with a sudden concern, irrelevant, futile, and he’s holding your face again, his eyes hooded with want, drinking you in. 

“I thought your plane landed at 3pm. I wanted to come pick you up. I’m not even done cleaning, I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, I’m sorry. I got to the airport too early,” he chuckles. “Figured I could change my flight. I should’ve texted you.”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” you start, but his face slots back into the curve of your neck, and you flinch with a new sensation, as he nuzzles his way up, his plush lips a soft caress over the shell of your ear, his scruff a soft tickle. A dark shade of amber pooling down inside you. The thinner hair on your nape standing up. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Frankie,” you breathe out, voice weighed by that thick and sticky thing coiling in your center. “It must have cost you a fortune.”

“Got a veteran discount. And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t fucking care less about the price,” he murmurs into your skin.

A veteran. A pilot. Once more, always, the notion turns your blood to mush, thick like molasses, saccharine like a schoolgirl crush. And then, a thought, overwhelming, terrible: this man, a veteran, a pilot, dropped everything to fly across the country and make sure you were okay. Because to him, you are worth it. Because he cares. Because you’re his.

Pride, fierce and territorial, tightens your belly. Pride and that something else. 

“Do you want something to drink?” you manage to ask, a reminder that you’re still very much your mother’s daughter. “Coffee? Something to eat? Do you need to rest?” 

“Thanks, baby,” he says, straightening up to let you see the wicked grin dimpling his gorgeous face, “I got everything I need right here.”

—

Through the density of his body, tense and giving, through a need stronger than the both of you, in the stifling intimacy of a closed motel room, month after month, week after week, you’ve learned him. 

Out of necessity, you’ve allowed time and physical distance to come between you and him, only to find the knowledge is still there, constituent to your very being. Ingrained, ineradicable. Like an instinct, like the sun’s fiery circle burnt into your retinas through closed eyelids. 

Mellow inside and out, lightheaded and boneless, you follow him to the kitchen. Standing close to him by the steel sink as he washes his hands, enraptured, enamored, chest pressed to the back of his arm, cheek rubbing the brawny swell of his shoulder. Humming, like a cat purrs. 

You lead him into the room where you eat, sleep, and dream of him, bare walls, sparse furniture you never chose, a single narrow window. It’s supposed to be home but doesn’t feel like it, until he steps in, and everything changes.  

He looks massive in here, just like he did in the kitchen, too large for your everyday life, all proportions distorted, your perspective reframed by the scale of his shape. 

You watch him undress, and the details of him resurface. The plane of his solid chest, the breadth of his shoulders, when he removes his jacket. The graceful arabesque of his wrist tattoo, his lean forearms, when his flannel slides off his frame. The dip of his collarbones with its firework of sparkling freckles. His tanned skin, his softer belly, his scars and old wounds, when he tugs off his t-shirt. The trail of darker hair underneath his navel. His thighs, as he slides down his denim, thick and strong, his knees, his calves, the harmonious shape of him, the sum that surpasses the parts, everything so perfect, and you realize just how much you remember, how delusional you had been, thinking you could go on without it.

Everything pushed to the back of your consciousness, so the separation could be bearable. 

As he stands before you in the gray midday light, your desire is tinged by mute apprehension. You fled Tampa moved by the urgent necessity of your own survival. Now that you've shed most of your scarred skin, now that the danger no longer feels imminent, how will you survive his absence, once he’s gone?

Frankie calls your name, his round husk roping you out of your head, and you ask, “Should I keep my t-shirt?”

“Not today. Today, you take off everything.”

Sat on the edge of your bed, he beckons you, guiding you to stand between his spread thighs with firm, tender hands. The reverence that softens his mahogany eyes, the love and want you find there, it’s all yours. Yours to keep and treasure. 

The tip of his fingers thread along your curves in a delicate touch, brushing down the back of your legs, up to the small of your back, along your spine. Then down your arms, his lips nestling into the inside of your wrist, smooth and fragrant. A soft trail of love, light kisses and caress, shedding weeks of longing in their wake. 

You cup his face, thumbs slotting in the bare patches of his scruff jaw, and relish in the way he leans into your hold. 

He bends into you, his mouth a wet press to your soft belly. The scrape of his teeth, gently teasing. 

Twining your fingers into his thick curls, your fingernails scrape over his scalp. The echo of his groan reverberates deep into your center, slick leaking warm down your folds. You tug his face back to look at him, and ever so quiet, he hums, the sweetest sound, the greatest gift, eyes flickering shut under the pleading arch of his brow, a smile curling the corner of his lips. So much abandon. So much trust. You’re falling.

A fleeting memory tugs at your heart, wistful, indelible. Yours for the night only, and your breathing falters, you’re sinking deeper. 

Yours forever, if you’d only say the word. 

“Do you remember when you wouldn’t let me touch your hair?” you tease, but there’s hardly any air left in your lungs. 

His smile broadens. 

“Remember when you told me your name was Marion?”

Your laughter rushes out of you and his eyes flash open, his smile fully bloomed, transforming his face, all dimples and crinkly eyes. 

“Come here, Marion,” he chuckles, sitting you over his sturdy lap. 

All at once, you’re crushed against his chest to the music of his rumbling mmhs, before his embrace loosens, head dipping, nipping at your collarbone, calloused palm skimming up the underside of your breast.

“Fucking perfect,” you hear him growl before his mouth latches around your nipple.

You keen, quiet, grateful, eyes fluttering close as his tongue twirls around the hardening bud, hanging on for dear life to the breadth of his shoulders. So many sensations, after feeling so little for so long. There’s a live-wire buzzing down from your sternum to your core, and your pulse’s a desperate staccato, you struggle to remain afloat.

With an appreciative sound, he sucks on your nipple, a rough hand squeezing your breast, and when he bites into the soft flesh of it, it shoots straight to your clit. Your hips bucking forward of their own volition, seeking more.

Under your folds, his cock twitches, exquisitely stiff for you, already. 

“I could come like that, you know?” you pant, rolling your hips into the bulk of his want.

A shake of his curls, and he lets go, his mouth releasing your breast with a wet sound.

“No,” he husks, teeth ghosting the column of your neck, “you’re coming on my cock. Put it in.”

Your heart stutters, skips a beat, or two, or several. 

His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs but he’s not moving you away, and there’s no space between your sealed bodies, no leeway for any movement. You’re trapped in his hold, pinned to his skin, glued to the amber golden light of him. And your hips keep rolling, and your heart keeps tripping, and your want keeps swelling. 

His lips wrap over the beating vein in your neck, sucking on the tender skin, sharp and stinging, teeth sinking into the surfacing blood. You lean into him, lean into the bite, lean into the pain.

You give yourself to it, all the love and the want and the affection, lose yourself in it, limp and pliant as it pours inside you, and everything has a name, now, everything is right, as his touch dissolves all the hurt calcified around your heart, all the fear you wouldn’t let out, all the failures and the doubt. 

You breathe out his name, and he breathes out yours, and you’re whole, bright, in bloom. Brimming with life.

He fits in your hand, warm and hefty, smooth skin and bulging veins, throbbing under the caress of your thumb, leaking thick and tangy over your knuckles, and you’re desperate for a taste, but you can’t let him go.

“Put it in, come on” he grits, but there’s no bark to his words, only need, bleeding into the bruising furrow of his fingers into the plush of your ass. 

A lift, you’re weightless in his hold, and he’s pushing thick and stiff at your entrance. Your face hanging above his, lips parted, trembling, and it’s already too much, the way everything within you pulsates and tingles. 

His gaze levels with yours, and his eyes spear into your eyes before he lowers you onto him with an unyielding grip and a shaky exhalation. And with each splitting inch, the searing girth of him stretching you blind. 

Fingers curled around his biceps, forehead pressed to his, you sink down to the hilt. The coarse hair at his base grazes your clit and sweat beads over your temple. 

With measured breaths, he pauses, giving you time to adjust. Eyes skittering over the small line splitting your brow, the quiver of your lip that you're too full to bite down on. 

For the first time ever, there has been no Stop me. This is something else. 

This is what comes next. What you’ve earned, what you’ve prayed for. 

There’s a tremor in his frame, the only evidence of his waning control, and he grabs at your ass, rocking you onto him, languid, scorching, a deep grind, perked up nipples grazing his solid chest, and you're already ascending. 

“Frankie,” you whine, plead, beg, walls a frantic flutter as his cock slots right into the center of you in rolling waves.

“Let go, Lee” he rasps, “let go, I got you.”

With the hushed assurance of his words, round and sincere, your release crackles and tenses. You slump in his arms, undone, rebuilt.

“I’ve missed you, Lee,” he presses into the slope of your shoulder, “God, I’ve missed you.”

—

He’s insatiable. Some of it is reminiscent of your first encounters at the motel, when his hunger was indiscernible from his rage. 

Tied up, with your arms behind your back and your face buried in the mattress as he holds your ass up with a bruising grip on your hips and pounds into you hard, rough, relentless. 

His fingers tangled in your sweat-damp hair, your knees on the hard tiles of the shower as he fucks your throat until you forget how to breathe. 

And suddenly reverential, his gentleness nearly too much when he wakes you up to cover your body in kisses and strokes. Overwhelming, the desperation with which he seeks the contact of your skin, his gaze spearing into your eyes as he grinds deep into your heat. 

The urgent, low husk of his voice when he murmurs, “Tell me what you want, Lee, let me give you what you need.” 

When he sits you on his face and relents control, when you pull on his curls to press him closer to where you want him, shameless and wanton, riding your release.

—

“And what about the Russians?” you ask, propping your chin on his chest. “Have you ever fought against the Russians?”

“Jesus, woman,” he laughs, “how old do you think I am?”

“I’m not talking Cold War Russians, I’m talking CIA stuff. I know you lot, Delta operatives.”

“Oh yea?” he grins, cocking an eyebrow. “What have you heard?”

A mischievous expression dances on your face and he chuckles again, a wider grin pulling his lips. Lightheaded, is one way to put it. Melting inside is another. Giddy like a teenager with your levity. 

Your eyes flicker down to his dimple and you lift your hand off his chest to brush your finger into the dip in his cheek. You keep it there for a beat, seemingly absorbed, enthralled by the touch, and then it’s over. You lower your head back onto him, cheek resting right over his scar, he knows there’s no coincidence to it.

Frankie lets out a silent sigh. His head lolls back on the fat pillow. Twenty-nine Fridays, carved out and hollow. Twenty-nine weeks, 1123 miles, carrying his love and hunger like a penance, and then this. Your naked body tucked against his, under the thick downy comforter, in this tiny room saturated with your scent. Your taste on his tongue. Your easy laughter. Your gaze sinking into his eyes. It's a blessed sensory overload. That old slicing ache in his chest singing another song. 

Somehow, you look younger than when he last saw you. Maybe not younger, just more carefree. Understandably so. Those last weeks in Tampa, you had become so frail. But you’ve put on some weight since. It sits harmoniously on your figure, suits your features and brightens up your face. Means there’s more of you, too, and he can’t keep his hands from roaming your curves. 

He knows he’s gotta talk to you at some point. It’ll kill the mood, probably. Inform you of that decision Lupe took that will affect his life for the foreseeable future. Affect yours as well, maybe. To some extent at least. That insane rippling effect. His past choices always breathing down his neck, when he’d give everything for a clean slate.

But you look so fucking delicious. He went so fucking long, too fucking long without you, now he cannot get enough. It’s too soon to risk it. 

There were plans. An itinerary you had drafted in the short lapse of time it had taken him to organize his trip here, and that you’d texted him on the night before his flight. Things you wanted to show him, places that matter to you. The Coney Island boardwalk, the Guggenheim, and some marine paintings in the Frick Collection you were excited to share with him. He’d texted back with some requests of his own: your office building, the place in Brooklyn where you attend the evening classes, your favorite places to eat. 

But since he arrived, he’s kept you in, or you have him, he cannot tell. Either way, the two of you haven’t left the dim apartment, and any notion of time has been reduced to the alternation of semi-dark urban nights and stonewashed winter days. 

He tries not to dwell on the fact that your apartment barely looks lived in. Bare walls, save for that map in your kitchen, if he can even call that a kitchen. Your suitcase standing beside the dresser, like you’re ready to take off. No curtains, no rug, no lampshade. It’s almost like you don’t really want to settle. Like you’re still trying to decide if you truly belong here. 

The only evidence of you is taped to the mirror above the dresser. A Polaroid of a kid in pigtails blowing raspberries, washed out yellow and blurry by the years. Your sister, if he had to guess. 

And that receipt tucked between the pages of a leather-bound book on your nightstand. From the cantina. That very first Friday he brought food to the motel. He checked the date stamp. 

It breaks his heart, the way you’re torn and scattered. Neither here nor there. His guilt might be irrelevant, misplaced, but it churns his insides nonetheless.

Still, New York is where you live now. You’ve made some good friends, work a job you seem to like enough to give it your best. It’s probably just a matter of time before you store away the suitcase. 

Part of him wants to go out and explore this city that has robbed you from him. Learn everything he can about your life here, so that when he flies out on Saturday morning, he can picture you in your environment, going about your daily life. Anything to try to survive your absence. 

He wants to meet your family. A dinner is scheduled sometime this week with your sister and her girlfriend. He’d like to meet your friends. Further explore the mixed emotions and feelings he experiences whenever you mention these people, whenever he thinks of them. Gratitude, for the affection and comfort they give you. Envy, for the parts of you that are familiar to them and that himself will never get to know. 

The person you are when you’re with them. 

“Frankie?” you call quietly, your leg a smooth brush against his as you hitch it higher.

“Yes, baby?”

“Have you ever thought about how people are like… made of layers?”

“That’s funny, I was just thinking about it.”

“Really?” you exclaim. 

Your head pops up comically, and his jaw tenses. Why can’t he bring himself to let you see the dopey smile that melts his face whenever you look at him like this? Until now, he’s never felt vulnerable demonstrating his affection. 

But things with you are different. That living pull between you is too big, bigger than him. He senses it thrumming behind your lungs while it whirs inside his chest like an answer, constantly, it might bleed him dry with its intensity. Like first love. Pristine. Brand new. All encompassing. 

“Mmh,” he grunts, gathering his brain. “Yea. Or maybe like puzzles?”

“Yes,” you agree, your tone serious, and you scoot up a notch, propping your head in your hand, so you don’t have to crane your neck to look at him, “puzzles, exactly. And everyone you know holds a different piece of you.”

“Yea, pretty much, I guess.”

“And so the puzzle of you is never truly complete because the pieces are never all together at once.”

You pause, pondering over your reflection. 

“Do you think all the pieces could fit together, if they were assembled?” Frankie asks after a moment, a strange sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, like his center of gravity has suddenly shifted. 

“Probably not,” you muse, head shaking imperceptibly, your gaze lost somewhere in the distance.

The memory of the motel room resurfaces, stifling heat, amber lighting. The distance that sometimes clouded your eyes, your silent retreat within yourself, that inner world of yours, your island. Week after week, getting closer, within his reach, yet never fully accessible. He swallows thickly. 

“I think you got all my pieces,” you say in a casual tone, in contradiction with his thoughts.  

He tightens his grip around your waist.

“I don’t think I do, baby. But it’s okay,” he lies, as if he’s not free-falling from the sky, plummeting straight into your ocean. 

Slipping out of his hold, you sit up on the rumpled bed, your naked back turned to him. 

“Do you think I’ve got all your pieces?” you ask.

“God, I hope not,” he sighs, running a palm over his face. 

Hugging your knees, you lean forward, away from him. The room is thick with a compact silence, as if all the sounds were absorbed by fresh snow.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” he asks, brushing his knuckles along your spine. A shiver fizzles under his touch.

“I was wondering… Is it important? Do you have to know someone to love them? What’s the right balance between knowing your partner, and knowing yourself? What’s the tipping point?”

His hand splays over your lower back.

“The tipping point to what?”

You shake your head in frustration, straightening your back, your knee bumped against his thigh. Offering him your profile, but not your direct gaze.

“I don’t know how to explain. When do you start losing yourself to be what others… what people expect you to be? At what moment do you start feeling isolated? Misunderstood? In a relationship, I mean? Because that’s the beginning of the end.”

“Fuck, Lee, I don’t– I don’t have those answers,” he frowns, sitting up with a cinch. “I know I love you, all of you, even the pieces I don’t know. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to be someone else.” 

Reaching behind you, you take his hand and weave your fingers with his. Your fingertips are cold, and he squeezes his into the back of your hand, to imprint some of his heat into you. Some of his words, too. 

At last, you fully turn. Under your scowl, something darkens your gaze. Something Frankie cannot decipher. His face close to yours, his eyes boring into your eyes, the moment tightens his throat, decisive, important. The pregnant silence. The gray winter light painting shades of blue on your pale skin. The old pain spears through his heart, sweet and beaming. It’s gonna split him in half. He knows he’ll never forget it. Never let go of this sensation. 

“I trust you, Frankie.”

“I trust you, too.”

Your brow shifts, the tiniest inflection, and your eyes widen, luminous like a rising sun, like a summer morning.

“I promise I’ll always be honest with you.”

“I promise I’ll always be honest with you, baby,” he rasps, the weight of his secret sitting on the back of his tongue. 

—

On the fourth day, at last, you venture outside, ushered by your sister’s and Polly’s dinner invitation. 

The itinerary had to be stripped to the bare minimum. Frankie will be flying out in two nights. Your heart stutters and sinks every time you think of him leaving. 

The cold is unforgiving, the sky a gray shade of white, heavy and full like a quilted blanket. Against reason, you offer to take him to Coney Island, where the Atlantic wind will freeze the ears off your head. You’re not sure why it’s important for you to take him there, but he says he’s game. 

Bundled up in your thrift store coat, your face half concealed between a scarf the size of a tablecloth and a wool hat, you watch him brave the cruel temperatures with nothing more than a Sherpa lined trucker jacket over a fleece shirt, and his ragged Standard Heating Oil cap. 

As you stand and shiver, waiting for the bus —the first act of an interminable route— the tip of his ears poke out from underneath his curls, reddened by the frosty air. Sliding your numbed-out hand in his, you’re surprised by the warmth of his palm. Your mind wanders to the harsh conditions his former life has trained him to endure. You squeeze his hand with all of your strength. 

Later, sitting side by side on the subway’s hard plastic seats, you rant to him about your love-hate relationship with the NYC Metropolitan Transportation Authority. The never-ending rides, ideal for reading, listening to music, or idle contemplation. The welcome aloneness of anonymity, in a sea of indifferent strangers. 

He listens, his sharp profile tilted down in concentration over your words, and you’re mindful to downplay the downsides, the maddening time-consuming sprawl of the city, the promiscuity, the last-minute route changes and the undecipherable PA announcements. 

It’s not a lie as much as an omission. You can’t send him back over there with the knowledge that despite all its perks, you’ve failed to make this place your home. 

Thinking of your earlier promise, you fall silent, the deafening thunder of the train’s wheels over the tracks ringing out in your ears like a metallic injunction.

Your head lolls onto the round slope of his padded shoulder. His large hand curls over your thigh with a strong squeeze as he presses his lips to your temple. 

“What are you thinking, baby?”

“I was thinking that I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to living here,” you confess.

His shoulder slumps under your cheek. 

It’s another hour on the F train before you make it to the ocean. 

On the boardwalk, by the deserted amusement park, the wind slices through you, biting the exposed skin of your cheeks and chilling your bones. The defunct Parachute Jump stands erect like a skeletal sentinel, guarding over the memories of summers past. The graceful Wonder Wheel’s silhouette stands out in bright colors against the bleak December sky, like a benevolent promise, the assurance of continuity and the return of better days. 

“I think it’s my favorite season to be here,” you murmur.

“I can see the appeal,” Frankie rasps against the wind, eyes trained on the line of the horizon over your head. His arms circling your waist, the wall of his solid heat at your back.

“What have you told your sister about me?” he asks after a moment.

“Not much. Are you nervous?”

“No, not really. Wait, should I be? Her girlfriend’s a shrink, right?”

You laugh heartily, and immediately regret it when air made of pure frost rushes inside your lungs, freezing its way to the very end of your bronchioles. 

“Polly’s nice, don’t worry about her. Don’t worry about either of them. I love them, but I’m not waiting for their blessing.”

You’re done abiding that collective “we.” Another resolve rising up to the surface without your conscious knowledge of the process. 

“Oh shit, look at that,” Frankie exclaims. 

Above you, snowflakes descend from the white sky in a fast-paced twirl. Your very first New York snow. It’s neither fluffy nor cute, though, more like fierce little icy shards barreling toward you like small crystalline weapons. 

Your first thought is of his child.

“Has Lua ever seen the snow?”

“No.”

You squint against the wind and the stabbing snow, against the white daylight and all of your past hesitations.

“I can't wait to meet her, you know.”

He pulls you in closer, reaching out for your body through layers and layers of winter clothes. 

For a while now, the feeling has grown steady and strong inside of you, taking up more space each day. Nurtured by the pictures and many stories you’ve asked Frankie to share with you. This time, you’re better equipped to name it, from the very beginning. And it’s strange, in a tranquil kind of way, the unconditionality of this love. The irrationality of it. You love her, without any reason for it. You love her, just because. 

“How is it, being a parent? Did you know from the start what to do?”

“Oh fuck no,” he scoffs wryly. “Most of the time, I feel like she’s the one teaching me how to be her dad.”

The honesty of the statement makes you smile.

“Do you think you could bring her, next time?”

“She’s gonna have to get used to it.”

Frankie’s words reach your ear as you’ve already spoken yours. You whip around in his arms to face him, struck by the look on his face. Like he’s trying to chew his molars.

“Wait, what? Used to what?”

“She’s gonna have to get used to the snow.”

—

Your eyes are fucking blazing, so big they eat up half your face. A single teardrop clings to your lashes, from the near polar gale, probably, and you’re shivering cold. 

He can’t stall any longer. Not again. Not this time. Not when he just gave you his word to always be honest with you. 

“Lua’s mother's getting married. They’ll be moving to Rochester in the spring. Her fiancé’s from there. His father passed away a couple weeks ago, and his mother has ALS. He wants to move back to take care of her.”

“Rochester… New York, Rochester?”

Frankie nods. Against his chest, your lean figure grows stiff. 

“She’s taking Lua with her?” you ask in a thin voice. 

Frankie nods again. The wind picks up in gusts, those sharp snowflakes falling down obliquely, murderous, whipping your faces relentlessly. He wants to get you somewhere inside, somewhere warm. What if you get sick when he’s about to leave? 

Why you seem to fall for the things that are the most arduous to love is a complete mystery to him. This place in the winter. Him.

Your fingers curl around his lapel. 

“She’s taking Lua, yea. We talked about it. I’m gonna have to relocate. There’s no way I’m seeing my kid less than I already do. I started scouting for jobs in the area.”

“Is that why you came here? To tell me?”

“I came here because you said you needed to see me, Lee,” he answers, the hint of a scowl sharpening his tone.

You tilt down your face and furrow into his neck, your woolly hat a fuzzy tickle against the scruff of his chin. Your unrelenting tenderness, that brought him back from the darkness.

“I’ve checked the flights here from up there. It’s a short trip, a little under two hours. I could come down to visit every other weekend. If you want me to, of course” he adds, his voice warped with sheer fucking terror, his heart thumping in his throat. 

“I don’t like it,” you shoot right back, rising your face to look him dead in the eye. 

It’s that same look again, the one from that very first night at the bar, feverish, lost, hopeful against all odds, against your better judgment. Instinctively, his hands fly to cup your face. It’s cold as marble, and his palms ignite at the contact of your skin, again, still, always. Your eyes pool with something dark and dense, your fingers leaving his jacket to cuff his wrists. 

“Every other weekend isn’t enough, Frankie. It’s not enough.”

“What are you saying, Lee?”

“I'm saying I want to go there with you.”

His pain huffs out of him. Disbelief in a puff of white breath. 

“You want to follow my ex and her new husband to fucking nowhere up north, when you just settled here?”

Brow pinched in a stern expression, you nod frantically between his palms.

“Yes. I want to be with you.”

“What about your sister? Your job? Your friends? What about–”

“I can find another job,” you cut it, words punching out of you and landing straight into his gut. “You said it’s only two hours to fly here, I can visit them, I want to be with you, Frankie, please, please, plea–”

His mouth crashes over yours, silencing your plea. Your lips are icy-cold as you press back into his kiss. He feels your arms rounding his back, your little fists bunching his jacket, clinging to his shoulders. He could swear he feels your heart, too, pounding loud against his, leaping out into his rib cage, exactly where he wants it, where he needs it, next to his, to keep it warm and safe. 

How did he get here, on this freezing boardwalk, facing the dark immensity of the Atlantic Ocean on the cusp of a second chance? On the verge of everything he never dared to long for? Everything he has ever truly wanted? 

“You’re gonna come with me, baby?” he chokes, the words rolling thick over his tongue. 

“Yes,” you sniffle, a tear running down your cheek.

“You’re gonna let me love you? Gonna let me build you a home?”

“Yes, Frankie,” you nod again, a smile tugging your lips, more tears slipping down your face, and he’s surprised the wind doesn’t turn them into pear-shaped diamonds. 

“Okay. Okay, alright,” he smiles. “Can we get somewhere warm now?”

You laugh, leaning into his hold. Blue lips, red cheeks, pink scar. Eyes of gold. 

“Yes,” you agree with another sniff. “Remember when we wished for seasons?”

The End

****

End notes: alright, Orange bedroom besties, raise your hand who thought they wouldn't end up together? I tried, this time I really tried, but there's nothing I can deny this man... or you, I guess? This series took a big chunk out of my life. It consumed a lot of my heart, time, energy, brain, emotions... Wow, look at that, not unlike therapy, huh? Anyway, enough about me, my point is, THANK YOU. Thank you for your patience, I know I'm the slowest and I feel terrible, thank you for reading, or for just passing by, thank you for bookmarking for later, engaging, lurking, liking, commenting, reblogging, sending an ask, reccing, thank you for supporting me in any way and manner, thank you thank you thank you, Ily and I appreciate you, genuinely, so very much 🧡 Thank you Kelli my love, for beta reading that whole damn thing with so much kindness, for teaching me so patiently, for holding my hand every step of the way, for listening to my endless rambling, for being you, smart and talented, selfless and gracious, for being my friend. This is a story about hope, and your stories brought back hope into my life. I love you, I like you, I admire you, until the end of times 🧡 Thank you Lua @pedrit0-pascalit0 for letting me love you on main, oops I mean use your name! Thank you for sharing your thots on the Pilot™ with me, thank you for being a menace in DMs and keeping me alive and alert with your smart and talent and humor. Ily. Big loads 🧡 @dreamymyrrh you know what you did, and everything you gave this story. I'm so grateful for you 🧡 I love you more, I don't want to hear anything, shhhhh 🧡 Now I'm gonna go lie in the dark utterly terrified that I won't ever have another idea or write another word rest a little bit and get back to work as soon as inspiration strikes again!

THANK YOU ALL 🧡

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These are some PPCU fics I have read and enjoyed this past month. Some new. Some Old. All have smut. I am going to be doing a monthly rec list in an attempt to read more and help reblog and support some amazing authors out there. Please show them some love. Read all warnings! Not everything is for everyone and that is ok. Please always comment AND reblog fics you enjoy to show love to the authors 🖤

Joel Miller

Midnight Chemistry // @katiexpunk You fuck your dad's best friend on a camping trip with him asleep in the other room.

We Shouldn't Have Done That // @yxtkiwiyxt It's been a while since you've seen Joel, not since that 'moment' that happened between you two. Now, you have to face him when Sarah calls you in a panic, asking for a ride from a party because her friends are too drunk to drive.

Be Quiet, Or I'll Make You // @tobeholyistobeempty Daddy Dom Joel fucks you when danger is close by

Whiskey Sour // @kiwisbell Reuniting with your estranged father while you finish college in Austin has unintended consequences. His best friend, for one.

The Other Woman // @evolnoomym You are on cloud nine after enduring a lot of pain. All changes because of Joel Miller. But for how much longer will the dream work?

General Acacius

I Can't Hear It Now // @joelmillerisapunk A love that was never meant to be. A choice that was never truly yours to make. Acacius was never yours to keep, yet in the dark of night, beneath the weight of duty and desire, he was yours still.

Run // @almostempty general acacius hunts you in the woods for ‘training’ then fucks you

Clint

Late Night Video // @iamasaddie Clint needs to relax after a very, very difficult week. His plans to get some porn and jerk off his stress away change when he sees a pretty young thing at the counter.

Sweet Surrender // @joelmillerisapunk Your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

Clint Eats it From The Back // @almostempty Clint comes home to find you half-naked and half-asleep and eats it from the back and then gives you that dick (as he should)

Got Your Money // @magpiepills You’re a hooker who owes her pimp money and his right hand man, Clint comes to collect.

Javier Pena

Playgirl // @milla-frenchy Attracted to your father's best friend since his return from Colombia, you finally get what you want

Hands To Myself // @gothcsz You get to know the handsome stranger sitting next to you on your overnight flight to Mexico.

ICYMI (Previous Fic Recs): December | January | February Banner by me. Dividers by @saradika 🖤

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MATERIALISTS 2025 | dir. Celine Song

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PEDRO PASCAL and Ebon Moss-Bachrach in ‘THE FANTASTIC FOUR: FIRST STEPS’

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gone to the dogs {chapter nine}

Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Seasons change and silence rings. Everything is slow moving until it isn't. Everything happens all at once and you reach out for the one person who you need more than anything, but will they be able to reach you in time to help?

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language,, outbreak fic, darker fic, adult language, reader has no canon name but has a commonly used nickname, reader is mostly blank slate but has hair that can be pulled back, fighting, references to injuries, vital injuries, blood, gore, ambush attack described (the one in on lincoln), pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms, brief descriptions of birth, illusions to birth, birth complications, strained relationship dynamic, reader is keeping secrets, offscreen character death, um i think that's it for this one

*this chapter is very, very different from anything i've written before. please be warned, please read the tags, please proceed with caution if you feel even a little hesitant

A/N: please don't yell at me too much ♡

ao3 || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

Sleet rains down and mixes with the hail that builds up in the gutters, on the streets, in every nook and cranny of each building’s window. It dampens the sky, the ground, the air, his mood, and definitely the legs of his pants where they fit over his boots. He looks over his shoulder at a loud crackle of thunder, sure he heard footsteps behind him pick up speed under the sound- but no one is there.

He holds tighter to the bundle in his fist, shoved deep in his pockets of the coat you had fixed up for him time and time again. His chest aches at the thought of you, the sole reason why he’s out in this nasty weather while everyone else in the zone hunkers down to wait out the storm.

He knows it’s late, too late, passed curfew. But as he holds his shoulders tensely, entire body on alert for a threat, a soldier, someone else to keep him from you- he doesn’t notice the tripwire as he ducks into an alley. Bells jingle like merry laughter underneath the rumbling thunder low in the sky and he’s suddenly faced with three large figures separating from the shadows.

His mission of getting to the radio hub some guy set up flies from his mind as he focuses on the movement of them, how they close in on him. But all of his fight seeps from him as he feels the barrel of a gun shoved into the back of his head. His vision splotches black, head throbbing and heart stuttering as he realizes he’s completely surrounded and outnumbered- pulled from his melancholy musings in the worst way, a deadly way.

“Listen here, Miller. We know you took over the bitch’s operation, no one’s seen her in weeks. No one’s been found dead by her hands even though we’ve been scouring every little hidey hole for her. So we’re just gonna have a little chat about how we can all work together on better terms than she decided for everyone, got it?”

It wasn’t soldiers, at least not FEDRA, Joel realizes through glimpses of consciousness. The butt of the gun at his head slams hard again and his legs give out as his vision blurs completely. He knows he shouts out, but the sticky screech of duct tape being unwound from a roll drowns it out before a thick piece is slapped over his mouth. All he can do while fighting the pain in his body is try to track details- what they’re wearing, what they look like, where they drag his limp body through the streets, what the building looks like from the outside- before his hands and legs are tied tightly together and he’s shoved into a room where they cuff him to an old radiator.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, the only thing keeping pace is the throbbing in his head and the way the sky rains down thick sheets of hail that ping and dent anything they land on- a true summer storm for this part of the country. The only thing he knows for sure is that he should’ve stayed in Lincoln with you.

Damp dirt flies up and freckles your face as you try to dig out a neat little hole for the newest protection that Bill deemed important. A sensor would be implanted, allowing for some sort of flame thrower the man put together to spring up and aim at whoever got too close to the fence. It was still warm outside, dangerously so, the ground nearly crumbling but thankfully there was no illusions of water built up around the clean streets and the walkways of the cordoned off section of the town Bill claimed for himself.

You feel the need to keep busy, to work with your hands and to complete tasks with an alarming, almost manic energy. Frankie says you’re nesting, a natural progression of your hormones and body getting ready for the baby that grows stronger and bigger in your belly day by day. It’s been a month, nearly tw, summer finally beginning to wane, though the nights bite at your ankles and nip at your neck as the next season looms near.

Jean, too, is filled to the brim with restless energy. Though she’s more apt to help Bill with the canning and preservation of food, the cooking of meals, the cleaning of the house in a way that makes everything feel a little more normal- like old times before. It’s a far cry from the imitation of life you both experienced in the zone. But then again two women so close in their pregnancies was no walk in the park, sometimes you feel like you’re conducting business dealings just to get her to rest sometimes even when she wavers on her feet or begins to slouch in her seat. She’s a little further than you are, by a month or so. Her month being five and yours four. As best estimated at least.

The days are blurring together, your heart feeling both light and heavy as your mind works overtime, memories of every part of your life beginning to weave through your sleep, through your waking moments. Good times and bad. Fights that have everything to do with surviving and inane conversations that have nothing to do with it but were important all the same. Being human- it’s a wild concept you mull over as you feel like one for the first time in a long time. Joel helped with that, even in the hard times, he gave you reason to surge up and defend yourself, allowing you to keep your wits sharp and your teeth even sharper. To see that every was a threat in their own way, even if they were on your side.

But he’s been more than that for years, or had been. Now he’s…silent. No word from him since the day he disappeared into the thick tree line after safely delivering you and Jean here to Bill and Frankie. It worries you something fierce sometimes, wondering if he truly, genuinely loved you like he confessed to because love shouldn’t feel like heartbreak- like betrayal. Even as you carry a secret just as devastating as his radio silence.

Your hands fly to your middle as you stand from your spot, knees popping and back aching, but tickling sensation as if something is crawling beneath your skin brings alarm bells to life. You feel a cool wash of nerves race down your spine as you realize this is a new feeling, and it startles you. The hand trowel falls from your grip and you reach for the longer shovel to use as a makeshift cane, tingling feet carrying you slowly back to the house as the feeling underneath your skin persists.

Frankie is on the radio when you walk into the hidden basement, struggling to descend the stairs but determined all the same. He’s go the headphones on and microphone close to his moving lips. Tess’s voice is tin-like, canned where it echoes out from the speakers around his ears. There’s an urgency to her voice, the tone off- harsher as she relays her message. You distantly hear Joel’s name and suddenly the crawling sensation spreads over your entire middle, not just errant spots.

Gasping, you hold tight over the feeling, pressure building and waning as you feel heavy prodding through the skin that bumps into your hands. Frankie is suddenly in front of you, the cord to the headphones tugged tight from where they remain plugged into the computer system Bill has immaculately set up.

“Hey, hey, woah, what’s going on, are you feeling pain?” His voice is soothing despite the worry you see swirling in his eyes. One of his larger hands splays over yours and pressure crawls underneath your skin once again. But his worry gives way to a bright shine, his teeth glinting as he smiles widely down at you.

“Honey, that’s…that’s kicking!” He pauses in his excitement, pressing something on the side of the headphones before turning back to the computer screen and radio set up. “Tess, sorry, hold on one second. You said he’s okay? Can we expect you soon or does he need more time to rest up before a trip?”

He’s quiet as he processes her next words, and then he’s shucking off the headphones to place carefully over your head. Confusion colors your features as you hear static echo through the connection before a deep voice that weaves through your dreams caresses like velvet over your senses- the pressure of the baby kicking growing as it settles over you.

“Hey there, darlin’.” Suddenly every worry that’s plagued you flies out the window and you feel immensely relieved to hear that deep drawl.

“J-Joel?”

“Know it’s been a while.” You hear the shuffling of fabric, a muted grunt that sends a spike of pleasure down your spine, and then a deep exhale. All of the hurt and anger and loneliness at his prolonged absence smoothed over by his next words. “Was kinda in the infirmary for a bit, got jumped by some guys who decided to try me.”

“Are you okay? Who was it? I swear if it was Cohen, I’ll march back there myself and end him. He’s been laying low but always tried-“ The need to protect, to defend, to maim- it all flares up far stronger than it has in a long while. Someone’s decision to mess with what’s yours stirring it all up in you. Hackles raising and claws extending, all for the man who seems to be having a bit of trouble taking a full breath over the line as he tries to console you.

“I’m okay, just been shackled to a radiator the past month and then recovering from malnutrition and a pretty bad concussion after that. Everythin’ is under control, we’re keeping everythin’ up just like you would. And Cohen, he’s been hung for his attempts to take out the sole provider of black market goods by FEDRA themselves. Seems they didn’t like him messing with their supplies.”

“It’s been months, Joel. I was-“ The confession nearly drips from your tone as you realize how small it makes your voice sound, it makes you sound. The one where you admit to feeling like runt pup, left to fend for itself in favor of tending to the stronger, more promising pups in the litter. Abandoned, even if it was your idea in the first place to reside here with Jean, to move her to a better environment- yourself into a better environment.

“I’m okay, I promise.” But it was too much, your emotions bubbling up and the soft hush of his voice over the line. The way the baby kept kicking and kicking the longer you talked to Joel, your heart stirring faster and your body nearly leaning into the radio as you unconsciously moved as close to the source as your could. It was too much, he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here. It didn’t matter the reason, there were ways for Tess to let you know. She hadn’t, letting it fester into miscommunication and transform into something ugly. Whether intentionally or not, you feel left out. But then again…the conversation of regular communication outside of planning visits and the exchange of goods didn’t exactly happen.

“I’ve got to go- Frankie here.” You remove the headphones just as the man on the other side of the connection calls your name, your real name. But you can’t, emotions swelling up into your lungs as you begin to take in shallow breaths and plop heavily down into the chair in the corner. Through the haze of your spell, you see Frank talk for a few more minutes before the connection is cut off. He’s resetting the radio before coming over to kneel in front of you, hands cradling your face as he urges you to breathe along with him.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay- he’s okay.”

“He-he didn’t- he waited so long, I thought- I thought he was dead!” You shout, every emotion from the past couple of months brimming over and spilling over your hot cheeks and throbbing head in thick tears. Your thoughts weren’t of fights and ambushes, he is strong, Joel is capable and damn near a killing machine when he needed to be. It was of him overdosing, of drowning himself in the swill people claimed as alcohol. But it wasn’t- he was recovering from an attack, one that could’ve been prevented if you stayed behind and handled things as always. It was your fault.

“You can’t control everything and that’s okay. What matters is that you’re both safe and healthy, you are both still very much alive and kicking, okay?”

You can’t fight the tightness in your throat even when you manage to get your breathing under control with the help of Frank. He seems to understand that you can’t find your voice, even as he ushers you up to the main level and helps you to sit on the couch to get off your feet. Within a few moments he’s got a plate of snacks and a glass of water for you set on the coffee table. His hands hold both of yours as you lean into his side, one of his arms wrapped around you to keep you tucked in tight.

“Everything is going to be alright, I promise you, okay?”

“Frankie, I see the way you take so much time to do things that used to be quick and easy for you.”

“It’s a long ways off before it gets bad, we’ve got time. I’ve got to meet that little baby in here before you go confining me to a wheelchair, yeah?” His other hand rests over your middle, the kicking stopped as soon as you removed the headphones and Joel’s voice no longer caressed your ears.

“I don’t know about that, what if they take after Joel?”

“A mini Joel is a mini Bill, and I think we can handle that, honey.”

It’s dark when the attack happens, the thick chill of winter sticking during the night even if it dissipates during the day. Spring is here, the babies are almost to term. The sound of sensors going off just before explosions ring out, you feel the house shake with thunder, all of your senses completely overwhelmed. Frantic movement, pounding steps, shouted curse words, and then your door is flying open and Frank is ushering Jean into your room with a wild expression.

“Bill is already out there, both of you stay in here, please. I’m going to broadcast the code for Tess and Joel, in case things go bad.” And then he’s gone too, closing the door securely behind him.

Jean is breathing deeply, her chest rising rapidly, her hands shaking and you push out of the bed to usher her down on the end of the bed.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay, I promise you, I’ve got you,” You sit beside her and hold her tightly, the trembles of her body jerking her. The harsh rain, the rumbling thunder, the blinding strikes of lightning and the gunfire popping off outside the house triggering her. Her hands are tight over her middle, wrapped around the bump there that’s a little larger than your own.

Just at the front door slams open downstairs, but you couldn’t tell how much time has passed, the air thick with tension and bated breath while you strain your ears for any sign of the trouble getting worse.

Frank is shouting for Bill to heed, to listen and calm as best he can- the older man reaches for him with blood soaked hands and demands his attention in a moment of intense clarity. You rush down the stairs as you hear both of them stumble around on the ground floor. Bill is clutching his middle, a gunshot wound bleed profusely in his gut.

Frank sets him on the dining room table, hands hovering as his mind races. You step close and take a look before grabbing supplies stashed in the drawers up against the wall. You both work to get the bullet out, thankful that it’s whole and not shattered. He grunts at the sting of alcohol poured over it, the panted words of ‘go to Joel’ the last he utters before he goes limp.

As he loses consciousness, all you and Frank can do is stare down at him, emotions running feverishly high as the rain continues to downpour and thunder rumbles lowly in the heavy clouds outside.

Jean is crossing into the dining room to see you and Frank hovering over a stitched up Bill sprawled out on the table, blood splattering you both. Her expression is strained, one of her hands on her middle while the other holds tight to the door jamb. The steady drip of something sounds as she stands there breathing heavily and your eyes narrow as you look over her from the top of her head to the tips of her feet.

Her legs are shiny with something, her socks soaked as she struggles to stand there.

“Cane, I-I I think my wa-water broke!” Her voice cracks as a sob, panic contorting her features into something terrified, her cheeks stained with tears and a little blood- the same that you notice a moment too late on her fingers as well as swirling with the shine on her legs. She’s unable to get any more words out as her chest heaves with a deep breath and her knees buckle. You’re barely across the space in time, ignoring the subtle tension in your own middle as you do so and catch her upper half before it slams into the hardwood. You grunt as you take on her dead weight, slumping down rather clumsily as Frank takes stock of what supplies are already out, mind working out what else might be needed.

The tension, the stimulation, all of it- it’s too much for Frank’s nervous system to handle and just as he’s reaching for the bottle of whiskey to take a deep pull from it, his body begins to jerk. He falls to the floor with a loud thud that vibrates across to where you’re kneeling beside Jean as she writhes and wails. There’s so much blood, splattered and spread over Bill’s frame. Dripping from between Jean’s legs and trailing down them in rivulets. Sprouting from the gash that’s splitting in Frank’s forehead, the edge of a chair cutting into him as he collapsed. Your entire body shakes as you grasp at your middle, pain striking as you feel your very spine contract and compress, the weight of the being inside dropping lower than you’ve ever experienced it.

“No, no, no,” You chant as you see the way Jean’s gone slack, passed out from pain or panic or both and you feel your legs buckle the second you try to stand. So you crawl, you move on trembling limbs as best you can toward the radio that’s been set up in the living room for situations exactly like this. So you or Jean or a worsening Frank didn’t have to descend into the lowest floor of the house to call for help.

Frank never made sent the signal, the sound of Bill shot pulling all of his attention.

The radio crackles to life, static loud over the line as it tries to connect and when it clicks you’re voice broadcasts into a overstuffed room back in the Boston zone. Startling the person manning the radio set up there out of the blank stupor one takes on doing a task as mindless as switching dials to check different channels for communication you know isn’t going to come through. Not when it’s been ages since any have.

“Silas, Silas do you copy?” Despite the trembling of your entire body, the expanding and snapping pain in your middle, your voice is even. It’s not overly commanding but the serious tone prevails strongly over the line. “Silas?”

Static is the only thing you hear in return, no voices travel back to you across the space, rising your simmering panic. You jam your hand to disconnect the call, instead typing into the computer settings and clicking through the tracks listed there. Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel seems to be the best bet, to convey the way literally everything is crumbling apart in a matter of seconds. Even if the innuendoes are a little too on the nose for a household headed by the couple that it is. A mirthless laugh bubbles up as you jab your finger to broadcast it over the line, hoping that the radio nestled in Joel and Tess’s apartment springs to life in that exact moment.

Laughter wracks your body as vertigo and mania set in, it’s fuckin’ hilarious.

It’s one cruel, cosmic joke that all three people in the house are injured and unconscious in that moment. Any surviving attacks sure to circle back once they gain their bearings, though you desperately hope they’ve all been blown to pieces by either a bullet aimed by Bill or the explosives he’s hidden around the fence line. At most it’ll take Joel and Tess several hours, the least would be four or five to successfully sneak out of the zone and traverse the fifteen or so miles to you.

And that’s only if they’re actually in the apartment to hear your distress call.

What if they were on a run, outside the zone already hunkered down for the night as a supply run turned into a night spent in the ruins of the surrounding city?

Joel is just stepping into the shower when the radio blares to life. It startles him in a way he would never admit, his skin prickling from the back of his neck all the way down to his calves. Vulnerable, exposed, injured still. His ribs are mending, but tender. Even as an entire season has come and gone, pushed to the extreme as he throws himself into hunting down every single person who had anything to do with his capture. Anyone who claims he’s killed you to take over your operations.

It's the only explanation, apparently. Violence raged against you, one too many orders that pushed him over the edge. And he loathes it. The way people think he’s capable of doing the one thing he never could, death for you would be preferable. Not the death of your own scribed to his hands, his conscious.

It registers at that moment: the song is from the eighties.

He doesn’t even shut the water off before he’s pushing from the stall and quickly shoving his limbs into clothing. The fabric sticks to his damp skin as he fastens his belt, holstering a handgun and hastily packs his bag. The door slams behind him as he flies down the hall and through the front door of the building into the storming darkness.

The sun is just coming up when Joel’s even, tempered steps softly sound on the steps that lead up to the front door. It's no longer raining but thunder rumbles in the distance, thick clouds lighting up as the sun begins to rise behind them. The small entry way lights brightens slightly when the door creaks open. Joel’s form moves carefully and stealthily through the small space, his head turning to take in the empty living room and then the dining room. But he stops in his steps, deathly still when his eyes land on the unconscious forms of Bill laid atop the table and Frank on the floor, gauze and medical instruments scattered around them.

They’re patched up and breathing shallowly. That’s a good sign, the only good sign as he takes in the rest of the room.

Joel raises his gun as his eyes follow the trail of dried blood that leads into the kitchen, the house is silent save for the ticking of the clock above the couch in the next room over. He swallows thickly, heart thudding painfully against the inside of his ribs. He continues further into the house, the kitchen door creaking open underneath thick fingers as he pushes through. And he swears his heart stops altogether.

Jean is laid out flat on the tile, blood pooled around her, covering her legs and still swollen middle. Her skin is pale, her eyes closed- her chest isn’t rising and falling with her breathing. The stamp of boots far bigger than your own litter the floor, two different sets. And then he hears it, movement.

He follows the faint sound, passing by the woman who he had sworn to protect. The direction of the boots prints as they disappear to the end of the house. The sound is low voice, your voice, pleading. It lights up his instincts in a wild way, he’s never heard you sound so desperate. And it’s obvious what has your voice dipping so when he opens the door to the sunroom at the back of the house to find you cradling a small figure tucked into a blanket. Two men, two bodies lay far too close to you. They aren’t breathing, the gun by your side looks jammed and a kitchen knife sticks out of one of their foreheads.

But the baby isn’t breathing either, even as your hands work against its little chest, back propped up on your pulled up knees. The blanket covers most of your form, but what blood you’re covered in is everyone else’s. Your hair is back in a tangle of tresses, blood matting them into thick chunks. It’s smeared on your cheeks, dried tears breaking up the stains. Your hands too, are stained, even as you work harder than he’s seen you work on anything.

Your own breath is pitched high, almost gasping even as you lean down and press your mouth to the open one of baby. The chest rises as you do so, but as you move away it expels unnaturally. The baby isn’t breathing and nothing you do is going to help. He holsters his gun and kneels beside you, body going still as you turn wild eyes to him.

“J-Joel, he…he won’t…I can’t-!” Flashes of his own child struggling to breathe, the same quick staccato that you exhibit now should rattle him, but instead it steels him. His hands are steady as he gently reaches for the baby, wrapping the blanket carefully around the boy’s small body.

“It’s…it’s okay, darlin’,” He croaks, voice sticking in his throat at the exhaustion he can see so clearly in every little movement you make, every line of muscle in your body. The evidence of the ambush around the fence line, the mangled bodies that litter the growing grass, the burn of fire catching in spots, ash in others. The two men in the dining room, obviously harmed but tended to. You’re the only one conscious, the only one capable. But he’s here now.

He thinks he can help you through this, can help put the house back in order until the blanket lifts from your lower half to expose the swell of your own belly.

His mind goes blank, his entire body goes numb. Static filling his head even as the overlay of his argument with Tess, his argument with you over Jean’s situation sounds loud. Everything slots into place, all at once. The reason you were adamant about leaving, the way your touches lingered before you did, the sickness that lingered long after Tess’s…you kept this from him. But betrayal isn’t what he feels now, hope flutters in his chest, a small spark that lightens the darkness that fills him, has deepened since you settled here.

Not just for Jean and Frank, but for you and your baby. His baby.

There’s the shine of liquid puddled around you, soaking into the fabric of your sleep shorts and the hem of your oversized shirt. Your water’s broken, contractions the culprit behind your shallow breathing, not just your attempts at resuscitating the baby he’s holding in his arms.

“Joel, please, h-help me,” You whimper, hands moving to cradle your middle, bending double as you stretch your legs out straight. A contraction convulses your body and you cry out an ugly, guttural sound that snaps him back into motion. He sets the carefully wrapped blanket atop the whicker chair to his right and hurries to your side. Hands cradling your head as he pulls you to him, lips pressing firmly to your temple as your shoulders begin to shake.

“I didn’t know. Cane, I-“ His hands tremble now, with the realization that you ran from him. Because you were afraid of him, of what he would tell you to do in the heat of the moment. But that spark of hope catches, gets the oxygen it needs as he breaths in deep, stoking it to a greater volume. You’re stronger than him and the realization that you would turn from him even the wake of creating a life together in order to protect and defend instills that notion. It gives him some strength too, to know how willing you are to do what you need to, for yourself, no matter what anyone else thought. Pride swells, he knows you’re strong, he knows you can do this. He just needs support you, he needs to be the one to give you the room to be strong, even if it might feel like weakness in this moment.

“I hid it from you,” Your voice is raspy from the force of your grunts and groans, breaking out of your chest and into the air as you scrabble in his hold to tear your soaked shorts off. “You didn’t want it, you wouldn’t h-have wanted me.”

Your words knock into his chest like snapping canines, ripping and tearing up sinew and skin. He lets the pain and hurt fuel him, coalescing with the hope that’s flaming bright right there inside him.

“You’re mine, you hear me. Both of you.” His voice is clear, solid. Promising as he moves to kneel between your propped up legs. His hands are shaking, but he presses a kiss to each kneecap before he grips them and glances down. He swallows down any fear of repetition, his jaw twitching as he focuses on your glassy eyes. He can see fear clearly in every line of your face and it fuels him to be better, to do better. To protect, to prevent. You need him, as much as he needs you. Two snarling dogs fending for themselves, bonded and bred anew.

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