readingiskeepingmegoing

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

How much longer can they restrain themselves from giving in to temptation?

Chapter Four: The Boutique

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

Pretty woman, I couldn't help but see, Pretty woman, that you look lovely as can be, are you lonely just like me?

You're halfway through your first coffee when he sets the card down on the marble counter.

Black. Sleek. Heavy in a way that screams limitless.

“Go shopping,” Harry says without looking up from his phone. “Use this.”

You glance at the Amex and then at him, cautious. “For what?”

“Everything,” he replies simply. “You’ll need options. The charity gala Thursday, the dinner with Eli next week, and the Met board thing. Formal, cocktail, and...whatever rich people wear to pretend they care about art.”

He says it like it’s an errand. Like he’s asking you to pick up milk.

But it’s not.

You nod slowly, unsure how to even begin choosing clothes for that life. You weren’t raised around Met boards and curated hors d'oeuvres. You’ve borrowed heels, you’ve faked your way through designer tags ... but now?

Now it’s real.

Harry finally looks at you, sharp but not unkind. “Take Luca. And if anyone gives you trouble-” he nods toward the card, “they won’t.”

You force a smile. “Right. Trouble. Of course not.”

*****

It’s only ten minutes into your first boutique when you feel it.

The shift.

You’ve worn expensive before, dressed up for older men, played the part of a girlfriend or muse or whatever story the night required. But this? This is different.

You’re alone. Not on a man’s arm. No whispered introductions, no hovering assistant murmuring “She’s with Mr So-and-So.”

Just you in a boutique off Fifth Avenue, with a card that means nothing to the woman eyeing your boots.

“Can I help you?” the sales assistant asks, voice clipped and eyebrows already making a decision about you.

You smile politely, lifting the hanger on a dark green silk gown. “Looking for something for a formal event.”

Her gaze flicks over you. “Price range?”

You offer the card subtly, casually, the way Harry does but she doesn’t even glance at it.

Instead, she murmurs something to the woman beside her, who tries to suppress a smirk.

They’ve seen you before. Or someone like you.

The ones who come in clinging to wealthy men. The ones who don’t last long.

“I think we’re fully booked for private appointments today,” she says, somehow both apologetic and patronising. “You’re welcome to browse, of course.”

You nod tightly. “Thanks.”

You leave five minutes later without touching another hanger.

The second store is worse.

A tailor eyes your figure like it’s a liability. “These silhouettes don’t tend to flatter…” he says, gesturing vaguely.

You don’t ask flatter what.

You walk out.

The third store won’t even buzz you in.

By the fourth rejection, you’re standing on the curb, sunglasses on, coat pulled tight even though the sun’s out. Luca’s waiting by the car, watching silently, hands folded neatly in front of him like he sees this sort of thing all the time.

Maybe he does.

You grip your phone, staring at Harry’s name in your messages.

You shouldn’t text him.

You’re supposed to be polished, poised. An investment, not a liability. The last thing you want is to look like a girl who can’t buy a damn dress without him holding her hand. That wasn't you.

But you also have three black-tie events on your calendar and nothing to wear and all the money in the world doesn’t matter when you’re treated like a thief with a sugar daddy’s card.

Your thumbs move before your pride can stop them.

Hi. Tried a few places. No luck. Not exactly… being served. I don’t think they were impressed I came alone.

You hover. Then send it.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Where are you now?

Your heart kicks up.

Before you can type a reply, Luca’s phone rings. He murmurs something to Harry, then turns to you.

“Mr Castillo wants to meet you at the next stop. He said to take you somewhere that actually deserves your time.”

You stare at the driver. Then down at your phone.

Harry’s text comes through:

Wait for me. I’ll fix it.

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not because he’s coming to save you but because you’re starting to realize he never saw you as the problem. The world did.

*****

The car pulls to a discreet stop outside a sandstone townhouse that doesn’t have a name, just one black awning and a small gold plaque too subtle to photograph.

You’re still turning that detail over when the passenger door opens and Harry steps in.

No jacket. Crisp white shirt rolled at the forearms. The same tie you helped him knot that morning. Still looks like he owns every room he enters.

He doesn’t greet you right away. Just looks at you. Face unreadable.

You shift in the seat, smoothing your coat across your thighs. “That was quick.”

“You didn’t call,” he says simply.

You shrug. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“That’s not your job. Bothering me.” He nods at the boutique outside. “That is.”

A small smile lifts the corner of your mouth, despite yourself.

He gets out of the car, opening the door for you. It felt different with him here. Lighter, somehow. Or heavier in all the right ways. Like you can breathe again and it hurts a little.

You’re on your feet before you know it, your arms brushing as he steps beside you.

“You don’t have to....”

“I want to,” he says quietly, cutting you off. “And frankly, I’m a little insulted you didn’t use the card properly.”

You blink at him. “I tried.”

“You texted.”

“That was me being restrained.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Next time, tell them who sent you.”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

That earns you a glance. Sharp. But not unkind.

“No,” he says. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause. He watches you for a moment longer than necessary. Then:

“Didn’t like the idea of you being treated like a stranger in my city.”

You swallow, heart thudding. Your city.

Then his voice drops, casual but deliberate. “They’ll be better here.”

Inside, everything is glass, velvet, silence. Not a boutique, a salon. The kind of place where they don’t display price tags because everyone here already knows.

A man in all black greets you both by name, which throws you because you never gave yours.

“Miss,” he says, bowing his head slightly. “Mr Castillo requested we close the space for your visit. Champagne? Coffee?”

Harry lifts a brow at you like your call.

You murmur, “Champagne.”

Harry smiles, pleased and gestures for the man to begin.

“Let her see everything,” he says. “And I mean everything.”

*****

They bring out everything.

Runway gowns still tagged and pinned. A tailor appears like magic. So do heels in your size, hair clips, jewels in soft velvet trays.

Harry sits on the edge of the leather sofa, jacket discarded, one arm draped casually over the back while you slip behind the screen.

You change. Slowly. Carefully. The first dress is a miss, too stiff, too shiny. The second… too predictable.

But the third…

It’s silk. Not red, not black but something liquid in between. The kind of tone that shifts with the light. It clings and falls just right. High slit. Low back. Bare shoulders. Like it was sewn onto your spine. It was you.

Poised. Dangerous. Cinematic.

When you step out, the room hushes.

Harry stands immediately.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch slightly by his side. His gaze skims from your throat down to your ankles and then, slowly, back up.

“That one,” he says.

“That one?” you echo, lifting a brow.

“You already knew before you walked out here.”

You give him a faint smile. “Wanted to see your reaction.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze sharp. “You got it.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you now like he’s holding himself still with effort. Like if he blinked, he’d miss you. Or say too much.

You take a step closer.

“So what’s the damage?” you ask. “Or am I still pretending not to know you paid off someone to get this here in ten minutes?”

Harry’s smirk is slow. Dangerous.

“I pay people to know what I want before I ask.”

“And what do you want, Mr. Castillo?” You don’t say it like a tease. You say it like a challenge.

His eyes darken.

You don’t move.

The air between you is tight. Charged. A crackle of something that feels like it might finally tip.

But he doesn’t answer.

He just turns slightly toward the assistant and says, “We’ll take it."

Then, to you, without missing a beat:

“Lunch?”

You nod. But your heart’s thudding in your ears. Not because of the dress, or the attention. But because… for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if this is still an arrangement.

“Mr. Castillo, we do have other dresses for her to try, if you have the time,” the assistant offered politely, glancing between them.

Harry felt his throat tighten, an unexpected flutter stirring deep in his chest. Should he call it a day and spare himself this exquisite torment, or stay and watch as you transformed, slipping into gown after gown like a goddess in her element?

The thought was both thrilling and torturous.

Harry cleared his throat, forcing a steady tone. “Yes, please. Let’s see what else you have.”

His eyes never left her as you moved gracefully between the racks, each dress accentuating a different side of you - strong, vulnerable, untouchable.

He told himself to stay composed, but inside, every moment felt like a battle between control and desire.

“Show me everything,” he murmured, almost to himself.

*****

Harry sat behind you, legs crossed, phone in his hand but not really looking at it. His gaze flicked up every few seconds, locked on the way the gown draped against you curves.

“I can feel you staring,” you said lightly, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

His mouth curved. “Can you blame me?”

The stylist smiled politely, oblivious or pretending to be, as she stepped back to study the silhouette. “Mr. Castillo, would you like her to try the sheer one next? The Dior?”

He blinked, straightened. “Yes. Sure. Let’s see it.”

You rolled your eyes with a teasing smirk and disappeared behind the folding screen, the soft swoosh of fabric marking your exit.

Moments later, you stepped out. It wasn’t sheer, exactly. But the dress was gossamer, layered, delicate. Skin-toned mesh beneath embroidery, and a long slit up the side. You looked otherworldly. And a little dangerous.

Harry stood. Just stood.

You raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”

His throat moved. “That wasn’t the word I had in mind.”

You turned toward the mirror, pretending to admire the beadwork, but watching him instead. The way he tugged at his cufflink. The way his eyes moved like he was cataloging every inch of you.

The stylist re-entered and began adjusting the hem again, but Harry didn’t sit. He stayed standing, his hand drifting up to his mouth.

“You alright?” you asked under your breath, the ghost of a grin on her lips. He met your eyes in the mirror, his voice low.

“I need a moment.” you tried not to smile too wide.

*****

He shut the door softly behind him, but it may as well have slammed. The image of you burned behind his eyes, all long legs, bare skin under whisper-thin fabric, and that expression. Calm. Unbothered. As if you had no idea what you’d just done to him.

He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched tight.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You were supposed to just try on a dress. He was supposed to sit there, give an approving nod, maybe a smooth compliment if you looked good. Not feel his heartbeat thunder against his ribs like some schoolboy with a crush.

But then you walked out in that Dior - translucent, elegant, fucking dangerous and his brain had short-circuited. The way the light hit you, the teasing hint of nipple beneath that mesh, the outline of your hips… Christ.

And it wasn’t just your body, it was you. The way you carried herself, like you owned the room. Like you didn’t need his opinion at all, but knew you had it anyway.

He braced both palms on the cool marble of the hallway console table, bowing his head, trying to will himself back to neutral.

You’re being reckless.

This was just a contract. Just company. But it didn’t feel like just anything anymore.

He laughed under his breath, bitter and breathless. He’d told himself he’d be fine, that this arrangement was contained. But he hadn't factored in you showing up in Dior looking like that and smiling like you didn’t know you already had him by the throat.

He needed a minute. Maybe several.

And he sure as hell needed to stop imagining what it would feel like to take that dress off you.

He took a minute before walking back in to see you shift slightly, hands pressed to your hips, the weight of the silk gown feeling heavier now that the assistant who was helping you has stepped away to fetch something.

Harry notices the hesitation flicker across your face.

“Need a hand?” he offers, stepping closer. You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man who usually gets this close, not this fast. But the zipper is stubbornly out of reach, and the quiet space feels suddenly smaller with just the two of you.

You nod almost imperceptibly. He moves behind you carefully, one hand resting lightly on your waist for balance. His fingers find the zipper tab at the small of your back. The metal is cool beneath his touch. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to pull it down.

The fabric parts inch by inch, the softness of the silk sliding against your skin, leaving your back exposed to the warm air and to his presence.

You catch your breath but keep still, feeling the weight of his touch, the closeness between you. His other hand grazes lightly along your side, steadying you.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. The zipper finally reaches the bottom, and he lets the dress fall slightly, his hands sliding down your hips to release the fabric fully.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s something unspoken there, an electric charge that hums between you.

“You made that easier than I expected,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. He smirks softly.

“That’s because I wasn’t expecting it to be such a privilege.”

The assistant returns then, but neither of you move immediately. For a moment, the air hangs thick with something more than silk and silkiness.

*****

Later, you sit on a velvet stool sipping your second glass of champagne while she boxes your selections, not just the red gown, the dior and two others Harry insisted on, plus a pair of heels so tall you suspect they double as weapons.

You lean toward him. “I’ve never had someone... do that before.”

“Do what?”

"Show up. Normally, clients.. They either send instructions, have something picked out already, or don’t give a damn what I wear, as long as I fit the image."

He studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Sounds like you’ve dealt with a lot of men who treat you like an accessory.”

He shrugs, voice low but steady. “I’m not one of them.”

There’s a quiet weight behind the words like a promise or a challenge.

You roll your eyes to lighten the mood. “Might spoil me.”

“You’re supposed to be spoiled.”

He says it evenly, like it’s a given. Like you deserve it - not because of what you can offer, not because of what’s written into any contract, but because he’s decided you’re worth showing up for.

You look at him then, really look and feel something tighten low in your chest.

You’re not supposed to fall for clients.

But something about him is different.

He doesn’t treat you like a transaction.

He treats you like something valuable.

Something his.

But then Harry’s phone rings.

He checks the screen, jaw ticking. “I need to take this. Five minutes.”

You nod, already used to this part. Business never sleeps. Especially not when you run empires.

“Use the time,” he says, already walking toward the door. “Pick out whatever else you need. For the events. Or not.”

He pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Get something you like.”

Then he’s gone.

You should feel dismissed. But you don’t. You feel… curious. You're rarely told to get something you like.

The assistant comes over cautiously, as if she’s not sure how far the tone’s shifted now that the man has left the room.

You smile at her. Not sweet. Not fake. Just… solid.

“I want to see the lingerie suite.”

She blinks. “Oh. Certainly. Right this way.”

You follow her down a short corridor and into a smaller, more intimate dressing space, lower lights, mirrors with soft-glow edges, a velvet armchair in the corner. The racks here are hung with silk and lace, all in pale creams and blacks and garnet tones that feel like something out of an old French film. Expensive. Timeless.

You skim your fingers across them.

This isn't for Harry. No sex remember? This is for you. Because you like the way a good piece fits, especially under a good dress. How it makes your shoulders square and your spine straighten. How a well-cut slip can feel more powerful than a ballgown.

You pick something simple, sheer, black, no unnecessary frills. Just enough to make your skin feel like it’s humming.

You’re halfway through adjusting the straps in front of the mirror when the door clicks.

You freeze.

And in the reflection, you see him - Harry, backlit in the doorway, mid-step, eyes dragging slowly up your figure.

He wasn’t supposed to be here yet.

But he is.

And he doesn’t move.

You don’t cover yourself. Don’t flinch. You just hold his gaze in the mirror and let the moment hang.

His throat works once.

“I thought you were....” he stops, the words catching on something.

“I was,” you say lightly. “But then I saw this and thought... why not?” Your tone is casual. Your expression isn’t. But God you were trying.

Neither is his.

You turn, slowly, to face him fully. No robe. No dressing gown. Just the thin black sheer lace clinging to your hips, your skin still flushed from the velvet of the slip sliding over it.

He exhales, not loudly. But enough for you to notice.

“I told you to pick something you liked,” he says, voice low.

“I did.”

Another beat.

“I’ll give you a minute to change,” he says after a moment, his voice tighter now. He starts to turn.

But then pauses. “Unless you want to wear it out.”

You arch a brow. “To lunch?”

He smiles faintly. “Not for lunch.”

You hold that silence between you like a flame.

Then you say, just loud enough to follow him as he finally steps out of the room, “It’s not in the contract, remember?”

He stops. Shoulders tense.

Then- “I remember.”

But he doesn’t look back this time.

And when you finally change and meet him outside, his gaze doesn’t drift below your collarbone. Not once.

But his jaw is set a little tighter.

And he doesn't take another call all afternoon.

*****

He hadn’t meant to walk in. Not like that.

He’d just stepped away to take a call, expecting you to still be in the dressing suite, maybe deciding between gowns or sulking a little over the earlier mess at the first boutique. He hadn’t expected to push open the private fitting room door and see you - back turned, spine arched slightly, slipping into something sheer and silk that clung like a secret.

Time didn’t stop but something in him did.

Not because he hadn’t seen a beautiful woman in lingerie before. He had, too many times, too casually. But this was different.

It wasn’t for him. That was the part that hit him hardest. You hadn’t chosen the pale ivory slip or the black lace for effect. It wasn’t a performance. You hadn’t called him in with a coy smile or a knowing look. You hadn’t even known he was watching.

And yet he was.

Rooted to the spot, watching the delicate line of your shoulder as you adjusted the strap, your hip tilting slightly under the curve of expensive silk. You looked powerful like that. Unaware and unapologetic. There was no performance, no artifice, just a woman reclaiming her own body in luxury she had earned the right to wear.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Because he knew women who wore lingerie like armor, like bait, like business. But you? You wore it like rebellion. And for a man like Harry - who could buy anything, control everything - that was intoxicating.

He cleared his throat before stepping back, before you saw the look on his face. Because it wasn’t in the contract. And this...this felt like crossing a line that neither of you had spoken aloud. Not yet.

But fuck, if the image didn’t brand itself behind his eyes like it would for the days that followed.

----------------------------------------------------------

You guys are amazing so I had to give you another one! I've been working on this one for the past few days so I hope you love it 🖤

Taglist: @katssecretdiary

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒔

Read "Idealists" on Archive of Our Own here.

Read "Idealists" on Tumblr here.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Idealists Masterlist

♫⋆｡Pairing: Harry Castillo x Younger! Original Female Character

♫⋆｡Tags: 18+ Mature Content, Age gap, slow burn, PinV, Oral sex, jealousy, love triangle (Harry wins), pet names, possessive behaviour, masturbation, soulmates, domestic fluff, love confessions, new york city romcom vibes!

♫⋆｡Summary:

Harry Castillo lived his whole life being valued for what he had: possessions, money, status, charm, looks.

After another quiet failure, fate caught up with him—in the form of a young composer he met five years ago.

To her, he wasn’t a sum of assets or an entry in a ledger. He was simply Harry. And that was a revelation more powerful than any fortune.

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

He's going to let her go, isn't he? Because he thinks she's done with him 😭

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER NINE: DISSONANCE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger! Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 6.8k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Yearning, Slow burn, Pining, Soulmates, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability, family drama, catherine's brother is mean

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry in the hospital post accident.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Idealists Masterlist

Harry Castillo had always suspected that luck, like most things, had a shelf life. Sooner or later, the curve would catch up. He just didn’t expect his luck to run out tonight.

Catherine had been quiet since the run-in with Lucy. He noticed it. She’d been asking questions. Not confrontational—just quiet questions, things that didn’t sound like insecurity unless you were listening closely. And Harry always listened closely to her.

He wasn’t keen on talking about Lucy. Especially not to his Catherine. He didn’t want her picturing Lucy, comparing herself. It felt insulting. Catherine was miles ahead—brighter, warmer, more alive. But when she’d said, “She’s pretty,” there was a hesitation, the kind of tone that made him pause. That made him think maybe she did compare. He laughed at her words because Catherine was the most perfect woman to ever walk the earth.

He wanted to fix it the only way he knew how—by giving. He had been looking through the auction paper earlier. He wanted to buy her something beautiful and rare. A violin from the early 19th century, handcrafted in France. It wasn’t even a cello—she liked cellos more—but he didn’t think that far. She could play any instrument anyway. It was instinct. A desperate fix disguised as generosity. Or maybe of habit.

He also thought that maybe it was Lucy, still echoing in the back of his mind. He had spent extravagantly on women before—gold, diamonds, designer things wrapped in tissue. And with Catherine, it had always been simpler. That had been fine at first.

But he had to admit—he wanted this one. He wanted to spoil Catherine, and he wanted Lucy to watch. He fought for it harder than he should have. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure why. Catherine had already said she didn’t want it. And it wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t smart. 

Some hedge fund idiot dropped out halfway. The last bidder was a politician’s son, the type who didn’t play but liked collecting prestige. The price doubled, then tripled. It became ridiculous.

And still, he kept bidding.

That was his flaw—his oldest one. The quiet compulsion to prove himself with wealth. Not to impress Catherine. But maybe to feel worthy of her.

It ended up going to the spoiled kid. Which was bullshit, in Harry’s opinion. The boy shouted the last price and the auction ended just like that. “Sold,” said the man, without giving him a chance to make an actual offer. But the anger didn’t last long. The applause was polite. The moment ended.

The violin was wheeled away, and with it, the last trace of the night going right. He looked at the other art pieces and instruments. None as great as the violin.

He was already in a bad mood as it was—irritated, half-drunk, embarrassed by the auction. His instincts were off tonight, and that unsettled him more than anything. He told himself he’d fix it. That he’d make it up to her. He’d take her home, apologize for being an idiot, and maybe they’d laugh about it tomorrow.

But she wasn’t in the hall.

He scanned the room once. Then again. No Catherine. No familiar gold of her dress, no curled hair, no soft, tired smile waiting near the edges. The auction crowd had thinned, guests filtering out into the sharp Manhattan night. Waiters cleared silver trays. Music played at a polite, meaningless volume. He tried not to overreact. Catherine often wandered. She liked walking around and talking to strangers, especially in rooms where there’s artists. He asked a server if they’d seen her. No luck. He walked the full perimeter. Checked the bar. The hallway. The bathroom lounge. The back terrace. Still no sign of her.

His irritation started to bleed into something worse. He pulled out his phone, texted her. No response. Called. No answer.

Then he thought of the car. Of course. She was probably in the backseat, curled up and half-asleep. She’d had wine, and she was always tired after long nights. That would be just like her—to slip away quietly. To not want to bother him while he was busy, something she thought was important. It was like that usually.

He made his way out. The night was sharp, wind slicing through his coat as soon as the door opened. He was halfway down the steps, heart beginning to race in quiet, contained increments, when the phone rang.

Unknown number.

He picked up without thinking.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Castillo?”

“Yes.”

“I’m one of the EMTs. We just responded to a pedestrian accident near 55th. The woman involved… she’s being taken to the hospital right now. We found a phone. You were the last call and emergency contact.”

Harry didn’t say anything. The words struck one by one, and he caught each of them like slow punches to the ribs.

His feet slowed. His breath did too.

Across the street, Mr. Williams turned, walking toward him in a hurry, as if he’d been looking for him—his expression uncharacteristically pale. The man never flinched. Not once in all the years Harry had known him. But now his jaw was tight, his hands tense. Mr Williams looked worried.

“What?” Harry said finally. “What hospital?”

The voice gave him the name. He barely heard it.

Everything around him dulled. The city, the lights, the echo of late music from inside. All of it muffled. Distant. Like his world had dropped underwater without warning.

⊹

Harry was rarely unprepared for anything.

He had a vault in his penthouse for emergencies—enough cash to last a blackout, a fire, a minor apocalypse. A security team on call. Two lawyers on retainer. His driver had backup fuel in the trunk. His building had triple-redundancy generators. He kept spare cash in multiple currencies and had a private banker on standby. His suits were tailored to exact millimeters and his elevator never malfunctioned because he paid for its quarterly maintenance himself.

But preparation didn’t mean a damn thing when someone called you to say Catherine had been hit by a car and was being wheeled into trauma.

Life didn’t care about good planning.

He arrived at the hospital before he could remember how. Mr. Williams had driven like something was chasing them. He told him she went out for a walk, and how he started getting worried when she didn’t come back. Williams had looked for him, even drove around the block, quietly hoping she went back inside. Harry didn’t know how to react to that story. He was too preoccupied with his mind, thinking what might’ve happened in the short time she was out of his sight. At one point Harry had shouted at a red light and hit the dashboard with the heel of his palm. Now his throat felt raw and his limbs hummed with a dangerous static. He walked straight in and demanded answers like they owed him blood.

He described Catherine to the desk nurse, barely managing to stay calm. “She was brought in. Car accident. I need to know if she’s here—what her condition is—if she’s—” He couldn’t say the last part.

The nurse told him to wait, told him someone would update him, told him she was being evaluated. That she was in surgery. That someone would come. That was all they ever said.

He turned away and paced the entire length of the waiting corridor, checked his phone, unlocked it and relocked it, again and again. Called Emma. Told her sorry for calling on her day off. That he needed her to do something. Check with the police what happened. Send someone to find out who called the ambulance. He needed information. He needed to do something, otherwise he would claw the floor open.

A nurse returned briefly, took down her name and his. He filled out a few forms as the nurse asked for any known medical conditions. Harry could only shake his head. “She’s healthy,” he said, hoping it mattered. “She’s twenty-eight. She eats well. She doesn’t smoke.”

The nurse nodded. “We’ll let the trauma team know. She’s stable enough to go into surgery. Internal bleeding from the abdomen. Possible liver laceration. We’ll know more in a few hours.”

He sat down, stood back up. Paced again. His coat was still on. He hadn’t taken it off since the event. His tie was still knotted, his shoes loud against the floor. The cold from outside had long since faded, replaced by a quiet thrum of fear in his blood.

There was a boy nearby. Teenaged, at most. Hoodie splattered with red, hands shaking. One of the trauma nurses had spoken to him earlier. Harry turned to look. The blood on the boy’s chest wasn’t his. It was too much. The boy looked up and caught Harry’s eyes, then lowered his head again.

Harry walked over. Asked him quietly if he’d seen it.

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I was near. On the sidewalk. She—she was picking something up. Some litter, I think. A drink cup. She bent down and then the car came.”

“What car?”

“Some guy ran a red. Hit another car, that one spun then hit her and me. But I didn’t really get it bad.”

“What happened to the driver that got hit? Do you know their name?”

“I don’t know. She died on the spot,” he said. “Police said the guy who started it was high. On something. He didn’t even slow down. Just… full speed. An officer gave me his number, here you can have it. ”

Harry took the piece of paper the boy gave him, his eyes fell to the blood on the boy’s hoodie again. “She didn’t move much after,” the boy added quietly. “I think she hit her head. She was breathing, though. Barely.”

Harry didn’t thank him. He just nodded and walked away before he lost it.

He pressed both palms to the cold wall outside the waiting room and tried to breathe. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t cry here. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Harry was born into privilege—everything he needed, he had. He worked hard, yes, but privilege dulled the edges of fear. It protected him from worst-case scenarios, from the chaos of true uncertainty. His father was old when he died, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. It was expected. Now, sitting outside a trauma ward with his tie still knotted and his hands shaking, he felt something he rarely had to face: helplessness. Cold, gnawing, unfamiliar. Like standing in the middle of a crisis with no exit, no checkbook, no strategy to outthink the grief pressing down on his chest.

He called Emma again. Asked her if she found anything. Told her to contact Catherine’s sister. Tell them what happened. Get them on the next flight if they weren’t already on it. Emma asked if she should come. He said tomorrow after she rests. He needed someone outside. Someone who could do what he couldn’t from here.

He sat. Waited. Got up again. Found the coffee machine. Didn’t drink it. Forgot where he placed it. Time stopped meaning anything.

Around dawn, Peter arrived. He looked disheveled—his coat thrown over his shirt like he hadn’t buttoned it right, hair still pressed from sleep. He said he heard from Emma, and held up a paper bag with coffee and something wrapped in foil. They didn’t say much. Harry hadn’t eaten in hours but forced himself to chew through a half-soggy sandwich Peter handed him. He accepted the drink, nodded in thanks, and they sat there, silent. The hallway buzzed faintly with movement—nurses rolling carts, someone coughing behind the next curtain.

Peter tried to distract him with updates about work, said something about Charlotte texting her prayers. But it was hard to listen.

Somewhere between the chewing, the silence, and the background noise of shoes squeaking and monitors beeping, he saw the teenager from the crash. The boy was walking out now, wrapped in a spare coat, flanked by friends. Harry caught a flash of red on the hem of his jeans—Catherine’s blood, dried and staining the fabric like rust. The nausea hit him fast. He doubled over, nearly dropping the drink, breath catching in his throat. He didn’t throw up. He cried instead. Hunched forward, shoulders shaking with quiet, stifled sobs he would never allow in daylight. Peter said nothing, just placed a hand on his back and pulled him in like they were kids again. Harry let him.

About an hour later, a nurse came up to them—calm, like the worst had passed. Surgery would be over soon, she said. They were going to monitor her in the ICU for a while, and someone should get clothes, toiletries, anything that’s necessary for a hospital stay. Peter stood immediately, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Charlotte and I’ll be here first thing in the morning.” He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder before he left. “She’ll be fine, Harry. Text me if anything changes.”

Eventually, a trauma surgeon came out, his scrubs stained faintly pink.

“She’s in recovery,” the doctor said. “We stopped the bleeding. It was a laceration to the right lobe of the liver. Clean but deep. We sutured it internally, closed the abdomen. Her vitals are stable.”

Harry nodded once.

“She has broken ribs. Also a fracture on her hips. That’ll need time. And a TBI. She hit her head. The CT showed no swelling in the brain, but we’re keeping her unconscious for now. Light sedation.”

“She’s in a coma?” Harry asked.

The doctor hesitated. “Not exactly. We’re giving her time to rest. Medically induced, precautionary. Either way, she’s not in pain. We’ll monitor for signs of response in the next twenty-four hours.”

“And after that?”

“If she’s well, she’ll wake up,” the doctor said, “eventually. Then it’s recovery. Rehab. Physical therapy. She’s lucky. She’ll survive.”

After fully understanding the extent of her injuries—after the surgeon explained every bone, every stitch, every hour of surgery and sedation—Harry sat alone with the hospital phone in his hand for nearly fifteen minutes. He stared at the screen, her mother’s number already pulled up from the contact list where it had sat unused for months. He had saved it back then, but never thought he’d need to call for something like this.

Emma had already contacted Jane hours before, enough to soften the first wave of panic.When he called, the family was already gathered at their home. All except Chester, who lived out of state. They were waiting for updates, clinging to each other, trying to piece together the bits they’d been given. Harry’s voice carried the rest.

He told them what happened. The accident, the emergency surgery, the fractures, the blood loss, the sedation plan. He relayed every word the doctors gave him like scripture. Jane kept asking questions, her father too, and their voices overlapped in urgency. But it was her mother who cut through the noise—stern and frightened, her voice higher than he’d ever heard Catherine speak.

He didn’t try to calm them. He didn’t pretend to have control. The truth weighed too heavily on him. He tried to speak steadily, to reassure, but his voice betrayed him: breathless, raw, splintered around the edges. It was a devastation that matched theirs—unspoken, but shared. But he told them the one thing he’d been telling himself: That everything was being handled. That Catherine wasn’t alone, not even for a second.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said quietly, when they had nothing left to ask. “I’ll take care of everything.”

⊹

The first time Harry walked into her hospital room, he stopped in the doorway. His hand still gripped the doorframe like he wasn’t sure if the world inside was one he could survive.

Catherine was there, in the center of the whitewashed room, wrapped in pale sheets and wired up like something out of a war novel. She was barely visible under the oxygen tubes and IV lines, her usually animated face emptied of color, her lips dry, a small bruise shadowing her temple. Her ribs were bandaged—he knew because they had to cut her dress off. He had it saved in a bag somewhere, though he wasn’t sure why. A piece of golden silk, ruined and bloodied. He stared at it once, then couldn’t bear to open it again.

The whirring machines beeped steadily, with a precision that made him sick. He had lived his whole life chasing control, certainty, outcomes. But now, he would’ve given anything to hear her cough or shift or say his name. Anything but this stillness. He could barely recognize her in it. Catherine, his Catherine, who filled every space she occupied. Who couldn’t even walk past a musician without giving money or an offer to record. Now silent, as if the city had stopped humming in her absence.

He moved slowly, as if too much weight on the ground might disturb her. He pulled the chair beside her, not even daring to sit yet. His eyes swept the blanket, the wires—there was no clear place to touch her. Her hands, maybe. Her hands weren’t broken. He took one gently in both of his, lips pressed against her knuckles, and whispered the only thing that made it past his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Over and over again. The apology formed a rhythm. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice broke, but he didn’t let go.

He didn’t remember crying, only that he looked down and found her hand wet, and only then noticed the tears falling freely down his face. He tried to breathe through them. This was not a time for falling apart. But watching her like this, pale and impossibly still, broke something in him. He had never known a love like this. Never felt so powerless. Never hated himself more.

He sat there for hours, holding her hand. At one point, he rested his forehead against her arm, wishing she could feel it, could know he was there. He told her about everything she missed. How it was still freezing outside. How Mr. Williams felt guilty to the point Harry had to calm him down and tell him to go home. That he had her favorite album queued up on his phone, just in case she woke up. He wanted to say more but choked on the words. His body, trained for boardrooms and negotiation rooms, had no vocabulary for this kind of pain.

In the hours that followed, people arrived. First Peter and Charlotte, with clothes and food. Then word got around— he didn’t know how— and some of her friends arrived. First came Sam. She stayed for a few hours then helped Harry by going on errands, like going to Catherine’s apartment and picking up essentials. Then the people from her orchestra, a few colleagues he vaguely recognized from photos on her studio wall. Then more. The nurses joked that it looked like a parade. Harry didn’t laugh. He couldn’t feel anything but remorse.

Emma came in the afternoon with a paper bag full of magazines and takeout. She arrived just as Catherine’s manager was leaving, and they had an impromptu meeting by the nurse’s desk while Harry waited in the room. He asked Emma to take charge and help with the studio. The contracts. Whatever she could handle.

Sam stayed longer than anyone aside from Harry, letting him rest while she watched her like a hawk.

But her condition didn’t improve like he hoped. Her doctors explained something hadn’t gone down as quickly as they liked. One of her ribs, fractured clean through, was causing shallow breathing—she winced once during a checkup, and they immediately adjusted her medication. Her body needed rest, they said. She’d been unconscious for a while.

Brandon Dahl showed up too, thankfully when everyone else left. No warning, just a knock at the nurses’ station and a long, awkward wait by the glass. He had driven hours, he said—canceled a show, rerouted the tour van, told his manager not to reschedule. He looked wrecked. Pale, clothes wrinkled from whatever motel he’d slept in. Hair uncombed, fingernails bitten down. Harry didn’t want to see him. He had no intention of making space for anyone else’s grief, especially not Catherine’s ex. But there was something in Brandon’s voice that made him pause. He was pleading, and misery recognized its own shape.

So Harry let him in, but he made a point that it was only for ten minutes. Brandon didn’t look particularly happy at that.

He didn’t speak. He stood in the corner while Brandon crossed the room, slower than he probably meant to. When he saw her, he blinked like he couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t accept it. Catherine was still under sedation. Her cheekbones were sharper now, her skin colored slightly from the bruises. She looked smaller. Brandon crumbled into the chair like the wind had been knocked out of him.

He didn’t cry. Not exactly. But his body deflated. Shoulders hunched, face slack. He stared at her like he was trying to memorize what hurt. Harry tried not to listen. Frankly, he hated Brandon’s voice and if it were up to him, he would never see the man again. But Harry also recognized the hurt, the pain, and the regret. The man said I love you a hundred times over, which should anger Harry, but it didn’t. Harry was too preoccupied with his own sadness.

“She’s my muse,” Brandon said to him eventually, voice rough from hours on the road and too much silence. He looked at Harry with hatred, like it wasn’t fair, as if he should be the one hit by the car. He didn’t disagree. “And I love her. So much. So much. We should’ve been together. You know she breaks it off for something so small—”

“It wasn’t small for her. You know that,” Harry said, still not looking at him.

Brandon swallowed. “I’m still in love with her,” he said. His tone bitter.

“That didn’t matter. She was hurt.”

The room fell still again. Machines hummed. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint smell of Catherine’s hand lotion, which Harry applied in the morning, just in case she could smell it too.

“You speak exactly like her,” Brandon muttered. “It disgusts me.”

That almost made Harry smile. Almost.

Brandon leaned back, his knee jittering. “She always expected too much. From everything. From me. I was in my twenties. What did I know? She wanted all of it. Not just attention. Not just loyalty. Like she had this image in her head and if you didn’t fit it, you weren’t the real deal.”

“She never expected too much,” Harry said.

Brandon let out a dry exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “You think you’re better than me?”

“No.” Harry’s voice was even. “I think she deserved better than both of us.”

That hung in the air for a moment. Brandon stared at her again, his jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.

“You should leave,” said Harry. “Her family might arrive soon.”

Then he stood.

“I’ll come back another day,” he said.

“Don’t,” Harry replied.

There was no malice in his tone. No anger.

Brandon hesitated, waiting for something, but Harry gave him nothing.

That night, when her hand twitched and her eyelid moved the faintest fraction, Harry jolted upright with such force he nearly tipped the chair. His heart surged—brief, desperate hope—only to be met with stillness again. He leaned closer, checking the monitors, her pulse, her breathing. Nothing had changed, not meaningfully. But he stayed that way for a while, forehead almost touching hers. Her parents were due in the morning, maybe even sooner. He hadn’t told them he was sleeping beside her every night, or that he hadn’t been home in two days. Part of him wished the world could freeze a little longer, just long enough for her to wake with only him there.

In the quiet, he started talking to her—low and one-sided, like he was confessing something rather than expecting a response. He told her his favorite memory, the first time they met. That rainy day in Cold Spring when she looked too young to be walking alone, her hair slicked to her cheeks, no umbrella, just a cello case on her back, a green oversized coat, and a smile like she’d been waiting for him. She had listened to him—really listened—not the way people do when they’re looking for something to gain, but like she was interested in the shape of his thoughts. She had given him her coat, and years later, he still kept it in his closet, buried next to his favorite jackets. Sometimes he wore it when he was cold, or when he was lonely. It had stopped smelling like her, but the sleeves still felt familiar. That coat was his proof that she’d been real once. His Catherine. And when he saw her again, on Emma’s laptop of all places, it had been like watching a ghost walk into focus. She had changed, sure—older, sharper, far more composed—but she still looked like the girl who was tattooed in his memory.

He told her about their third date. How ridiculous the night had been—overcrowded, too bright, too loud. But she had insisted on seeing the giant piano at the toy store, so they went, and she stepped on the keys barefoot in her black dress while a security guard half-laughed, half-scolded her. They’d eaten overpriced pretzels, wandered into one of those twenty-four-hour diners at midnight, and she made him try her milkshake. He remembered thinking she was too young for him. Then thinking he didn’t care. Because she’d told him she liked him and had laughed with her whole body and curled into him like she belonged there. That was the night he realized he didn’t just like her. He needed her in his life, whether or not it made sense on paper. He hadn’t told her that, of course. He was still pretending to be composed.

Then came the night of the small party in the West Village, someone’s loft, jazz playing from a record player, champagne in mismatched glasses. He hadn’t wanted to go, but she convinced him. They ended up slow dancing in the middle of the room, surrounded by strangers. She had worn that long velvet dress, hair swept back. Her eyes were shining—no makeup, just wine and excitement. He remembered touching the small of her back and thinking how terrifying it was to feel that much for someone. Not passion, not lust—although he felt all of those too— but something heavier, quieter, more rooted. He hadn’t kissed her that night, not until they were home, but he knew then.

He told her all of that. Everything. His voice low, the air in the room too still. He told her about the night they cooked pasta from scratch in his penthouse—how she made a mess of the kitchen, flour everywhere, and how he didn’t care. She had worn his shirt that night, her bangs tucked behind her ear, her bare feet tapping on the floor as she tried to remember a song. He had never been that soft with anyone, never felt that domestic. She had rinsed her hands and kissed him behind the ear and said nothing. Just pressed her face to his neck like it was a known place. He held her now like he did then. Tenderly. Carefully. As if she could break again if he moved too fast. His thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. Still warm. Still there. And all he could do was wait.

He hated waiting.

⊹

After a few delayed flights—New York in the winter was a logistical nightmare—they finally arrived. Her mother, father, and Jane. Too many travelers, too little runway space, and too much wind. JFK had been a mess, so had LaGuardia. The snow had been light, but too early in the year, enough to snarl traffic and reroute planes. Chester’s flight was still stuck somewhere in Illinois. First weather, then a mechanical issue. He wouldn’t be in until the following day, if he was lucky. Harry had checked for updates every hour, even though it wasn’t his place.

He had heard enough about them to paint a picture before they ever walked through the hospital’s front doors. Elaine Ainsworth: the charming woman who liked beauty pageants and ambitions for all her children. Jane: the protective older sister, sharp-edged but deeply loyal. Mr. Ainsworth—Edward—who had a tendency to monologue and assume others were listening when they weren’t. Their voices had floated in and out of Catherine’s speakerphone calls for months, so Harry had grown used to the cadence of their lives. But nothing about them prepared him for the sight of them now.

They arrived pale, with suitcases still half-zipped and eyes too wide. Elaine looked older than she should’ve. Harry had never met her before, but even he knew she was usually composed. She walked into the hospital room like she had been holding her breath the whole flight, then exhaled in a sob as soon as she saw her daughter. Without hesitation, she sank into the chair beside the bed—Harry’s chair—and cried. Loud, unfiltered grief. She held Catherine’s hand like she could reverse time by sheer force.

“My daughter,” she said over and over. She called her stubborn, said she got that from her father. She apologized for not letting her pick music sooner. “I didn’t know it would make you so happy.” Harry stood by the wall, still and tight. Each word carved something into him. He looked away when Elaine’s voice broke again.

Her father was quieter. When he first walked in, he said thank you to Harry. Just a quiet pat on the back and a few words about how he’d heard Harry had been there every day. Then he cursed the city, mumbled something about this being why he didn’t want her moving here. “Too many damn people, too much traffic, always in a rush. I told her it’d catch up to her.” He left after that, only to return twenty minutes later, eyes red. Then left again. Then came back again. Each time, he lingered longer, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe the machines keeping her stable were real.

Jane was the calmest of the three, but it was a brittle calm. She hadn’t stopped crying, not really. Her eyes were puffy, but she was careful, composed. She stepped toward Harry and hugged him. It surprised him—she had never met him before. “I’m sorry we’re meeting like this,” she said, voice low and rough. “I always meant to visit. Something always came up. That’s not an excuse. It just… happened.” Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She didn’t go near the bed, not at first. Just looked from a distance, arms crossed, biting her lip.

The room felt overfilled, like grief had changed its volume, taking up space. Harry stayed quiet, shifted to the edge. He gave them the room. He didn't know what else to do. Her mother held her hand. Her father sat, then stood. Jane paced. And Harry watched—watched the woman he loved sleep beneath white sheets and wires, unable to speak for herself. Watched the people who had known her longer try to make up for things they never said. And he stood at the perimeter, feeling both included and not. Helpless. Like a placeholder in someone else’s tragedy.

Somewhere along the way, he’d fallen asleep in that overcrowded room. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the stillness of her breathing, or the sheer weight of not having to answer another question. He didn’t remember lying down, just waking to the sound of a voice—her voice. Muffled. Slurred.

At first, he thought he was dreaming. Catherine mumbled something in her sleep. Incoherent. Just fragments, consonants without shape. He jerked upright. His whole body tensed, breath sharp. She moved. Her head turned slightly. Her eyes blinked open and rolled half-shut again. Then she moaned, as if in pain. He was already pressing the call button, already shouting down the hall, but by the time the nurse arrived, she was still again—peaceful, eyes closed, barely a crease in her brow. He looked back at her like he had imagined it. The nurse said it was normal. Her sedation was light. She’d drift in and out. Still, he looked wrecked.

Elaine motioned for him to sit. Back in his usual chair. Back at her side. She didn’t say anything, just gave a quiet nod and slid over. Maybe it was mercy, or maybe she could see that the not knowing had been killing him more than anything else. He sat.

Chester arrived the next morning.

He walked into the room while the doctor was mid-sentence. Catherine was half-awake again, eyes fluttering, head tilting slowly at whatever was being said to her. Chester paused by the doorway. Tall, square-shouldered, looking like he hadn’t slept. He scanned the room quickly. His eyes landed on Harry, slumped at the edge of the bed, shirt creased, hair in disarray. His face gave nothing away, but the pause said enough.

“She’s stable,” the doctor had said. “No signs of further complication. She’s still groggy, but she’s responsive. We’ll need a few more days to monitor her before we consider a discharge. Then she’ll need a full course of physical therapy. Her left hip will need supervised rehabilitation. It could be done here, but it depends on what your family prefers. There are excellent programs out of state as well—slightly less pressure, better recovery environments.”

And just like that, the room turned serious again. Jane shifted in her seat. Elaine rubbed her temples. The doctor left. Mr. Ainsworth muttered something about options, but it was Chester who took control of the conversation.

“I know a place back home for physical therapy. In California. Quiet. Private. Excellent staff. I can send the info. We’d be closer, we can all take turns watching her,” said Chester. “There’s space at my old house too, if we need it. But home is fine. About a 30 minute drive. She can convalesce without the noise here.”

Harry looked up.

He said, carefully, “Catherine doesn’t like being away from the city too long.”

“She can’t walk properly,” Chester replied. “What is she going to do?”

Harry swallowed hard. “I know. I want her to get well quicker too. But she’ll want to decide.”

“She’s not in any state to make decisions,” Chester snapped.

Elaine interrupted before it turned into something worse. “It’s temporary. Just for a while. Until she’s fully mobile again.”

Harry didn’t argue after that. He didn’t know if this was best for her, or just what was best for their peace of mind. But he wasn’t her family. And in that moment, all he could do was nod.

When the decision was brought up—about moving Catherine to a recovery facility outside the city, closer to her childhood home—her mother looked directly at Harry. There was something kind in her eyes, a softened version of grief, and she spoke with care, even gratitude. “We’d like you to come too, if you can.”

But before he could answer—before he could even shape the beginnings of a nod—Chester stood.

“And who the fuck is he?” he said, loud, jarring, his voice slicing through the cold hospital air. “The guy that let her get hit? Where the fuck were you, by the way?” His voice cracked around the last word, and Harry realized how much of it was anger and how much was just fear.

“What were you doing that was so important? Were you in a fight and let her walk at night, drunk? Did you two have a little spat and you decided to sulk and let her go out by herself?”

Elaine was already standing, face twisted with tension, but Chester didn’t stop.

“She’s in her twenties. She’s a fucking kid. She’s too young for this,” Chester snapped. “For hospitals and trauma and all this shit. She should be writing music and dating some violinist, not being half-comatose because some old asshole didn’t notice she was gone.”

Harry didn’t respond. Not even a blink. His heart was a stone that thudded hard once, then dropped. Because a part of him—however small, however cruel—agreed. He was older. He did let her go out alone. He had chosen pride, blind and stupid with the kind of male instinct that never served anyone well. He had let her down. And Chester, for all his blunt fury, wasn’t wrong about that.

Harry didn’t remember sitting down, but he had. The chair felt stiff and cold beneath him. His hands had curled into fists, not from defensiveness but because Chester was right. Every word of it. 

Catherine was too good. Too good for this, for him. Too bright to be wasted on a man like him; insecure, prideful man who’s only good for his money.

Elaine snapped then—sharp and sudden—and ordered the entire family outside. There was a pause, the kind that made Harry feel like he was fifteen again, listening to adults argue about things they thought he couldn’t understand. He gave her a quiet nod, an unspoken thank-you, and watched them file out one by one. The door closed behind them, muffling their voices into a soft blur. He didn’t need to hear every word. The shape of it was clear. It would be better for her, they said. She would be surrounded by people who knew her best. She would heal faster in familiar air. No matter how much she loved the city, how many times she refused to come home, New York was chaos. New York was noise.

He was still listening—half-listening—when he heard a rustle from the bed. Something small. Movement.

He was on his feet before he even registered it, already beside her, already reaching. Her eyes didn’t open fully, but her mouth parted, and a small, broken sound came out.

He took her hand gently, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “I’m here,” he said, barely a whisper.

She moved her lips again—words trying to form, but not quite. He leaned in closer. “They want to move you,” he said. “To California. Back home. They think it’s better for recovery. Do you want to go?”

Another sound, just a breath this time. Her eyes flickered beneath her lashes, her fingers twitching against his palm.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

She shook her head. It was slow, but definite.

He breathed out, not relief, but something close to it.

He stayed beside her, speaking softly, the way people do when they’re trying to reach someone underwater. He told her what she’d missed. About Sam, who came every day and brought her favorite tea even though she couldn’t drink it yet. About her friend, who cancelled her trip to Brazil just to visit. About the string player from that one ensemble she liked—he came, too, and stayed longer than anyone expected. He recited the names of each one, slowly, as if it might anchor her back into the world. “Your studio’s taken care of,” he murmured. “Emma’s been helping, along with your manager. They talked for hours and seemed to handle everything. They said they’ll email you progress and you can open it when you're healthy. ”

He paused, then added, “The driver was arrested. The one who caused the crash. Some druggie, they said. No alcohol, just pills. The family of the woman who died is pursuing the case—I’ve got a lawyer keeping me updated, but it’s not something you’ll need to worry about. I’ll take care of it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, careful not to graze the bruise beneath her eye. “You survived,” he said, voice cracking. “God, you survived. I was so fucking stupid, Catherine—”

He stopped, exhaled, lowered his head against her hand.

“Whatever you want. I’ll give. Anything.”

And then, faintly, he felt her stir. She pulled her hand from his, slowly. He looked up just as her eyes fluttered half open.

“I wanna…” she said, barely audible.

She faltered. A pause.

“I wanna go home,” she whispered. And then, she cried. He saw the tears before he felt the weight of them.

Then she winced, and it made his heart break. Her eyes fluttered shut again, and she didn’t open them.

And maybe it was the hospital. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the part of him that believed Chester had a point—but Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He didn’t ask for more. He took the flinch of her hand as a form of rejection, an angry reaction.

He just nodded, but inside, Harry’s heart was breaking.

He would not have parted with her, but one word from her and he will do it. Just like he promised. Anything. And if what she wants is to go home, away from New York, away from him, then he will grant that wish. No matter how much it kills him.

A/N: Shorter chapter today. Next week has more than 11k words! Support an amateur writer by interacting with this fic!

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Oh my stars! That was smoking hot 🥵

Heartlines | Chapter Ten

pairing: harry castillo (materialists) x f!reader

chapter summary : The aftermath of Harry missing dinner has both of you wondering what can be done to fix what just happened.

chapter warnings: fluff, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), anxiety, SMUT (18+ MDNI), make-up sexual acts (?), m!self-masturbation, soft!harry, dom!harry, flirting, semi-public acts, angst, arguing, somewhat prejudiced behavior from a side character, switched POV's, if I missed anything, lmk!!

word count: 12.5k (today is my birthday, so this chapter is a gift from me to you 🤍)

a/n: just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !!

your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I hope you like this story. 🤍

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

Reader's POV

The Next Morning - 5:46 AM

You woke to the soft buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand.

The room was dim, bathed in early morning haze. Harry’s arm was wrapped around your waist, heavy and warm. His breath was steady at your shoulder, his body flush with yours. 

It seemed your bodies hadn’t gotten the message — curled into each other despite the quiet rift that had formed. And for a brief second, the stillness made it easy to pretend the last twelve hours hadn’t happened.

Then the vibration came again, this time more persistent.

You carefully reached for your phone and slipped out of his arms, heart thudding as you saw Sophia’s name on the screen and then the time.

This couldn't be good.

You answered quietly, already tiptoeing out of the bedroom toward the bathroom. “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry — I know it’s early,” she whispered back, likely still half-asleep herself. “I just wanted to let you know, Ricky is blowing up my phone saying that he heard from Leslie that Todd is showing up for a surprise audit in an hour. Also, we’ve got a situation with the Lexton Suite reservation. The guest's assistant says we confirmed an extra night, but it’s not in the system, and they’re threatening to leave a review that would make Yelp cry.”

Your stomach clenched and you sighed. “Shit. Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Take your time getting out the door, I know it's early...” she offered, her voice still gentle. 

You ended the call with a murmured thanks and stepped into the bathroom, quietly clicking the door shut behind you. The second the lock turned, your shoulders sagged. You felt the weight of everything that had happened. The silence wrapped around you like a second skin the longer you stood there.

Then that’s when you saw it — Harry’s watch.

Resting by the sink, exactly where he always left it at night. It was a quiet, familiar detail that filled your mornings. Something that usually made you smile.

But today, it cracked something in your chest.

You sank down slowly against the bathroom door, your back hitting the wood as you clutched your phone to your chest. Your eyes blurred with tears before you even realized they were falling. Then the sobs came. They were quiet but sharp, buried in your palm as your other hand covered your mouth to keep it in, to keep from making too much noise. The last thing you needed was Harry to hear and come in all pitiful and careful. 

It wasn’t just last night’s weight either. It was everything. It was the week of barely seeing each other after paradise in the Maldives. It was the missed plans, the long hours, the lingering fear that Rebecca’s cruel words were coming into fruition, your own insecurity whispering that this couldn’t last. The fear that someone like him would always drift back to a world more like his, not you.

And the worst part? You hated yourself for it. You hated that you let it get to you. That you were letting the fear sink its teeth in again.

You stayed there for a few minutes, just breathing through it. Letting yourself feel it, purge it, get it out of your system before the day demanded you pull it together again.

Eventually, you rose slowly, still shaky, and turned the shower on. The water ran hot as you stepped under the spray, hoping it might rinse away everything — the tears, the fears, the stupid ache of knowing things weren't where you wanted them to be.

When you finally stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Puffy eyes. Red nose. A brave face half-assembled.

You didn’t have time to fall apart. Not today. Not with Todd on his way and half your staff probably on edge already.

So you pushed it all down. Buried it deep and shut that part of yourself off.

You told yourself that you’d dress quickly and quietly. You’d move through the apartment like a ghost. Be careful not to wake Harry. But when you cracked the bathroom door and crept back into the bedroom, the sound of the shower cutting off must’ve roused him.

Because as you grabbed a skirt and blouse inside the closet, slipping both on quickly, making your way toward the dresser, you heard his voice call for you to come back to bed.

Harry’s POV

The first thing Harry registered was the sound of the shower cutting off, followed by the soft creak of the bathroom door and the faint rustle of drawers inside of the closet. He blinked awake slowly, eyes adjusting to the early morning light streaming through the curtains.

You tiptoed through the bedroom, grabbing things as you moved.

He sat up slightly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Come back to bed for a second.” He held out his hand to invite you back.  

You didn’t even glance at him, focused on getting out the door after the early call that woke you. “I can’t,” you said, slipping a small earring into place, looking at yourself in the mirror in the corner of the room. “Sophia called. Todd’s showing up early to do a full audit — today of all days,” you sighed, looking and sounding annoyed with the situation.

Harry let out a low groan, sitting up more to give you his full attention. “God, I’m sorry, querida. I thought he wasn’t due til the end of the month?”

You gave a faint, humorless hum in response and reached for your thigh-high stockings in the dresser, “Yeah, me too. Imagine how quickly I got out of bed…” You quickly slid them on, fastening them to a garter under your skirt, then smoothing down your skirt. 

As you crossed the room toward the door, he swung his legs out of bed, standing in only his sweatpants, watching you with growing unease. The air between was thick — not angry, but it felt wrong. Fragile in a way that made his gut twist more than just a few hours ago.

He followed you down the hall as you made your way toward the kitchen, tugging on a dark gray tshirt. “About last night…” he started, “I know I screwed up. I’m so sorry, mi vida. I really am.”

You kept your back to him, gathering your things from the counter: your phone, keys, and pouring coffee into a travel mug.

“I was thinking maybe I could come home early tonight,” he added gently. “Pick up dinner? Eat out on the balcony, we can make it romantic with some candles and music...” He suggested.

There was a pause. Just enough for him to hope.

But then you looked over your shoulder, your voice quiet and even. “It’s fine. We’re both busy — still are, it seems.” 

Harry stood still at the end of the hallway, watching you like he didn’t recognize the air between you. You were never this cold, this shut down — he didn’t quite know how to navigate this.

You sighed, mumbling something to yourself while you looked for something, then moved towards the entryway, grabbing your badge and putting it on your waistband before putting on your coat and heels, eyes focused, voice even again. “Plus, you’ve got that shareholder meeting this evening anyway.”

His voice cracked through it, low and strained as he said, “If it’s fine, then why can’t you look at me?”

You froze mid-motion. Your fingers tightened around the lapel of your coat before you slowly turned to face him — but still didn’t meet his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” you said, voice soft, frayed. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Don’t ask why you’re shutting me out? Don’t ask what I can do to fix this?” He asked, keeping his voice even but strained, taking a couple steps forward, attempting to get closer to you. 

You unconsciously stepped back, looking down at your purse as you picked it up, “You just—” You huffed out a breath then, “You don’t understand, Harry,” you snapped suddenly feeling pressure to get out the door but then navigate this conversation, your voice louder than you meant to. “You think saying sorry will fix it? Or coming home all gentle and sweet will make everything okay?” 

You exhaled through your nose, visibly upset as you tried to find the right words, “You just don’t get it.”

His mouth parted, stunned, but his eyes didn’t leave you. He took a step closer, careful not to push a boundary you were trying to put up. 

“I want to understand,” he said, desperation roughening his voice. “Tell me what I’m missing. What can I do?”

You looked up at him, your eyes glassy now, and for a second, he thought maybe you’d let it all pour out. But then your lip trembled as you whispered shakily, “I don’t—”

His brows were drawn, deep creases folding between them, shadowed by the dim glow of the early morning light coming in through the window. His mouth parted slightly, trembling on the edge of saying more, but every syllable already felt like a plea. His jaw clenched like he was fighting to keep it together — not out of anger, but desperation to fix what he broke.

His eyes, dark and glassy, were fixed on you — wide with unease, like he was trying to understand how things had gotten so far, and if there was still time to fix it.

“I don’t want to have to tell you, Harry…” You said, shrugging defeatedly. 

“Then what?” he took another step forward, voice cracking with desperation. “What can I do? I can’t apologize? I can’t try to make it right? What is there left for me to do? I can’t turn back time, cariño—”

“I don’t know, Harry!” you nearly shouted, your voice cracking now. “I don’t know what I need! I don’t know what I want, I just—” You turned away and sniffed, quickly wiping a couple of tears that had fallen down your cheeks. “I need to go. I can’t do this right now.”

He reached for you, not forceful, just desperate — hand brushing your arm as you turned toward the door again.

“Please don’t go like this,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Please. Let’s talk it through, let me make it up to you. We fix things, right? So let’s fix it.”

You shook your head, overwhelmed and spiraling, the pressure of the morning and last night pressing down so hard it hurt to breathe, “Harry, stop…”

That’s when your phone dinged.

Harry’s voice faltered as your phone lit up in your hand, “Baby, please…” 

Sophia 6:12 AM: I just arrived, and Todd's already trying to boss me around. Ugh! Men, right?

You swallowed, closing your eyes as the tension in your chest gave way to urgency.

“Shit,” you mumbled, looking at the text briefly.

He took a step closer, head tilting to try and find your eyes once more. “Just tell me this — will I see you tonight?”

You opened the front door, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag.

“I’m sure I’ll be home late with the audit,” you said softly, trying to hold the emotion in that was edging on spilling out. “You don’t have to wait up, I know you have an early morning tomorrow...”

He wanted to reach for you again. To pull you into him and make you stay until the wall between you cracked enough to let the truth back in. But all he could do was chase your presence with his eyes.

“Of course I’ll wait up,” he said softly, stepping forward to place a hand on the edge of the door, close to yours — chasing you quietly, helplessly.

You stopped just for a moment, like you might turn around, that maybe you changed your mind, and you'd stay.

You took a deep breath, then went to say something, but just as you opened your mouth, your phone started to ring — loud and harsh, echoing down the hallway. 

Incoming Call: Sophia

“Shit,” you muttered again. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this… I’ll just— I’ll see you later, okay?” Your voice had gone flat again. Now numb and guarded. And when you looked up at him, only for a second.

Harry saw it. 

Your eyes were red-rimmed and tired. The remnants of tears you hadn’t wanted him to see clouded your vision. 

He felt his gut sink further, and his chest ached as you lifted the phone to your ear and answered, already turning down the hallway, “Yeah, I’m on my way, Soph… no, leave that to me.” 

And just like that, you were gone down the elevator.

Harry stood frozen in the quiet that followed. There was something hollow in his expression. Like your silence was cutting him deeper than any screaming match could. Like the guilt was eating at him second by second.

When he finally turned around, the kitchen greeted him like an ugly guilt trip. It still held the remnants of what you’d prepared the night before. 

He saw how you got his favorite Thai takeout from the bag that was still on the counter. He saw how it remained in neat little boxes in the fridge. He saw the special dessert from that overpriced bakery he loved. It was tucked in beside a bottle of open wine on the island. 

He walked over slowly, picking up the container to see a small note stuck on the side in your handwriting: ‘I’ve missed you this week ❤️’

His chest ached at it all.

"God, I’m such an idiot." He said to himself.

Last night hadn’t just been about missing dinner — it was about you knowing he was missing you just as much as you were missing him.

It was about missing a moment you’d put so much thought and effort into. It was about how he’d let work and a few drinks pull him away without even noticing.

Reader’s POV – Midmorning

Since returning from the Maldives, your world had snapped right back into motion with barely a moment to breathe. 

Today was no exception. In fact, it was the icing on the god damn cake. Between everything that had just happened, this was exactly what you didn’t need. 

Todd’s surprise audit of internal operations had thrown the entire staff into overdrive unexpectedly this morning. Sophia was doing her best to help hold things down while you ran around to put out fires before he could see them. 

This week has been overwhelming, to say the least. Between the massive cosmetic surgery conference and celebrity clients checking in for Fashion Week, it felt like there weren't enough hours in the day.

Still, you’d tried to carve out one last sliver of your evening last night — putting in the extra effort, even though you were exhausted, even though you knew Harry had been buried under Clarkson’s thumb with the latest mega-client, you tried. You’d put in effort to spend just a few hours, uninterrupted, with the man you had been missing more than you could put into words. 

But then to have him ignore your texts all night? Then to come home past midnight? Tipsy? Pitifully apologetic?

And then this morning? 

God, this morning did not go how you wanted or needed it to go. 

You felt horrible that you snapped at him, gutted that you allowed yourself to react that way. You didn’t know why, but it hurt that he watched you walk out the door like he didn’t know how to stop you. You thought he was different, that this would all be different.

All you wanted him to do was to make you stop and look at him, to snap you out of this stupid fucking headspace — to make you late for stupid Todd because he would be too busy making it right somehow.

The ache in your chest had only grown tighter as the stress of your morning fueled it more than you’d like it to. 

You stepped into the back corridor near the service elevator, tablet in hand, making your way toward your office when you heard him down the hall — Todd fucking Rogers.

His voice carried like it always did — loud, smug, prissy, and sharp around the edges.

“I asked to show me the fresh towels,” he snapped. “These smell like bleach,” he scoffed. “Jesus — is this your first day?”

You rounded the corner just in time to see him waving a folded towel in front of one of your housekeeping staff's face, Rosa. A woman who’d been working here loyally for nearly ten years. She looked flustered, her gloved hands twisting in front of her apron as she murmured something in broken English back to him.

Todd scoffed and tossed the towel onto the maid’s cart like it had personally offended him by touching it. “I swear, every time I come here, it’s the same thing. You people can’t get even the basics right.”

You stopped in your tracks at the venom he just tried on one of your most hardest-working staff members. Your blood boiled.

Rosa’s eyes flicked up the second she saw you, apologetic — like she was bracing for a reprimand from you next.

You stepped forward, voice calm but icy. “I’m sorry, but is there a problem, Todd?”

He turned, blinking at you like he hadn’t expected you to appear from thin air. “Yeah, there’s a problem. These towels are substandard. They smell like chemicals. And this one—” he gestured toward Rosa with a flippant wave, “—has clearly never been trained on proper procedure.”

Your jaw locked, fingers tightening around your tablet.

“First, I suggest,” you said slowly, “you lower your voice when speaking to my staff.”

“She’s just housekeeping..." he argued.

“She’s Rosa,” you snapped. “And she’s worked here longer than either of us has.” You put your hand on her shoulder, signalling support for her. 

You continued, “Second, if the towels smell like bleach, it’s because this hotel follows strict sanitization protocols. May I remind you that they are strict protocols that you signed off on last quarter.”

Todd’s face began to flush, but you weren’t done.

“Lastly, if you have a complaint, you bring it to me after your audit is complete. You don’t bring it to someone doing her job well and without complaint.” You stepped forward and looked at him from the bottom up, eyes filled with disgust and judgment, “Just because you’ve decided you’re above showing basic human respect for those working in our trenches here at the Ritz does not mean I’m going to allow it.” 

The corridor had gone quiet. You could hear a pin drop.

The few other housekeeping staff members nearby were frozen, listening like a fly on the wall. 

Sophia stood a few feet away now behind you, frozen as well with wide eyes.

Todd’s mouth opened like he wanted to respond, but you raised your hand slightly and gave him a look that made it very clear you were done playing nice.

“If you have immediate feedback going forward,” you said with a brittle smile, “email me or come find me. Otherwise, I suggest you get back to your audit and let Rosa and my staff do their jobs, yes?”

He stared at you for one more beat, then huffed and turned, muttering something under his breath as he disappeared down the hall and into the elevator.

You exhaled sharply and nodded once, satisfied.

Rosa gave you a timid smile and nodded her thanks before rolling her cart down the hall.

Once she was gone, Sophia stepped forward, blinking slowly.

“Okay, that was kind of badass,” she said, “but completely out of character for you.” She huffed a small chuckle. “Are you okay?” she said more in a joking tone than a concerned one. 

You closed your eyes and leaned back against the wall, letting the marble cool your spine.

“No,” you said. “Not really.”

Sophia frowned almost instantly, realizing your tone. “Oh, shit... What’s going on?”

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck. “Harry and I had our first fight last night."

You shook your head and shrugged, thinking back to it, the frustration building back up slightly as you continued, "We had plans — or were supposed to have plans." You sighed.

"I picked up dinner, dessert… even wore something new just because I missed him.” You looked down at the floor before saying sadly, “He didn’t show up until past midnight.”

She winced, “Ouch.”

“He was a little drunk and tried to be sweet about it, but I… I was hurt. Gave him the cold shoulder… I didn’t want to fight, but I didn’t want to just move on, you know?” You pinched the bridge of your nose, frustrated about how you may have handled the situation.

Sophia nodded as she bit her lip and listened, giving you her full attention. 

“Then this morning, when I tried to get out of the house, let myself have today to just… clear my head, get some space… he kept trying to talk about it. And at one point, I snapped. I think I may have yelled at him. I just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t make it make sense, I just—” you started to sound wound tight and frustrated, your hands clenched in little balls as you explained. 

Sophia’s expression softened. “You froze.”

You sighed, letting go of the tension, and nodded, looking at her. “I didn’t want to? But all those old voices came roaring back last night. The ones that say I’m too much or not enough. That someone like him… won’t stick around for someone like me."

Your voice cracked as you said, "Or what Rebecca said, ‘The fairytale magic ends and he’ll move on.'..." You bit the side of your cheek to stop the tears from pouring out.

Sophia sighed and linked her arm with yours, tugging you into motion gently to walk with her down the hall. “Can I offer some friendly words of advice?” 

You hummed, “Do I have a choice?” 

She rolled her eyes playfully but then continued, “First off, fuck Rebecca! That snake doesn’t deserve to occupy your mind, so get that bitch out, please and thank you.” 

You chuckled and nudged her, “Ok, point taken. We both hate Rebecca, got it.” 

She chuckled then continued bluntly, “Next… you’ve got to stop comparing Harry to the very low standard of the men who have hurt you in the past.”

You looked at her with a guilty look because, as much as you hated to admit it, she was right.

She shrugged. “Look, we’ve known Harry passively for a while now, right? As a guest, he’s always been respectful and kind, tips generously, and treats everyone more than fairly.” 

You let out a soft sigh and nodded, listening.

She continued, “He’s not them, though, not the ones who hurt you. But he is going to mess up, because he’s human. But if every time he does, you hear someone else’s voice instead of his… that’s not fair to either of you.”

Tears threatened to prick your eyes, but you blinked them back and swallowed down the emotion.

Sophia squeezed your hand. “Go. Take a walk, get some air. You’re no good to yourself or our team in this state of mind. I’ll handle the schedule for the next few hours.”

You opened your mouth to argue.

“Nope,” she said, holding up a finger, letting go of your arm. “You know I can handle it. Now go. I’ll cover. You need to figure out what you want to say to him… and then actually go say it.”

You stared at her, grateful beyond words. Then you nodded.

Because you knew she was right.

Harry wasn’t perfect. But neither were you, and somewhere in the spaces between missteps and misunderstandings… 

There was always going to be the chance to try again.

After walking through the park for almost two hours, rehearsing what you were going to say, replaying everything in your head from last night and this morning, and thinking about how every possible outcome could go — you finally headed to his office.

However, you didn’t want to show up empty-handed. It felt too vulnerable to just walk in and say, “I’m sorry I froze you out. I'm sorry I yelled. I’m sorry, I expected perfection. I’m sorry I let my fear speak louder than my love.”

So, you let your feet carry you down the street with a quiet sense of purpose.

Seb’s Subs was just a few blocks from his building — his favorite quick and easy lunch. The cashier, Andre, recognized you instantly, boxing up his usual with a wink and smile.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. But it was something — call it a peace offering.

By the time you stepped into the elegant lobby of Stonebridge Capital, your nerves were a mess of tension and hope.

It had only been a few hours since you left him standing in the front doorway, but it felt like days had passed.

You missed him. And more than that, you wanted to fix this. You wanted this to be different than every other relationship, you didn’t want to run.

“Y/N?”

You turned toward the front desk to find Peter, Harry’s assistant, already standing with a warm smile and a coffee in hand, talking with one of the girls at the front desk.

His familiar presence pulled a surprised laugh from your lips, giving you the first real smile since last night.

“Hey, Peter,” you said, suddenly a little bashful.

“My my, does this mean I get to witness another legendary lunch delivery?” he teased.

You laughed again. “Yes, sir! Figured it worked like a charm the first time…” You shrugged with the bag in your hand. 

“He still talks about it, you know? Says it was the best way to find his office after one of Kent’s slideshow torture talks,” he grinned. 

You snorted and tsked, “Is that what he came from? One of Kent’s famous PowerPoint presentations?” 

He chuckled, then looked down at his tablet to message Harry. “Want me to let him know you’re here?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “No, no. I was hoping to just… surprise him… again? Is he in or busy?”

Peter glanced at the time and nodded. “He’s in a meeting, but it should be wrapping up soon. Just across the hall in the main conference room.” He glanced over to the area he was in. 

You felt a little flutter in your chest, similar to the one you felt when you first did this. “Would it be okay if I waited in his office?”

Peter grinned like he was in on a delicious secret. “I’ll smuggle you in… We’ll make this one an actual surprise!”

You looked at him confused, “Was the last one not?” 

He tutted and rolled his eyes as he came over and looped your arm with his as he leaned in to gossip, voice low, “Between you and me, last time, I swear he knew somehow or had a heads up.”

You chuckled, “Oh? How so?”

He began walking you through the office, “The man asked me to reschedule an important meeting out of the blue and then was huffing into his palm… checking his breath! You tell me he didn’t know something…” 

You giggled softly. “Fair point. Alright then, in that case, smuggle me in.”

The two of you quietly made your way down the hallway, careful not to pass the glass-walled conference room as Peter led you around the back hallway, away from direct sightlines. 

He paused at Harry’s office door and pushed it open for you.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure he ends up here afterwards.”

You smiled warmly. “Thanks, Peter. It’s so good to see you again.” You touched his arm gently and gave it a small squeeze. 

He nodded and disappeared with a wink, the soft click of the door closing behind you settling into the silence of Harry’s office.

You hadn’t been in here since that first surprise visit weeks ago. The room was still sleek, still commanding — tall windows overlooking the skyline, dark wood paneling, and brushed brass accents — but this time, it was different.

It was warmer, more lived-in.

And if your eyes didn’t deceive you, there was more of you.

The first thing you noticed was the photo proudly on display on the edge of his desk — one from the Maldives, where you’d both been half-sunburnt and laughing, hair wild and windswept. You didn’t even remember him asking someone to take it but you remember him showing it to you proudly and saying, “This one’s going in my office!”

You thought he was just saying that to flatter you.

You stepped closer and smiled softly as you picked it up, heart skipping, butterflies fluttering.

Beside it sat a delicate glass jar of seashells, hand-selected — one of them still had a trace of glittering sand in its crevice.

They were shells you two gathered while walking back from dinner each night. A little ritual Harry suggested to remember your time together in paradise.

You had a similar jar on your desk with his shells and he had this jar with yours.

You set the frame back down, and your eyes drifted across the space as you took it all in.

On the bookshelf: the tiny stuffed penguin keychain from your aquarium date. It was one he said was “ridiculously overpriced”, but bought anyway when you wouldn’t stop smiling at it because it looked like him when he dressed for work, oddly enough. You smiled to yourself at the memory. 

Your eyeline saw pushed under his desk-mat calendar a folded napkin from that initial afternoon coffee shop date — the one where you knew then and there he was in it for the long run.

On the whiteboard behind his desk, between strategy notes and deadline reminders, you saw something scribbled in the corner on notepad paper:

Flowers: Roses Tulips Ranunculus Sunflowers Lilies?

You blinked once you’d realized what it was.

He’d been keeping a list. 

You turned back to his desk, now noticing small sticky notes scattered along the edges of his monitor — each one a memory, a reminder, a breadcrumb of you:

“Don’t let her forget to eat on Wednesdays.”

“Pick up that book she mentioned for the trip.”

“Her goddaughter’s (Rosie) first day of school is at the end of the month. Remember to ask how it went.”

“She mentioned needing an oil change when we get back. Research either how to do it or have Ted take it to a shop.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

This man—this confident, composed, guarded man—had slowly built a shrine to your life together. Quiet, unassuming. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to weave you into the very fabric of his daily routine.

And all the while, you’d been spiraling. Panicking. Letting old fears and insecurities gnaw at the roots of something that had only ever grown from love.

You lowered the takeout bag and coffee gently on his desk and placed your fingertips over one of the sticky notes. You didn’t even remember mentioning the book to him. Or the exact date of Rosie’s first day of school — but he did.

He remembered it all.

You sank slowly into the soft leather chair behind his desk, the weight of the moment settling into your chest. Not heavy. No, this time — it was absolutely full.

You were his. And despite your worst fears, every detail in this room whispered back:

He’s yours.

Harry’s POV

The meeting had been going on for the last forty-five minutes.

Harry couldn’t recall a single thing that had been said. Not by Clarkson, not by Kent, not even when feedback had been given by others. It was just going in one ear, out the other.

His eyes were currently aimed at the presentation Clarkson was flipping through on the screen — numbers, trends, projected growth — but his brain refused to engage. All he could think about was the look on your face when you’d left just a few hours ago.

Quiet. Guarded. Unreachable. Disappointed.

It was the first morning that you hadn’t kissed him goodbye. And when you did look at him? All he could see was that this one thing he was responsible for broke something in you he didn’t quite know how to fix. 

“Castillo?” Clarkson’s voice cut into the fog of his thoughts, followed by the light nudge of someone's elbow beside him.

Harry straightened. “Sorry. What was the question?”

A few colleagues shifted in their chairs at the out of pocket response by Harry — him not paying attention was new. 

Clarkson shot him a look.

“Need your head in the room, not in the clouds, son,” he said with a tight smile. “We’re trying to keep this ship running, yes?”

“Of course, sir,” Harry replied, trying to sit up straighter and force his focus to cooperate. But his heart wasn’t in it. 

Not when his head was in the clouds — or more accurately, back at home.

Back in the silence that had followed your retreat. Back in the kitchen, where your unappreciated efforts sat on the counter. Back to the look in your eyes when you’d said, “I don’t want to talk about this when you’re obviously intoxicated.” and “I don’t want to have to tell you…”

Back in that bed, where you’d turned away from him and begun construction on that damned wall he had tried so hard to burn down, to blast to nothing but dust over the last few weeks.

‘How did I not see this? How could I have fucked up this horribly?’ Kept racing through his mind over and over again. 

When the meeting finally ended, Harry stood so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair. He slipped his phone out of his pocket as he walked towards the door, praying to see your name on his screen. A message. A missed call. An email — but there was nothing.

Peter was waiting just outside the conference room, already flipping through notes for the rest of today’s schedule. 

He wasted no time before catching Harry up to speed, “You’ve got that renewal meeting in an hour — Mr. Laird, the software guy. I put his contract on your desk to review beforehand,” he said as Harry stopped by the water cooler. “And I had coffee sent to your office, and—”

Harry cut him off, “Can you reschedule it?”

Peter blinked. “Reschedule, sir?”

“I’ll call him personally and apologize. I just need to… I’m gonna bring Y/N lunch. Can you call ahead and tell Sophia to keep her there? I need to see her…” He buttoned up his suit jacket and looked at his watch, trying to think where he could stop to get something to eat without it being so busy. 

Peter opened his mouth — and then closed it, lips curling slightly, “Uhm…” 

“What, Peter? What is it?” Harry said with an urgency to his tone as he started walking towards the exit. 

“Nothing,” Peter said, stepping in front of him just as Harry turned toward the front doors towards the elevators. “You should probably just go back to your office first...”

Harry squinted. “Peter, I’m confused—”

“Just trust me?” He looked at him with pleading eyes. 

Harry frowned but turned back toward his office anyway, the unease inside him flaring again. 

‘Has something happened? Did something happen to Y/N?’

He pushed open the door and stopped cold in his tracks.

There you were.

Standing near the window, light pouring in over your shoulders — looking down at the city below. 

It was like the air got knocked clean from his lungs.

“What? What are you doing here?” he asked, voice hoarse as he took a step into the office, hand on the knob. “Is everything okay?” His eyes were soft and concerned.

You looked over slowly, the corners of your lips curving faintly. Your eyes were softer than this morning — not unguarded, not fully healed — but softened.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” He looked at you as if nothing mattered more than your peace—even if it cost him everything.

You didn’t say anything, you just looked at him with a soft, pleading, and loving gaze.

After a moment you walked around the desk to him, slow and sure, and he didn’t dare move — not until your hands were in the lapels of his suit jacket, gently pulling him close, and then your lips were on his, kissing him like you’d missed him with every inch of your soul.

He melted instantaneously, eyes fluttering shut as his hands flew to your waist, anchoring you as close as he could as he kissed you back, fervent and desperate — as if all the tension of the last 24 hours crashed into a single breath.

He nudged the door shut with his foot and, without breaking from your lips, reached back and hit a button on the wall, making the blinds slide shut one by one until the office turned warm and golden and private by the lamps around the office.

“God,” he murmured, lips trailing from your mouth to your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry—”

You stopped him with gentle fingers to his mouth before cupping his cheek and brushing your fingers against his scruff, looking up to study his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “But I’m the one who should apologize.”

His brow furrowed, but you shook your head and kept going.

“I should’ve just talked to you. Instead of shutting down. I shouldn’t have iced you out like that. I shouldn’t have yelled at you either, you didn’t deserve that reaction.” Your voice was thick with emotion. “But Harry… I missed you. I miss you. I miss us. And this city — this pace… I don’t know how to do this life where we’re constantly running and never have time together.” 

You looked down and slowly slid your hands down his chest, “I just don’t want the two of us to get used to being like this...”

His hands moved up and cupped your face now, his thumbs brushing your cheeks, pulling you back up to look at him. “You’re not alone in that. I miss you, too. So fucking much.”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing for a beat.

“If I’d known…” He shook his head, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “If I’d seen how much I was slipping up — how much I was hurting you — I would’ve cancelled the damn thing last night. I would’ve been home before you.”

“It’s not just your fault,” you murmured. “It’s both of us. We got swept back in. I should have been better about checking in.”

“Well, I don’t want to be swept anymore,” he said, voice firm now. “You’re my home, my life. Not work. Not this office. Not these damn clients who don’t give a shit about my time outside these four walls. Whatever I build here, whatever I become — it means nothing if it’s not with you beside me.” 

You opened your eyes and looked up at him before he continued.

“You. You’re the only thing that matters to me.” He leaned his forehead against yours. 

Your eyes filled again, lips trembling. “Harry—”

He pulled away and his hands dramatically flew into the air, “I’ll delegate. I’ll pull back on the evening partners’ meetings. I’ll cancel pointless dinners. Whatever it takes, baby. We’ll figure it out.”

Your palms flattened softly over his chest. “It’s time I took a step back too. Sophia’s more than capable — I’ll promote her and bring in someone new to cover after-hours. I want to start having a life again.” You met his eyes, smiling. “Our life.”

He smiled at you. A real smile — dimples and all. He cupped your face carefully, studying your eyes, “Just don’t shut me out again, yeah?”

You nodded, eyes wide and glassy. “I won’t. I promise.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, full of everything he hadn’t been able to say until now. 

Your lips were still warm and swollen from the kiss when Harry pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours again. His hands were braced at either side of your hips, his chest rising and falling with quiet, controlled urgency.

“Can you stay for a bit?” he asked softly, almost pleading. “Please tell me you don’t have to rush off back to the office and I get you just a little longer than a few kisses and an apology?”

Your heart tugged at the sound of his voice — deep and roughened with emotion. You opened your mouth to respond and started to nod your head, but the words didn’t even have time to surface because his lips were already on yours. 

He kissed you again — hard and slow — and then turned, still holding you, and walked you backward toward his desk.

“Harry—” you laughed softly through a gasp, bracing your hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t answer. He just swept his arm across the polished mahogany, sending papers, pens, his notepad, and a glass paperweight scattering across the floor in one smooth, cinematic sweep.

You looked back to see the mess and blinked in shock, a small giggle bubbling up, “Man, you have a flare for the dramatics today, don’t you?”

“You deserve nothing less than some good ol’ romantic drama,” he murmured with a smirk, and then lifted you up to sit on the now-bare surface.

Before you could say another word, he dropped to his knees.

“I owe you,” he murmured, eyes dark, voice low. “For last night. For this morning. For every second I wasn’t making you feel wanted.”

“Harry, what about…” you whispered, breath shaky as you looked at the door.

“Don’t worry about that, trust me.” he smirked.

You looked down at him and your cheeks turned pink.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said, already hooking your underwear down and off under your skirt, sticking them into his trouser pocket, exposing you completely to his gaze. “Right here. Right now.”

“Harry,” you gasped, breath catching as his hands slid beneath your dress again, firm and possessive. “We won’t have time for lunch… I—”

“I’ll be quick,” he said, voice already low and full of heat as he kissed up your stockings. “But I’m not skipping this. I need to hear you fall apart. I need to pay for my wrongdoings.” He said before his teeth lightly teased at the lace, snapping it lightly on your thigh before moving further up.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you — tongue and lips slow, thorough, devoted.

Your head fell back with a soft moan. “Fuck…”

After a few moments of drinking you like you were offering immortality — he slipped a finger inside you, curling just right, his tongue never breaking rhythm. Your hips lifted, legs trembling.

He growled in approval, his finger curling deep as he tasted you with reverence. The kind of hunger that was borderline worship.

You hummed and bit your lip to keep in a loud moan feeling him begin to hit the spongy spot that made you see stars. 

You whined when he began flicking his tongue against your sensitive bundle of nerves, “Fuck— don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” you whimpered. 

Just as the tension coiled and your muscles began to quake, your phone started ringing on the desk somewhere behind you.

You gasped. “Shit—”

“Don’t you dare,” he said without lifting his mouth from you. “Let it ring.”

But when the call didn’t stop and the screen lit up again, you knew it had to be Sophia.

You reached blindly for the phone, breath shaking, and somehow managed to hit answer.

“Hello?” you rasped, voice high-pitched, barely stable.

“Y/N?” Sophia said, the sound of staff noise bustling behind her. “Sorry to bug you, I know I said I’d give you a few hours, but we’ve got a situation.” 

You hummed back a moan and rolled your eyes back as he slipped another finger inside, “What—What seems to be the issue?” you barely got out. 

“One of the VIP suites was double-booked, and the penthouse chef apparently walked out after the event director called him a ‘decorative knife holder.’” She explained with a sarcastic tone in her voice. 

You squeezed your eyes shut as Harry’s tongue flicked just right on your clit. You covered your mouth with your hand.

Sophia went on. “I’ve got bellmen moving furniture into the wrong rooms, a very entitled influencer having a fit in the lobby, oh, and Mr. Kimball is asking for you specifically. Help me?”

Your voice cracked as you forced words out. “Y-yeah. Okay. I’ll… be there in ten.”

Harry groaned and slid another finger in, making you gasp before correcting yourself, “Actually, make that twenty.”

“You okay?” Sophia asked. “You sound… winded?”

You swallowed a groan. “Mmhm yeah. Just… mid-stairwell, you know?”

“Oh, girl. Been there. Take your time but hurry!”

She hung up before you could respond.

You let the phone slide from your hand and barely had time to exhale before Harry sucked hard at just the right angle — you came undone. Body shaking, hands gripping the edge of his desk, jaw clenched tight to keep from crying out his name as he moaned through your orgasm, lapping every bit of you with the kind of reverent hunger that made your toes curl.

By the time you came back to earth, he was standing and leaning over your fucked out body, his lips brushing your cheek, your temple, your jaw.

“You are everything,” he whispered, gently easing your dress back down and kissing your jawline, your cheek. 

You cupped his face, still breathless, smiling. “And you’re a troublemaker, my love.”

He grinned. “You bring it out in me.”

You hummed and nodded, “You’re right, it’s something I love about you.” You said as you leaned up to kiss his lips slowly and ever so passionately. 

He kissed you back, his hand moving up to cup your cheek then slowly thread through your hair and hold the back of your head. After a few, he pulled back and leaned his forehead against yours, his voice soft and sure, “I love you.” 

You took a deep breath and smiled as you said lovingly back, “I love you, too.” 

He leaned in and kissed you a few more times before pulling back and helping you sit up. 

You hopped down from the desk on slightly shaky legs, adjusting your dress and gathering your things. Harry immediately helped, brushing his hands along your sides, kissing the back of your shoulder, then your neck.

“You sure you have to go?” he murmured as he nudged your neck softly with his nose, planting a kiss there.

“I’m the only one who can smooth this type of chaos over,” you said, grabbing your purse and keys. “But I’ll try to be home early. I’ll have to tell you later how I broke Todd. How I may have graced my team with an early departure from his snobby little attitude.”

Harry chuckled, low and deep, “I can’t wait to hear.” 

As you turned for the door, putting your hand on the knob, he reached out for you.

“Wait,” he said, eyes warm, voice soft. “One more kiss…”

You smiled, stepping back toward him as he dipped down to kiss you— slow, deep, lingering.

When you pulled back, cheeks flushed, you whispered, “If you still want to do that candlelight dinner tonight…”

“I’ll make it perfect,” he promised without a second thought. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll have it ready.”

You paused at the door again, looking at him with a teasing glint in your eye.

“Anything?”

He tilted his head, reading you with a slow grin. “What do you have in mind?”

You crossed back, leaned up, and kissed his lips — slow and full of promise — before whispering:

“I want you to use your imagination.”

He stood there stunned, aroused, and grinning. 

You started for the door again, checking your reflection in the wall mirror one last time before you paused.

“Wait,” you said, glancing at him over your shoulder. “My panties.”

He blinked once. Then that slow, crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, casually patting the front pocket of his slacks. “Yeah, no. I’m keeping them.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He took a step closer, gaze heated as he leaned in, voice a low murmur against your lips, his hand on your hip, pulling you against him, against the obvious strain pressing up against his trousers.

“Think of it as a bookmark,” he whispered. “Just a little reminder that I’m not done with you yet.”

Your breath caught, legs nearly forgetting how to function.

“I hate how much that works on me,” you muttered before pecking his lips, then turning toward the door again, flustered and flushed.

“Good,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Now go. Be brilliant. And I’ll see you tonight, mi vida.”

You didn’t trust yourself to look back, not with the smug heat radiating off him — and definitely not with the image now seared into your brain of your panties in his pocket while he went about his day like nothing happened.

Harry’s POV

His office door closed behind you— and Harry just stood there for a moment, rooted in place.

Your scent still lingered in the air. A trace of your gloss was smudged at the corner of his mouth. And in his front pocket, a delicate scrap of lace burned against his thigh like a damn brand.

He looked down at it, his lips twitching, “Fuckin’ hell.”

He pressed the button on the wall to open the blinds again, the sharp click of the mechanism jolting him back into reality. The office flickered to life around him — daylight pouring back in, his desk half-destroyed, your imprint still warming the surface. And he still — had a full schedule ahead if Peter didn’t cancel it all.

He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a long breath.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, already knowing it was a lost cause.

By the time he made it to his contract renewal meeting, he was ten minutes late, tie half-loosened, and barely hanging on as his lips still tasted of your sweetness.

Clarkson raised an eyebrow across the table as he came in, in a bit of a scramble, still flushed from earlier, “Jesus, Castillo. You look like you just ran a marathon.”

His curls fell onto his forehead as he reached to grab a copy of the contract. Since your hands were just holding onto them while he devoured your sweetness — he’d not been able to properly tame them back. 

“Something like that,” Harry said, adjusting in his seat with a slight wince.

Across the conference table, one of the clients asked a question about exit valuations, a question Harry had answered in his sleep a hundred times before — but his mind was not on exit strategies.

It was on the way you bit your lip to stifle a moan.

The way your hands had gripped the desk as he curled his fingers inside you.

The way you answered your phone with his tongue buried inside, keeping you steady and quivering with pleasure.

He shifted again, the lace brushing his thigh with a maddening friction, and for the first time in his life, Harry was grateful for the table blocking his lap.

Clarkson’s voice pulled him out of it again, “You alright there, Castillo? You look like you’re ready to pass out.”

Harry cleared his throat, flipped a page of the contract for no reason at all. “Yep. Fine. Fully present.”

Clarkson narrowed his eyes, unsure to be concerned or annoyed at Harry’s behavior. “Uh-huh. Right…”

Harry barely made it through the next thirty minutes, reading numbers on the page but not taking in a single word. Every time he adjusted in his seat, the fabric shifted, that soft scrap of lace making itself known. 

An ever-present reminder of the woman who had undone him completely, and left him wrecked in his own office like it was nothing.

He knew you’d done it on purpose, leaving him like that. Of course, you had. 

That smug little smile. The way you looked back over your shoulder when you asked for them back, already knowing he wouldn’t give them up.

“I want you to use your imagination.”

“Fuck me…” he muttered as he adjusted his hips, his cock straining against his trousers painfully. 

“What was that, Castillo?” the client asked, turning towards him to hear him better. 

Harry’s gaze snapped up, and he cleared his throat, “Uhm, just said ‘Sounds good to me’, you know the terms and all.” 

The client hummed in agreement and turned their attention back to Clarkson. 

When the meeting finally adjourned, Harry stood a little too quickly and had to cover the obvious strain in his trousers with the nearest folder.

As he passed Peter on the way to his office before his next meeting, he gave him a subtle look. 

Peter joined him in his walk, “You uh… you need a break, boss?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, offended by the offer. “Why do you say that?”

Peter gestured to the faint pink mark just under his jaw. “Because if you’re tryin’ to keep your private life private, you’re failin’ miserably.” He chuckled. 

Harry didn’t even flinch. “Not ashamed, Peter, not ashamed one bit…” he said simply, before stepping into his office, walking into the scent of your perfume lingering in the air.

‘Still. Fucking. Here.’

He slammed the office door behind him and let out a rough exhale — the sound echoing off the walls of the now-quiet room. The moment the latch clicked, he turned the lock and pushed the button to close the blinds again.

“Fuck.” He said, walking over to his desk.

He was drowning. Your scent was everywhere, still clinging to the air. His lips still tasted like a mix of your lip gloss and sweetness. He could still hear you whimper against his tongue as you came undone with his head so perfectly between your thighs. 

He pulled your panties out of his pocket slowly, reverently, like they were a secret. 

Without even thinking, he dragged the delicate fabric through his fingers before leaning back in his chair, jaw tight, breath already shaky.

He sat there with your panites in his grip for several minutes, staring at them, almost drooling at the sight of them. 

He tried. He tried to behave. To just take a minute and breathe and get his goddamn head on straight before the next meeting. But then your voice echoed in his mind — that sultry whisper.

“I want you to use your imagination…”

He clenched his jaw and palmed himself through his slacks, already hard and aching.

“So much for staying focused.” He said through gritted teeth before his belt came undone fast, pants unzipped just enough, and he shoved a hand down to wrap around himself, groaning low into the empty room. 

He braced his heels against the floor and tipped his head back, eyes shut, letting the image of you burned into his memory carry him under.

Your thighs around his head. Your voice breaking on the phone. Your mouth, your taste, the way you pulled his hair and whispered his name like a fucking prayer as you came onto his tongue.

He hissed through his teeth, stroking slow, and desperate, like he could wring the need out of him. Just to get just enough relief to function like a human being again.

His other hand gripped the edge of the desk, panting, the lace clutched in his other fist.

“Fuck—” he grunted.

So close. So fucking close.

And then — BZZT.

The intercom crackled to life, cheerful and oblivious, “Boss? Just a reminder, your next meeting starts in five. They’re waiting in Conference Room B.”

He froze.

Chest heaving. His fist still clenched around himself. Eyes shut as he groaned to himself.

A full-body jolt of rage and regret ripped through him as he dragged his hand out of his pants and swore under his breath, gripping the arm of his chair like he might launch it across the room.

“For fuck sakes. Can’t I get 5 fucking minutes?” He groaned as he tossed your panties into the desk drawer.

He leaned forward, slamming the drawer shut with one hand and yanking his belt back through the loops with the other, trying not to curse Peter’s name out loud even though he knew it wasn’t his fault.

By the time he stood up, tucked in, buttoned up, and fully miserable, he was vibrating with tension.

He was wrecked.

Aroused, still hard and unrelieved. And about to sit through another forty-five-minute conversation about the fund’s reinvestments like he wasn’t fighting a full-body high from the taste of you.

He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and threw it over his shoulder, adjusting himself with a muffled groan as he made for the door.

He was going to make damn sure you didn’t leave the bed — or his lap tonight — not until you were both completely wrecked. 

Not until you knew exactly what kind of imagination he had.

Reader’s POV

You barely had time to shake the lingering thrill of Harry’s hands from your skin before the grand revolving doors of the Ritz opened and your reality snapped back into place.

The lobby was already in a frenzy with a handful of fires needing to be put out.

“Y/N! Oh, thank god you’re back!” Sophia called the second you stepped into view from her position behind the desk.

You quickly made your way over to her, and she immediately began debriefing you on the situation at hand: “We’ve got a situation with Mr. Kimball in the Ambassador Suite — he’s saying the view isn’t what was promised in the online description?”

You blinked, looking down at the booking calendar. “Isn’t that suite on the forty-second floor?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She said with an annoyance in her voice, like she had already used that ammo against him. 

“The one with panoramic views of the park and skyline?”

She nodded helplessly.

You sighed, smoothing your blazer. “Okay. Let’s go fix his ‘view’.”

What followed was a blur of problem-solving: appeasing the self-important tech mogul by personally arranging for his wine fridge to be swapped with a higher-end model and promising a comped couples massage “as a gesture of goodwill.”

Then came a housekeeping error — a bridal suite mistakenly double-booked. You juggled timelines and apologies like a magician until the guests were satisfied. 

Barely twenty minutes later, a pop singer’s publicist requested the curtains in their penthouse be changed… immediately. They didn’t like the “vibe.” You kept your smile firmly in place, even when internally you wanted to scream as you’d changed them already to their request before their arrival.

But even at your most efficient, most unflappable, Harry lingered at the edge of your thoughts.

You were still wearing the dress he’d pushed up around your hips just a couple of hours ago. You were still bare beneath it. You could still feel the warmth between your thighs when you sat down.

And your body remembered every single second of it all.

Every slow lick of his tongue. The way he moaned against you. His teeth brushing your inner thigh as he looked up at you with fire in his eyes.

A shiver ran through you as and then your focus was redirected to an influencer complaining about their lighting in their room as it wasn’t ‘creating the vibe’ for their content. As if you could control that? Heaven help you. 

It was after 3 p.m. by the time you finally escaped into your office. You dropped into the chair behind your desk and exhaled slowly, letting your head fall back with a quiet thud.

‘Just 5 minutes. Give me 5 minutes of silence.’

But when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out and sat up a bit more — those 5 minutes went out the window happily with what you saw on your screen.

Harry 3:13 PM: Please tell me you’re alone.

You smiled, biting your lip.

You 3:13 PM: Temporarily. Why do you ask, handsome?

Harry 3:14 PM: Because I haven’t stopped thinking about what you taste like. My mouth is still fucking aching for you.

You crossed your legs under the desk instinctively, heat curling low in your belly as you watched those little three dots continue to pop up.

Harry 3:14 PM: I’m supposed to be reviewing a portfolio, and instead I’m hard under the goddamn desk.

Harry 3:15 PM: Because all I can picture is your thighs around my head.

Harry 3:15 PM: You sitting pretty on my face again while I take my time.

You swallowed thickly and glanced at the door, as if anyone could possibly know the kinds of messages lighting up your screen.

You 3:16 PM: Harry…

Harry 3:17 PM: You left me wrecked, baby. I can still smell you on my fingers. Still feel you trembling.

Harry 3:18 PM: Do you have any idea what that does to me?

Your breath caught. A warmth bloomed in your chest, then lower. 

You sat your phone down for a moment, making him squirm a little bit, leave him wanting before texting back:

You 3:23 PM: Well, I might be squirming in my chair right now if that counts for anything…

Almost instantly he replied:

Harry 3:23 PM: It counts for everything. Fuck. I want you again.

Harry 3:24 PM: I wanted to bend you over my desk and give you something to think about when Todd started his petty little ramblings.

You stifled a laugh behind your hand, pressing your thighs together, tighter.

You 3:25 PM: You are relentless. God, I love you.

Harry 3:26 PM: Say that again.

Harry 3:26 PM: Because that’s the only thing keeping me from showing up at the Ritz and dragging you into a service elevator.

You 3:27 PM: I love you.

You 3:27 PM: Even when you’re being a menace like this.

You 3:28 PM: Especially then.

Your heart fluttered as you set your phone down. You felt like a damn teenager.

Then, after a few moments:

Harry 3:30 PM: Tell me this, does your bra match these panties I have in my pocket?

You smirked to yourself and bit your lip, thinking of your next move very carefully.

You 3:31 PM: Wouldn’t know. Didn’t wear one today.

Then you unbuttoned the first few buttons of your blouse which exposed your bare chest but only enough to tease before snapping a photo and sending it right after.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Then:

Harry 3:32 PM: I swear to God, woman. Are you trying to get me in trouble?

You burst into laughter just as your phone buzzed again — this time, Sophia’s name lighting up the screen.

Sophia 3:32 PM: I need help with Mr. Richards… his wife is complaining about the bill again.

Duty called. But you were already counting down the hours.

Still smiling, you typed one last reply:

You 3:35 PM: I have to go, but I’ll see you when I get home. ❤️ If you’re good, I’ll let you finish what you started on your desk.

Later that evening

You sent the text as you packed your things into your tote bag and slipped on your coat.

You 6:25 PM: Leaving now. Later than I hoped — traffic doesn’t look too bad. I’ll be home soon. Promise. 🤍

You were already imagining him — probably pacing by the window, eyes on his watch, checking the front door every few seconds like a madman. And the way your heart beated faster at the thought told you everything: you missed him just as desperately.

You hadn’t even made it to the service entrance before your phone buzzed again.

Harry 6:27 PM: Drive safely. And take your time. I love you. 

For once, the traffic gods showed mercy. The ride home was smooth — you drove through the city’s grid like it had parted just for you.

Your knee bounced the entire way. The closer you got, the more your heart kicked up. It was a mix of excitement and nerves and the smallest bit of worry that maybe he’d gone too far out of his way to make tonight special. It was a little bit of was still carrying the weight of what had happened between you. Hell, maybe you were, too.

But that worry vanished the moment you stepped through the front door.

The apartment was warm with candlelight, golden and soft like honey. The air smelled faintly of roses — petals trailing over the floors, you couldn’t count how many bouquets were around the kitchen alone. There were at least 2 huge ones nestled along the entryway table near the door. There was a glowing hum of something romantic and delicate curling around every surface. 

You slowly closed the door and put your keys in the little bowl like you always did, making the slightest noise. 

You barely had time to turn around to absorb it all before you heard the door on the balcony open, followed by the soft thud of bare feet on hardwood.

“Hi.”

You turned to see Harry standing there smiling and buzzing with anticipation just as much as you were. 

He was in that soft black sweater and dark trousers you loved him in. His sleeves rumpled at the elbow, curls tousled like he’d been running his hands through them. His eyes burned into yours, hungry and vulnerable and needy.

“Hey,” you said softly, your lips tugging into a breathless smile.

You looked around and bit your lip gently then looked at him with a sparkle in your eye and a playful grin, “Did you uh, buy out the local florist, honey?” you pointed your finger around the house. 

He ran his thumb against his bottom lip and his cheeks flushed, a little sheepish under your gaze.

“I might’ve gotten carried away,” he murmured, glancing around the apartment. “Wanted it to feel like… you were walking into a love letter.”

You blinked at him, heart stuttering a little. The butterflies in your chest fluttered to life.

He smiled softly. “Too much?”

You shook your head, taking a step closer, voice barely above a whisper, “No. It’s perfect.”

That was all he needed to hear.

He just crossed the room to you like he couldn’t stay still another second, like he couldn’t be this far away from you any longer.

Without a word, his hands reached for your coat, gently and slowly sliding it off your shoulders like it was something delicate. His fingers lingered on your arms, like he didn’t want to let go.

Then he hung it up on the coat rack behind you and then came before you, kneeling slowly.

Your breath caught, and you couldn’t help but blush. 

He looked up at you as his hands came to your ankles, fingertips barely brushing the curve of your calves as he reached to unbuckle your heels.

“Baby, you don’t have to—” you started, voice small.

“I want to,” he murmured, already easing the first shoe off. “Let me.”

Your heart thudded against your chest. Your hand landed on his shoulder for balance and just that little bit of added contact.

When the second heel dropped to the floor, he didn’t move right away. He stayed there, still kneeling, still looking at you like he was soaking you in — like this moment was something to engrave into his mind.

Then you reached down, fingers gently curling into the collar of his sweater, “Come here…” 

You tugged him up, slow and deliberate. He rose to his feet like he was in a trance, letting you guide him until you could reach his mouth.

And then you kissed him.

It was slow and needy and hot and grounding, a sudden crash of lips and breath and desperate hands. Your back hit the door behind you as Harry pressed you there, mouths hungry, lips parting again and again like you couldn’t get close enough to one another. 

You’d missed him — not just his body, but this: the way he touched you like he worshipped you, the way he showed his love with how he kissed you. The way his kiss always found a way to say ‘I’m yours’  before either of you had to say it out loud.

When his hands slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, you moaned softly into his mouth. You could already feel the heat pulsing under his skin. He wanted you — badly.

But then he pulled back all of a sudden — only slightly, panting.

“I… I was gonna show you something,” he said, voice rough, lips brushing your cheek.

You blinked at him, dazed, “Can it wait?” You asked, leaning back in for his lips. 

He smiled and pressed one last kiss to your mouth, then slipped his hand into yours, voice low and steady as he said, “Come with me.”

You followed, your now bare feet padding over rose petals toward the balcony. When the glass door opened, a soft night breeze swept in. The sky was dark, and the city lights flickered across the buildings. 

You saw a little round table was set for two, lit by candles and a single tall taper. Wine glasses, glowing votives, and the warm scent of your favorite pasta from a little place downtown wafted into the night.

You swallowed thickly, stepping outside. “Harry, this is…”

“I wanted to make up for last night,” he said softly, coming behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “For all of it. The late nights, the stress, for not making more time for us.” He kissed your shoulder softly, “I just want you to know how much I’ve missed you since getting back.”

You turned in his arms, your chest aching as you leaned into him, “Thank you…”  

He hummed and kissed your forehead, then he pulled something from his pocket.

A small blue box but not one that made you assume a ring.

“Baby, you didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, tracing the box’s edge with your finger.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I did.”

You looked up at him then, at the way his eyes shimmered in the candlelight, the vulnerability in his expression — not because he doubted your feelings, but because he’d been desperate to show you his all day.

Your fingers trembled as you opened it. Inside, a delicate gold bracelet shimmered back at you — elegant, timeless, the kind of thing that whispered intimacy without needing to shout. Etched on the inside in tiny cursive was a single date.

The date you met.

Your breath hitched. “Harry, you shouldn’t of…”

“I saw it when we got back and couldn’t resist,” His voice dropped. “I don’t ever want to wait for a reason to give you the world.” He paused for a moment, “I want to give you pieces of forever, even in little things.”

Your chest tightened, and your voice barely made it out. “Harry…”

“I just…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re it for me, mi vida. And if I don’t make that known — if I don’t protect what we’ve built… I’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Your voice was a whisper as you looked up at him. “You’re not going to lose me.”

His eyes searched yours. “Promise me?”

Tears prickled at your eyes as you nodded, your voice a little louder than a whisper, “I promise.”

He brushed your hair back, lips finding your temple ever so lovingly. “I just want to keep showing you I’m in this. That I’ll always be in this.” 

You smiled through the sudden well of emotion in your chest, reaching up to touch his face. “I don’t need grand gestures,” you murmured. “But God, I love the way you love me.”

His lips twitched into something soft — reverent. His fingers skimmed your waist as you stood in the candlelight, still holding the bracelet box in one hand. The tiny gold band sparkled even in the softest glow, but it was the look on his face that truly stole your breath.

Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to drop to his knees or kiss you until the walls gave way.

You glanced down at the bracelet box and offered it to him, heart full, “Put it on me?”

Harry gently took the box from you, and his fingers brushed the soft skin of your wrist as he fastened the delicate gold bracelet around it — a glint of polished metal nestled against your pulse.

“Perfect,” he murmured, turning your hand over, bringing it up to his lip and pressing a kiss onto the inside of your wrist.

Your heart swelled, but the tension between you had been humming all day — low and electric, building with every thought of his hands on you, every replay of his lips on yours, the lingering ache that hadn't been completely eased all week of missing him and now this — this genousity and display of devotion just fueled it.

You tilted your head, giving him a slow smile. “When we met, I had no idea you’d turn out to be such a romantic.”

He leaned in, brushing your cheek with his lips. “When we met, I had no idea I’d end up this obsessed.”

You let out a small giggle and wrapped your arms around his neck, teasing your fingers through the back of his curls, “You know, I thought you were trouble the second I saw you. I just didn’t know you’d be this kind of trouble.”

His grin deepened as he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, “Only for you, baby.”

Then his voice dropped, a murmur as he nudged your nose as he asked, “Are you still how I left you, mi amor?”

The breath caught in your chest, and a chill ran down your spine.

“You didn’t give them back, remember?” you whispered, feeling heat bloom from your core outward. “So… what do you think?”

Harry let out a low, ragged breath, his eyes darkening as he surged forward, “Jesus Christ… come here,” he growled.

You were already moving before his lips were on yours — hands fisting in the front of his shirt, tugging him close, mouth finding his in a kiss that sparked hot and fast.

He kissed you like he needed to breathe. Like his hands were starving to memorize your body again. 

There was no slow build — it was crash and burn from the first press of lips, the way your bodies collided in a tangle of breath and soft groans, all urgency and no patience.

“Dinner can wait,” he muttered into your mouth, pulling you inside the apartment and kicking the balcony door shut behind you both.

You barely made it inside before your back hit the wall with a thud that echoed between kisses — frantic and open-mouthed, desperate and deep. His hands roamed beneath your blouse, urgent fingertips mapping your skin like he hadn’t touched you in months instead of days.

He made a low sound in his throat when he felt how bare you were beneath your skirt as his hands started hiking your skirt up, thumb grazing the curve of your thigh.

“Fuck,” he breathed, he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours. “You really let me suffer through an entire day leavin’ the office like this…”

You smiled, breathless, nipping at his lower lip. “Seemed only fair after last night.” You playfully jabbed.

He groaned at you playing with his lip — that gravelly, gorgeous sound that always sent heat pooling low in your core — and grabbed your waist, pinning you against the wall harder this time. His mouth dipped to your neck, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said, voice gravel and worship and heat as he began lightly sucking at your pulse point.

His hand swept up your thigh, pushing your dress higher.

“I almost came in my office like a damn teenager.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” you breathed, hands in his hair, tugging him closer.

He groaned, smirking. “You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?” 

Your fingers tugged his shirt free from his waistband, desperate to feel skin, friction, to feel him, “Baby, there’s a number of things I would like to do in that office of yours.” 

You gasped as he lifted your leg to wrap around his hip — grinding his into hips yours with a tension-shattering roll. Your voice was a whisper, wicked and sweet against his lips before you leaned back in, “Knowing you were stroking your cock to the thought of me? No doubt that’s one of them.” 

Harry cursed, hands gripping your waist like he might lose control. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes — pupils blown, jaw tight, voice low and wrecked.

“Then allow me show you exactly what I pictured, my love.” 

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

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[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Neither of them stand a chance 🤣

Chapter Three: The Penthouse

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

The Arrangement Masterlist

Begging on my knees, baby won't you please, run your fingers through my hair

Maya closed the office door behind her with the same quiet efficiency she used to negotiate eight-figure exits. She stood by the window, tablet in hand, already pulling up your preliminary schedule. Harry didn’t look up immediately. He was too busy remembering how the silk hung on your figure only last night.

“She’s in,” Maya said. “Pending contract review, of course.”

“She would be.” He leaned back against the edge of the table, arms folded. “She handled last night better than most investors I’ve brought to those things.”

“Handled,” Maya repeated, glancing up. “That what we’re calling it now?”

Harry didn’t rise to the bait.

Maya sighed and swiped to the calendar. “If you’re serious about keeping her for the full month, I’ll need to restructure the comms strategy. Two more red carpets confirmed. That charity thing at the Met just got approved. Maybe the event in Rome, so she’d need a passport and clearance. And she’ll need a media coach before the Schwarzman dinner.”

“She doesn’t need a coach.”

“She’ll be sitting next to a senator’s wife and the CEO of BlackField Capital,” Maya said flatly. “She needs polish.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. He walked to the window, looked out. Your hotel wasn’t far, a suite on his dime, but she hadn’t tried to extend it or ask for upgrades. She hadn’t asked for anything, actually.

“She’s smart,” he said. “I don’t want anyone trying to sand down her edges. That’s the appeal.”

Maya’s look was unreadable. “Sure it is.”

He turned back to her. “What’s the financial impact?”

Maya rattled it off like a ledger:

— $35K in wardrobe coordination

— $25K in first-class travel

— $18k in hotel accommodations

— Daily stipend for Zara: TBD

— Total estimate: $75–90K USD, depending on what she negotiates

“Round it to a hundred and call it goodwill,” Harry said.

“You want this listed under PR or personal expenses?”

He paused.

The question was a formality. But it wasn’t.

“Personal.”

Maya nodded once. “Fine. I’ll draw up the contract. Standard NDA?”

“No. Mutual,” Harry said. “And leave room for amendments.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think she’ll try to renegotiate?”

“I hope she does.”

A long pause. Maya finally set her tablet down.

“You do realize you’re breaking about five of your own rules.”

He smirked, Maya knew him too well. “Guess I’m due for a reinvention.”

“You sure this is a smart investment?”

Harry turned his gaze back to the window. The city glittered like it knew something.

“She’s not an investment,” he said quietly. “She’s a disruption.”

*****

You’re still in the hotel robe when the knock comes. Three crisp raps - not room service, not housekeeping. You open the door halfway, and of course it’s not Harry. It’s her.

Maya. Harry's assistant. Hair pulled back. Tailored navy coat. Holding a leather folder like it might detonate.

“I assume you’re expecting this,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invite.

You arch a brow. “You always deliver his contracts in person?”

“Just the interesting ones.”

She sets the folder on the coffee table and sits across from you, all business, but there’s something in her eyes, not quite distrust. Curiosity, maybe. Like she hasn’t decided if you’re a PR crisis or a long-term asset.

You sit too, tugging the robe tighter across your chest.

She opens the folder and slides it toward you.

“Four weeks,” Maya says. “One major event per week. Two smaller functions. Travel, accommodations, wardrobe, all covered. Daily stipend included. Media clause optional. NDA - mutual, per Mr. Castillo’s request.”

You flip to the last page. The number is… more than you expected. A lot more. More than you've ever been paid since working in 'the business'.

Your mouth goes dry, but you don’t let it show.

“And in return?” you ask.

“You act like his girlfriend,” Maya says. “Not a PA, not an escort. A girlfriend. At every event. In every room.”

You meet her gaze. “Including the bedroom?”

Maya's breath caught in her throat before responding. “That’s not covered in the contract.”

You can’t help it - you laugh.

It’s bold. Audacious. But the part that gets you isn’t the money, or the luxury. It’s the fact that he waited. He could’ve thrown this at you night one. Instead, he let you prove something.

“I want to amend it,” you say.

Maya tilts her head. “Of course, he said you would.”

You take a pen from the folder’s spine and slide the page back toward her.

“I want input on what I wear to events. Final approval. I’m not a doll.”

Maya studies you for a beat. “That’s doable.”

You pause. “Also, one night off a week. I don’t care what night.”

There’s something like respect in her expression now. Not warm, not soft - but real.

“I’ll get this updated,” she says, standing.

She heads to the door but stops before opening it.

“For what it’s worth…” she glances over her shoulder. “He doesn’t usually bend. Not for anyone.”

You don’t say anything.

But as the door clicks shut behind her, you finally exhale.

And sign the bottom of the page.

******

You’re used to money. Not the showy, influencer kind, but the kind that lets you slip into first class without looking around. The kind that gets doors opened, calls returned. But this - this is different.

This is old money. Quiet money. Power money.

When the elevator doors part and you step into Harry’s penthouse for the first time, it hits you. Not all at once - more like a slow, rolling wave. The space is sleek and expansive, but not cold. Minimalist, but intentional. You take a few careful steps inside, the hum of the city far below you muted by thick glass and altitude.

Everything smells expensive - cedar, leather, something musky and masculine that must be him. You tell yourself you’ve seen places like this. You’ve stayed in places like this.

But it’s not a hotel.

It’s his home.

And now, for the next thirty days, it’s yours too.

Your heels click on polished stone floors as you wander deeper. Sculptural lighting. Shadowy art. Coffee table books you could never bring yourself to actually read. You brush your fingers along a curved marble counter in the kitchen. You could live in just that room, you think.

Then the warm, ambient glow of recessed lighting softens the clean lines of the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the living area, offering a panoramic view of Manhattan, rain-speckled and humming. The city looks unreal from this height - cinematic.

"What do you think?” The voice curled around the corner like smoke, smooth, measured, familiar enough now that it sent a flicker down your spine.

You turned.

Harry stood there, one shoulder braced lightly against the wall, as if he hadn’t just caught you mid-spin in his impossibly vast living room. His hair was slightly tousled, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows. No tie, shirt undone at the collar, tailored trousers still crisp from the day. He looked like the closing scene of a cologne advert, if the man in it carried power like heat.

“I…” Your voice faltered. You hadn’t expected him to still be here, let alone watching. “It’s...huge.”

It was a stupid word, but your brain had gone soft. The ceilings soared. The windows glittered. His presence dwarfed all of it.

Harry pushed off the wall with a casual grace, walking toward you slowly, each step unhurried. “I thought you’d like the view.”

You glanced back at it, the skyline fractured into glowing glass shards across the horizon. Then looked at him again. “The view’s… intimidating.”

His mouth quirked. “You get used to it.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the skyline or himself.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I wanted to see you arrive.”

You weren’t prepared for the honesty of that. It lingered between you, quiet and undressed.

“I thought you’d be at a meeting. Or… dinner. Or something important.”

Men like him usually had somewhere better to be. Clients rarely lingered when it came to integrating you into their world, they preferred the illusion to be seamless. You were meant to appear only when summoned, like a tailored accessory that matched the room. A set piece in heels. They didn’t ask how you felt in the space, just assumed you’d adjust. You always did. Until now.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I made time.”

And there it was again, that line you couldn’t name that was seeping through in small moments. The space between what this was and what it was pretending not to be.

You shifted the handle of your suitcase in your hand, grasping for something to do. Something to say.

“I still don’t know where anything is.”

Harry nodded toward the hallway behind him. “Let me show you.”

Your heels echo against the hardwood as you pull your suitcase behind you.

“Your bedroom’s the last door on the left,” Harry says, voice low, calm. “I had it cleared out.”

The bedroom is huge, not a bedroom so much as a suite, wrapped in charcoal linens, smooth wood, and a plush off-white rug underfoot. The bed is king-sized, mattress high, the bedding layered and inviting in a way that shouldn’t be sexy, but is.

Behind you, Harry lingers in the doorway, hands in his pockets. Watching you, not intrusively, but thoughtfully. “If you want different pillows or a scent diffuser or whatever, Maya can get it sorted.”

“I’m not that high-maintenance.” you chuckled.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Silence stretches again, not uncomfortable, but newly tentative.

You unzip your suitcase slowly. “So… thirty days.”

“Thirty days,” he echoes.

“And we’re pretending I live here.”

He tilts his head, amused. “You do live here.”

You glance at him. “Right. Sure.”

A beat.

He steps further in, just a few paces. The lighting from the hallway catches against his dress shirt, dark navy, sleeves rolled to the forearm. The collar’s slightly open. There’s a watch on his wrist, subtle and sleek. His hair’s still damp from a shower. His jaw, freshly shaved.

He’s not trying to impress you. That’s the dangerous part.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“I can be.”

“There’s pasta in the kitchen. Real stuff. I made too much.”

You arch a brow. “You cook?” you cannot remember the last time a client cooked for you...or otherwise.

He gives you a lazy half-smile. “I have range.”

You follow him down the hall, barefoot now, your heels discarded at the side of the bed. It already feels too intimate - your shoes on his floor. Your voice echoing in this space that’s his.

The kitchen is just as gorgeous: matte black counters, brushed brass fixtures, a long island where a single bowl of spaghetti waits, steam still curling off the plate. Two glasses of red wine sit to the side, one slightly fuller than the other.

You raise an eyebrow. “Hope this isn’t part of the contract.”

He smirks. “It’s not. It’s… just dinner.”

You slide onto one of the stools and twirl the fork. “Well. It’s very girlfriend-y of me to accept," you joke.

“And what’s very boyfriend-y of me?” he asks, leaning against the counter, an eyebrow raised waiting for your answer.

You meet his eyes. “Feeding me. Opening your home.”

A pause.

His gaze sharpens, but doesn’t harden. “It’s a performance, remember.”

“Of course,” you say lightly. “I just happen to be a method actor.”

He laughs quietly - a sound you don’t expect. “That makes two of us.”

You eat in companionable silence, legs brushing under the counter now and then. You don't notice Harry watching you across the counter as your lips sit on the wine glass taking in the expensive red.

When you finished, Harry slid a slim black card across the marble countertop toward you. The weight of it felt heavier than plastic deserved.

“Keycard,” he said simply. “It opens the building, the penthouse, and the private parking garage.”

You picked it up, turning it over in your hand. The embossed logo gleamed under the soft light.

“Here,” he added, pulling a sleek, almost-new phone from his pocket. He pressed a few buttons and slid it toward you. “My number. Call or text anytime. No formalities.”

Your fingers brushed briefly as you took the phone, an electric jolt humming through your skin.

“And,” he said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a business card, “this is Luca. My driver. He’ll pick you up for any events, take you wherever you need. Reliable. Discreet.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes - dark, unreadable. It wasn’t just practical. It was a gesture. A line drawn.

“Got it,” you said quietly, slipping the card into your bag. Now it was real.

*****

You stand in the middle of it all, your suitcase by your feet, and slowly let the silence sink in.

You should unpack.

Instead, you perch on the edge of the bed, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan blinks back at you in amber and violet, a slow kaleidoscope of movement you can’t hear from this high up.

You press your hands to the bedspread, the fabric cool beneath your fingertips. A knock on the door makes you lift your head.

“Yeah?"

Harry’s voice is quiet on the other side. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say, matching his tone. “Thanks. I just need to call my friend, don't want her to worry.”

He doesn’t enter - doesn't push. Just stands there, leaning against the door, a pause, like he’s still deciding something.

“I had a toothbrush brought in for you,” he says. “And, uh… Maya mentioned you liked the lavender body wash. It’s in the shower.”

That strange warmth blooms in your chest again - inconvenient and insistent. You close your eyes for a second. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Silence again.

You hear him step away, then pause.

“I’ll be in my room,” he says finally. “If you need anything.”

The words hover - simple, ordinary. But something about the if you need anything clings to you long after his footsteps fade.

You strip slowly, peel off the long day. Your skin still smells faintly of perfume. You find the lavender wash in the shower and pour a little too much into your palm.

The water beats down and you stand there for longer than necessary, rinsing off the day, the decision, the sudden tightness behind your ribs.

You’re not here to fall in love.

You’re here for thirty days.

You’re here to play the part.

And yet…

You dry off, pull on silk shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and step back into the dim bedroom. The city lights cast soft shadows on the walls. The bed looks untouched.

You picked up your phone and dialed an ever familiar number.

"Where the hell have you been? I nearly had the NYPD and FBI looking for you!'

No hi, no hello. Typical Katie.

"I'm fine. I wanted to ring because… I need to tell you, I got a contract, so I’m going to be out for the next month," you say, voice casual, clipped like if you keep it businesslike, it won’t feel so strange saying it out loud.

There’s silence for a beat, then Katie lets out a dry laugh. "A month? Shit, babe, that sounds like the good kind of contract. What’s the deal...travel, parties, blowjobs on a yacht?"

You smirk, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "No yachts. Not yet, anyway. Just… full-time. One guy. Nice place."

"Let me guess - glass everywhere, private elevator, sheets with a thread count that could knock you out?"

"Basically," you say, glancing around the penthouse. It still doesn’t feel like it belongs to you, not even temporarily. The furniture is too sculptural. The air smells too clean. "It’s ridiculous."

"Is he hot, at least?"

You pause. "He’s… intense."

Katie laughs again, lower this time. "So that’s a yes."

You roll your eyes, but don’t argue. "He’s not like my usual. Corporate. Cold, kind of. But then he looks at me and it’s like..."

"Like you forgot how to breathe?"

You blink, then nod slowly. "...Yeah."

Katie exhales. You can hear her flick a lighter, probably leaning on the windowsill of her own flat, in that lazy robe she always answers the door in. "Sounds like trouble. You going soft on a client?"

"No." Too quick. Too defensive. "It’s just a job."

"Right. Sure. We all say that before we’re the ones catching feelings while pretending not to." She pauses. "Does he know what you usually do?"

You chew on your thumbnail. "Not everything. Doesn’t want… that. It’s more about appearances. Dinner. Events. I think he just wants someone to orbit him."

Katie snorts. "So you’re a very expensive moon."

"Shut up," you mutter, laughing despite yourself.

"Hey, I’m not judging. We’ve all done it, the slow burn ones, the lonely rich ones, the ones that swear they don’t want sex until they do." A beat. "Just keep your wits about you, okay? Men like that love the illusion, but they panic when they start believing it’s real. And if you do, make sure you charge him!"

You’re quiet. Her words land like little pins under your skin.

Katie softens, her voice dipping. "You call me if you need anything. Seriously. I don’t care if it’s three a.m. and you’re locked in a marble bathroom crying into a $90 face towel."

You smile, but your throat tightens. "Thanks."

"One last thing..."

"Mhm?"

"Tell me what the wardrobe’s like."

You grin. "Katie. It has a remote control."

She gasps. "I hate you."

You laugh as you hang up the phone, a small piece of normality making you feel at home.

You hesitate for a long moment before flicking off the lamp and slipping between the sheets.

You stare at the ceiling.

You wonder if he’s asleep yet.

You wonder what room is his.

You wonder if he’s wondering about you.

You turn on your side and bury your face in the pillow.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand.

Harry: “Night.”

You stare at the message for a long moment, then type out a reply.

You: “Night, boss.”

You hit send and immediately regret the cheek of it - but a second later, a typing bubble appears.

Harry: “We’ll work on that nickname.”

You smile into the dark.

Then, just as suddenly, your stomach twists.

You’re not supposed to like the way he talks to you. You’re not supposed to feel warm at the sound of his voice.

You’re not supposed to feel anything at all.

And yet, as the city flickers below and the luxury sheets cocoon you in comfort, you know sleep won’t come easily tonight.

Not in his home.

*****

Across the hall, Harry laid in bed, sleep not greeting him just yet.

You were here.

Really here.

Your shoes in the hallway, coat tossed carelessly over a chair, the faint floral scent of your perfume already lingering in the air. It unsettled him more than he expected.

He should’ve felt in control, the contract was signed, the terms clear. No surprises. Just an arrangement. Boundaries.

But you weren't a boundary. You were a breach.

You had wandered through his home earlier like you didn’t quite believe it was yours, not even temporarily. That had done something to him. That flicker of guarded wonder in your eyes. You weren't impressed by wealth; he’d vetted that early. You were used to it... but not this kind. Not his kind. He could tell.

And yet you hadn't flinched. You met his gaze when he handed you the key card, even smirked a little. Like you knew exactly what game you were playing.

Harry didn’t usually offer the key card personally. Or the private driver’s number. Or the burner phone with his number already saved at the top.

He told himself it was practical.

But deep down, he knew it was something else.

You're different. Not because of your looks - though, Jesus - but because of the way you carried your defiance like perfume. Quiet, heady, impossible to ignore. You didn’t chase power. You dared it.

And now you werr in his space. Putting fingerprints on his order. Stirring up something feral in the man who had built his life on control.

This was temporary. A business agreement.

He repeated it again.

Then why did it feel like a fuse had been lit?

******

You’re already up before he is.

You didn’t sleep much, too quiet, too dark, too clean so by the time the city began to hum beneath the penthouse windows, you gave up pretending and padded into the kitchen. You find tea, of course. Organic, overpriced, alphabetically arranged. There’s a box marked "H. Castillo" in perfect handwriting on the top shelf. You don’t touch that one.

You’re barefoot on marble, silk shorts, tshirt loose over your chest, nipples faintly visible in the chill of the room. You don’t care. You weren’t hired to be modest.

You’re mid-sip when you hear his voice behind you.

“Help yourself.”

You nearly spill the tea. You didn’t hear him come in. You turn to find him standing there, no jacket, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie in one hand. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. Barely put together, and somehow more dangerous for it.

“You really need to stop doing that,” you mutter, heart still skipping. “What if I’d been naked?”

He lifts a brow, steps closer like it’s nothing. “Then it would’ve been a far more interesting breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. He’s too calm. Too close.

“I assume you found everything.”

“I’ve been in bigger hotel suites,” you say, sipping again. “Just with worse coffee.”

“It’s not a hotel.”

“No. It’s a penthouse with a coffee machine that costs more than my first car.”

He watches you - not your face, not exactly. His gaze drifts to the faint line of your collarbone, the skin at the base of your throat. When his eyes find yours again, there’s something in them you can’t quite place. Calculating. Curious.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

The smile that touches his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sex isn’t in the contract.” The words careful and measured. A boundary drawn not just for you, but for himself.

Because even as he says it, his gaze betrays him. It skims, quickly, over the line of your thighs where your shorts sit. He forces himself to look away, jaw tightening, retreating behind the usual mask of restraint.

“I know.”

“Just making sure you’re aware.”

You pause. Tilt your head slightly. “So no sex. But breakfast flirting is complimentary?”

“Among other things.”

His voice is dry, but the air thickens.

You glance down he’s still holding the tie, the silk crushed slightly in his hand. Your fingers twitch before your brain even catches up.

“Want help with that?”

He doesn’t answer, just lifts the tie and hands it over. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, amusement, hesitation, heat but he doesn’t move when you step into his space.

You’re too aware of the fact that he smells good. Subtle, expensive. Like cedar and something crisp and private. His shirt is warm from his skin, and your knuckles brush his chest as you adjust the collar.

You haven’t done this in a while. Not since someone who didn’t pay you.

Your hands move automatically, muscle memory guiding the knot, trying not to tremble. Harry stood still, his sharp gaze fixed on you as your fingers moved deftly around his collar. There was a calm confidence in the way you handled the silk tie, precise and unhurried, as if this were routine for you, not the business of clients, but something more personal.

The scent of your shampoo, subtle and clean, reached him, making his pulse catch unexpectedly. He wasn’t used to feeling this exposed, this unsettled, especially not in his own penthouse.

His mind flickered between control and chaos. He reminded himself of the contract, the boundaries, the rules. This was business. Nothing more.

But as your hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary, tying the Windsor knot perfectly, he felt the pull of something unspoken, something dangerous, simmering beneath the surface.

He caught your eyes, steady and unreadable, and realized neither of you were quite willing to break the silence.

You focus on the fold, the loop, the pull. His breath is steady. Yours isn’t.

“There,” you say softly, smoothing it out. “Windsor. You look like someone about to fire half of Wall Street.”

He doesn’t thank you. Just watches you with that unreadable expression. Sharp. Tense.

You step back. Distance is safer.

“Try not to mess it up,” you say, grabbing your tea again. And then you leave him there, standing perfectly tied and totally silent, while your pulse refuses to slow.

He watches as you walk out of the room, the hem of your silk shorts riding dangerously high, grazing the curve of your thighs, threatening to reveal more with each step. It’s a vision that brands itself into his mind, one he knows damn well he’ll be replaying the moment he’s alone in the back seat of his car.

Harry swears under his breath.

This was never supposed to be complicated. But nothing about you, your sharp wit, your posture like armour, that maddening, deliberate softness you wear like a dare is simple.

You hadn’t looked back, not even once. Just walked out like you didn’t know what you were leaving in your wake.

But he knows you do.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

And for a man who prides himself on control, who built a world where everything has a place and price, the fact that he’s standing there in his own goddamn kitchen, still reeling from the ghost of your hands on his tie, feels like losing.

He tugs at the knot again, as if he can loosen the memory with it.

He can’t.

And somewhere, deep in his chest, a truth starts to thrum beneath the surface like a warning:

If she keeps this up, the contract won’t be the only thing he breaks.

Fuck.

_______________________________________________

I hope you are all enjoying this. I will also be doing an update on A Getaway Car tomorrow so keep your eyes peeled 👀 I feel like making a playlist for this fic what do you think?

Thanks for all the comments and reblogs 😘

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

I am enjoying this story so much

Chapter Two: The Gala

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

The Arrangement Masterlist

You make it look like it's magic, cause I see nobody, nobody but you. - The Weeknd

You weren’t always an escort.

You grew up sharp and observant, the kind of girl who noticed the way people moved in a room, what they said when they thought no one was listening. You learned early that the world ran on power, money, and charm and if you didn’t have the first two, you’d better master the third.

Your childhood wasn’t violent or tragic, just… unstable. Your mother left early. Your dad worked three jobs, most of them inconsistent. You moved around a lot - schools, flats, cities - and learned to keep your head down while also knowing exactly when to raise it.

In your early twenties, you tried the usual routes: temp jobs, waitressing, even an attempt at drama school before tuition bills caught up with you. None of it stuck. But what did? Men. Their attention. Their need to be seen, understood, admired and yours to be safe, in control, and well-compensated for it.

You didn’t call it escorting at first. A friend introduced you to someone, who introduced you to someone else. At first it was dinners, overnights, companionship. Then contracts. Then regulars. You kept it clean. You never got messy. You never promised more than what was offered and you always delivered more than what was expected.

By the time you met Harry Castillo, you were five years into this life. Not new, but not jaded. Careful, not cold. You knew how to wear any room like a dress, how to read a man’s mood from across a table, how to soften your voice or sharpen it depending on what the moment demanded.

The suite at The Carlyle is too clean.

The kind of clean that feels deliberate, sterile. Like no one actually lives here, they just pass through, trailing cologne and credit limits behind them. You’ve been in hotel rooms like this before, but never for long. Never with someone else footing the bill.

You woke early. You always do.

Showered. Shaved. Tied your hair up with a silk ribbon you found in your overnight bag, not yours, clearly Harry’s assistant’s doing. Everything had been arranged: a sample-sized lingerie in pale neutral, a handwritten note next to the coffee machine.

The stylist will meet you at noon. Don’t let them underestimate you.— H

You read it twice.

Then you made your coffee and stared out the window like it was a screen showing someone else’s life.

And now it’s noon, and the doorbell rings exactly on time.

You open it barefoot, in a robe, because you want to see the look on whoever-it-is’s face.

The woman on the other side doesn’t flinch.

Late thirties, maybe early forties. Sleek black hair, blunt bangs, all cheekbones and dry wit just waiting to happen. She looks you up and down once, not with judgment, but with the precision of someone mentally scanning your measurements and filing them into categories like fit-and-flare, plunge neckline, color season: winter, obviously.

She says your name like a statement.

“That’s me.”

“Vivienne. I’ve been instructed to make you look like you were born into old money.”

You smile. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

She strides in without waiting for permission, snapping her fingers at the two assistants trailing behind her, one with racks of dresses, the other carrying shoe boxes and fabric swatches like sacred offerings.

You close the door.

“What kind of event is it?” you ask, folding your arms, staying barefoot just to keep some part of yourself grounded.

Vivienne glances over her tablet. “Harry didn’t say. Which tells me it’s important.”

“Gala?”

“Maybe.”

She gestures toward the rack. “We’re trying everything. Jewelry arrives in an hour. Hair and makeup after that. You’re on a very tight schedule to become effortlessly perfect.”

You raise an eyebrow with a small smirk. “No pressure.”

Vivienne looks up at you, something faintly like amusement in her eyes. “You’re not nervous.”

You shake your head. Maybe Vivienne wasn't informed of your occupation. “Should I be?”

“No,” she says slowly, “but I’ve dressed a lot of women for this world. You’re not like them.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“That depends. Are you here to play a part, or rewrite it?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

You pause. Then you say, “I guess we’ll find out.”

*****

Three hours later, you’re staring at a version of yourself you almost don’t recognize.

The gown is midnight blue, not black, not navy, midnight. Slippery silk that moves like water, cut very low in the back and tight enough at the waist to make your posture change. Your hair is swept into a clean knot at the nape of your neck. Diamond drops kiss your collarbone that probably costs more than your yearly rent. Your lips are soft, not bold. Your eyes are smoky.

You look expensive.

You look untouchable.

And when you step into the car waiting outside, a matte black Mercedes with nothing but a curt nod from the driver, you let yourself imagine for half a second that this is your real life.

That you’re someone who belongs at Harry Castillo’s side.

But you know better.

You're here to play a part.

And you're going to play it perfectly.

*****

He was checking his watch when the elevator doors opened.

Harry never paced. He managed time, like everything else - precisely, silently, efficiently. But tonight, standing in the hotel suite he’d reserved for their staging area, he caught himself halfway through a second glance at the clock.

Then you stepped in.

And time, for just a moment, stopped managing itself.

You didn’t announce herself. You didn’t glide or pose or wait for effect. You walked in like you belonged in a room like this, wearing a dress that didn’t just fit - it transformed.

Midnight blue. Sleek. Elegant. The kind of fabric that demanded attention without begging for it. It framed you like a secret you couldn’t afford to want, but did anyway.

You hair was up. Diamonds grazed your collarbone. The makeup was subtle, expensive, devastating.

Harry’s first thought was: This isn’t the woman I met last night.

And his second was: Yes, it is.

Because it wasn’t the gown or the heels or the discreet flash of skin that made his chest tighten. It was your eyes - sharp as ever, unwavering, meeting his like you were daring him to underestimate you now.

You tilted your head, noticing the slight gap his mouth had made as you walked in. “I clean up well.”

Understatement.

He didn’t speak at first. Just studied you.

It wasn’t about attraction - though it was there, inevitable and rising fast. It was the shift. The fact that you looked like someone the board would fawn over. Someone the press wouldn’t question. Someone Lucy would hate, instantly.

“You do,” he said finally, voice low.

Your mouth quirked. “Good. Because that stylist put me through three hours of fabric-induced identity crisis.”

You couldn’t help but take him in. The tuxedo tailored to perfection, his dark hair neatly swept back, those deep brown eyes steady and unreadable. He was handsome - undeniably so. More striking than most of your past clients, which was always a bonus in this line of work.

Harry stepped forward. Not close enough to touch, just enough to make it clear this was no longer hypothetical. This was real now. Public. Photographed. Whispered about.

He paused before he handed you a small velvet box.

“What’s this?” you asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Final touch.”

Inside was a bracelet, diamond-studded links, delicate, Cartier. Of course. It matched the earrings. Probably arranged by his assistant, Maya. Still, Harry had signed off on it.

You didn’t gasp or coo or pretend to be overwhelmed. You just looked at it, then up at him. “Do I get to keep it?”

He gave the smallest nod with a slight smirk. “Of course.”

You lifted your wrist, letting him fasten the clasp himself.

His fingers brushed your skin, warm, impossibly soft and for a flicker of a second, the air between you changed. Denser. Quieter.

You looked up at him, expression unreadable. His face closer to yours than expected.

“You’re staring,” you said lightly.

“I know.”

Another beat passed, one breath too long, before you looked away. You adjusted one earring, smoothed the skirt, and glanced toward the door.

“So… ready to show me off?” you asked, tone still teasing but there was something underneath it now. Something sharper.

Harry gave a slow, steady breath. Then he said, “You’ll steal the whole room.”

“Good,” you said, already walking toward the elevator. His gaze adverting towards the lower half of your back. “Just as we agreed.”

But as he followed you out, one hand at the small of your back, Harry couldn’t shake the thought that this was already slipping out of his control.

Remember Harry, this is an arrangement.

*****

The lights hit you before the air does.

Cool evening breeze, gold-lit steps, and then flash. Flash. Flash.

Cameras pop like firecrackers. Voices swirl. Someone calls Harry’s name, someone else guesses yours wrong.

“Mr. Castillo! Who’s the new face?”

“Is this one a replacement?”

“Over here, sir! Over here!”

You smile like you’ve been doing it all your life.

Not wide. Not fake. Just enough to register: I’m aware you’re looking, and I don’t care.

The silk clings to you as you climb the stairs one measured step at a time, midnight blue catching the light like a second skin. You feel Harry step in beside you. His hand finds the small of your back with clinical precision, like the move’s been practiced on dozens of women. Maybe it has.

But he doesn’t guide you. He doesn’t steer. He just keeps pace.

And that alone earns him a flicker of something like respect. Unlike past clients.

The red carpet is a corridor of curated attention - stylists lurking near velvet ropes, society wives scanning for scandal, assistants texting furiously to figure out who you are. You see it all.

You feel it all.

The way the first few glances slide over you - too young, too unfamiliar, too not Lucy. Then the moment the men’s eyes linger one second longer. The women catch up next, doing a double take, recalibrating. It’s not just that you look expensive - it’s that you look like you know something they don’t.

That’s what unnerves them.

That’s what excites them.

Inside, the ballroom is all chandeliers and whispered millions. Waiters float past with crystal flutes and shrimp skewers no one actually eats. A live quartet plays something polite in the background. The entire building smells like money and old power. You let it settle over you like mist.

You’ve been to places like this before. The chandeliers. The gowns. The murmurs that sound like compliments but feel like currency. You know how to walk into a room like this and play the part. You’ve done it a dozen times + high-end clients who wanted a pretty woman on their arm and silence on her lips.

You’ve worn dresses just as expensive. Smiled just as wide. Let strangers believe you were just another debutante or actress or heiress. No one ever asked. They didn’t want to know. That was the point. They didn’t want you. They wanted what you gave them - ease, illusion, the girlfriend experience minus the weight of real emotion. Men who barked details beforehand: her name is Vanessa, she doesn’t eat carbs, she’s shy about PDA but wild behind closed doors. They liked control. They liked knowing you were theirs - for the night, the event, the transaction.

Harry hasn’t said much since you stepped out of the car.

But he’s watching you.

He’s not obvious about it. Not the way men usually are. He tracks you the way a strategist watches the board, noting each calculated move, each flash of confidence. And he sees it, doesn’t he?

That you know how to read a room. That you’re better at this than most of the people born into it.

“Smile,” he murmurs at your side, voice low, smooth.

“I am,” you say without turning your head.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t correct you. You sense the smallest shift in his posture, something like amusement. Or maybe admiration.

A woman approaches. Older. Elegant in the kind of way that comes from decades of practiced stillness. Platinum hair. Thin smile. Diamond tennis bracelet the size of a down payment.

“Harry,” she says. “You didn’t tell us you were bringing someone.”

You turn just slightly. Enough to join the exchange. But not enough to overstep.

He introduces you. The woman blinks, takes you in all at once. Her smile doesn’t shift, but something behind her eyes sharpens.

“Lovely,” she says, to Harry, not you.

You hold her gaze anyway. “You look beautiful,” you say. And then — just enough tilt in your tone — “Have you and Harry known each other long?”

It lands. She falters for half a second, then excuses herself with a gracious nod.

Harry waits until she’s gone to murmur, “That was surgical.”

You sip your champagne. “She didn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like anyone.”

“She really didn’t like me.”

A pause. Then, low and dry, “That’s why I kept you.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your eyes scan the crowd. You don’t cling to Harry. You don’t chase attention. You just exist — composed, untouchable.

And when your gaze slides back to him, you catch something flicker across his face.

Not lust. Not pride.

Curiosity.

Something deeper than he wanted to show.

And suddenly, it isn’t just the cameras you’re performing for.

It’s him.

It doesn’t take long for people to start peeling away from the crowd to meet you.

Not out of kindness - curiosity is currency here. You’re something new. And novelty always draws a crowd.

The first few introductions blur. Names you don’t bother storing, men with firm handshakes and wives with cold smiles. You play polite. Charming, but not overeager. Let them ask the questions. Let them wonder. That’s the real power in a room like this — restraint.

Harry watches it all, quiet beside you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t perform. It’s almost like… he’s letting you work.

When the first woman pulls you aside, somewhere between the oysters and the obscenely expensive wine and you follow, curious.

She’s tall, early forties maybe, in a black column gown with a neckline that says divorced and thriving. Her voice is velvet and vodka-toned.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “how long have you and Harry been seeing each other?”

You lift a shoulder. “A little while.”

She gives a knowing smile, the kind women like her perfect after years of dinner parties and backhanded compliments. “You’re not the usual type.”

“Not blonde?”

“Not trained.”

You hold her gaze for just a beat too long. Then smile sweetly. “You think I need training to handle Harry?”

There’s a flicker of something, amusement, maybe. Maybe a warning.

Then she takes a sip of her drink and drifts off, bored or bruised or both.

You find Harry again at the edge of the ballroom, talking with a man in a suit that probably costs more than your childhood home. His hand finds your lower back as you approach, light, like a signal.

He introduces you. The man is… polite. Careful. Smiling just a little too hard when he looks at you.

When he steps away, Harry leans in.

“He thinks you’re an actress.”

You glance up at him. “Should I correct him?”

He considers. “No. Let them guess. It’s better that way.”

You sip your champagne, then ask quietly, “What did you tell them I am?”

His eyes slide to yours. “Nothing.”

“So they’re filling in the blanks.”

He nods once. “People like that. It’s safer for them than the truth.”

You watch the crowd, the way heads still turn subtly when you pass. You wonder how many here had Harry’s attention before you. How many will try to claim it after.

“Why me?” you ask, not coy but curious.

He doesn’t pretend not to understand.

After a moment, he says, “Because you walked into that lobby like you weren’t for sale.”

You turn to face him, brows raised. “I was for sale.”

His mouth curves slightly. “Exactly.”

There’s something electric in the quiet between you.

And then someone calls his name, an older man, gray at the temples, with a voice that demands attention. Harry gives you a subtle look: Come with me. You follow.

The man is a senator. You recognize him from the news. His wife, standing beside him, eyes you like you’re a landmine in designer heels.

The conversation is light, politics, charity, money disguised as civility. But under it, there’s something else: a test.

You keep up. You make a dry comment about a foundation’s tax loophole and the senator actually laughs. His wife does not.

When the couple walks away, Harry gives you a long, unreadable look.

“What?”

“I thought I’d have to step in.”

You arch a brow. “Disappointed?”

“No,” he says, after a pause. “Not at all.”

You leave soon after. His hand settles on your lower back again as the driver pulls the car around. You feel the weight of it differently now, not possessive. Not protective. But present. Like he sees you in a way he didn’t before.

As you slip into the car, he follows, silent.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then he says, voice quiet, “You wore the hell out of that dress.”

You let the compliment hang in the air for a beat, tilting your head just slightly, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of your gloss-worn mouth.

“Good,” you said coolly, eyes flicking over to him. “Means I’m earning my fee.”

But then, just for a second, your gaze softens, not in a way that undoes the armor, but enough to leave a crack.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” you add, voice low, velvet-laced. “To be the man with the woman everyone stared at tonight?”

You don't wait for his answer. Just turn toward the window, watching the city sparkle outside. But your tone lingers like perfume, expensive, intoxicating, and impossible to forget.

He’s watching you like he’s still trying to figure out what you are.

You want to smirk. To play it off. But your voice comes out softer than you meant:

“That’s part of the service, Mr. Castillo.”

The way his jaw tenses, ever so slightly, tells you he doesn’t love that answer.

“Is it?"

You tilt your head.

“It is tonight.”

He doesn’t push further. But something lingers in the air between you, not quite spoken, not quite deniable. A heat, a hum. A question neither of you wants to be first to ask.

His smile is slow. Real. The first one of the night.

Outside, the cameras flash again. His hand on your lower back, no different to the rest of the night.

*****

The door of the town car shuts with a soft click, muffling the city behind you. You slip off your heels, stretching your toes into the car floor like you’ve just survived a battlefield in stilettos.

Harry sits beside you, quiet, undoing the top button of his shirt like he’s peeling off the last layer of his public armor. You glance at him, just long enough to catch the way he’s watching you in return.

“You handled tonight better than I expected,” he says eventually.

You raise an eyebrow, lazily. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“I don’t give compliments,” he says. “I give evaluations.”

“Charming,” you murmur, folding your legs beneath you. “What’s the verdict then, boss?”

His mouth twitches, but not into a full smile. You’ve noticed that about him. He’s careful with softness. With warmth.

“You made people curious,” he says. “You made them look. Which is exactly what I needed.”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “So I earned my cut.”

He shifts, the leather creaking beneath him. “That’s not what I meant.”

You glance at him again. He’s not looking at you like a client. Not tonight. There’s something else in his gaze now, something assessing, but almost... fascinated.

“I have three more events this week,” he says. “And several next month. I’d prefer not to rotate through arm candy.”

You bite back a grin. “And here I thought variety was the spice of billionaire life.”

“I prefer consistency.” A pause. “Control.” He looks at you, his gaze drifting down then back up.

You let that word hang in the air. You’re not sure if it’s a warning or a test.

“So what are you proposing?” you ask, voice low. Not flirty. Curious. You lean back into the leather seat and wait.

“A month,” he says. “Thirty days. You accompany me to every event I choose. You’re on call, within reason. Exclusive. In return, you get a flat fee - plus wardrobe, accommodations, discretion.”

A breath of silence. Then...

“But I want you staying at mine. The hotel’s not going to work.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, more curious than annoyed. “Because?”

“Security, for one.” He shifts slightly, his gaze flicking to yours. “But also optics. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend. It’s easier to sell if you’re not catching cabs back to SoHo after midnight.”

You almost laugh. “You think I’m the type to sneak out in the middle of the night?”

His voice is soft. “I think you’re the type to keep your distance.”

You look out the window. The skyline is breaking open now, downtown glittering in the near distance. Your pulse picks up slightly.

“Living together, even temporarily,” you say. “That’s a whole other price tier.”

“It’s already accounted for,” he says without missing a beat.

You turn your head toward him again. “You always this decisive with business deals?”

He looks at you like you already know the answer.

"Only the ones I want to win.” You could help but chuckle.

“And discretion,” you repeat. “So I’m your dirty little secret?”

His jaw ticks. “No. You’re my guest. But people talk. I don’t need a tabloid circus.”

You study him in the dark. You could walk away right now. Say no, thank you, good luck with your billionaire loneliness. But something stops you.

Maybe it’s the way he said guest instead of possession. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long time, someone looked at you like you could be more than a transaction.

You cross your arms. “Double my usual rate.”

That gets a smile. Not smug. Amused. “That’s bold.”

“You’re not hiring a vase, Harry,” you say, coolly. “You’re hiring someone who won’t embarrass you in a room full of Harvard grads and hedge fund monsters. I proved that tonight.”

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

“Done,” he says instead. No hesitation.

You blink. “Just like that?”

“I don’t waste time negotiating when I’ve already decided I want something.”

You tap your nail against the leather armrest.

“But I want to be clear about something,” you add, turning toward him. “This isn’t a long con. You’re not paying for sex. That’s not what this is.”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “I know.”

“I give the experience, the illusion, the public-facing version. That’s what you’re buying.”

“And it’s a convincing one,” he says, almost too quiet.

You breathe in, slow. “But I’m not sleeping with you because there’s a contract. I don’t do that.”

“I didn’t assume you would.” You study him for a moment longer than you should, unsure if it’s the compliment or the implication that unsettles you more.

You nod once, letting that settle. It’s important, for both of you. You’ve had men who thought a few high heels and a dinner date came with guarantees. But Harry doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even blink.

A chill dances down your spine.

You extend your hand. “Then we have a deal.”

His fingers wrap around yours - warm, firm, grounding.

It’s not a client’s handshake.

It’s something else.

And for a dangerous moment, you wonder what exactly you’ve signed up for.

*****

The elevator dings softly as it opens to your hotel room.

You step in alone.

The driver offered to walk you up, but you waved him off. You needed the silence. The distance. Just a few floors of breath between the moment you shook Harry Castillo’s hand and the moment your own heart caught up with the decision.

Thirty days.

You told him it was about money. And it is. It always is. Rent. Debts. That phone call from your sister you ignored because you didn’t want to hear the need in her voice. You’ve been surviving so long, you’ve stopped asking what it would feel like to actually live.

But this?

This feels different.

You drop your clutch on the marble console table, toes curling into the rug. The dress is still hugging your body like it belongs to someone richer. Someone less real. Someone who’s never had to smile through being iced out of a fitting because the sales associate decided you weren’t “a good brand fit.”

You think about the way Harry looked at you tonight.

Not like you were decoration. Not like you were disposable.

No....he looked at you like you were useful. Tactical. A weapon sharpened into silk and diamonds.

And god help you, that felt good.

You move to the mirror and stare at yourself. The makeup is still flawless. Hair still glossy. But your eyes… they always give you away. Even now. Even after all the practice.

You sit at the edge of the bed, unzip your heels, and let yourself feel it.

Not relief.

Not fear.

But a strange, simmering anticipation.

You made him raise the offer. You saw him hesitate before he smiled. That wasn’t control. That was surprise. You pushed back, and he liked it.

You’re not sure if that’s a red flag or a green light.

You lie back on the bed, the cool sheets soft against your skin. One arm flung over your eyes, blocking out the chandelier’s dim glow.

What the hell did I just agree to?

Thirty days.

One man.

In his penthouse.

Unlimited possibility.

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Utterly brilliant chapter Mallory!

The two of them being so domestic and cosy (and downright filthy on the kitchen table 🥵) is delicious, and then the steamroll in with Joel's fear and anxiety was just perfect. He's so used to being the protector, and his frustration at not being able to perform that role now is palpable.

Chapter 12: Walls

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: Ellie nods, a pensive look across her face, and she looks up at the sky, thinking. “He’s different now. Lighter. Like, he’s not carrying something heavy all the time. I used to think he’d never recover from losing Sar—his daughter. And then with everything that happened with me. But now he like… smiles.” Chapter Warnings: smut, kitchen table sex, joel miller kissing you while he cooks because i can't get that scene from superman outta my head, angst, an argument, joel miller stop needing to control people challenge, hints of a panic attack Words: 6,200

A/N: Whoooooaaaa-oooaaaa. I really struggled with this chapter until it all kinda clicked into place. Uh. Enjoy the angst. It's important. People build walls around themselves for different reasons, and sometimes they need to be broken down with tense conversations, love, and understanding... or sometimes Joel wants control and he can't get it.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

You settle into a familiar and comfortable routine. A simple life such as this, mostly free from fear or danger, was unheard of until you found Jackson. Happiness and love begin and end your days, all thanks to Joel.

Now, you wake up to the sound of his boots against the hardwood floor and the smell of your peppermint tea that he brews for you every morning. He’s always the first up now, rousing you with gentle hands and a low “C’mon baby, you gotta get up. I’m headin’ to work.”

Yes, work. Joel Miller, Jackson’s resident contractor know-it-all, is back at work, helping out on the new houses being renovated near the edge of the walls. It’s only been a week, and he only works for a few hours, nothing too difficult, nothing too strenuous, but still, quite an accomplishment for the man who couldn’t walk just eight months ago. You’re proud of him, and you’re sure he’s proud of himself, his slight, confident smile telling you he’s had a good day at work whenever you ask him. 

Thanks to a slow day at the clinic, you get home earlier than expected. Joel isn’t on the porch or inside. You’re confused until you hear the high-pitched squeak of Ellie’s laughter in the backyard. You walk out the back door, squinting from the bright August sun beating down. There’s a half-built structure made out of a thick aspen branch with a flat, wooden platform attached to its side that Joel’s currently putting together.

“Hey,” you greet.

“Shit!” Ellie shouts, trying to block the mystery wooden creation.

Joel turns his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “You’re home early.”

“I am,” you say, stepping forward and arching an eyebrow at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It is,” Ellie says.

“Ellie,” Joel barks.

“Hey, man, you wanted to surprise her.”

“Surprise me? With what?” you respond, folding your arms over your chest.

“A cat tower,” Joel says, he and Ellie stepping aside. “S’not done yet, but I figured, Jefferson would like it.”

You smile at the shy way he says Jefferson’s name, the way he’s already been planning for the kitten you’ll be bringing home next week.

“Really?” you ask.

“Just have to wrap some twine around the scratching post, then install the joist hangers for the second platform. The base and platform should probably get a chamfer edge for safety in case he bumps into it too hard, and I’ll probably add a cross bracing for some extra suppor—” he glances over at you, a hint of redness in his cheeks when he realizes you have zero clue what he’s saying. “It’s… not done yet, but it will be soon.”

“And then he gets to build another for Jefferson’s sister,” Ellie says, a wide smile lifting her lips. “My kitten, Sally fuckin’ Ride.”

“Ellie,” Joel sighs.

“What? That’s her name,” she responds, shaking her head.

“It’s a great name,” you say. “I love that Jefferson and Sally will get to be neighbors.”

Ellie beams with pride. “Me too. So, ya’ know, since the cat tower is out of its bag, you no longer need my help. I’m going inside out of this heat,” she says, already moving to her front door before Joel even answers.

“Go ahead,” Joel says. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” she yells back, before she disappears behind her door.

You step closer to what Joel and Ellie have accomplished so far, running your hand along the smooth wood of the platform, imagining a little black and white cat perched on it, looking out the front window.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. 

“Really wanted to surprise you with it once it’s done,” he sighs.

“Mm, but now that I know you’re making it, I can start on a small mat for the top. That way it’ll be soft for him.”

Joel wraps his arm around you; he smells of sawdust and sweat, and you fight the urge to nuzzle your head against his chest.

“I like that,” he says, kissing the top of your head before he goes back to working.

You watch him, sanding the platform edges smoother, his large hands working delicately. You’re beginning to see the hint of the old Joel, the Joel you never knew. He’s stronger, more confident, and always focused on the task at hand. He steps back, thumb pressed at his jawline as he studies his work.

“Done for the day?” you ask.

“I could be,” he says, looking over at you. “Why?”

“Because I want a shower,” you say, holding out your hand to him, “and you know I just hate showering alone.”

The sandpaper drops out of Joel’s hand as he stalks towards you, practically pushing you inside and up the steps.

—-

The clatter of plates, the smell of pancakes and bacon, and a cacophony of conversations echoing off the dark wood walls. An almost too-faded memory of his life before. There was once a time when Joel was sitting across a table from his little girl after a soccer game, her jersey speckled with powdered sugar from her Belgian waffle, while he enjoyed the one splurge he’d allow himself, a plate of steak and eggs with extra hash browns and a black coffee.

Now, he sits across from you, clad in one of his flannels, a smile on your pretty face, waiting for your first meal out together… breakfast at the Tipsy Bison. He wasn’t sure if you two were even going to make it in time, especially after you woke up and climbed on top of him this morning. “We’re gonna miss breakfast ‘n we already slept in,” he lazily reasoned, not attempting to stop you from pulling his pants down.

“Can’t believe we almost missed this,” you muse with a smile on your face. He can tell you’re excited by the concept, having someone else tend to both of you, and a glimpse of life before. A restaurant is unheard of in the apocalypse, but Jackson allows such extraordinary things to happen.

Seth sets your plates down with a curt nod and a tiny bottle of syrup, the true luxury of Jackson. Joel acquiesces, with a serious look. That’s the thing about living in a town: he might have to work with a guy, but it doesn’t mean he has to like him.

Seth turns to you, giving you a soft smile Joel’s never seen across his face, thanking you for taking good care of his grandson when he was sick. You’re so well-liked by everyone, even grumpy assholes like Seth seem to soften when they’re around you.

He watches you pour the syrup over your pancakes, slow and methodical, coating the fluffy pancakes in golden syrup. He can’t hide his wide smile.

“What?” you ask, picking up your fork, poised to take a first bite.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just happy.”

You grin. “Me too.”

You give him your slices of bacon, and he foregoes syrup on his pancakes for you to have more. Every so often, you nudge his ankle under the table. This might just be the best plate of pancakes and eggs he’s ever had.

When you’re done, and weaving your way through the tables to leave, you grab his hand in the middle of the crowd. It’s an almost sense of pride he gets when you’re seen with him. Joel’s never been much of a showoff, but there’s something about being in public with your hand in his, and the way people look when they realize that you’re with him.

—-

You’re sitting outside on the back porch, enjoying the cool evening air as you knit Jefferson’s mat for his cat tree, when the familiar slam of Ellie’s door catches your attention. It’s never done in anger or frustration, just… in a “that’s how Ellie shuts doors” way.

“Hey,” she greets, walking over.

“Hey you,” you say, smiling. “Where you headed?”

“Headed to Dina’s for the night.”

“Oh,” you respond, acting nonchalant at the divulgence of Ellie and Dina’s obvious relationship. “That sounds nice. I hope you have a good time.”

“Thanks,” she says, before thinking for a bit. “Does it ever surprise you?”

“Hm?”

“Does it ever surprise you that you found Joel?” she asks, leaning against the stair railing. “That you kinda just showed up one day and then totally saved a dude’s life?”

“Whoa, that’s deep.”

“I know, sorry, just, I don’t know, like, sometimes I think about how easily things could've gone differently. Like, what if you hadn't been here when he got hurt? What if you hadn't come to Jackson at all?"

You smile at Ellie, understanding her thoughts. You think about it all the time, too.

“In this world, we can ask to understand a lot of what-ifs. I like to think that if it’s supposed to happen, it’ll find a way to happen.”

“Yeah?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Look at you and Joel. You also found each other, right?"

She nods, a pensive look across her face, and she looks up at the sky, thinking. “He’s different now. Lighter. Like, he’s not carrying something heavy all the time. I used to think he’d never recover from losing Sar—his daughter. And then with everything that happened with me. But now he like… smiles.”

You nod, understanding the overwhelming weight of what she’s sharing. You place your knitting needles in your lap. “Joel hardly mentions her. Tommy told me about her in the early days. He’d say her name while dreaming a lot.”

Ellie still looks skywards, almost lost in her thoughts. “He was… different before. Like so different. Kind of an asshole.”

“Noooo,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“No, but really. He was…yikes. I think you’ve changed him, and I feel like… I should thank you for that.”

You swallow the lump of emotion in your throat. Ellie, the girl you know Joel would move mountains for, is thanking you.

"You don't need to thank me. I'm the lucky one."

“He used to be so closed off and almost miserable all the time. Now he's building cat towers and smiling and shit. It’s really nice to see."

“I’m sure it is,” you smile.

“I should go. Dina’s waiting.”

“Of course, Ellie, have fun.”

When you head back inside, Joel is sitting at the kitchen table, dicing tomatoes for dinner. The familiar site of domesticity that you share with him makes your heart feel full.

“Took you a while,” he says.

“Ellie was leaving to head to Dina’s for the night, I was talking to her for a bit.”

“Oh? ‘Bout what?”

“Hmm,” you ponder, walking towards him. “She was asking me if it ever surprises me how we met…”

“What’d you tell her?” he asks, setting the knife down and scooting his chair back from the table.

“That some things are meant to happen,” you respond, stepping in between his legs. “She then told me she thinks you’re different now. Lighter.”

“Feel different,” he responds, wrapping his arms around you, resting his chin on your stomach to look up at you.

You lean down and press a kiss to his forehead. “And she thanked me for that.”

“You did change me, baby,” he says, staring up at you, with those deep, brown eyes you love so much. “You saved me.”

The sky outside is turning golden as the sun begins to set behind the mountains. Joel looks even more bronzed and gorgeous in this light. Your handsome Joel, the man who has given you his heart… the same heart you restarted.

—-

Joel’s found a new love in cooking for you; he’s no gourmet chef, but he handles the basics well. Most of all, he can tell you love watching him.

Tonight, he's making spaghetti while you sit on the countertop, your legs dangling right next to where he stirs the sauce on the stove.

"How do you always know when I'm craving pasta?" you ask.

He turns towards you, holding the spoon. "I always know you're craving pasta."

"I guess you know me well, don't you?"

He nods with a "Hmm" before moving to stand between your legs, crowding you against the cupboard. "Guess," he kisses you, "I," another kiss, "do," and a third. He leans into this one, kissing you harder, his tongue parting your lips, hands bracketing your waist, running trails up and down your body. Your hands find the dark waves of his hair, the stubble of his jaw, and the lines of his neck as he pushes you against the cupboard.

God, he loves kissing you, feeling your soft lips against his, hearing your breathing tick up when his tongue parts your lips.

"The sauce," you say, pulling away.

"Mm, I got it," he responds, chasing your lips, reaching for the spoon to stir without looking at the pot as he kisses you.

The sauce quietly simmers on the stove, and he breathes in the scent of garlic and tomatoes, mixing with the sweet scent of you, still stirring the pot with one hand as his other slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up.

“Joel,” you try to protest. “Dinner.”

“You’re distracting me, you know that?” he asks, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

He can’t help it. All he really wants is you. He chucks the spoon against the spoon rest before he wraps his arms around you, sinking both palms into the soft curve of your ass and pulls you forward, until you’re flush with him.

You moan when he kisses his way down your neck, your legs wrapping around his hips, laughing as he lifts you from the counter and carries you a few clumsy steps to the kitchen table, pride making him feel stronger that he’s now able to hold you like this. He sets you down on the table gently, admiring the sight of you splayed out, already looking slightly disheveled, your lips parted and pupils wide as you stare up at him.

He leans forward, kissing you again, moving your dress higher up your thighs, his fingers finding you already wet and warm for him. A cocky grin lifts his lips as he takes your underwear off, pulling them down to your ankles before he tosses them to the side.

He grips your ankles, pulling your legs open and pressing your knees back to your chest so he can stare down at your pretty pussy, all wet and ready for him. He’s almost in awe at the sight, you glistening for him on his kitchen table.

The temptation is too much, he bends, licking a slow and greedy stripe up your slit, and you instantly respond to him, arching into him, a desperate sound leaving your lips. He groans in appreciation, sucking your clit before pressing his tongue against it.

“Joooel, the sauce.”

He huffs a laugh against your sensitive skin before he rises, quickly walking to the stove to stir it and flicks the burner off. He stalks back towards you, undoing his jeans and pulling his cock out, already hard and flushed, ready to feel your wet pussy around it. He strokes it once, then twice, staring down at you splayed out on the table for him. You look up at him, lifting your legs into the air without a word. He knows you’re needy to feel him.

He lines himself up at your entrance, pressing the head of him against your soaked hole before he shoves in. Quick and hungry, the table creaking under his power, he has finally found again. He fucks you hard, pace unrelenting. He’s stronger than before, his leg allowing him now to thrust into you like he’s wanted to, to claim you and make you scream his name like you’re doing right now, in between your desperate pleas for him to fuck you harder.

His sweat beads, cheeks flushed, neck strained as he stares down at you, your hands gripping the edges of the table, your face contorted in pleasure when he moves a finger down to flick and press against your clit, edging you towards your orgasm.

“Fuck,” Joel groans. “I love your pussy, baby, I love you so fucking much.”

Your cunt clenches and squeezes his cock hard as you orgasm for him, making his pace falter as you flutter around his cock, screaming his name, your voice echoing across the kitchen.

He’s close, so close, but it’s when you prop yourself up on your elbows, look into his eyes, and command “Cum for me, Joel, cum in my pussy,” he loses it. Shouting your name and pulsing inside you, spilling himself deep before collapsing on you, folding over your body and planting lazy, reverent kisses along your chest and collarbone. You stroke the back of his head, laughing breathlessly.

“You think the sauce is okay?” you ask, still slightly out of breath.

Joel laughs. “M’sure it’s fine.”

“Even if it’s not, I’m so hungry I don’t care.”

—-

You’re only a couple of hours away from heading home for the day when the call comes in. 

“Clinic. Come in. Clinic.” Amy’s voice echoes across the small, now empty waiting room. 

Dr. V rushes to the radio that sits on the front desk, always present, always waiting for a call.

"This is clinic.”

“Bonnie fell down a ravine outside Elk Creek. Greg can’t get her out. Needs stabilizing.”

Dr. V nods, looking over at you as you set a patient file down. “How many alarms?” he asks.

“Greg says single. He doesn’t want to move her without help; he thinks she may have broken something. Transport is already preparing.”

You don’t even wait for Dr. V to ask you to go; you’re already grabbing the emergency kit without thinking.

You run down Main Street, passing the same spot you first saw Joel’s lifeless body, reminding yourself that just like you healed Joel, you now have all of Jackson depending on you, whether they’re inside or outside the walls. This is what you do: you help, you heal, you revive. This has always been your purpose.

You spot Jesse loading a board into the back of the idling transport truck, the same one you rode in on all those months ago before you found your purpose here, before you knew Joel, before you were known and respected as one of Jackson’s doctors. 

“You’re going?” Jesse asks.

“Steven’s in surgery and there’s no way I want Dr. V climbing down anything.”

“Understood,” he says, opening the door for you. “James is driving, we’ll escort you there.”

You slide into the front seat, you can’t even remember the last time you were in an actual car interior. It’s worn, ripped leather patched up with duct tape and fabric scraps, but the truck works, a true luxury in the apocalypse.

The rumble of the engine shocks you slightly as James puts it into gear and pulls forward. He glances over at you and nods. You just delivered his first baby only a couple of weeks ago, and now he’s already out, preparing to help your fellow citizens. This is why you do what you do. 

The gates open, and the three of you drive through the barriers that keep you and everyone safe.

Once the walls begin to disappear in the rearview mirror, you realize what you’ve just done. You didn’t even think twice, you just volunteered to leave the safety of Jackson’s walls again, without even telling Joel.

“How far?” you ask.

“About a half hour out,” James answers.

You nod, clutching your bag tightly, the anxiety already beginning to get harder and harder to silence the farther you get from Jackson.

—-

It’s late. Too late. The sun’s already sitting low behind the mountains, and you’re not home yet. Joel tries to be patient, tries to remind himself that you’re safe and probably just held back due to something mundane like an emergency appendectomy. It wouldn’t be the first time.

And yet, he still worries. His foot taps against the worn wood of the porch. He moved out here shortly after he realized you were late, hoping to get a glimpse of you as soon as you turned down the road. Every bit of movement catches his eye, leaving him constantly disappointed.

He’s still waiting for you, almost an hour after he stepped out here. Unease settles in his heart and body, he picks up his cane and stands, heading towards the clinic. He turns the corner from his street when he spots Maria hurriedly walking down the road.

“Joel!” she shouts as she jogs over. “I was just heading to see you. Listen, there was an accident outside. They sent a transport a couple of hours ago.”

His heart drops. He already knows what happened.

“She’s out there?” he growls.

“She is. She volunteered.”

Of course, you went. Of course, you would volunteer without a second thought.

“You couldn’t tell me earlier?” he bites.

“I just found out. I just got done helping with sowing all of the new seeds for the fall harvest. I’m only now going to pick up my child, with Tommy being out on patrol. Don’t pull that on me, Joel.”

Maria’s words stop him from getting angrier, reminding him that everyone here in Jackson has responsibilities.

“When are they coming back?” he asks.

“Should be soon. Jesse and James are with her. It’s Elk Creek, it’s one of the safer routes.”

He nods, though the storm inside him is still raging. Jesse and James are some of the best patrollers, but they’re still not him. But of course, now, he’s a crippled man, leaning on his cane in the middle of the road, worried sick about you. He hates feeling so powerless. 

“I’m goin’ to wait for her.”

Maria nods, understanding the fear he must feel. "I’m sure she’s fine, Joel, she’s capable.”

He doesn’t respond; he just walks away, his cane rapping against the broken, cracked cement harder with each step he takes. He’s transported right back to that moment he waited those few weeks ago, worried to all hell about you. He’s almost mad you put him back in this situation. There’s a tightness in his chest, a familiar feeling he’s been good at tamping out, but now, as he reaches the imposing gate, that tightness constricts his heart even harder.

“Any word?" Joel calls up to the guards at the watchtower.

"Transport's about ten minutes out. Radio says everyone's fine."

Everyone's fine. He should be relieved, but the fear that today could have ended much more tragically overwhelms him.

He feels dizzy, his heart thudding against his chest in the worst way, his vision almost blurring around the edges. He tries to breathe deeply, tries to settle the unease that feels like it’s creeping through his brain and heart. He breathes, needing to rest his body against something solid, backing up until it rests against the thick stumps that create Jackson’s walls. He stands there, blinking the fear and anxiety out of his eyes and brain. And then, he hears the guard shout.

“Gates opening!”

Joel’s head snaps up. He can hear the truck’s engine approach as the gates open and it rolls through. You’re sitting in the back with Jesse, kneeling over somebody lying on a bodyboard, your face serious as you check over their vitals. 

Joel hurries over, saying your name, a bit of anger escaping with desperation.

But you don’t hear him. You’re speaking with Jesse, reminding him how to pick up the transport board.

He says your name again, this time a bit louder. You look over, surprised to find him there.

“Joel?”

“You didn’t come home an-and I was worr—”

“Joel, I… I have to take care of Bonnie, she fell pretty bad, I’ve gotta get her to the clinic.”

He’s surprised by the stern professional voice you use on him. Speaking to him like he’s a patient, not his. 

“Right,” he nods. “Can I help with anything?”

“No. I need Steven,” you respond. His heart drops at your words. “They’re grabbing him now.” You jump down from the truck after asking Bonnie if she’s okay. “Joel, I need you to move. We’re taking her now. I’ll… see you after she’s stabilized.”

He reaches for you, but you don’t even look at him; you just tell him goodbye and begin your journey to the clinic, jogging alongside Greg, as James and Jesse transport Bonnie on top of the board.

He stands there, watching as you quickly disappear from his view. This is your specialty, this is what brought you into his life, and yet he can’t help but feel left behind. 

—-

You’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight by the time you get Bonnie stabilized and head home.

Joel’s asleep in the recliner when you walk in. Even as he sleeps, there’s something still so commanding about him—his broad shoulders filling the chair, his strong jaw, the seemingly permanent furrow between his brows.

You quietly slip off your boots and clothes, wanting to get rid of any sign of the stressful day you just had, and crawl into Joel’s lap, only clad in your bra and underwear. He stirs, his body tightening before he realizes you’re the new weight on top of him. He lifts his arms, wrapping them around you, and breathes you in.

“You’re back,” he says.

“I am,” you respond, resting your head against his chest.

“Why’d you go?” “Because somebody needed help and I could help them,” you answer simply.

“Yes, but it was outside the walls again.”

You pull away, looking into his eyes. “Because somebody needed help and I could help them,” you repeat, firm this time. “And they just so happened to be outside.”

His jaw ticks, and you can see the conflict warring across him. Understanding your purpose, quarreling with his fear. His protectiveness wrestling with your independence. You know he’s proud of what you do and who you are, but you can still see the fear he holds.

"But what happens if something happens to you?"

"Then something happens, Joel. This world is cruel, but if I can do something, anything to make it a little better and easier for someone, then I will. You should know that more than anyone else."

“I know,” he says quietly, his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin. “I know that’s who you are. I just… get,” he sighs, his chest rising as he takes a deep breath in, “I get scared.”

“I know you do,” you whisper, covering his hand with yours. “But Joel, this is who I am. This is important. This is what I do. I can’t just… turn that off because it might be dangerous. You used to patrol, right?”

“I did, and I was attacked while on patrol, out there.” You can feel his whole body tense beneath yours. “If anything were to happen to yo—”

“This world is unpredictable; every single day, something awful could happen. I could walk out that door tomorrow and never come back. But I can’t live my life in the fear of what-ifs… and you can’t either.”

“I know you’re right. I know that. But when Maria told me you were out there again…” He swallows hard, his eyes beginning to well with tears, an almost sob leaving his throat. “I can’t lose you. Not now, not ever. I can’t have you going past the gates, I can’t deal with it.” You pull even farther away, your back straightening at his request. “That’s not happening. We’re already discussing our next trip out to collect plants, and the next time a call comes in for help, I will be answering it.” Your voice rises. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“What? Why? I should be able to, if you’re mine.”

You scoff at the implication, rising off his lap, looming over him as he leans forward in the recliner. “I’m not your possession. I’m not something you can control. If you’re scared, you’re scared, but you can’t own me and my decisions.” You feel ridiculous, taking such an authoritative stance in only your bra and panties.

“That’s… not what I meant,” he says, his hand coming up to nervously tousle his hair.

“Okay. So what did you mean?”

“I mean… I don’t think I can handle this happening again. Knowing I can’t help protect you, I can’t be there with you.”

Your heart drops at the shame in his voice, but anger still holds you. “I know, I know, but this is my job. This is my purpose; you can’t take it away from me, you can’t take it from everyone here. I need you to understand that helping people is who I am. You will not stop me from that.”

There’s a flash of anger that sets his face in hard lines, his jaw settling in that stubborn way you can easily recognize. He stands abruptly, forcing you to take a step back.

“So you’re just going to throw yourself into danger for one person outside the gates? People in here need you, I need you. I can’t have you going out there. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You throw your hands up in frustration at the audacity of him. “This isn’t about you, Joel! I refuse to abandon what I’ve been doing for almost my whole life because you’re scared.”

"Scared? You think this is just about being scared? This is about you wanting to go out there, where something terrible can happen to you at any moment."

"I've survived out there just fine before I met you, and I can handle myself now."

"Right. Just like how you handled yourself with the infected. The one that could’ve gotten to you if Tommy hadn’t—”

Your heart drops. “You don’t get to throw that in my face. That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you putting yourself in danger and expecting me to just sit here and be okay with it.”

"I'm not asking you to be okay with it. I'm asking you to respect my choices!"

Hot, angry tears well in your eyes. How quickly he’s gone from your sweet, worried Joel to now a bitter, angry Joel you can hardly recognize.

He shakes his head. "I can't do that. Not with this. Not when your 'choice' could get you killed."

"So what am I supposed to do? Just stay inside these walls forever? Give up helping people because Joel Miller can't handle the thought of me being out of his sight? That's bullshit, Joel, and you know it."

"Watch your tone," he warns.

"Or what? You’ll try to control me, because you’re too afraid to lose me?”

His face goes pale. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

“Yes, I do. You're so afraid of losing that you'd rather control me than let me be who I am!"

It’s silent. Joel stands, now looming over you, his eyes dark and roaming across your face. It’s deafening; the tenseness and anger in the air is stifling.

"I'm trying to protect you," he finally says, a slight growl in his voice. His accent dripping with anger.

"No, you're trying to possess me," you spit back. "And I won't let you."

You turn away, grabbing your clothes from the floor and storm upstairs. You’re seconds from falling apart.

You shut yourself in the bathroom next to your old room, turning the shower on and stepping in. The hot water burns your skin, but you want to feel it, want it to wash away all of the hurt and frustration, the fury and pain that’s coursing through your body. This is the first time you’ve showered without Joel in over a month, but right now, your ire towards him sits just as hot as the water. You’re so fucking tired and hurt. Just because Joel loves you does not give him any excuse to try to keep you inside these gates.

You remember the relief washing over Bonnie’s scared face when you told her she was going to be okay, as you checked over her battered body. The way her voice caught as she thanked you. The sight of her husband of twenty years, grabbing her hand with tears in his eyes, once you got her moved to a bed in the hospital, thanking you for all that you do, for getting her back to him safe. You’d do it all over again.

When you get out of the shower, you don’t cross the hall to Joel’s room; you choose your old room, the bed you only spent a few weeks in before Joel’s bed became yours. The sheets feel too cold and unfamiliar, but you try to make the best of it.

You used to never have any trouble falling asleep in here before. You try to will yourself asleep, staring at the blank, white wall. Your body is tired, but your mind won’t stop reeling, caught in a loop of anger and hurt.

The sound of Joel’s uneven steps on the stairs breaks the swirl of your thoughts. You hold your breath, listening as he pauses in his doorway, before you hear his bedroom door close.

You exhale, feeling the confusing mix of relief and disappointment. What did you expect? That he’d come to apologize? That suddenly he’d understand your need to help others, even if it puts you in danger?

Time passes in silence, you try to sleep, wishing it’d be morning already. You’re just about to nod off, finally, when you hear Joel’s door open. The sound of his footsteps approaching makes your heart race. He stops, hesitating outside your door before it slowly creaks open.

You don’t turn, you keep your back to him, willing your body not to tense as much as it does as you hear him walk to the bed. The mattress dips behind you as he slowly lies down next to you. You don’t move or acknowledge him, not even when he rests his arm around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest, his shaky sigh breathing out against your hair.

“M’sorry,” he whispers. “I finally have someone, finally have a future, and I can’t dare to imagine you not in m’life.”

He sounds so broken and so forlorn. You turn to face him, gone is the anger from earlier, it’s replaced by worry, etching the lines of his face deeper. Vulnerable and broken, but still your handsome Joel.

It hits you then. This isn’t just him trying to control you—this is Joel terrified of losing the future he never thought he’d have again.

“Joel,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to touch his face.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he opens them, staring into your eyes. "I know I can't keep you from being who you are. And I don't want to. It's just the thought of losing you… I wouldn’t survive it.”

You press your hand firmer against his warm skin, feeling the rough stubble beneath, tracing the lines of worry etched there.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise”

"You can't promise that," he says, his voice barely audible. "Nobody can."

You move closer, pressing your forehead against his. "No, I can't. But I can promise to be careful. I can promise to always come back to you if I can."

His arms tighten around you. “I just… I love you so much.”

“And I love you,” you say, leaving a soft kiss against his lips. “If you lose me, I lose you, and I can’t have that either.”

“Was thinking maybe we could turn this room into an office for you, so you have a place for plants during the winter. I can make you a desk ‘n maybe figure out some grow lights?”

“But where will I sleep when I’m mad at you?” you ask, nuzzling into his chest.

“Next to me, in our bed.” His arms tighten around you, and you sigh, still needing to make sure the man you love is okay with you being who you need to be.

"Joel," you whisper against his skin. "I need to know you understand. I can't have this fight with you every time I need to go outside.”

“I’ll try… try to be better about it. Ain’t promisin’ I won’t worry, but I’ll try not to stop you.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“M’sorry I get so—”

“You?”

He chuckles, the sounds making you smile as his chest vibrates under you.

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay,” you say, angling your head up to kiss him. “I love you even when you’re stubborn to all hell.”

“And I love you too. More than anything, that’s why you always need to come back to me.”

“I will,” you say against his lips before you settle against him, quickly falling asleep as he holds you close.

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

What a fantastic opening. Can't wait for what comes next.

Chapter One: The Client

Warnings: Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour.

An angel's smile is what you sell, you promised me heaven then put me through hell - Bon Jovi.

You’re not supposed to wait in the lobby.

Technically, you're meant to meet in the car or in the bar or at some anonymous hotel where no one asks for your last name and everyone pretends this is just coincidence. But this client’s assistant was specific - “He’ll meet you in the penthouse. Not before. Don’t be late.” So you took the private elevator like a ghost, let the doorman scan you like contraband, and now you’re perched on the arm of a velvet chair that probably costs more than your entire rent history combined.

You cross your legs slowly, deliberately. The slit in your dress falls open just enough to say yes, I know what I’m doing, but not enough to look desperate. You learned the balance years ago.

The lobby smells like money. Like eucalyptus, old scotch, and silence. The kind of quiet that comes with wealth so obscene it doesn’t need to prove itself anymore. You glance at your reflection in the dark glass of the window: red lips, long lashes, collarbones dusted in shimmer. You look expensive tonight and not just because of the dress.

Then you hear it, the soft chime of the elevator.

You don’t stand. You wait.

He steps out like he owns the whole building. Maybe he does. Tailored black tuxedo. Cufflinks that probably have a backstory. Hair slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration. Not young. Not old. Late forties, maybe. Sharp jaw, tired eyes. Handsome. Odd. They never usually are.

You know men like him or at least, you know the version they show the world.

You watch him clock you in an instant. You can almost feel it: his brain filing you under unexpected, then evaluating, then deciding not to react. He walks past you toward the private bar like you're just another piece of expensive furniture.

“Rough night?” you ask, just loud enough to land.

He stops.

Turns back.

He sees you. Not lounging. Not waiting. Posed. Composed. All long legs, a slit of red silk, and confidence that didn’t ask for permission. You looked like you belonged in a perfume ad or a scandal - somewhere curated, somewhere sharp.

He registered you in stages.

The dress first - off-the-shoulder, effortless. Then the mouth - painted red, curved like you knew something he didn’t. Then the eyes - watching him with the kind of calm that made him feel like he was the one being bought. You were young, late twenties he would pin you at. Not what he was looking for, but for what he was looking for, he wasn't going to be fussy.

And now he’s looking. Really looking. Assessing. You hold his gaze and smile - a half-smile, the kind that says I’m not nervous, but I am curious.

He doesn’t smile back. “That obvious?”

You shrug, shifting slightly on the chair. “You look like you just escaped a fundraiser and a firing squad.”

That earns a ghost of a smirk. He steps toward you. “Which one are you?”

You tilt your head. “Excuse me?”

“The fundraiser or the firing squad?”

“I’m the intermission,” you say smoothly. Then you uncross your legs and rise, slow, measured. You gave your name.

He watches you like he’s solving a riddle. “You don’t look like one.”

You arch a brow. “And what should I look like?”

He doesn’t answer. Just gestures toward the bar. “Drink?”

You nod. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

He pours two fingers of something that probably costs more than your weekly rate and hands it to you without ceremony. No toast. No fake charm.

The glass is heavy in your hand. So is the silence that follows.

“Harry Castillo,” he says eventually. Like it matters. Like you don’t already know exactly who he is.

You let the name hang there, then give a small, ironic smile. “Nice to meet you, Harry Castillo.”

You don’t ask him why he called. You never ask.

But part of you wonders.

Not why he hired you - men like him always want a distraction, a clean slate, something that won’t end up on Page Six. But why now. Why tonight. Why you.

He doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t leer. Doesn’t even pretend to flirt.

He just leans against the bar, whiskey in hand, and says, “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

You take a sip. Let it burn a little. “Start with the short.”

“I need someone on my arm tomorrow night, maybe the month. Galas. Dinners. PR damage control.”

You raise a brow. “A girlfriend experience.”

“A convincing one.”

You swirl the drink, pretending to consider. But you already know your answer.

“How convincing are we talking?” you ask.

He meets your gaze again. His eyes are dark, but not cold. Just... quiet. Like he’s been through enough not to waste energy.

“You wear what you want. Say what you want. Just look like you want to be there.” A pause. “And don’t lie to me.”

You smile at that. “What makes you think I’m a liar?”

He finishes his drink in one measured swallow.

“I don’t,” he says.

And for the first time tonight, you think this job might actually be interesting.

You don’t usually stay this long. Most clients like to pretend there’s a rush. They fumble through their introductions, rush the champagne, get to the point. You’re a service. A transaction. The longer it takes, the more it costs and the more real it starts to feel.

But this one… Harry Castillo… he doesn’t move like a man trying to fill a void. He moves like he’s protecting one.

You lean back against the marble edge of the bar, letting the silence stretch again. He’s watching you, still and composed, the kind of stillness that comes from years of controlling rooms, markets, people.

“So,” you say lightly, “you’re not looking for sex.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not looking to lie to myself.”

That earns him a faint smile from you - a real one. Honest. Dry.

“Good start,” you murmur. “But here’s the thing - if you want a girlfriend for longer than a night, you’ll need more than just heels and a pretty face.”

His brow lifts. “What do you charge for personality?”

You tap a finger against your glass. “Double.”

He almost - almost - smiles.

Then he steps closer, slow and unhurried, setting his empty glass down beside yours. You can smell his cologne now - something woodsy and clean, with a bite underneath.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” he says calmly, and it’s not an insult. It’s a statement of terms. “Not unless you want to.”

You tilt your head. “Is that your way of being noble?”

“No. It’s my way of not confusing boundaries.” A pause. “Mine. Or yours.”

You study him for a beat. It’s not the first time a man’s drawn a line. But it is the first time you believe one might actually stick to it.

“So this is what you want?” you ask. “A fake girlfriend. For a month. In public. Private dinners, parties, events.”

“I'll see how you do tomorrow night. Then we can discuss the rest later.”

“You want me to dress the part. Charm your board. Laugh at your jokes.”

“I don’t need you to laugh,” he says. “Just show up.”

You consider him - the directness, the tiredness he doesn’t bother hiding, the sliver of something under all that restraint. Loneliness, maybe. Or something older.

“I’ll need a wardrobe if we agree to more than one event” you say, casual.

“Fine.”

“And a stylist. Because if we’re playing pretend, I’m not showing up in knockoff Louboutins.”

He nods once.

You watch him watching you, calculating. There’s no desire in his eyes — not the kind you’re used to seeing. Just thought. Just intention.

“And no NDA?” you ask softly.

He finally blinks. “You want one?”

“I want to know if I’m being hired as a woman… or a risk.”

That pauses him. His voice, when it comes, is lower. “I don’t think you’re either.”

You take the final sip of your drink, slow, deliberate.

“Then I accept,” you say, and hold out your hand. “Full illusion. Your perfect lie. You'll want me for the month Harry, trust me.”

He doesn’t take your hand right away. He studies it, then finally wraps his own around yours. His grip is warm. Firm. Respectful.

And for the first time all night, you both know ... this is going to be a problem.

He didn’t walk you out.

That was the first thing he noticed.

He always did. It was polite. Expected. Something drilled into him during years of stiff boarding school manners and clean-cut PR polish. Even when things were messy, especially when they were messy, Harry knew how to end them gracefully.

But you had risen without prompting. Smoothed your dress with one fluid motion. And left.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No extra glance over the shoulder. No “what happens next?” — because you already knew. Or because you didn’t care.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

The door shut with a soft hiss, and the silence that followed was loud in a way only penthouses could be. He stood where you'd left him, beside the bar, his glass half full, his chest half empty.

You didn’t act like someone who’d been hired. You acted like someone who was choosing, choosing him, choosing this, choosing every word and pause and smirk with the control of someone who didn’t need a script to own a scene.

That dress. That voice. Those eyes that didn’t ask for permission.

He should’ve felt in control. He always did.

But the moment you walked in, everything had shifted half a degree to the left. Still manageable. Still clean. But… unfamiliar.

And Harry hated unfamiliar.

He leaned forward and braced his hands on the bar’s edge, watching the city glitter beneath the windows like it owed him something.

The arrangement was simple. A distraction. A stand-in. A convenient narrative: Look, he’s already moved on. You are younger. Gorgeous. Not a trace of Lucy.

You would do your job. Charm the right people. Smile at the photographers. Let the world believe he was unbothered, untouched, still winning.

And then you’d disappear.

That was the plan.

But he already knew something wasn’t clean about it. Not the way you looked at him, not soft, not sultry. Just sharp. Like you saw right through the expensive suit and the cold bourbon and the man who hadn’t slept well in three months.

You didn’t ask about Lucy.

You didn’t try to guess.

But somehow, you knew.

He exhaled, rolled his shoulders back, and reached for the small leather folder Maya had left for him on the counter - your contract, signed and dated. Full discretion. Rates itemized with painful efficiency.

It felt sterile. It was supposed to.

But all Harry could think about was the faint scent of her perfume, something warm, not sweet, still hanging in the air.

And the way you smiled when you said,

“Full illusion. Your perfect lie. You'll want me for the week Harry, trust me."

Maybe this wasn't a terrible idea after all.

----------------------------------------------------------

I couldn't help myself. As I was writing my other fix 'A Getaway Car' I had some ideas that I could put away so here you go! I hope you love this one, it's going to be very sexy! But slow burn! ✨

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

The Arrangement - A Harry Castillo Fanfic Masterlist

She’s the lie he hired. He’s the truth she wasn’t ready for.

After a bitter breakup with Lucy, 50-year-old private equity billionaire, Harry Castillo, isn’t looking for love - he just needs someone beautiful, discreet, and uncomplicated to be on his arm for a high-profile week of events in New York. What he gets is you, an escort, 28 years old, with sharp wit, hidden depth, and zero interest in becoming someone’s fantasy girlfriend off the clock.

But Harry makes you an offer you can’t refuse: a week of luxury, five-star hotels, couture fittings, private jets, and a generous paycheck… in exchange for playing the part of his girlfriend at a string of galas, charity balls, and business dinners.

You aren't some downtrodden dreamer. You are funny, clever, and fiercely independent. You're doing this job to stay in control of your own life - not waiting for a saviour. And Harry isn’t trying to fix anyone; in fact, he’s the one who might be broken, and he doesn’t even realise it.

Warnings: 🔞 NSFW themes (slow burn but oh it burns), smut, Escort x billionaire dynamic, Power imbalance (navigated and explored), Age gap (50m / 28f), Post-breakup emotional damage (on his end), Feminine rage + soft power, Men in suits, emotionally repressed, whiskey as a coping mechanism, Mutual pining (yes, even with a contract), Glamour, deception, and dangerous amounts of eye contact, Contractual arrangements that spiral into genuine affection, Rich people problems + broken people pretending they’re not, Soft power games, Sharp banter + late-night vulnerability, Trust issues + protective instincts

Pretty Woman inspired but make it jaded

Part One - Coming Soon

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

I am loving this story! What a sweetheart Frankie is 😍

It Smolders, Then It Burns

banner by the very talented @i-own-loki

Also on AO3.

Summary:

Frankie Morales drives the ladder truck and fights fires for a living. Along with his colleagues—Santi, Will, and Benny—he is part of Delta Company, based in downtown Tampa.

Frankie is passionate about his job and deeply loves his six-year-old daughter, Mia. However, he carries the burden of his work with him, wherever he goes.

A simple call out becomes something more and his life gets turned around when he meets you. You make him want to commit and move forward, but you have your own issues and insecurities to deal with, along with single-parenting your own teenage daughter and errant cat.

Two people, whose lives collide in the most unexpected way. Can they find a way through together?

Want a snippet?

You heard the ladder being pushed up against the wall, followed by the scrape as it brushed against the woodwork. A few seconds later, a pair of soft brown eyes appeared over the edge of the roof, locking onto yours. Those eyes belonged to the most gorgeous face you had seen in quite some time. A furrowed brow, scruffy, patchy beard, and a beautiful Castilian nose followed.

What a cliché, you thought as you watched him hoist himself up the ladder. A handsome fireman coming to my rescue.

You think your heart actually skipped a beat when his thick neck and broad shoulders followed, his fire department-issued blue T-shirt damp with sweat around the collar.

"Hey there," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "I'm Francisco. Call me Frankie. What's your name?" Inside, Frankie felt anything but calm.

He winced slightly at his own introduction. He had taken the entire ladder climb to think of something clever, and that was the best he could do.

Chapter One - Rescue Me

Chapter Two - Up On The Roof

Chapter Three - At The Carwash

Chapter Four - Picture Of You

Chapter Five - First Date

Chapter Six - Saturday Night At The Movies

Chapter Seven - Home Sweet Home

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Perfect chapter 10/10!

He said it! Frankie said it! This is huge.

The boyfriend act, part 18: "The one with the Halloween party" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: It's Halloween here, and a lot comes out after dark: witches, zombie lovers, fights in costume, and most of all; you, Frankie, and a few surprise words. WC: 14.1k

A/N: Hi everyone <3 I’m back! Thank you so much for your patience. I’m hoping to finally have time now to read and reply to all your comments. Let me know what you think about this one hehe. Tag list CLOSED <3. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Friday, October 30th

At eight o' clock, Frankie knocked on your door.

“Oh,” you said, before you had time to arrange your face. Your eyes landed on his upper lip and didn’t move.

A tingling sensation rose in your chest. 

“What?” He gestured vaguely toward his face. “You don’t like it? ’Cause I ain’t getting rid of the mustache too.”

You shook your head, laughing, instinctively mirroring him by resting your shoulder against the other side of the frame.

He had shaved. Not all of it, just the beard. The mustache stayed. The funny thing was, you hadn't asked him to. You would've been perfectly happy with a bearded Phantom.

Your hand rose instinctively, skimming the fabric of his shirt; soft, delicate white cotton stretched beneath the open denim jacket that defenitely wasn't part of the costume.

He didn’t move, but his body leaned toward yours.

“You look like the guy from Narcos."

He laughed. “Yeah? That supposed to be a compliment?”

You smiled. “It is. I mean it. I like it.”

He studied you for a second longer, a playful smirk on his face.

“This really does it for you, huh?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already stepping forward. One hand reached behind him to pull the door closed as the other settled on your waist, guiding you backward into the room.

“I just learned something new about you,” he said, and his voice was close to your ear now, smug as his lips brushed along your neck.

A surprised laugh escaped you caught between protest and desire. You brought your hands to his face, cupping his jaw, his cheeks still unfamiliar without the beard; soft skin beneath your fingers.

“Not now, Erik,” you whispered, lips brushing against his. “Or we’ll be late.”

You were angling your face as you pressed the lipstick to your mouth, standing in front of your bathroom mirror. Fingertips tapping crimson into your lips. It was a deeper shade than you usually wore, but it matched the vibe.

Behind you, Frankie was standing quiet, almost ghostlike in the doorway, and now leaning against the frame. He didn’t speak. He just watched you. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, and your pulse ticked upward in response.

Because he looked... startling. Like a character pulled directly from one of your period novels, some romantic antihero with hidden injuries and a complicated moral compass. Oh, your imagination was going crazy. The crisp white shirt, the fitted black vest, the narrow trousers; it was all technically a costume, but it stopped feeling like one.

“I’ll be done in a minute, okay?” you said, eyes flicking to his in the mirror. “The party’s at ten, we’ve got, like, twenty minutes. I just need a little blush.”

You tried to keep it casual, assuming the silence meant he was bored or impatient. Maybe both. He wasn’t usually one for standing still.

Your costume was almost complete. The corset fitting snugly, cinching your waist just right, and the sheer white garter stockings. Your shoes weren’t perfectly era-accurate, but they were close enough; you’d hunted them down during a bleary-eyed 2 a.m. internet spiral and had felt irrationally proud when they arrived. Your hair had taken ages too, pinned and curled and pinned again.

Now all that was left were the lips, and the blush. The final details.

“You know,” Frankie said, finally, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward you, “we don’t actually have to be on time. No one shows up to these things when they’re supposed to.”

You capped the lipstick and set it aside. And when your eyes met his reflection again, there was a smile pulling at the edge of your mouth before you could help it.

His eyes were on you, not just your costume, you, and that did something dangerous to your chest.

He reached for your hips and stepped in behind you. The soft press of his chest against your back made you exhale, a little unevenly. Leaning down, he gently kissed your shoulder, like he was testing the temperature, and then kissed you again, this time just beneath the curve of your neck.

“We can afford to be a little late, don’t you think?” he murmured.

You tilted your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder. The scent of him, that clean, woody cologne you liked, rose up around you, and your eyes fluttered closed without thinking. Your heart was already racing.

“Don't start,” you were already forgetting what time it was.

Without warning, Frankie’s grip tightened, fingers pressing into your hips. He turned you gently but firmly to face him, eyes scanning your expression.

Your hands slid up his chest before reaching behind his neck, fingers weaving into the hair at his nape. But before you could speak (or lean in closer) he bent and lifted you easily, your back brushing the edge of the mirror as he set you down on the sink. The porcelain was cold beneath you, but the sensation barely registered. You didn't even cared. Your legs came up around him immediately, welcoming the press of his body, the heat of it.

“You look so damn good,” he said, urgent, right at your mouth. He kissed you, just once, before pulling back an inch.

“And what are you gonna do about it?”

You watched his face shift in real time, the moment his expression dropped, his eyes darkened, pupils wide and shining in that way they only did when he was looking at you like this. With hunger.

You cupped his face between your hands, the tips of your fingers pressing against the skin just beneath his ears. Lipstick be damned; it was already smudged, already transferred to his mouth. You kissed him fully, fiercely, tasting everything you’d been stockpiling since the second he’d appeared in costume at your door. Every part of you leaned into it: your mouth, your hands, your thighs tightening around his waist.

And still, even in the middle of all that wanting, there was a part of you standing back and watching him, seeing him. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fantasy. But the truth was, you wanted to undo it all, peel away the layers until there was nothing left but his skin, his weight, his breath against your throat.

And still, you knew you wouldn’t. Not yet.

His hands slid up your thighs and when his fingers hooked beneath the garter’s elastic, you let out a small gasp. He pulled it back and released it with a sharp little snap. The sound and the feeling made you shiver.

Frankie pulled back just enough to catch your mouth again, but this time only briefly, his lips trailing downward, over the line of your jaw, down your neck. You tipped your head to the side to let him in. He reached the curve of your neck and lingered there, teeth grazing just enough, before moving lower, to the place where your cleavage swelled against the top edge of the corset.

He bit gently at the exposed skin, and you felt all the pressure of it.

“I’m gonna have a real good time getting this off you later,” he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your breast.

You smiled, deciding that nothing truly catastrophic would happen if you were a little late to the party. Probably.

But then, Frankie took a few steps back. Put some distance between you like he needed the space to really look at you. His eyes swept over you in a way that felt annoyingly performative.

“I’ll get the Uber,” he said.

This fucker.

“Francisco.” His name sounded like a warning, or maybe a sigh.

He stepped toward you again, all mischief and heat. His hands landed on either side of your hips, not grabbing, just there.

He leaned in close, close enough that you felt his breath on your cheek before he pressed a quick kiss there, feather-light and smug.

“You said you needed blush, didn’t you?”

You wanted to hit him. You really did. But he had your lipstick smeared across his mouth, red and shameless, and the sight of it made you laugh instead.

The club was bigger than you remembered. Taller ceilings, harsher lights. Or maybe it only felt that way because of how packed it was.

Mai had been waiting at the entrance when you arrived. She was already flushed from the crowd and the vodka, talking quickly with glitter-painted hands and pink lips. She looked beautiful tonight.

“They oversold like crazy this year,” she said. “I don’t think it’s, like, technically legal, but whatever.”

You laughed, but then glanced at Frankie, whose looked amused and a little bit confused. He smiled anyway, a little crookedly.

The music was better than you’d expected. The drinks too. You’d lost count after your second, though you were still upright, still articulate. Santi always said the Garcías could hold their liquor like it was a matter of pride. That and good hair. And hell yeah he was right.

Mai had stuck around for the first thirty minutes, along with her friends, laughing and posing for photos. She’d taken a dozen pictures.

“Wait—what’s your Instagram again?” she’d asked, already typing.

That had been an hour ago. Maybe more. Now, you stood by the bar with your third red mojito in hand, ice melting faster than you could drink it. Frankie was behind you, one arm looped around your waist, drawing you into his chest. You leaned into him almost without thinking.

“This shit’s actually good,” you murmured, lifting the glass and inspecting what was left. A lime wedge floated near the bottom, lazy and sunken. Your voice sounded like someone else’s over the music, but he must have heard it.

He said something but the words got swallowed by the bass before they reached your ears. You didn’t ask him to repeat it. You just drained the rest of your drink and reached for the bar behind you, setting the glass down among empty cups and bottles.

When you turned back to him, his hand trailed from the curve of your stomach to your lower back. His mask caught the shifting lights, full Phantom of the Opera, just as he’d promised. Not once had he mentioned taking it off. Not even when he got too warm, or when it tilted sideways while dancing.

He didn’t love this kind of night, you knew that. The chaos, the people, the noise. But he was here. He had danced with you without complaint, taken blurry photos with your phone ten minutes ago while you waited for drinks. He was trying. Really trying.

And you loved it.

You rose onto your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Just a small one. Enough to make him turn toward you.

“So?” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the pulse of the music. “You gonna do it?”

By do it, he meant checking off another item from your list. Kissing a stranger.

It had come up in the car on the way there, half-joking. You both agreed it was the perfect setting; the anonymity of a costume party, the haze of drinks and music, the absence of real consequence. Sure, Emma wasn’t there to help vet the options (her talent for sniffing out red flags in record time was legendary) but you liked to think you had a pretty decent radar of your own. And besides, Frankie was here. So was Mai, technically, although she was now dancing two meters away, tossing her arms in the air like she was made of helium.

You nodded, eyes scanning the crowd.

“What about the one in the corner?” you asked, gesturing with a lift of your chin.

Frankie turned to look. “The pirate guy?”

“Yeah. He looks decent, right?”

He clicked his tongue. “Sure. Right. I mean... He is. Though I think I’ve got a better shot at kissing him than you do.”

You scoffed, your mouth half-open, ready to argue, ready to say something about how pirates were bisexual at heart or maybe just a defensive shut up. But then you looked again.

The pirate was making out with the guy next to him. The one in leather straps. You blinked, then laughed.

“Okay. Fine. You choose someone.”

He shook his head, smiling, not smug.

“That’s not how it works. You’ve gotta want to kiss him.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically.

“Yeah. Kiss him. Not want to marry him, Frankie. Just kiss him. He has to be a stranger, that’s the whole point.”

He leaned back a little, hand still resting on your hip, and swept his eyes across the room. He was taking the task seriously.

And you let him look, because part of you liked the idea of Frankie scanning a room full of masked men just to find one worthy of your five-second dare.

He scanned the crowd for a few more seconds, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, then turned back to you with defeat around his expression.

“I’ve got another idea,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

He tilted his head. “Why don’t you go show off over there and wait for the right one to come to you?”

You laughed. “I’m sorry—what?”

He shrugged, grinning now. “I’m just saying, it’d be easier. Go dance. Reject the ones you don’t like, kiss the one you do. Natural selection. I’ll be right here, keeping an eye on you.”

“Um, I'm not even sure that's what natural selection means. Also, that’s so embarrassing,” you said, automatically stroking his sleeve. “Seriously. It’s like putting myself in a glass case with a sign that says ‘available.’”

He let out a laugh.

“Baby, that’s literally how this works,” he said, tugging you closer by the waist. “You dance, you flirt, you kiss a stranger. Textbook stuff.”

You stared at him for a second, unsure whether to smack him or kiss him again.

But annoyingly, he had a point.

In a bar, maybe you could walk up to someone, tap them on the shoulder, exchange names and see where that led. But here, everything operated on instinct. Eye contact, movement, some vague chemistry you couldn’t explain but could absolutely feel. This wasn’t about strategy. It was about putting yourself into the current and seeing who swam toward you.

“Fine,” you said, stepping back and narrowing your eyes at him. “I’ll do it. But don’t go anywhere.”

He raised both hands. “I’ll be right here. Watching you like a hawk.”

You rolled your eyes again, but your cheeks were warm.

Frankie watched you walk away, arms loose at your sides, a little bit insecure. And he stayed where he was, leaning back against the bar like he had no plans of moving anytime soon. And he didn't.

You didn’t look away from him until you reached the edge of the dance floor. Only then, when the music swallowed you whole, he turned to order another drink.

But even after that, after the bartender handed him something cold and too sweet for his taste, his eyes returned to you almost instantly. He found you easily. There was no need to scan the room.

You were right in the center of it all, eyes closed, hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. You didn’t look self-conscious. You didn’t look like someone ticking something off a list. You looked... at ease. Lit up from the inside. Frankie smiled despite himself when your eyes fluttered open for a second and landed on him before drifting shut again.

The lights above shifted from purple to red to gold, and your white dress changed with every color, like it was part of the set design.

Yeah. It felt almost unfair. The way you looked. The way you moved. The fact that none of it was for him.

Frankie inhaled deeply and stayed rooted to the spot. He didn’t move. He wasn’t a stranger.

He had plans, anyway. More than you knew. Earlier that week, he’d started bookmarking places to go camping, scrolling through travel blogs with half his brain while feeding the cat. He kept circling back to the same one, the spot he’d gone to with you and the guys a few days back. Remote, quiet, tucked just far enough into the woods to feel like you’d disappeared from the world. There was a river. A hidden bend where no one else had shown up all day. And yeah, Will and Bennys cabin was close enough in case of emergencies. 

It seemed perfect. Camping and skinny-dipping, two birds with one secluded, tree-lined stone.

And yeah, maybe he was pretending not to care so much about the idea of escaping the city with you for a weekend. Like it wasn’t sitting in the back of his mind, taking up space all day.

But he had logistics to figure out. A kitten to think about. Bingley had already developed a routine and would not, under any circumstances, appreciate a spontaneous disruption. Frankie was starting to accept that he’d need to find a sitter. Someone he trusted.

Only one name came to mind. Will.

Will was the only person who knew about you, really knew. The only one Frankie had talked to, even a little. The only one he wouldn’t have to lie to.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d say to Santi yet. If he asked. If he looked at him with that older-brother expression and demanded to know what the hell Frankie thought he was doing going camping with his sister, alone.

Maybe he’d say you were just working through your list. That was true enough. But the list was still half a secret. And Frankie wasn’t entirely sure you’d want your brother to know how much of it involved him.

Now, Frankie’s gaze hadn’t left you. He was watching the way your dress clung to your waist, how the corset curved with each movement of your body. It made his chest feel like it had been pulled open just slightly, like something inside was too soft to touch.

Mai appeared beside him, cheeks flushed and breath uneven like she’d just run from somewhere, or danced her way across the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked, frowning as she followed his line of sight. Then, with more urgency, “Why is she dancing alone?”

Frankie shook his head, unconcerned. He didn’t take his eyes off you.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said mildly, “but we’re in the middle of something.”

“Oh yeah?” she arched a brow. “You doing it right now?”

She already knew about the list. She’d found out about an hour ago, when she plopped down next to you both and overheard your conversation over that first drink. At first, she was baffled. Openly skeptical. But Pam jumped in to explain and within ten minutes they’d declared they wanted to do the exact same thing. Stranger. Kiss. Tonight.

Frankie had told them it wasn’t the same. He’d tried to explain why. They told him to stop overthinking it.

“Oh, there goes one,” Mai murmured now, tilting her head toward the dance floor.

A man was moving toward you. Tall, confident. Dressed like Indiana Jones, down to the weathered hat and leather satchel. He had a charming face. He didn’t look nervous. But Frankie, suddenly, did.

This, he thought, might’ve been a mistake.

But he didn’t say it. He didn’t do anything except press his lips into a practiced smile and keep watching. You hadn’t noticed the guy yet, you were still lost in the music, your eyes shut, a smile playing on your lips.

You looked soft. Unaware. A little too breakable.

Frankie lifted his drink, the one the bartender had handed him five minutes ago, and took a long sip. His fingers curled tighter around the plastic cup than necessary.

Indiana Jones touched your waist.

You opened your eyes, surprised, maybe a little unsure at first, like your body hadn’t fully caught up with what was happening. But then you smiled. Hesitant, but... natural. Or it looked like that.

He was saying something to you. Frankie couldn’t hear it from where he stood, but he could imagine it easily. A cheap pick up line. Some tired line dressed up as charm. Indiana Jones had no idea he was starring in someone else's checklist. No idea he was a task waiting to be completed.

Frankie took another sip of his drink.

Beside him, Mai laughed.

“You guys are weird,” she said, shaking her head like it was affectionate, but also a little bewildered.

Frankie managed a smile, though it came out warped at the edges. It didn’t stand a chance of convincing anyone.

“Yeah? No way,” he muttered, eyes still locked on you.

Then, instinctively, he looked away.

Near the DJ booth, a couple dressed as zombie lovers were devouring each other’s faces. A few feet away, a circle of friends in glitter and face paint were mid-story, loud with whatever gossip had just dropped.

Everything in the room felt heightened, overly saturated. Too loud or too bright or too much.

He looked back at you.

You were dancing again, closer this time. Too close. Your arms were looped around Indiana’s neck, and his hands rested firmly on your waist, like he’d known you longer than the two minutes he actually had. Your face was tilted up toward his, and you were smiling like it was some private thing, like the rest of the room had disappeared. Your noses were nearly touching.

Something sharp bloomed in Frankie’s chest, bitter and bright and unmistakably possessive.

His first instinct was to set the drink down and go to you. Not ask. Not think. Just walk over, tap the guy on the shoulder, and pull you away without needing a reason. But the intensity of the urge caught him off guard. It felt too real. Too sudden. Too much like crossing a line he wasn’t supposed to admit existed.

Instead, he lifted the cup and downed the rest in one long sip, the taste of it flat and burning.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like seeing someone else’s hands on you. Didn’t like how close you were standing, how you tilted your head slightly when you smiled at the guy, how comfortable you looked, like this was just something people did, like it didn’t mean anything.

And maybe it didn’t. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? It was just a kiss. Just another item on your list. Something to be done, checked off, maybe laughed about later.

Frankie reminded himself of that. He was here for it, technically. He was the supportive fake boyfriend. Loyal and chill and completely unfazed, even if no one in this club knew he was playing that role, and Mai was beginning to give him looks like she was trying to piece together a very strange puzzle. Something open, maybe even slightly kinky. He couldn’t tell.

He ran his tongue along his upper teeth, exhaled, and tried to smooth out the tension in his brow.

Then, just for a second, you looked at him. Not long, obviously, but enough. And he gave you a small nod, like this was fine. Like everything was going exactly as planned.

Indiana Jones moved his hand up your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek in a way that felt unnecessarily tender. Frankie’s stomach twisted.

The guy leaned in. And from where Frankie stood, it looked exaggerated, cinematic. Inch by inch, like he’d rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror.

Another Inch. Then another.

And then, he kissed you.

It was a full kiss, not a brush of lips. Indiana held your face with one hand and the small of your back with the other, moving with the music like the two of you were the only ones left in the room.

Frankie’s heart seemed to trip in his chest, missing a beat, maybe two.

Was time stretching? Or was he just hyper-aware of every second now? Because the kiss kept going. And going.

And fucking going.

He was fairly sure the chorus of the song had passed. Maybe two choruses, at this rate. Still kissing.

Frankie looked away, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere too high in his throat. He didn’t try to hide the sigh this time, it slipped out, heavy and involuntary.

The zombie couple was still dancing, now swaying like they were drunk in love. The loud group of friends had given up on talking altogether, too busy singing along and throwing their arms around each other.

Frankie stared past them, pretending not to care. Pretending he wasn’t standing there, waiting for you to come back.

“I think your girl’s calling you,” Mai said.

Frankie turned toward her, brow furrowed, then followed the direction of her eyes.

You were still with Indiana Jones, his arm still around your waist, his posture a little too proud, but your hand was raised behind your back, fingers flicking in a subtle wave. Just enough for Frankie to know it was meant for him.

Something unspooled in his chest.

He didn’t hesitate. He set his empty cup down on the bar, took his mask off and gave it to Mai, and stepped away without a word.

He pushed into the crowd, weaving through glittered shoulders and bouncing limbs, his eyes fixed on you the whole time.

You kept your eyes on Indiana. He’d taken a half-step forward, smiling again, like he thought the moment between you wasn’t over. Like he assumed he still had a chance to finish what he started.

Then Frankie appeared beside you, close enough to touch. His hand found your waist without hesitation and he used it to guide you back from Indiana's reach.

“Baby,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry over the music, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where’d you go? C'mon, we have to go.”

There was that slanted smile again. Eyebrows drawn together like he was confused, but not angry.

You smiled back, fingers brushing your cheek.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, voice light, almost amused. “Yeah. Let's go. Didn’t realize—”

“Wait, don't,” Indiana said, stepping closer, one hand lifting slightly like he was about to touch your arm. “Where are you going?”

Frankie tightened his grip. He didn’t answer. He just turned and started walking, and you moved with him, not dragged, not pushed, but definitely taken.

You glanced over your shoulder, offered Indiana a quick, almost apologetic “sorry” you didn’t mean, and let Frankie lead you away from the lights and the people and whatever had just almost happened.

He stopped once you were far enough. His hand came up, touched your cheek like he was checking for something. Heat, truth, regret.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, cheeks warm.

“So?” you said, lifting your chin. “How did I do?”

Your hands found his chest, familiar territory now, and stayed there.

Frankie’s mouth tilted into something between a smile and a smirk.

“I’d say you did great,” he said. “You?”

You pressed your lips together, considering it. Then sighed.

“It was good,” you admitted. “Too good. And I hated every second of it.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You hated it? Why?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I’m just too much of a romantic. All that pretending, it makes me feel like I’m breaking some rule.”

He laughed, the sound genuine.

“Well, at least you tried,” he said. “One less thing to wonder about.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders, tilting your chin up.

His hair was a mess now, still vaguely neat around the sides, but the front had completely lost its shape. He looked like he’d just escaped something or someone. Like a tragic figure from an old novel. A haunted Victorian hero. Mr. Rochester type of guy.

And then there was the mustache. That damn mustache.

“Okay,” you said. “Now. Delete the kiss.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The kiss. Delete it,” you repeated. “With your lips.”

He was still frowning, trying to work it out, so you rolled your eyes, and said, a little softer this time: “Kiss me, idiot.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, but he didn’t argue. He leaned in immediately, mouth catching yours in a kiss that felt nothing like pretend.

His hands gripped your waist, unevenly—one higher, one inching lower, close enough to brush your thighs, and his body pressed into yours as your back hit the wall behind you. Tile. Cold. Definitely the hallway by the bathrooms. You didn’t care.

His tongue moved with urgency, like he was making up for lost time, or canceling out what happened before.

When you finally pulled back, your palm slid across his cheek, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.

“Where’s your mask?” you asked.

“Mai,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “She’s got it.”

You nodded. Your eyes stayed on him, quiet now. You weren’t smiling exactly, but your lips had taken on a shape he couldn’t quite read.

“What?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”

Almost shyly, you said: “I was thinking… do you think we could go back up to the roof?”

With one firm push, Frankie shoved the roof door open and motioned for you to climb out first.

It wasn’t exactly graceful, more like a rushed escape. You crawled up and out, holding two empty glasses, fingers carefully curled around the rims. And Frankie followed close behind, one hand gripping a half-full bottle of gin he’d stolen from the bar a few minutes ago.

He nudged the door shut with his foot.

You turned to look at him, nodding toward the handle. “It’s fixed now.”

He glanced at the handle, then stared at it like it for a couple of seconds.

“Right. It is.” he muttered. “I didn't noticed. Didn’t really think that through.”

You laughed. “What if... Wait, were you actually going to lock us up here again?”

He pointed at you with exaggerated indignation.

“Excuse me. You locked us up here the first time, remember? That was all you.”

You didn’t respond. Just walked toward the edge and set the glasses on the ledge.

“Oh, look,” you said, gesturing toward the street below. “They’re fighting down there.”

"Yeah, right." Frankie came up beside you, placing the gin bottle next to the glasses, expression skeptical, until he saw it. “Shit,” he said. “It's true.”

A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. Two guys in full costume (Mario and Luigi, of course) were being held back by a group of people in varying degrees of cosplay. It was oddly theatrical. Like watching a live-action cartoon.

You laughed. “They’re really committed to the bit.”

But the fight didn’t last long. A couple of police officers showed up, breaking it up with the casual boredom of people who’ve seen worse. The scene lost its energy immediately, and the crowd began to scatter.

You sighed.

“What a shame. I was rooting for you, Luigi!” you called down, cupping your hand around your mouth like a megaphone.

Luigi glanced up, squinting toward the roof, but either didn’t spot you or didn’t care enough to try. He made a vague gesture with his fist and walked off with someone in a lab coat trailing behind. Maybe Einstein. Maybe a vet. Hard to say.

Frankie laughed beside you as he poured gin into the glasses.

“Why do you think they were fighting?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Princess Peaches, probably.”

He laughed again. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You pressed your palms to your cheeks, eyes wide. “Wait. That would’ve been an amazing costume. Mario and Peaches. You already have the mustache, how did I not think of that?”

He turned toward you, mouth twitching.

“Or you could be Luigi. I feel like the mustache would suit you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“Definitely.”

You nodded. “ Yeah. It's true. Honestly, if I were a man, I think my mustache would be phenomenal. Like, showstopping.”

Frankie tilted his head, studying you.

“Well, you’ve got great eyebrows,” he said, completely serious. “And eyebrows are like, just mustaches for your forehead.”

You choked on a laugh. “Oh my God. You’re right.”

He lifted his glass. “To mustaches on your forehead.”

You tapped yours against his. “And mustache on your lips.”

You both drank, the gin sharp and unapologetic in your mouth. It burned a little going down, but you managed not to flinch. You didn’t usually drink it straight, preferred something sweeter, lighter, mixed with something fizzy. But somehow, right now, it worked.

There was a quiet stretch of stillness between you. The wind, faint, tugged at your hair. And below, the city moved like it always did, distant and bright and unaware of you.

“This view hasn’t changed much,” Frankie said, almost absentmindedly.

You turned to him. His gaze was steady, locked on the skyline.

You followed his eyes. The city really did look the same. But the moment didn’t. It felt like the first time you'd been up here, except now, the man beside you wasn’t a mystery anymore. He wasn’t someone you didn’t know how to talk to.

You smiled, softly, without speaking. And Frankie didn’t say anything either. He just stayed beside you, quiet, like that was enough.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that needed filling. Not with him. The awkwardness had worn off a long time ago. So you let it stretch. Let it shape the moment.

You sipped slowly from your glass, cautious with the burn, and watched the people far below, tiny and disconnected, like ants.

This felt better than the party downstairs. Better than sticky floors and strangers' hands and music that demanded too much of you. Better than kissing strangers.

Well. Stranger, singular.

You’d only kissed one person. And it hadn’t been terrible. It was something you could call interesting, maybe even fun if you were being generous. The idea of it, anyway—of letting go, of giving in to the chaos. That version had been appealing.

But the real thing?

Nothing. No spark. No jolt of anything real.

And maybe that had less to do with the kiss itself, and more to do with the fact that, while it was happening, all you could think about was the man who wasn’t kissing you.

You heard the scratch of a lighter. Turned your head.

Frankie had a cigarette between his lips, and the flame briefly lit up the lines of his face. Orange, gold, almost bronze. His brow was furrowed, focused, and for a second, you felt an overwhelming urge to touch him. Or maybe bite him. Hard to tell.

But you didn’t move.

He inhaled, exhaled, turned his head away from you as the smoke left his mouth. Your eyes stayed on him anyway.

He looked over at you.

Didn’t speak. Just watched you for a moment. His eyes traveled across your face like he was gathering data.

He took another drag. Blew it in the opposite direction. And then looked at you again, more directly this time.

“You want to know something?” he asked.

You nodded instantly. Of course you did.

When didn’t you want to know?

“That day I went to pick you up in Dallas,” he said quietly, a small, uneven smile tugging at his mouth, “I was having a pretty shitty day.”

You turned your head toward him, but didn’t say anything.

“My whole week had been awful, actually. I was bored, pissed off, barely sleeping. And that morning, I’d woken up way too early. Couldn’t stop thinking about Nico. August first. The anniversary of his death.”

He didn’t look at you as he said it. And your eyes dropped to your hands. Guilt bloomed in your chest. But you didn’t say anything.

“I was in bed thinking I was useless. Like—I couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t fix anything. Couldn’t even sleep. It felt like something so heavy was pressing down on me, you know?” He exhaled. “And I know myself. I know when my thoughts start heading somewhere dangerous.”

He glanced at you, then looked away.

“So I did what I’m supposed to do. 'Cause I know the steps. Got out of bed. Took a shower. Kept telling myself, just keep moving, don’t stop. And I remember standing there in the shower just begging the universe to cut the shit. To give me something, even something small. Please, just let something change. Let something interrupt this, even for a second. A sign that things might get better. Or just... shift. Even a little.”

He shook his head and took a sip of gin.

“So I decided to go for a walk. Figured fresh air would help. But right as I was locking the door, Santi called and asked if I could go pick you up at Emma’s.”

Your mouth tugged into a soft smile. You closed your eyes and shook your head.

“I had no idea,” you said, quiet now. “I’m sorry.”

He looked vaguely embarrassed, like he hadn’t expected to tell you all this.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “Honestly, I thought it was kind of funny. I remember thinking, Well, anything’s better than being home, and maybe—” he laughed a little to himself, “maybe I could take it out on you.”

You snorted. “How naive.”

He laughed under his breath. “I just think it’s kind of funny.”

“What?”

“This whole thing. The snowball we’ve made out of it.”

You smiled, tilting your head. “Oh, absolutely. Look at you. You were just trying to distract yourself on a bad day, and now here you are—dressed like the Phantom of the Opera.”

You reached up and gently pinched his cheek.

He rolled his eyes. “And with you, of all people.”

You gasped, mock-offended, and gave him a soft punch on the arm.

Frankie laughed again, leaning away like he was dodging a real blow. But almost immediately, he shifted back toward you, closing the distance.

His arm looped around your shoulders, pulling you into him. And he kissed you.

One hand holding your chin steady, the other anchoring you to his side. It wasn’t rushed.

You reached for him without thinking, arms sliding under his jacket, fingers spreading across his back as you pressed in closer. The heat of him settled over you like a blanket.

You opened the door to your apartment, laughing, the sound still bubbling out of you when two meows echoed from the living room.

Darcy and Bingley were curled up on the couch. Well, they had been. Darcy had already jumped down, clearly recognizing the rhythm of your footsteps on the stairs and the click of your key in the lock. Bingley followed right after, tripping over himself in his rush for attention, always one beat behind the older cat, always desperate to catch up.

Your body felt light. Electrified in a pleasant, floaty way. Even the corset, which had started the night as a mild form of torture, now felt like part of the spell you were under.

Frankie followed close behind, and he was still in a good mood too, his hand brushing yours every few seconds, like he couldn’t help it.

It was three in the morning. You’d spent the last hour and a half up on the rooftop, stretched out side by side under the sky, until Mai had called Frankie. After that, you made your way downstairs again.

You stayed at the party a little longer. Lucy (one of Mai’s friends) had brought what she described as “actually good” weed, and for once, you’d felt curious enough to try it. Just two puffs. Enough to feel something, not enough to tip you over.

Frankie smoked too. And then you danced for another hour, laughing more than moving, a dumb smile stretching your mouth so wide you could actually feel the ache in your cheeks. At one point you touched your face and realized how sore it was, like your muscles weren’t used to this kind of happiness.

But by then, all you could think about was getting home.

So Frankie called the Uber, and you spent the whole ride curled up in the back seat together, your phone between you, taking blurry selfies in the darkness, half-laughing, half-whispering, and Frankie kept saying, “Send me that one,” and “Wait, send me that one too,” over and over again.

Frankie was by the stereo now, standing next to the bookshelf, half-shrouded in lamplight. At some point while you were in the bathroom, he’d connected his phone, and when you stepped back into the room, a piano was already filling the space.

He closed his eyes as the notes settled in, raising his hands in theatrical gestures. He looked ridiculous in his costume. Lovably ridiculous. You could see that he knew it, and that made it better.

Nina Simone’s voice came through the speakers.

Just in time, you found me just in time… before you came, my time was running low…

You let out a soft laugh and leaned your elbows over the back of the couch. Behind you, Darcy and Bingley wrestled over a vibrating toy mouse, their tiny paws tapping against the floor.

Frankie held out his hand. No words. No question. Just the open palm, waiting. And you didn’t hesitate. Lately, you never did, not with him, not in moments like this.

You took it, and he pulled you gently toward him until your body fit against his, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder. He moved with an unstudied ease, guiding you across the floor as if this kind of thing happened all the time. It didn’t, of course. But maybe it should have.

You let your eyes fall shut as he spun you, the room becoming a blur of light and shadow and sound. It felt right, and not just metaphorically. You were literally spinning, your thoughts a little unmoored, but you weren’t afraid of it.

And when he steadied you again, you didn’t let him hold you for long. You pushed at his chest, not forcefully, just enough to tip the balance, and he stumbled backward and let himself fall onto the couch, laughing as he landed.

He stayed there, eyes tracking your every move. That ridiculous smile was still on his face, and he realized it matched yours.

His hand twitched with the instinct to reach for you again, to pull you down with him, tuck you against his side, kiss your shoulder or your neck or your mouth. But he didn’t.

Maybe, he thought, this was the part where he stayed still and looked at what was in front of him.

You were still moving, hips swaying, when you turned to him with that look, that half-knowing expression that always made something in his chest pull tight.

You pointed at him, not sharply, your index finger in the air between you.

“Baby, you’re gonna miss that plane,” you said.

Frankie blinked, a little thrown. His head tilted slightly as he studied your face, trying to work out if this was a reference he was supposed to catch. But you looked so sure, so vivid, that he didn’t ask. He just smiled back.

Because suddenly it was like a light had flicked on in the room, or maybe just in his mind. But he just kept smiling like maybe he’d figure it out later.

He couldn't take his eyes off your face. He saw you clearly. Not just your face or your body, but the entire feeling of you. The way you filled a space, the way you made everything feel warmer, real.

You laughed. “Have you ever seen that movie?”

You stepped closer, and without saying anything else, you let yourself collapse gently into his lap. His hands moved instantly, one settling against the small of your back, the other curving around your thighs, holding you there like he was afraid you'd drift away.

You curled an arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. And he turned his head, wanting to meet your mouth with his, but you didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. Either way, you pulled back, your eyes drifting to where your hand now rested against his chest.

“It’s a trilogy, actually,” you said. “About two people who meet on a train in Europe and spend the whole day together before one of them has to go back to the States.”

He watched your lips as you spoke.

“The guy, Jesse, he leaves. But he promises he’ll meet her again at the station in a couple of months. Only… she doesn’t show up.”

You looked up at him, your eyes searching for recognition. Frankie searched his memory, but nothing surfaced. Maybe he’d heard of it, maybe not. But he didn’t want to stop you.

“Years later,” you continued, “they meet again in Paris. She sees he’s written a book about the night they spent together, and she goes to see him talk.”

“Why didn’t they meet at the train station?” he asked.

You pursed your lips. “Um, she had her grandma's funeral I think.”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, carefully tucking a strand behind his ear.

“But they spend the day together again. And he has to catch a plane, again. So they’re at her place, and this same song is playing.” You nodded toward the stereo, where Nina Simone’s voice was still echoing around.

“Right before the end,” you said, quieter now, “she looks at him and says, ‘Baby, you’re gonna miss that plane.’”

His fingers curled around your thigh, thumb pressing in just enough to make sure you felt it.

“And he does,” he said, half under his breath, eyes on your mouth.

“Yes, he does,” you replied, smiling. “Even though he has to leave his wife for it.”

Frankie pulled a face. “Dick move.”

You laughed, throwing your head back the slightest bit. The sound of it settled into his chest like warmth.

“Yeah, it's kind of bittersweet,” you said. “But it's one of my favorite movies. The first one, more than anything.”

He grinned. “You have to start showing me these things, because I never know what you're talking about.”

Your eyes rolled—soft, playful, nothing mean in it. “I already told you we have to watch them, didn’t I? But when you come to see me, the last thing you think of is watching a movie.”

He furrowed his brow, smirking. “And can you blame me? You want us to pretend I’m the only one who’s horny here?”

You raised both eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My intentions are always pure.”

Frankie let out a snort.

“Well, that’s too bad,” he said. “Because I really like you a lot and I think about you in both pure and impure ways.”

You laughed again. “Oh, really? Such duality.”

Without thinking about it too much, he shifted his weight and, in one smooth motion, dropped you onto the couch. You landed on your side with a soft thud and an indignant little gasp, but you didn’t protest. He slid down next to you, his body curving naturally along the line of yours.

He didn’t speak, not right away. Just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. You let out a sigh and settled with your back to his chest.

Frankie closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. He wasn’t tired, not exactly. His body was heavy, sure, and he could feel the weed in his bloodstream, but it wasn’t sleep that pulled at him. He just didn’t want the night to slip away.

He pulled you in, even though you were already pressed against him so closely it hardly seemed possible. But he needed it, the contact, like it might help hold in whatever was pressing at the edges of his chest.

And then the feeling came. Sudden, insistent, impossible to ignore. The urge to say something. To say it.

“I really can't stop thinking about you,” he said quietly, his mouth close to your ear, not quite touching.

You didn’t respond. He glanced down and caught the flutter of your eyelashes as you blinked slowly, your fingers tracing a path over his hand, still resting on your chest.

“It’s becoming a problem,” he added. His voice stayed soft, almost careful.

“Hey, that’s mean,” you whispered, like he’d wounded you, even though he could hear the smile tucked behind the words.

He smiled too. You couldn’t see it, but it was there.

“No, I mean… I really can’t stop thinking about you,” he said again, slower this time, not as if he were trying to convince you, but like he was just now understanding it himself. “I think about you all day. When I wake up. At work. When I’m doing nothing. When I’m trying to sleep. It’s constant. It doesn’t fit in my body anymore.”

There was a pause. Long enough for the air to shift a little, for him to hear the soft sound of your breath.

“…What do you mean?” you asked, voice quiet, tentative.

He swallowed. “It means it’s bigger than my body. It’s getting so much bigger than my body.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for him to feel the movement. “And what do you mean by that?”

Frankie let out a breath of laughter. “You’re the rom-com girl. What do you think I mean?”

You snorted, half-buried in his arm. “Are you really going to make me decode you at four in the morning on a Friday?”

“No,” he said, brushing his lips lightly against your hair. “Because it’s already Saturday.”

You groaned. “Oh, right. Saturday. Damn calendar cop.”

Frankie grinned again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it.

His hands were firm at your waist, fingers brushing over the tight fabric. He slid one beneath the edge of your corset, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin.

“This must be bothering you, isn't it?” he murmured, his mouth near your neck now.

You shivered. He smiled. He liked that.

“You want me to help you take it off?” he asked.

You laughed softly. “Actually, yes. These things are complicated, you know?”

You pushed yourself up on one palm, your hair falling slightly over your shoulder, your body curved toward him.

He grabbed your hips and guided you to stand, following a second later, grounding himself against the floor even though his feet didn’t quite feel like his own. Still, there was no way he was giving into sleep. Not now. Not with you standing in front of him like a dream made physical, eyes wide, hair slightly messy, wearing that dress like an invitation he hadn’t fully understood until this second.

He stepped toward you and wrapped his arms around your waist, hands sliding lower until they settled on your ass, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, a sharp inhale against his neck, and he nearly groaned at the sound. But then your hands came up to his shoulders, your fingers around the back of his neck, and you lifted your face to kiss.

His hands gripped tighter, and a sound escaped him. Half a moan, half a sigh. The pressure of your body against his, the weight of your mouth, the way you moved... it jolted him fully awake, like flipping on a switch.

He began walking, guiding you backward down the hall, barely breaking the kiss. His palms roamed beneath your dress, over your hips and thighs. And your hands were in his hair now, fingers curling tightly, tugging hard enough to make him lose his breath.

There was urgency in it. He felt it in your hands, in the way your mouth pressed against his. And he understood that, because the same thing was happening to him.

As you stepped into the room ahead of him, Frankie instinctively looked down. His eyes scanned the floor, half-focused, checking for small shapes or bigger ones that might dart between his feet or sneak into the room before the door could close. He’d learned; sometimes the cats were faster than gravity.

But there was no sign of Darcy or Bingley. So he closed the door behind him.

Then, without much thought, he reached for your waist and turned you around, placing your back to him. He nudged you gently forward until your knees hit the mattress and you sank onto them, your hands following as you steadied yourself on all fours.

Frankie climbed up behind you, eyes fixed on the lacing of your corset. His fingers found the ties; he fumbled at first, then adjusted, undoing one knot at a time. The fabric loosened slowly, piece by piece, until the whole thing gave way and slid off your back. He let it fall to the floor beside the bed and, almost unconsciously, traced his palm down the line of your spine, still covered by the fabric of your dress.

“Better?” he asked, leaning forward so his mouth hovered just above your shoulder. He let his chest rest against your back, just for a moment, to feel the warmth of you.

You nodded, and he stepped back, bringing you with him gently by the arms. His lips brushed your neck as you tilted your head, a quiet sigh escaping you.

He reached down and gathered the skirt of your dress, lifting it carefully. And after a second, you took the cue, slipping it off the rest of the way and shrugging it down your arms. You tossed it aside, and it landed in a soft heap next to the corset.

Frankie placed his hand on your now bare back, his thumb sweeping lightly across your skin, then nudged you down again, careful, steady, like he didn’t want to startle you.

Your skin was impossibly soft. It always was. He never got used to that.

He pulled back just enough to take you in fully, his hand drifting down to rest on the curve of your ass. Then, half instinct, half reverence, he let his palm fall with a soft, open-handed slap. Not hard. Just enough to make you inhale.

And then he saw you.

Just you.

Kneeling in front of him in nothing but your white panties and sheer white garter stockings. The elastic pressed into your thighs just slightly, indenting the skin there in a way that made something inside him short-circuit.

Jesus Christ.

His breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t just arousal—it was awe. Like he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here. You looked unreal, like something imagined too vividly to actually exist.

He got off the bed, though every part of him protested the distance. His body was wound tight, buzzing with tension that had nowhere to go yet. But he crouched down beside the mattress anyway, reaching for your ankle. His fingers wrapped around it like he was afraid you'd vanish the second he let go.

One shoe, then the other. He set them gently on the floor, even though his hands were trembling, shaky with how badly he wanted you, how close you'd been for hours, how long he'd been holding himself back. His patience was a thin thread, and he could feel it fraying with every passing second.

He stood back up and tugged at the top of his costume, shrugging out of it like it offended him now. He left his pants on... he'd meant to take them off too, but something in him refused to wait any longer. The sight of you on the bed, half-undressed, warm and soft and breathing steadily in front of him, pulled him back.

He climbed behind you on the mattress, hands already on your ass before he could think about it, fingers sinking in like he needed to feel how real you were. Your skin was warm and firm and impossibly soft. Without thinking, he brought his mouth down and bit into you—not hard, but deep enough that he felt it in his jaw. He didn’t even register the sound he made.

You moaned, and dropped your chest onto the bed, your arms stretched out in front of you, your knees still anchored, ass raised. The image of it lodged somewhere in his brain he knew he’d never get rid of.

Frankie pushed his fingers under the garter straps at your thighs, tugged them back, then let them snap against your skin. A sharp sound, a gasp from you in response. His mouth was back on you immediately after. Biting, kissing, dragging across skin.

He reached up, slipping his hand beneath the band of your panties. His fingers pressed in, touching but not yet taking, and he exhaled sharply, forehead nearly resting against your lower back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice catching. “I could eat you in one bite.”

You laughed, a real one, not just breathy, and turned your head, giving him a sideways glance.

“Then do it.”

A laugh rumbled low in his chest. He slid his fingers under the garter strap again, loving the tension it created against your skin.

“Fine,” he said. “But these stay on.”

After a second, his hand came down on your ass again, harder this time. The sound cracked through the room, and your body jolted forward. You started to turn toward him, eyes seeking his, but Frankie held your hips in place.

“No,” he said, tightening his grip. “Stay still.”

You stilled. His fingers moved lower, tracing the backs of your thighs, sliding between them. He used one hand to push your legs farther apart, guiding your body into the shape he wanted, the shape he needed you in.

He pulled back. Got off the bed. His hands were shaking again, this time from restraint. He yanked off his pants, boxers the only thing left between him and the aching need that had been building in him for what felt like hours.

He climbed back onto the mattress, this time lying flat on his back, shifting down until his head was between your thighs. He looked up at you from there. Dark eyes, hungry. And reached for you, wrapping his arms around your legs, tugging you backward until your knees straddled him and your hips were just above his mouth.

His fingers hooked into the edge of your panties, pulling them aside. And then he looked.

You sat up above him, hands threading through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead, the touch so gentle in contrast to the way his heart was hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t pretend to be composed. Not now. You were soaked, shining under the light, and the sight of you like that, open, ready, waiting for him, knocked something loose in his gut.

He didn’t waste time. Didn’t tease.

He grabbed your ass, hard, and pulled you down with a strength that made you gasp. His mouth found you instantly, tongue pressing deep, tasting, devouring. You were warm and wet and tender against him, and the second his tongue touched you, something inside him unspooled.

You moaned above him, hips twitching against his face. Your thighs trembled faintly against his shoulders, fingers tangled in his hair. Frankie could feel every single shiver rippling through your body. Every grind of your hips. Every breathless, broken sound you tried to bite down, but couldn’t.

His tongue moved in steady, hungry strokes, licking and circling, savoring every inch of you like he couldn’t get full—because he couldn’t. He was addicted to the way you reacted. The way you gasped when he sucked, the way your thighs clenched and then softened again, the hitch in your breath when he flattened his tongue and dragged it all the way up your slit, or wrapped his lips around your clit and pulled gently, just to see what it would do to you.

You started moving. Hips shifting forward, cautious at first, but quickly gaining rhythm, desperate now. And Frankie groaned into you, a deep sound vibrating against your skin, and you moaned back, louder this time, your hands gripping his hair with new intensity.

He slid a hand between your legs and slipped two fingers through your wetness, then inside you, deep, curling up until you choked out his name. Your hips bucked, your whole body hot and electric above him. He locked you in place with his other arm, grounding you to him, keeping your body right where he needed you. Right on his mouth, right on his fingers.

You were coming undone on top of him, and Frankie loved it. Loved the honesty of it, the wildness, the way nothing in you was hidden in that moment. No pretending. No filters. Just you—desperate and beautiful and completely his.

“Frankie—fuck—” you gasped, your hips trembling hard against his face.

He pressed his mouth tighter to you, tongue working faster now, synced with the push and curl of his fingers.

You were soaking him. Shaking. So goddamn close he could feel it, could taste it, and he needed you to fall.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped against you, voice hoarse. “Come for me. Be as loud as you want.”

And when you did—when your whole body locked up, thighs tightening around his head, your mouth dropping open with a strangled cry that cracked into a deep, uncontrollable moan—Frankie didn’t stop. He kept going, dragging you through it, letting you lose yourself completely, using him however you needed, for as long as it took.

He was rock hard beneath you, pulsing in his boxers, the ache almost unbearable. But he didn’t care. Not yet. Not when you were breaking apart like this. Not when you were melting in his mouth, in his hands.

Eventually, you collapsed forward, breathless and shaking. Spent.

Frankie held your thighs in his hands, mouth still brushing against your soft, slick skin, kissing you gently now. Like he couldn’t quite let go of the taste of you.

He smiled against you, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at your ruined body.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, almost to himself.

He smiled at you, eyes heavy with heat, and slowly pulled his fingers out of you. You dropped onto the bed, back against the mattress, chest still heaving.

Frankie shifted onto his knees and crawled over you, positioning himself above you, body casting a shadow across your flushed skin.

“Open,” he said quietly, holding his hand up toward your face.

You did. You parted your lips without hesitation, and he slipped his fingers into your mouth, wet from you. You closed your lips around them, tasting yourself on his skin.

Frankie groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating somewhere in his chest as he felt the heat of your mouth, the pressure of your tongue.

He bent down, mouth dragging along the line of your neck, kissing and biting, his breath warm against your skin. Your body was hot, fevered almost, and he felt drunk on it—on you.

With a wet sound, he slid his fingers from your mouth and looked down at your face.

You reached up and brushed your hand across his cheek, just for a second, before tugging his face down toward yours and kissing him. Barely a brush of lips. But then your tongue pushed into his mouth and Frankie all but melted. Like something inside him gave up the fight, like he'd never actually been fighting at all.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers curling into the back of his shoulder, and the kiss turned frantic, needy. He pressed his hips down, grinding against you, his cock hard and pulsing, straining against the fabric of his boxers.

Your legs parted automatically, pulling him in closer, locking around his waist like you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.

Frankie pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and a little bloodshot, lips swollen from kissing, like he’d been lit from the inside.

“Pure intentions, huh?” he whispered, mouth tilting into a crooked smile.

You let out a soft laugh, your eyes half-lidded, your fingertips still stroking along his cheekbone. 

You pulled him in again, brushing kisses along the curve of his mouth, the corners, soft and quick, teasing.

Frankie’s eyes fluttered closed. It felt like falling. Like being pulled into something you weren’t sure you’d survive, but didn’t want to stop.

“Wanna know a secret?” you whispered against his lips.

He nodded, though he wasn’t even sure you noticed. His thoughts were spinning.

You kissed him again, and murmured, “You, my friend, belong with me.”

He opened his eyes, lids heavy. He felt wrecked, in the best possible way. High on you. High on everything else. Hard and strung tight, his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to get out.

He parted his lips to say something, anything, but nothing came. His head was full, completely full, of things he wanted to tell you, but none of them would settle into actual words.

You smiled at him, that quiet, knowing kind of smile, and kissed him again. Just a press of your mouth to his.

When you pulled back, your hand moved to his cheek.

“So, Francisco? What are you gonna do about it?”

He laughed, barely. It came out low and breathless, somewhere between a groan and disbelief. But his body responded faster than his brain. His hand was already moving down.

Your eyes dropped, following the motion as he pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, hard and swollen, head flushed. He stroked himself a couple of times, breath catching, and then leaned back just enough to move.

Your gaze flicked to his cock again and he swore under his breath, he couldn’t wait anymore.

He dropped to his knees, hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties, and dragged them down your legs. They landed somewhere beside the bed, forgotten. His boxers joined them a moment later.

Then he was climbing back over you, the heat of his body settling between your thighs again. He took himself in hand, rubbing the head through your slick folds, coating himself in you. It was more than just preparation. It was teasing. It was control. It was watching your chest rise and fall, the way your lips parted when his tip brushed just a little too close to your clit. He leaned down, mouth on your chest, tongue swirling around your nipple while he kept grinding his cock against you. He bit lightly, just enough to make you gasp, and then kissed the spot after like an apology.

And then, he lined himself up.

You wrapped your legs around him again, locking him in, keeping him close as he started to push in. Inch by inch. The stretch was slow, thick, deep. You felt like everything; tight, warm, perfect. He cursed under his breath and dropped his forehead to your neck, your fingers tangling in the back of his hair, stroking, grounding him as your body adjusted around him.

He started to move, slow at first, wanting to feel every part of it, every part of you. His eyes stayed on your face, on the way your cheeks flushed and your breath caught with every thrust.

Your hands roamed over his chest, up his arms, around his neck, soft and careful. It made him feel worshiped. It made him feel like this was more than sex. And it was, so he started to move faster, need taking over now, his hips snapping forward with more urgency. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, messy and rhythmic and desperate.

Your moans came louder, throatier. Your eyes half-lidded, glossy, your head thrown back and nails digging into his back as he drove into you. You were completely open to him, and it wrecked him, absolutely ruined him, in the best, most brutal way. Your body clung to him like you couldn’t help it. Instinct, not choice. Every time he thrust into you, your hips tilted to meet him, chasing the friction. 

He grunted into your neck, rough and shaky, like the sound had been dragged out of his chest. There was nothing careful about him now. No hesitation. Just need. Your name and a curse was the only thing he could manage to say.

Your fingers raked down his back, mouth open against his shoulder, gasping. Whimpering. You bit him and he groaned, sharp, guttural—and fucked you harder.

The rhythm got messier. Faster. Less about control. His hips snapped into yours like he needed to bury himself as deep as he could; bodies slapping together, wet and filthy and warm.

You were everywhere; your smell, your breath, the heat of your skin. He couldn’t look at you without falling apart, so he did. He looked at you. Watched the way your mouth trembled when he hit that spot just right, the way your eyes fluttered shut and your thighs squeezed tighter around his waist like you didn’t want to let him go. Like you couldn’t.

“God, baby,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good.”

You whined, needy and open beneath him. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Even if the room had caught fire around you, he’d still be here, fucking you into the mattress.

Your body jerked beneath him, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he felt the tension building inside you. The tremble. The way your legs started to shake again, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice raw. “I know, baby.”

You nodded, wordless, breathless, and he reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he’d done it a hundred times before. He circled it in time with his thrusts, never breaking rhythm. Never looking away from you.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Come for me. Just—fuck, come for me, loud, baby.”

Your body arched under him, mouth falling open in a moan that was loud and broken. You clenched around him, pulsing, and he nearly came right then; swallowed a curse, tried to breathe through it, but your orgasm tore something loose in him, and he gritted his teeth as he pushed through the edge.

He didn’t stop.

His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from tipping over, but they were deep and heavy, his hips rolling into yours. His hand gripped your thigh, the other splayed over your hip like he needed something to hold on. You were still clenching around him, body twitching from aftershocks, but you didn’t tell him to stop. You didn’t push him away. You took it, took all of him, with your legs still wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him back in every time he tried to draw out.

He was soaked in sweat, sliding down his chest, face hovering over yours as he fucked you with need that had no elegance left. No rhythm. Just instinct. Just hunger.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice almost unrecognizable. “You—god—”

He didn’t even finish. He just groaned, deep, and drove into you harder. Deeper. Like he couldn’t get enough, like he hadn’t had enough even after all this. The room was thick with heat, the air dense with your moans and the slick sound of skin on skin. His stomach tensed with every thrust, every pull of your body around him, every breathless whimper that escaped your lips.

Your nails were back in his skin, your hands tugging at his hair, your mouth open beneath his; kissing him, biting him, begging him without words.

Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, meeting his, and that was it. He saw the wreckage on your face, your lips swollen, your cheeks flushed, your pupils blown wide, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

He panted against your jaw, his rhythm faltering, hips starting to stutter. He was close. He was so fucking close.

You smiled, breathless, pulling him closer with your legs.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” you whispered, over and over again.

He cursed, and his whole body locked up as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His hips snapped into yours once, twice more, and then he was coming, hard, spilling into you with a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a groan, his face buried in your neck. His body shook as the pleasure ripped through him, hot and endless, every muscle going tight before finally unraveling all at once.

He stayed like that for a moment; completely still, completely inside you, his body slumped over yours, his breath ragged and fast against your skin. Your fingers were in his hair, gentle now, stroking, soothing. Both of you glistening, wrecked, and buzzing from the aftershock.

And when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his lips red, his eyes dark, his body still trembling faintly... you smiled.

And he knew.

He was yours now. Completely.

You had curled into Frankie, cheek resting against his chest, listening as he did his best to explain why Tenacious D was, in his words, Jack Black’s masterpiece.

His voice was low, tired, almost raspy, like it always got when he was sleepy.

“And then fucking Dio shows up,” he said, making a vague sweeping motion with his hand, though his eyes narrowed like he was making a serious point. “And Meat Loaf is his fucking dad? Fucking incredible.”

You smiled against his skin.

“I like School of Rock.”

He turned his head, frowning.

“But you haven’t seen Tenacious D,” he argued, pointing at you. “You have to see it.”

He stretched out beneath you, folding his arms behind his head, his eyes wide and glassy.

The blanket had slipped down around your hips. You shifted slightly, one hand trailing across his ribs.

“Should I turn off the light?” he asked, not moving.

“No,” you said, sitting up, propping yourself on one elbow. “Actually, I was thinking of taking a shower. Want to come?”

Frankie furrowed his brow. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s like… five in the morning?”

You laughed, leaning back against him again. His hand found your shoulder, his thumb moving in a lazy circle.

“I know,” you said. “But my hair smells like smoke. And that party was full of so many people and… smells.” You looked up at him. “And I’m pretty sure we smell like sex.”

He clicked his tongue, unbothered. “So? I like that smell.”

“Francisco.” You gave his chest a gentle smack, rolling your eyes. “Don’t be gross.”

He smiled and closed his eyes.

“No, no,” he mumbled, waving a hand in the air. “See, I totally get it, I do, but it’s late and I can’t even keep my eyes open. Look at me right now.”

“Frankie.”

“Let’s just go to sleep.”

“Okay, but picture this: tomorrow you wake up, and your hair’s clean. You smell like soap. You go straight to coffee, no distractions, no regrets. Or we can stay in bed until noon. No judgment either way. But we'd be clean.”

“We can do that anyway,” he muttered.

You clicked your tongue in mock disapproval.

“Fine. Go to sleep.” You pushed yourself off his chest. The sheet slipped down your body as you sat up, and the sudden exposure made you shiver. You reached for the robe draped over the edge of the bed and slipped it on as you stood.

Behind you, Frankie let out a groan. He rubbed at his eyes like a child refusing a nap. Then, reluctantly, he pulled back the covers and got up.

You turned.

“What are you doing?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“Going with you,” he said, already walking past you, completely naked, like it wasn’t worth discussing.

You followed him to the bathroom. He was already in front of the mirror, studying his reflection with curiosity, as if unsure of what he expected to find.

His hair was a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. His lips were swollen. His eyes, red-rimmed and heavy-lidded, blinked at himself like he was still adjusting to the lighting.

You met his eyes in the mirror and smiled.

“You could’ve stayed in bed. Really.”

He turned slightly toward you.

“By myself? Alone?”

You laughed, unable to help it. The way he said it made it sound like you’d suggested something cruel, rather than a perfectly reasonable offer.

Also, he looked tired and slightly grumpy, and you loved it.

You shook your head and turned on the shower, adjusting the handle with small, precise movements until the water reached the perfect temperature. Steam began to curl in the air almost instantly, fogging up the mirror in patches. Frankie couldn't see his reflection anymore. He snorted.

You slipped out of your robe and left it on the dresser. Behind you, the tile was cool under your feet as you stepped into the stream.

The hot water hit your skin with an intensity that made you exhale, loosening everything: your shoulders, your spine, the tension in your thighs. You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, letting the water run over your face.

You felt Frankie before you saw him. The curtain shifted slightly, the air moved. Then he was there, stepping in behind you with visible reluctance, a crease between his eyebrows like the heat was somehow a personal inconvenience.

You tried not to laugh. The entire shower became a quiet game of holding back your smile, watching him out of the corner of your eye while he pretended not to enjoy it.

But he did enjoy it. You could tell by the way his eyes drifted closed every time he turned his back to the spray, how he sighed when your hands slid over his shoulders, gentle, soothing, and he leaned into them without saying anything.

You asked if he wanted you to wash his hair, and he nodded once, eyes still closed. He looked soft like that. Sleepy and grateful. A little helpless, which made you smile again.

You ran your fingers through his hair with care, massaging his scalp the way you knew he liked, and his face stayed relaxed the whole time.

When the water finally shut off, you reached for a towel and wrapped it around yourself. Frankie followed your movements, grabbing his own towel and securing it loosely at his waist.

Back in the bedroom, you looked for clean pajamas and started your usual nighttime routine. Moisturizer, body lotion, drawers opening and closing again and again. But Frankie didn’t say much. He pulled on a pair of boxers, brushed his teeth in the half-lit bathroom, and then collapsed onto the bed with a sigh.

But he didn’t fall asleep.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth and opened a drawer to search for your hair dryer. You found it tangled with the cord of your straightener, and muttered something under your breath as you tried to free it.

Just as you were plugging it in, Frankie appeared in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

“What are you doing?”

You looked at him in the mirror. “Drying my hair. You want me to dry yours after?”

He sighed, heavy and dramatic. “Baby, it’s late. Come to bed. It’ll dry on its own.”

You smiled as you turned to face him.

“Jesus, you’re so impatient.” You shook your head. “I’ll be there in a minute. Go.”

He clicked his tongue and placed one hand on his hip.

“No,” he said, fed up, but then walked away without another word.

You turned back to the mirror and got to work. There was no chance you were going to bed with wet hair. It always felt cold and sticky against the pillow, and by morning it would be doing something strange and unmanageable. So you dried it, even if you rushed a little, hoping to minimize the noise for his sake.

When you finished and unplugged the dryer, the apartment fell quiet again. You walked back to the bedroom expecting to find him sprawled across the bed, but it was empty, the sheets still slightly rumpled from earlier.

You padded down the hallway, following the flicker of the television. In the living room, the screen glowed in soft blues and whites. Frankie’s foot was the first thing you saw, sticking out from under the arm of the couch.

You walked over and leaned against the back of it, peering down at him. He was lying flat on his back, arms crossed like he was in a protest. His eyes were open, unfocused, as if he’d been staring at nothing in particular for a while. Bingley was curled up on his chest, purring softly, and Darcy sat on the floor in front of the them, tail flicking, clearly calculating the best angle to launch himself up.

You smiled. “Hey.”

Frankie turned his head slowly to look at you. “All dry?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Meryl Streep. Let’s go to bed.”

You pushed away from the couch and started walking back down the hallway. Behind you, you heard the click of the TV turning off, followed by the soft shuffle of Frankie’s footsteps trailing behind you.

You lay down and pulled the blanket over your body, and a moment later, Frankie walked into the room, holding Bingley in one hand.

He placed the kitten gently on the bed. Bingley stayed completely still for a few seconds, frozen. And then Darcy padded into the room, tail raised with lazy curiosity. The moment Bingley saw him, he carefully jumped off the bed and approached him, slow, nose twitching as he moved in to investigate his friend.

Frankie didn’t wait. He reached for the light switch, and the room went dark.

You felt the shift of the mattress as he climbed in beside you. Then, without hesitation, he found you beneath the covers and pulled you close, one arm circling around your waist.

You didn’t resist, of course not. You wrapped yourself around him easily, resting your face near the curve of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and him.

“Did you have a good night?” he asked, softly. His voice was gentle now, in the darkness.

You nodded, your cheek brushing against his skin. “Yes. I did.”

“Me too.”

There was a brief silence. You listened to the sound of the Darcy and Bingley exploring in the room. They were under the bed, playing or just messing around.

After a few moments, Mr. Darcy leapt onto the bed and circled once before settling at the foot like it was his rightful place. You waited for the soft sound of Bingley joining him, but instead, a sharp meow floated up from the floor.

“Bingley, come here,” you said.

He meowed again.

Frankie pulled back from you, laughing softly, and a moment later, he placed the tiny kitten beside Darcy.

In a second, Frankie was close again, his arm sliding around your waist like it had never left. You felt his hand move slowly along your arm.

You closed your eyes, and the seconds passed as your body slowly began to relax.

“I didn’t like seeing you with someone else,” Frankie said then, absently.

You opened your eyes, though your lids were heavy and the darkness made it hard to focus on anything.

“Mmm?”

He exhaled, and pulled you closer still, his chest against yours.

“I didn’t like seeing you with someone else,” he repeated. “I didn’t like you kissing someone else.”

“No?”

“No.”

You let your fingers trail lightly across his chest, the warmth of his skin sinking into your palms.

“I didn’t like kissing someone else either,” you whispered.

Frankie let out a laugh. “Too romantic for that, huh?”

You smiled. “Exactly.”

You couldn’t see his face, but you felt the subtle shift of the mattress as he moved, turning onto his side to face you. Then came the press of his lips against the corner of your mouth. His fingers brushed your jaw, holding you there while he kissed you again, just once more.

You reached for him, arms wrapping around his torso, and he relaxed into you almost instantly. You felt it in the way his shoulders dropped, the way his breathing began to ease; longer, slower, deeper. Sleep was tugging at him one breath at a time.

There was a faint snore from him.

“Good night, jealous,” you murmured.

He moved, barely. A brief spasm.

“Mhm. Good night, baby, I love you.”

You stilled.

Your heart stopped, then picked up again in an uneven rhythm.

The words hit you like a stone tossed into still water.

You blinked. Your eyes opened wide in the dark.

But it was too dark to see anything, and by the time you processed what he’d said, he was already snoring beside you.

Completely, deeply asleep.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @thedilfdiaries @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @deatt @yslgreen @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk @billionairecowgirl @blub-senpai @madpanda75 @joelmillerpascal @thatdbeagoodsticker @dtftheavengers @jessthebaker @yourallaround-simp @vingtetunmars @deatt @pedges-world @vickie5446 @whitewolfstar01 @littlenicpascal

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Finally, she's awake.

Riley deserved everything he got, in fact, he got off lightly.

I hope the sheriff does whatever he can to make sure that Joel doesn't get in trouble.

Ride or Die | Chapter Nine

pairing: rodeo/cowboy!joel miller x f!reader

chapter summary : waking up brings its own challenges for you and those around you.

chapter warnings: to avoid spoilers, i'm not going to post very specific warnings for this chapter, but here are the basics: angst, fluff, trauma, violence, and switching POVs.

word count: 8.5k

a/n: as a reminder, chapters will be every other sunday-- alternating with heartlines !!

your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I secretly hope you like this story. 🤍

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

The soft click of the door broke the quiet of the early morning.

Wes stepped inside, two steaming cups in hand and a third tucked in the crook of his arm. Joel looked up from where he sat, still half curled around your side, one hand resting lightly against your hip beneath the blanket.

“God damn, how are y’all awake this early?” Wes asked, nodding toward the light glow of the bedside lamp and the clock that told how early it was.

“Barely awake… we couldn’t sleep,” Everly yawned, curled up on the little couch with her knees drawn to her chest, blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon.

Joel sat up slowly and took the offered coffee from Wes with a murmured thanks. His gaze never left your face.

For a while, they all sat in silence — quiet breathing, tired sips, the mechanical hiss of the ventilator keeping rhythm. Outside the window, the world was still dark, stars fading as dawn hinted on the horizon.

“Y’know,” Wes said after a while, “once she’s back on her feet, we should all go somewhere. Somewhere far. Just… unplug for a while.”

Everly blinked at him, sitting up a little. “What, like a vacation?”

Wes shrugged. “Or a road trip. Doesn’t matter. Just not here, especially if shit goes down with dad...”

Joel looked over at you, watching the way your lashes sat against your cheeks, the faint color returning to your lips.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Maybe someplace with trees. Water. Somewhere peaceful.”

“I think she’d like that,” Everly murmured, glancing at you with a small smile. “The mountains, maybe. Somewhere quiet, you know?”

Joel nodded. “Yeah. Real quiet. Somewhere she'll feel safe.”

Then it happened, a sound — quiet and fragile—rasped out from your chest.

The monitor picked up first, beeping a little quicker, a little louder than usual. 

Joel froze. So did Everly. Wes turned at the sudden change in rhythm.

Then your fingers twitched.

Then your eyes fluttered. Once. Twice.

Joel stepped closer, leaning in, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Querida… can you hear me?”

At first, it was small. Just a faint shift in rhythm on one of the monitors — the numbers going up.

Joel leaned forward instinctively.

Then your fingers twitched again, and then they gripped the sheets beneath you.

His breath caught and he started breathing faster.

“Hey—” he whispered, reaching gently for your hand. “Sweetheart…?”

Your lashes fluttered again, brow twitching, then your eyes opened — hazy, glassy, unfocused. But opened.

Everly sat up straighter. “Wes? Wesley—look…”

Wes was already on his feet, coffee forgotten on the side table. “She’s waking up?”

The heart monitor picked up in speed as you became more conscious.

Joel’s heart thundered in his chest. “You’re okay, baby. Just take it slow, yeah?” He said softly, softly brushing back your hair to soothe you. 

Your brows furrowed, and a soft moan broke in your throat — but it was garbled. Strangled.

Everly shot up. “Shit, she’s waking up — I’m getting someone!” She said as she practically sprinted out the door.

You blinked against the harsh hospital light. But then, once you took a deep full breath, your eyes went wide, panicked. 

You tried to breathe in again, but something lodged in your throat forced you into a gag — then you began to choke.

Your whole body began to thrash, instinct overriding reason, your mind not understanding what was happening but knowing something was wrong—terribly, awfully, painfully wrong.

“Whoa, whoa, easy, hey — baby — it’s okay, you’re okay—” Joel’s voice shook as he caught your wrists gently, trying to still your arms.

The ventilator hissed. The alarms started to blare and beep loudly.

“She’s choking on the vent tube,” Wes said, quickly stepping in on the other side of the bed, looking at Joel, gripping your shoulder lightly and holding your hand. “Damn it, she’s panicking...” His voice shook in concern.

Your eyes went wide with terror, one of your hands got out of Joel's hold and clawed up toward your face, toward the breathing tube.

“No, no — sweetheart — please, don’t — don’t pull it,” Joel begged, holding your hand tightly now. “It’s okay, baby. It's okay... help’s comin’, just stay with me, focus on me—”

You thrashed harder, heart monitor beeping out a frantic rhythm, your heart rate rising.

Joel’s voice cracked as he shouted, looking behind his shoulder, “We need help in here!”

You were gasping now, gagging around the tube in your throat, tears leaking from your eyes, down your temples as your hands clawed at the bed rails, everything too loud, too bright, too tight, too much—

Joel pressed his hand to your cheek, breath shaking. “I’m here—I’ve got you—I swear, baby, you’re okay—you’re safe, just hold on a little bit longer...”

You looked up at him, your eyes in pain, fear, and terror. You let out a gargled, helpless moan, like you were begging for help.

Joel looked over his shoulder again and shouted toward the hallway: “Help! Please, someone help!”

A nurse and respiratory therapist burst into the room a few seconds later. They looked at the monitors, reading each, “BP skyrocketing, heart rate 143." She said as she grabbed a pair of gloves from the wall, "Okay, let’s pull the tube!” The nurse said, rushing toward the bed.

“She’s trying to breathe over the ventilator,” the therapist said quickly, gloving up. “Powering off now.” She pressed a button, and the machine powered off. 

Wes stepped back, giving them room, and Joel tried to step back as well, but your hand shot out and grabbed his, gripping it so tight your knuckles turned white.

The nurse adjusted her position, working around him without hesitation. “It’s okay, Joel. Stay right where you are. You’re helping more than you know, sweetheart.”

The therapist unhooked the machine, and then with practiced precision, the nurse gently pulled the tube from your throat.

You coughed violently, lungs trying to take their first full breath in a little over a week. Your body convulsed slightly with the effort, eyes wild, but slowly, slowly — your lungs began taking in full breaths.

You leaned into Joel’s hand as he cupped your cheek, and he knelt beside you. You began breathing hard through your mouth, a sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead.

“Breathe with me,” Joel whispered. “Nice and easy. That’s it. You’re okay...”

Everly appeared at the doorway, tears in her eyes. She stepped forward slowly, heart in her throat.

You looked over at her, recognition dawning in your tired eyes. “Ev…?”

She nodded, stepping forward. “Yeah, hun. We’re all here.”

Your brow furrowed as your surroundings became more into focus. “What… where am I?”

“The hospital,” Wes said gently, stepping around to the other side of the bed. “You were in an accident.”

Your mouth opened, as if to say something, then it closed again. Your head tilted slightly as you looked around the room in slight confusion.

Then, quieter asked, “How long?”

“Almost a week,” Everly said gently, tears still clinging to her lashes.

“Hey,” Joel said softly. reaching forward to brush a few damp strands from your forehead. “How ya feelin’, sweetheart?”

You stared at him for a long time, trying to figure out why Joel Miller, who you hadn't seen in years, was standing by your bedside, calling you sweetheart and stroking your hair back.

“Joel?” your voice rasped — hoarse, broken, barely a whisper.

He gave a small smile. “Yeah. I’m here, sweetheart.”

Your brow furrowed, and you slightly pulled back, “What? Why?”

The silence that followed was thick. Joel’s heart stuttered, and his smile fell.

Everly stepped in quickly. “You and Joel have been seeing each other since you got back from Tennessee...” she said gently. “Joel’s been here since you got hurt.”

You frowned, lips trembling as you tried to process the information that seemed completely foreign to you.

“But… we haven’t… I haven’t seen him in years…” you whispered more to yourself, but they heard.

Joel’s whole being dimmed, but he stayed quiet. Your eyes flicked between everyone, clearly struggling to make sense of any of it.

Wes looked at Joel, then at Everly sadly, and then stepped forward and touched your shoulder. “Hey, it’s ok, I’m sure it’ll come back to ya…” he tried to sound encouraging, but it sounded more like pity than anything. 

You nodded faintly and sank back into your bed, leaning into the pillows, mind racing, trying to piece it all together until a soft knock sounded on the door, and the doctor stepped in — breaking you from your rapid thoughts.

“Welcome back,” Callahan said with a kind smile. “We’re just gonna run a few tests. Just make sure everything’s working the way it should.”

You looked at him and nodded weakly, barely grasping what he was saying.

Behind him entered a nurse, tall, sandy-blond hair, scrubs slightly wrinkled from a long shift. The second he stepped into the room, your entire demeanor shifted but you didn’t know why. You just felt a pit in your stomach and a chill race down your whole body.

Your breath hitched, your back stiffened, and you shrank an inch lower into the bed.

Joel saw it — the way your knuckles turned white on the blanket. He looked from you to the nurse, confused, then his heart dropped when he looked back and saw your eyes. Wide. Glassy. Distant.

You were dissociating.

“Y/N?” he said gently, kneeling back down beside you without hesitation. 

You didn’t answer. You just stared at the nurse, the heart monitor picking up in rhythm again. 

The world around you blurred — dulled to background noise. Your heartbeat echoed in your ears, too loud, too sharp.

And then the memory hit like the swing of a wrecking ball.

“You’re not listening. I came back because I still care. You think he’s gonna treat you better than me? You think some cowboy can give you the life I can?”

Riley’s voice echoed like nails on a chalkboard in your mind.

Your vision fractured and you saw flashes of what you could assume were bits of memory.

The hallway. Your dad’s house. The old wallpaper in the living room. Your boots scraping the hardwood as you backed away.

Then you felt his hand around your throat.

You saw the fury in his eyes as he yelled in your face: “I said, LISTEN TO ME!”

The words slammed into your chest like a fist.

You felt it like it was happening all over again — the sting of your back hitting the wall. The way the box you had in your grasp fell to the floor, hearing something in it shatter. The burn in your lungs when you couldn’t get air from his fist around your throat. Your fingers clawing, helpless, at his arms. Then the release after kicking him, the immediate painful return of air to your lungs.  The front door. The gravel under your boots. The deep thrum of the engine as you started the truck.

“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice was a lifeline, tugging you back to now. “Hey, talk to me... tell me what's goin' on in your head, what are you seein' right now?”

You blinked, disoriented, realizing he was kneeling next to you. The doctor stood frozen where he was. But the nurse — that nurse —took a cautious step forward.

You recoiled instinctively.

“No—no, please!” The words tore from your throat, raw and hoarse. “Please don’t—don’t! Please don’t touch me!”

Everyone froze.

Joel’s eyes widened, voice immediately softened more than it already had. “Hey—hey, it’s okay, you’re safe. It’s not him, I promise. You’re safe.”

The nurse’s brows pinched in confusion, hands slightly raised. “I—ma’am, I’m just—”

“No, please!” you screamed, backing into the pillow, your heart racing, starting to hyperventilate.

You were right back in that house. You were right back to that afternoon.

“Let—Let me go!” Your hand came up to your throat, tears spilling down your cheeks. 

Joel grabbed your other hand, gently but firmly, trying to ground you. “Look at me. I’m right here, okay? You know me, you know my voice. Breathe, baby. I’ve got you—”

But the doctor took a step forward — a professional reflex, not a threat — and you flinched again, gasping in fear. 

“My name is Dr. Callahan. Behind me is my nurse, Thomas. You are safe, Y/N… no one is here to hurt you...” 

His words started to sound like they were underwater, and your vision blurred as a sharp, blinding pain shot through your head just behind your eye. 

You winced, and then your hand clutched your temple. “Ah, my head hurts—fuck—”

Joel’s heart dropped. "Doc? What's goin' on?"

Then one of the monitors shrieked as you winced again.

“Her ICP’s climbing,” the doctor barked. “We need to—”

Then it happened — your eyes rolled back, and your body stiffened.

“Shit, she’s seizing—”

Joel surged forward, rolling you to one side, gripping your shoulders as your limbs convulsed, your jaw locking, and your breath stuttering, voice cracking with helplessness. “No—no, baby—please— please stay with me!”

“Get them out of here,” someone said — the nurse maybe, or the doctor. 

“No, please! I’m not leavin’ her!” Joel yelled, eyes wide, panic eclipsing everything else.

The female nurse took him by the shoulders. “Joel—you have to go. You have to let us help her. We need space to help her...”

Joel fought it — every instinct told him to stay. His boots scraped against the linoleum as he was physically pushed back, his hands yanked from your body.

“Baby, I’m right here—I’m right here—” he yelled as the door slammed shut in front of him and the curtains were drawn closed. 

Inside, he could still hear it. The muffled commands, the rapid-fire shuffle of feet, the squeal of equipment. But he couldn’t see you.

He was right back to where he couldn’t reach you.

He stood frozen, staring at the wooden door, heart thundering, hands still half-raised like he could reach through the barrier and pull you back.

But you were gone again — not unconscious, not broken in body, but pulled into panic, into pain, into memories he couldn’t touch or keep you from.

His mind raced at the brief time you were awake, everything that was said, everything that was done, analyzing it like a madman. 

“She didn't remember... she didn’t know me,” Joel whispered, almost to himself, all of a sudden.

Everly moved to stand beside him, still breathless from the rush, her cheeks pale with worry. “Joel...”

“She looked me in the eye and asked why I was there.” His voice cracked. “Called me by name like I was a stranger...”

“She’s confused,” Wes said, stepping closer. “She just woke up. Her brain’s still playin’ catch-up, y’know?

Joel shook his head, backing away a step, like the floor beneath him wasn’t steady anymore. “She looked at me like—like I didn’t belong bein’ there for her. Like she couldn’t understand why I was holdin’ her hand.”

Everly tried to reach for him, but he stepped back again, dragging a hand through his hair anxiously. He was trying to hold it together, but was visibly failing.

“All I wanted… for a week — all I prayed for was for her to open her eyes,” he said. “And now that she has, she doesn’t even remember what we were.” Tears clouded his vision. 

“Joel,” Everly said softly. “It’s temporary. You know that. The doctors warned us of the potential.”

“It doesn’t feel temporary.” He looked back at the closed door, his voice barely holding together. “It feels like she’s gone, that I was never there to her.”

“She’s not,” Wes said firmly. “She’s still in there. The way she held your hand when they pulled the tube? That wasn’t nothin’, come on. That right there, that was somethin', Joel.”

He looked down at his palm like it was still holding yours — like the ghost of your touch might keep him grounded.

“I just… I thought it’d be different, you know?” Joel whispered. 

The silence thickened between them as they all agreed, they all hoped it would have been different. That you wouldn't have more taken from you.

Inside the room, voices echoed faintly — the shuffle of the doctor, the hurried rush of nurses trying to stabilize you continued.

Joel turned back toward the glass, one hand pressed against the cold surface.

‘Why are you here?’ echoed over and over in his mind. It was a knife to the gut. 

He swallowed hard, chest tightening. “I thought if she saw me… heard me… it’d come back. That it’d mean somethin’...”

He trailed off, unable to finish.

“Joel,” Everly said, stepping forward. “Look at me.”

He turned to her and looked at her, tears in his eyes.

“She’s not gone. You hear me? You’re in her heart — even if her mind’s a little behind. But you can’t let this break you. She’s alive. She’s awake, yeah?”

Joel clenched his jaw and gave the smallest nod — but his eyes drifted back toward the door. 

And all he could do was wait.

Everly stood beside him, arms folded over her chest, her own tears threatening to spill again. She didn’t know what to say that would make it better, as she was having a hard time believing it herself. 

30 minutes later 

The door opened softly, and all three of them turned to its sound— Joel straightening instinctively, Everly taking a step forward, Wes shifting his weight as if bracing for something bad.

Dr. Callahan stepped into the hall, clipboard tucked under his arm. His expression was serious, but not alarmed.

“She’s stable,” he said immediately. “Vitals are holding. We’ve got her sedated again — just enough to let her body reset after the seizure.”

Everly let out a shaky breath in complete relief. “Oh, thank God…”

“She’s going to need rest,” he continued gently. “What she just experienced — waking up disoriented, triggering that memory, then the physical strain of the seizure — that’s a lot for the brain to absorb in a single morning.”

Joel nodded slowly, eyes locked on the floor for a moment before lifting again. “What can we do? To help her. Besides bein’ here...”

Callahan glanced between the three of them, then focused on Joel. “You’re already doing the biggest thing — being present. But in the next few days, yes, there will be more ways to help. Familiar voices, objects from home. Photographs. Personal routines will help jog things.”

“Should we… take her outside?” Wes asked.

“Once she’s stable? Get her into some sun? Let her feel something real. Or—” Joel paused, thinking, “—walk the halls with her? Show her things that might jump start somethin’?”

The doctor nodded, a small smile warming his features at Joel’s eagerness, his pure willingness to support you. “All of that will help. But only when she’s ready. There’s no timetable here. What matters most is that she feels safe and supported.”

Everly crossed her arms lightly. “And what about the memory loss? Will it come back?”

Callahan sighed, not unkindly, more thoughtfully. “It’s likely partial retrograde amnesia. She remembered Wes. She remembered you,” he nodded to Everly. “That’s a good sign. She seems to have lost more recent connections — most likely due to the swelling and trauma near the hippocampus and temporal lobe. She’s not rejecting her memories, they’re just…” He looked up as if he was trying to find the right words then shrugged as he explained, “They are misfiled. Disconnected.”

“So it’s not gone completely?” Joel asked, eyes still focused on the door like it might open and bring clarity with it.

“No. Not gone,” Callahan said firmly. “Just out of reach. It’s going to take time. But with the right support, it can return.”

Joel gave a slow nod, his voice quieter now. “We’ll do whatever she needs.”

Callahan’s expression softened. “That’ll matter more than you know. Just remember: don’t rush it. Let her set the pace.”

Joel’s hands flexed slightly at his sides, not from frustration, but a helpless need to do something when the person he loved was hurting.

But he nodded again. “Okay. We’ll take it slow.”

The doctor gave a last nod and turned down the hallway with the rest of his staff, footsteps quiet.

Joel didn’t move from where he stood. Just stared at the door for a moment, jaw clenched, holding onto the sound of the doctor’s words like a lifeline. And when Everly touched his arm gently, he didn’t look away from the door.

“Whatever she needs,” he said again. “That’s all I care about.”

Later that Night

You woke to soft, dim light and the hush of quiet conversation around you.

It took a moment to remember where you were. The machines, the soft beeping, the steady rise and fall of something mechanical behind your ribs — it all came back in flickers. You blinked slowly, head foggy, limbs heavy but warm.

Someone was laughing softly.

You turned your head — and there they were.

Joel. Everly. Wes.

All of them were still here.

Joel was sitting closest, slouched slightly in the chair beside your bed, one hand tucked under his jaw, the other wrapped loosely around your wrist, like maybe he hadn’t stopped holding on.

Wes and Everly were curled together on the little couch, arguing about some nonsense but alert enough to glance over when they noticed you stir.

Joel straightened instantly.

“Hey,” he said gently, like saying louder might harm you.

You blinked at him, a dazed smile pulling at your lips. “Hey…”

Everly sat up with a tired grin. “You’re awake again…”

Wes leaned over, nudged her playfully. “Told you she’d wake up soon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered.

Joel scooted a little closer, your hand still in his. You watched him carefully, seeing the way his eyes searched your face for signs — for something.

You sighed gently, turning to face him more head on. “I… I’m sorry for earlier.”

He blinked, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“For upsetting you,” you murmured. “When I… didn’t know why you were here. I saw your face. I saw how your smile just… how it dropped.”

Joel looked down like he might deny it, but then nodded once, quiet. “It’s okay. You’ve been through hell.” he sighed softly before continuing, “I knew it could happen, I just hoped it wouldn’t, y’know...”

You bit your lip, thinking. “I want to know. If I can… I want to remember.”

He looked back up at you, cautious hope flickering in his eyes.

“Do you have any pictures? Videos?” you asked. “Something to help maybe jog my memory?”

Joel’s face lit up like you’d offered him a sunrise. “Yeah — yeah, I’ve got some,” he said, already patting his jeans for his phone.

Everly and Wes chuckled at his giddy demeanor. It was like the sunshine had finally come back to his whole being. 

He fumbled for it, nearly dropped it twice, and your tired chuckle bubbled up despite the roughness of your throat.

“You alright there?” you teased.

He huffed a small laugh, cheeks a little pink. “Y’know I used to be real smooth with my hands. Now I’m just the guy droppin’ his damn phone in front of the girl he…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. 

There was a moment, a flicker between you two as he almost slipped his words. 

He smiled to himself and then unlocked his phone and pulled up his gallery, “Here ya go.”

He leaned in gently, holding the phone where you could see.

The first photo made your heart twitch — it was the set of photobooth pictures. The two of you making ridiculous faces in some. Laughing. In one, you kissed his cheek. In another, your nose was scrunched as he kissed yours, smiling so hard your eyes were squeezed shut.

“We first bumped into each other at the coffee shop,” he softly explained. 

You listened, zooming into some of the photos to get a closer look. 

He let out a soft chuckle, “And when I say ‘bumped’ I mean literally, we crashed into each other.” 

You looked up from the phone and a soft chuckle escaped out, “Knowing how clumsy I can be… that doesn’t shock me.” 

He smiled and looked back at his phone, “We reconnected at that little county fair outside of town a week later,” he said, voice warm. “You kept makin’ googly eyes at me when I was out in the arena. So, I came up to ya and you told me I couldn’t take you out unless I won my event.”

You chuckled and shook your head, “I did not!” Your voice cracked and you coughed slightly. 

Everly chuckled and nodded, “You did. Although you should have seen your face when Big Bruce announced Miller here was the reigning national champion before his run though…” 

You rolled your eyes and looked at him, “Ah, so you’re tellin’ me, you tricked me?” 

Joel held up his hands in mock defense, “Hey now, can’t blame a guy for makin’ sure he gets to take out the girl of his dreams…” 

You bit the inside of our cheek at that and blushed a little, then looked back at his phone and softly hummed, “So we went to the fair for our first date?” 

He saw the reaction that gave you which made him smile as well. He nodded and looked at you from his phone, “Yeah, we ate funnel cake and rode the Ferris wheel — I even won ya a teddy bear.” 

You smiled faintly, staring at the images like you were willing for something to come back, just a sliver of something, but nothing came — even though something tugged deep in your ribs.

He swiped again. The next photo — you both at the cowboy bar, your cowboy hat tilted crooked on your head, cheeks flushed, a drink in your hand, glowing in the golden barlight. His hat was tipped low, his smile crooked and bashful.

“That night,” Joel murmured. “We danced on that dance floor for God knows how long…”

You looked at him, your heart heavy in your chest. “You look so… happy.”

“I was,” he said, eyes soft.

He swiped again.

The photo that followed was newer. You, smiling from the saddle of a big white horse — Moonshine, you somehow knew. Joel was sitting behind you, leaning in to kiss your cheek. You had a bright and glowing smile, pure joy etched into your features.

“That was just a day before the accident,” he said. “You wanted to take him out to the field. We rode to your dad’s to sneak Buck back into my stables.” He let out a small huff of laughter at the memory.

You reached out, brushed your fingers lightly across the screen — something in your chest fluttering.

Joel hesitated then, started to swipe again, but moved too quickly — and a different photo flashed on the screen. He fumbled, tried to scroll past it, but you caught it.

You looked at him as he started to blush, becoming flustered, “Wait… what was that one?”

He winced slightly. “Everly took a few over the last week… I didn’t know she was gonna send ‘em to me.”

“Can I see?” You looked at him, eyes soft and pleading. 

He paused, nervous for some reason. “They’re not, uh… they’re just—”

“Joel,” you said gently. “Please?”

He looked at you for a long moment, then finally exhaled and handed you the phone.

You swiped slowly.

The first photo was of him sitting in the chair beside your bed, his head resting on the mattress, hand curled gently around yours. His eyes were closed. You could tell by the angle he didn’t know the photo was being taken.

The second — was him in your hospital bed, curled beside you, holding your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. His eyes were closed and he looked like he may had fallen asleep next to you. 

The third — his hand cupping your cheek, his eyes open now, watching you with a look so full of love it made your chest ache. It looked like he was maybe talking to you as he was faintly smiling. 

You looked up at him, and a tear slipped down your cheek. “You were here the whole time...”

He swallowed, jaw tense as he nodded.

You looked back at the phone. “How long?”

He answered without hesitation. “Since the day they brought you in. I got the call from Everly when she was at the scene. Since, I left once for a few hours to change and shower…” he lied. 

Everly and Wes gave each other a look but no one said a word. 

He continued, “After that, I haven’t left.” 

He looked at you after a few moments and said a little more firmly, “I made a promise to you — that I’d never leave you…”

You looked at the photos again. There were obviously missing pieces, gaps of time that needed to be filled in. But something was undeniable — there was a warmth, a tug, something deep when being around him. Whether you could remember or not, you knew something was once there.

You sighed softly and handed him back his phone then looked at Everly and Wes, a sadness in your eyes. Not from being in the circumstances you were in, but from not being able to wake up in the same place you were in before the accident. 

“I don’t remember everything,” you whispered looking at Joel. “But… I know there was something there. I just… I just I need time to fill in the gaps.”

Joel didn’t speak. He just brought your hand back to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

The next morning

The room was warm and quiet — the kind of quiet that had lulled everyone to their first night of sleep in what felt like ages.

A soft gold light stretched across the pale blue walls, spilling in from the window where the curtains had been left cracked open just enough. Dust danced through the rays. The steady beeping of the monitor was slow, calm. For the first time since you woke up, your body didn’t feel like it was falling apart — it just felt… tired.

When you stirred, your muscles groaned in protest, but it wasn’t unbearable. Just sore. Like you'd run too far or slept too long. You blinked your eyes open slowly, the light fuzzy, but comforting.

And then you saw him as your vision came into focus.

Joel.

His head rested on the edge of the mattress, arms folded under it like a pillow. His back rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. He was still wearing the same soft blue flannel from the night before. His hand — large, calloused, familiar — lay near yours on the blanket, pinky just barely touching yours.

You stared for a moment, trying to figure out how your heart could feel so full and so unfamiliar all at once.

God, he looked exhausted.

And yet… peaceful, somehow. Like being here with you, even in this sterile hospital room, that was the most stressful boring place on earth was just enough for him.

Carefully, quietly, you moved to sit up.

Your limbs felt heavier than they used to. Stiffer. You gritted your teeth as you shifted slowly, wincing at the soreness in your abdomen and the tight pull in your ribs.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed — just barely. The cold floor was a shock when your feet touched down.

You braced yourself, grabbing onto the bed rail.

‘Maybe just a few steps. To the door and back?’

Something to prove to yourself that you weren’t broken. That your body was still yours.

But the second your weight shifted forward and you gripped the edge of the bed for support, a voice broke the silence.

“Mmm, hey now…”

You froze like you were a child caught in the act of stealing the cookies out of the jar.

Joel stirred, lifting his head — sleep rumpled his curls, and his voice was thick. But his eyes were instantly alert the second he saw you halfway off the bed.

“What d’you think you’re doin’, sweetheart?” he asked softly, a small smile playing at his lips.

You glanced at him sheepishly. “Trying to walk?”

He arched a brow. “By yourself?”

“I was gonna use the wall,” you mumbled.

He huffed a quiet laugh and stood slowly, stretching before stepping over to your side. “Mind if I offer somethin’ a little sturdier than drywall?”

You looked up at him, grateful despite yourself. “Only if you promise not to hover.”

He gave you a look.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Maybe hover a little.”

Joel helped you up slowly, steadying you as your legs trembled slightly beneath you. His hand hovered near your back, not quite touching, but close enough to catch you if you swayed. You gripped his arm without thinking, letting him hold some of your weight.

The walk to the hallway felt like a marathon. Every step sent a dull ache up through your calves, but Joel stayed quiet, patient, murmuring small words of encouragement when you needed them.

Once you reached the hallway, he adjusted his hold slightly so you could lean on his side.

“Not bad,” he said gently. “Few more steps and you’ll be outrunnin’ me.”

You scoffed, breathless. “That’s not saying much.”

Joel smirked. “Says the girl who needed three minutes to get to the door.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The hall was empty. Morning shift hadn’t fully started yet. The nurses’ station was quiet, the chairs at the end of the corridor still tucked neatly under the window bench.

Joel guided you slowly down the length of the hallway, keeping pace with your cautious steps.

“Everything hurts,” you muttered. “Like my bones forgot how to exist.”

He chuckled softly. “They’ve been sleepin’ for a week. Can’t blame ‘em for bein’ grumpy.”

You leaned into him slightly more.

“I feel like I’ve aged seventy years.” you joked.

Joel nodded and grinned a little. “You still look pretty damn good for someone over ninety.”

You nudged his side. “You flirt like someone who wants me to fall over.”

He gave a warm, low laugh that vibrated in your shoulder. “Nothin’ of the sort. Though I would catch you. Just sayin’.”

You stopped for a moment at the window near the end of the corridor, resting a hand on the sill. Outside, the world was slowly waking — a nurse walking in from her car, sunlight glinting off the dewy grass. You smiled at the large oak tree in the middle of the gardens.

Joel watched you quietly. He didn’t rush you. He just stood there, letting the silence settle around you both.

Then he spoke.

“Y’know,” he said gently, pointing towards the tree. “You and I found a tree like that over at my dad’s ranch a little bit ago. We only found it because of that—”

“—damn calf that always disappears. The one I said I’d leave for the coyotes to eat…” you said before you could stop yourself.

Joel went still.

You blinked after realizing what had just happened.

Your own voice echoed in your head, like something far-off had suddenly clicked into place.

Joel stared at you, stunned. “You remember that?”

You turned slowly toward him, heart hammering.

“I don’t know how,” you said, breathless. “It was like… just there. I didn’t even think about it.”

Joel’s face was unreadable for a beat — then he smiled.

It wasn’t big. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.

He looked at you like you were sunlight. “How about we take a wheelchair ride down to that bench? See if some fresh air will jog ya anymore, yeah?”

You smiled and let out a small chuckle as you nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek before you even realized it.

He reached up gently and brushed it away with his thumb.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “However long it takes…”

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

He didn’t say anything else — he just let you lean against him as the two of you stood there, watching the sunrise creep slowly higher into the sky before he took you down to the gardens for some fresh air and hope.

Riley’s POV - A hospital across town

Pain was the first thing Riley felt when consciousness clawed its way back. His ribs ached. His mouth was dry and metallic. Every breath stung like a knife twisting between bone. For a brief moment, he couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. However, the groan he let out answered that.

He tried to shift, but something tugged at his wrist. He blinked trying to push the fog away, and turned his head, pulling on his wrist again to see a steel cuff clamped to the bed rail, the heavy chain giving him no more than a foot of slack.

“What the fuck—?” he rasped, voice hoarse.

A shadow stirred beside him.

Sheriff Markham stepped forward into the dull hospital light, his face carved from stone.

“Well, look who decided to join the land of the living.” he said almost sarcastically, the underlying  tone in his voice slightly mocking Riley’s situation.

“What the hell is this?” Riley groaned. “You got me cuffed? I’m the one who got jumped! I’m the one who almost died. What—what the hell kind of bullshit is this?”

The sheriff didn’t flinch.

“You’re under arrest, Riley. The state is charging you with felony battery, aggravated assault, attempted homicide.” He let out a scoff, “And that’s just to start with.”

Riley’s mouth opened, stunned. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Deputy Langston stood in the corner, arms crossed, gaze unreadable, chuckled, “Always someone else’s fault, isn’t it Jameson?”

“I didn’t do nothin’,” Riley snapped. “I didn’t do anythin’! You people are out of your god damn minds. I’m the one in this bed—look at me!” He sat up a little, and winced at the sudden movement. 

He continued with his whining, “I got jumped. Beaten half to death! What about my justice? Why aren’t you doing your jobs and finding that for me, huh?”

Markham’s voice was cold. “Oh don’t worry about that. You can stop your whinin’, bitchin’ and moanin’.” He stepped forward, gripping the bed rail to hold him back from ringing his neck when what he did to you was so much worse.

The deputy stepped forward, “We’re workin’ on that too. But your nail’s already in the coffin.” He pointed at Riley with a wicked grin. 

Markham continued, “We’ve got hospital reports, witness statements, digital trails. You think we needed you to say anythin’? Your phone alone gave us enough to lock you up ‘til you’re in diapers.”

Riley’s lips curled. “You have no idea what really happened. That little bitch—she—”

“Careful now.” The warning in Myers’ tone was sharp. “We wouldn’t want to add more charges to that rap sheet. Make it longer than it already is, do we now?”

Riley clamped his mouth shut, chest heaving with the effort of holding back words that wanted to explode. “So what?” he spat. “You’re just gonna ignore the fact that someone came after me? That I was nearly murdered? Where’s the justice for that, huh?”

Markham exchanged a glance with the deputy before Langston stepped forward, opening up a folder to read from.

“Found a marking on the motel wall,” he said before pulling out a photo to show him, “Blood smeared in the shape of a dollar sign.” He pulled out another photo, one of the IOU notes in the bag with ‘D. Santos’ name on it, “Sound familiar?”

Riley’s eyes widened.

Markham took the photo from Langston and pursed his lips before continuing, “Cartel-style. Real quiet. Real clean — of course, minus the mess they made of your face.” He let out a chuckle which made Riley’s jaw clench. “And the IOU? Matches the debt you owe the Los Serpentines… I’d say case closed, wouldn’t you, Deputy?” he asked as he handed the photo back to Langston.

“That’s bullshit.” Riley’s voice shook — not from pain but anger. “If it were the cartel, I wouldn’t be breathin’! They don’t send warnings. They send body bags.”

“Maybe you’re lucky,” Markham said flatly with a shrug. “Maybe they got interrupted? Or maybe they meant for you to wake up scared so they get what’s owed to them...”

Riley shook his head. “No, no — no you don’t get it. They don’t do scared. They do silence. They don’t leave witnesses. Santos cuts out tongues and eyes before he lets you live…”

The sheriff tilted his head slightly. “Alright then. If it wasn’t them — who else would have motive? Who else have you managed to piss off?”

There was a long pause.

Riley stared at the ceiling, breathing hard. Then he muttered, “He’s had it out for me for years, and would especially now that she’s in the place she’s in...”

Markham frowned at his suggestion. “Wesley?”

“No,” Riley said darkly. “Joel. Joel Miller.”

Langston shifted behind the sheriff. Markham’s brows drew down as he thought of the possibility.

“You were blindfolded, Riley. Gagged. You wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. How the hell can you know it was him?”

“Because who else would it be?” Riley growled. “He’s Santi’s boy. You know the kind of reputation that family’s had for years. Hell they probably have you in their pocket.” he shook his head and looked at Langston, “You gonna tell me Joel Miller doesn’t have the ability to do what was done to me? You know what Tommy has been accused of… why couldn’t Joel do the same?”

The room chilled.

“I’ve seen that look in his eyes,” Riley said, voice lower now, more venomous. “Ever since I came back into town? He’s been itchin’ to make me pay for what I did to her in Tennesse… now with this… this accusation that I put hands on her?” he scoffed before continuing, “I know that alone would’ve upset him enough to do somethin’ as extreme as this.” He pointed to his bruised and pulped face. 

Markham didn’t move as he worked through Riley’s words.

Riley continued, sensing traction. “It would all make sense, wouldn’t it? All they spoke was Spanish when they attacked me… a–and Joel speaks Spanish. Hell, so does Tommy! You’re tellin’ me it’s just coincidence the cartel just happened to choose the day after she ends up in the hospital, to collect a debt?”

The sheriff said nothing. Just looked over at the deputy who had the same look of suspicion as dots started to suggest something other than the cartel’s involvement. 

“I know it wasn’t the Serpentines,” Riley said, more confidently now. “If it was them, they wouldn’t leave me to tell the tale. But Joel? He’s smart. He knows how to cover his ass and his brother would know how to help.”

Markham rubbed a hand down his jaw, exhaling through his nose, “You’re sayin’ Joel Miller staged a cartel hit?”

“I’m sayin’,” Riley said slowly, “if anyone in this town had the anger and the means to try and kill me… it’s him.”

The sheriff let the weight of that hang in the air. He turned toward Langston, who gave a slow, quiet shrug and nod.

After a moment, Markham looked back down at Riley. “Interesting theory,” he said evenly before knocking on the bed rail and backing up toward the door. 

“So what? You believe me?” Riley asked, almost hopeful.

Markham paused at the door. “I believe you’ve always been full of shit, Riley. But I also believe in checkin’ every angle.”

Then he walked out, letting the door hiss closed behind him.

Reader’s POV

By time Joel wheeled you down to the gardens, you had fallen asleep from the exhaustion of walking around the halls.

He brought you back up to your room and gently set you in your bed only for an hour later a knock on the hospital door — polite, but firm to wake you up.

Joel stood from his chair instinctively. He’d been perched there, watching the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you dozed on and off — healing slowly, quietly. The last twenty four hours had been an improvement. More alert. More you. But your voice was still hoarse, your body tired, and your memories… still scattered.

Everly sat curled near your feet, flipping through a magazine she clearly wasn’t reading. Wes had gone to grab coffee. Joel knew who it was before the door even opened.

Sheriff Markham stepped inside with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a weary look on his face.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice low and respectful. “Didn’t mean to disturb y’all.”

You shifted slightly, eyes blinking open with effort. Joel moved to your side, instinctively placing his hand over yours.

“No disturbance,” you rasped gently. “It’s good to see you sir.”

He smiled softly, nodding toward you. “Heard from the docs you’re feelin’ a bit more like yourself. That right?”

You gave a tired nod, eyes flicking toward Joel before settling on Markham again. “A little. I’m trying.”

“Take your time,” Markham said, pulling a chair near the bed. “I’m just going to cut to it. I’m here on business, but it can wait if you’re not up to it today…”

“No,” you said after a beat, squeezing Joel’s hand slightly. “I can talk. You wanna know what happened with Riley right?”

Markham nodded solemnly. “Whatever you can remember. It’ll help close this out.”

You swallowed hard, throat still raw. “I went to my dad’s house that morning. I hadn’t been back in a while, and I just wanted to grab some clothes… pictures and things… I think?”

Joel’s hand tightened around yours.

“I thought he wouldn’t be there? I remember Everly calling me saying that my dad and him here gone. But he was. He was there...”

Markham didn’t interrupt, just kept his eyes steady on yours.

You closed your eyes trying to remember, “He said he just wanted to talk. But… I told him I didn’t have anything to say to him.” Your brows furrowed as the memory crawled back in. “He got… angry. Said I owed him that much. That I never listened. That I always ran.”

Joel bristled beside you. You turned your hand over, palm up, and laced your fingers with his.

“He grabbed me,” you said, voice smaller. “Threw me against the wall. I tried to leave, I think?” You opened your eyes and tears filled them, “He… he choked me. Screamed that I had to listen now.”

You felt Joel’s thumb brush softly along the back of your hand, grounding you.

“I got away,” you whispered. “I don’t even remember how. But I remember… I just ran. Got in the truck and drove. But my throat hurt so bad… I remember how raw it felt.” a tear fell down your cheek before you voice cracked as you said, “A-And then…”

You paused, a flash of headlights, the sound of tires skidding. You shut your eyes to see things more clearly.

“I don’t remember the crash. Not really. Just remember the cold. The shattering of the glass. Not being able to scream or yell for help…”

Joel bowed his head, fighting the swell of emotion that rose in his chest.

You opened your eyes, “I don’t remember the ambulance ride or anything that they told me happened after… it’s all… too far.”

Markham cleared his throat softly, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notepad.

“I appreciate you tellin’ me all of this,” he said quietly. “It lines up with what we found. We’ll get that statement written out later, but for now — this helps.”

You gave a shaky nod.

Then Markham shifted in his seat, glancing at Joel before continuing. “There’s another matter I need to bring up with you though, however.”

Joel looked up, eyes cautious but calm.

Markham glanced down at his notes. “We talked to Riley the other day. He’s awake. And… he’s makin’ some claims.”

Joel’s jaw set. “What kind of claims?”

“He says he was attacked,” Markham said plainly. “Says he was blindfolded and beaten. Left for dead. And that he thinks it was you.”

The room went still like everyone had held their breath.

You blinked and looked at Joel then back at the sheriff, “What? Wait, what do you mean?”

Markham looked between you both. “There’s no evidence, no witnesses. Nothing that ties Joel to the scene. But Riley… he’s… insistent.”

Joel let out a breath, staying still, composed.

Markham continued, “Normally I wouldn’t waste your time. But Riley’s got a busted face and broken ribs, shattered knee cap, and a few things at the scene may suggest this wasn’t just a random hit. There’s a marking on the wall that matches the Los Serpentines pattern. An IOU note in Riley’s handwriting. Everything points to and smells like cartel retribution.”

“Then why are we even talkin’ about this?” Joel asked, brows low.

Markham hesitated. “Because Riley says that’s a cover. That it wasn’t the cartel.”

Joel snorted quietly.

“Says it had to be someone local. Someone with a reason. Says it was someone he’s seen before that came into the room first. When I asked for names… he said yours and possibly Tommy.”

Joel didn’t flinch. “That so?”

Markham nodded. “Says you’ve ‘had it out for him since high school.’ That you’d have motive, especially after what he might have done.”

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re tellin’ me you’re takin’ his word over mine?”

“No,” Markham said. “But I gotta ask the questions— especially with your family’s history Joel, you know that.”

Joel stood up, still calm, still collected. “We all know it was my granddad that brought trouble here. But me? Hell, my dad? He’s clean. He’s done everything right. He’s a friend to you, Markham.”

The sheriff’s face softened, but he didn’t back down. “I know, Joel. You know how much I respect your family. And I respect you. But Tommy’s got a couple of assault charges on record, and the history between you and Riley ain’t exactly a secret or in good standing and you know that...”

Joel’s lips thinned.

“I’m not sayin’ I believe him,” Markham added. “But if I don’t follow this thread, it’s gonna look like I turned a blind eye. That’s not how I do things.”

Joel was quiet for a beat, then nodded. “I get it. You’re doin’ your job.”

“I just need you to come with me to the station for a couple hours.” Markham said gently. “Voluntary. Just to answer a few questions. Get this sorted out. Make sure everyone is straight.”

You turned quickly, eyes wide. “But—he didn’t do anything...”

Joel kneeled by your bedside, cupping your hand in both of his.

“I know,” he said softly. “And they’ll see that too. I’ll be back before you know it, alright?”

You clutched his hand tighter. “Joel…”

“Hey, I promise,” he whispered, looking into your eyes. “This ain’t forever. Just a few hours. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Your throat burned as you nodded, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then stood and turned to the sheriff. “Let’s get this over with.” then they both walked out and door shut quietly behind them.

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

no pressure taglist: @thebeautytoyourbeat, @sarahhxx03, @blahkateisdone, @sunnytuliptime, @pedroscurls, @docharleythegeekqueen @pedritosgirl2000 @fancyoouu @greendudenumber7, @queenofdisaster12 @axshadows @mystickittytaco @yxtkiwiyxt @alltheirdamn @punkshort @stylesispunk @iheartoldermem @mermaidgirl30 @mountainsandmayhem @brittmb115 @poor-unfortunate-soul9927 @spacelatinos4life @pedge-page @pedropascalfab @readingiskeepingmegoing @sincerelywithheartt @youusunshineyoutemptress @lilasskicker-23 @melsuns00hine @wencontre @pedrofan @suzysface @orcasoul @misstokyo7love @bitchyfestnight @galotti7 @locaparapedrito @harrysrosetatto @bluenightmarepost @mukeovernetflix @pascal-mynightlyobsession @maryfanson @pasc4lfuzz @fancypeacepersona @crlsummer @iloev-heris @picketniffler @christinamadsen @persiar9 @harriedandharassed @copperhalfcent @decadent-hag1 @blog-luvdance @demonsasss @carpediem1219 @mallingcalling-blog @possiblyafangirl @indiegirlunited @kakiki3 @secretlettersfromyourlove @pedrofan @secretlettersfromyourlove @sesdeuxyeux @insertclevernamehereplease @brinapedroswife @kellyxo1 @msdariaknight

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

I am fully hooked on this fic. Harry and Catherine are so good together.

𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒔

Read "Idealists" on Archive of Our Own here.

♫⋆｡Tags: 18+ Mature Content, Age gap, slow burn, PinV, Oral sex, jealousy, love triangle (Harry wins), pet names, possessive behaviour, masturbation, soulmates, domestic fluff, love confessions, new york city romcom vibes!

♫⋆｡Summary:

Harry lived his whole life being valued for what he had: possessions, money, status, charm, looks.

He gave generously, dressed impeccably, and dated strategically. But behind every relationship was a transaction, and behind every gift was the hope he might finally be enough.

After another quiet failure, fate caught up with him—in the form of a young cellist he met five years ago.

To her, he wasn’t a sum of assets or an entry in a ledger. He was simply Harry. And that was a revelation more powerful than any fortune.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist

Chapters uploaded on Tumblr will be updated here as we go along! Updates every weekend.

CHAPTER ONE: PRELUDE, IN THE RAIN CHAPTER TWO: THE REPRISE CHAPTER THREE: A NATURAL RHYTHM CHAPTER FOUR: NEW YEAR'S EVE JINGLE CHAPTER FIVE: HOMEMADE SERENADE CHAPTER SIX: THE BALLAD OF HARRY AND CATHERINE CHAPTER SEVEN: THE CRESCENDO CHAPTER EIGHT: CAESURA

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

🤣🤣

Oh Joel! You are well off your game old man. But you're getting there.

Are you ready to love me? Part 4

Jackson Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Over 18’s only please Word count: 3,216 Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller. Chapter Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning, thoughts of a sexual nature. Minimal descriptions of reader, but she has a nickname (darlin') and hair that can be tugged. I'm always fleabag coded. Look away for a *SPOILER* we do have an angsty kiss & some grinding. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: If there's one thing you need to know about me, I'm going to write kissing Joel Miller in the kitchen and being pushed up against a wall. I had the smallest of small surgical procedures this week which meant I could sit and write this in peace with me feet up and let me tell you it was a joy to spend time with Joel Miller and his girls. I'd love to hear your thoughts! 🖤 Thank you to @toomanytookas for the beta read & being part of the incredible group of lads who keep me going & support my madness @secretelephanttattoo @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty

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PART 4

The hurt sits tight across your chest. It’s so physical, an ache that feels like an actual sickness. You’d forgotten how dangerous it could be to let yourself feel hopeful, that becoming open to caring and the rush of sweetness that came with a kiss, a kiss from Joel Miller no less, had the power to crucify you. Leave you sore and vulnerable. Because he’d pulled away hadn’t he? He’d immediately put a stop to whatever it was that had gently begun to bloom. So now you feel stupid and hurt and, yes, angry at Joel for making you feel like that in the first place.

It’s a honey cake for Maria that is currently bearing the brunt of your quiet rage. You’ve been invited for tea and to meet the baby and it should be exciting, a proper ‘Mom’ thing to do? Visiting your new friend, taking her something you’ve made and going ‘ohhh’ when the baby does literally anything. Good for Sam too, to witness something so normal, for people in this world to be able to have babies and expect safety and cake. 

You stop furiously mixing the honey and butter to let yourself think back to when Sam was a tiny baby. How you’d been scared all the time. The perpetual dread bitter in your throat, you could practically feel it dripping into your lungs, poisoning every breath you took. She was so small and you felt continually exposed. You’d learnt how to wrap material around your chest so she was always close to your heart, lulled to sleep against you as you navigated life in that fucking filthy QZ, so close to you that it was like she was still a part of your body. No clear definition where she ended and you began. 

Are you jealous, you wonder, that the women of Jackson get to enjoy their babies in a way you could only have dreamt of? Your hand falls loose from around the wooden spoon, you let it rest on  the large mixing bowl, the cold of  the porcelain against your fingertips a reminder of all that you have to be thankful for. No, you think, no you’re not jealous, because you get to have it now. That peace you longed for, it’s here in Jackson and so are you. You made that happen for you and Sam. 

Satisfied, you go back to being furious with Joel. 

The eggs feel your wrath next. Four large brown eggs, a testament to how the community of Jackson works together to provide for everyone. Today cracking them is a substitute for you not being able to whack Joel around the head. How dare he? With his stupid, beautiful face and thoughtful gifts, how dare he be the one to initiate the first tender kiss you’ve had in almost a decade and then drop you like you’d burnt him. 

You can’t help it, you find yourself drifting into the memory of how it felt to have his big hand clasped around your face, his lips parting yours in a way that felt so familiar yet still intoxicating in its newness. The heaven of being known, a security and a thrill all at once. It’s making your head go a bit dizzy, a want trickling back into your heart again, one that you’ve been trying so hard to crush down with this ire you’re nurturing. Appearing in his kitchen in just a towel, water still clinging to his skin, the same man that haunted your dreams but different? Older, more solid, none of the litheness of his youth but just as desirable. Strong chest, soft tummy, a smattering of hair there that you knew you wanted to run your tongue against, bite down on the flesh. A scar on his abdomen you needed to trace your fingers over, ask the story of while you held him close, kept him safe in your embrace for once. You’d kiss every freckle, make him yours again.  

For fucks sake, this isn’t helping at all. 

Sifting in the flour, you give yourself a firm shake. Years ago, when you worked at the little cafe and made the coffees, you knew the best cappuccino was one made with joy. If you were cross or stressed, you could never make the milk froth, but if you did it with some love, you could create the most delicious, creamy foam. You stare down at the cake mixture before you and wonder what you’ve imbued it with, if Maria will be able to taste your indignation, if some of the disappointment has seeped into the sweetness of the honey. 

You don’t have any almonds, but you think thyme will work well with it, so you crush some between your fingers, sprinkle it on top of the batter. Try to think peaceful thoughts, wishing calm nights for Maria and Tommy, a baby who feeds well and thrives with all the love he’s surrounded by. Put any ideas about you and Joel away, locked tight in your chest. 

As you put the mix into the oven, you call out for Sam, a phrase you remember so clearly from your childhood sitting on your tongue, “Hey, Sam, you wanna come lick the bowl?” 

Maria is delighted with the cake and hands baby Benjamin over to you immediately, resisting your offers to make the tea and instead sitting you and Sam down on a battered but comfortable leather armchair next to the open fire. 

“No, no, you sit and give that baby a squeeze. I want to use both of my hands at once. I’ve got fresh mint, chamomile or nettle tea? Which would you rather? Sam, are you a tea drinker?” 

You give Sam a little nudge with your elbow, her natural shyness evident as she looks to you for the answer, “Go on, tell Maria what you’d like, she won’t bite.” 

Sam swallows, thinks for a moment, “I would like mint, please.” 

“Same for me, please.” 

“Excellent, I’ll do a pot. Joel and Ellie are coming over too.” 

A deep sigh escapes you lungs, for fucks sake. You didn’t want to deal with Joel today, you needed a break from constantly running that damn kiss over and over in your mind, the unending loop that was keeping your mood the wrong side of pissed off. No escape apparently. 

The weight of the baby in your arms lets you focus on just him, how it has its own feeling of peace, the beautiful lull of Benjamin’s sleeping breaths reminding you of the nights you sat up with Sam when she was this tiny, just staring at how perfect she was. When he stirs awake you get a glimpse of those Miller brown eyes and you feel a catch in your throat, a thousand what if’s hitting all at once as he gives you a gummy smile and wraps his hand around your finger. 

You let yourself kind of zone out when Joel, Ellie and Tommy arrive, let the buzz of Ellie and Sam’s animated chatting wash over you as you enjoy rocking the baby, consciously ignore the way you can feel Joel’s gaze barely leaving you, like little flicks of hot metal against your skin every time you accidentally notice. You and Maria talk about night feeds and sleep routines and try to remember when teeth start coming through. It’s comfortable and comforting, Maria is formidable but you sense she’s warming to you. Your heart feels full seeing her and Tommy sat together, his arm around her shoulder, the picture of domesticity. Something you didn’t believe could exist any longer before you came to Jackson. 

You hand a sleeping Benjamin back to his mother for a feed and are about to start making noises that you and Sam should head off, when Ellie chirps up. 

“Hey, Sam, I was gonna go to the library this afternoon if you wanna come with me? We could go now!” 

Sam has a big grin on her face, “Mom?” 

You smile at Ellie as Sam looks to you for approval, “That sounds like great idea. Thank you, Ellie.” 

“And,” Ellie continues unexpectedly, “Joel keeps going on about how your cabinets are broken, or something? They need fixing?” 

Your eyes narrow as you take in this information. He’s not mentioned anything to you about this and you’re in no mood to let him swoop in and fix something. 

You make your voice flat, don’t look at Joel, “Really? I think they’re fine as they are.” 

Joel clears his throat, “Noticed when we moved you in. They need a bit of work, might be some wood rot there.” 

“It’s fine, they’re fine,” you say through gritted teeth. 

The hesitation you saw before, it’s disappeared, a gruff determination there now, “It’s no bother, I’ll come over this afternoon while the girls are out and sort them.” 

You cross your arms across your chest, “Joel, I said I don’t think they don’t need fixing.”  

You’re aware that everyone in the room has gone silent, watching this battle of wills, both of your mouths set in hard lines and brows furrowed. You see Tommy and Maria exchange a glance but you don’t know them well enough to interpret what it means. Joel is the only man who’s ever been able to match your stubbornness and you wonder for a second if they can see that. 

He won’t let it go, “Won’t take more than an hour, could be unsafe as they are.”

It’s an exasperated sigh that follows from you, no energy to keep going round in circles, you raise your arms in defeat, “Fine. Fine. Whatever, just don’t mess up my kitchen, I like it how it is.” 

Ellie stands up abruptly, “Reckon that’s our cue to leave, Sam.” 

Sam gives you a firm hug, Joel a side eye and Maria and Tommy a remarkably polite, “Thank you for having me.”

Maria waves her off warmly, “You’re welcome any time, Sam. Enjoy the library. Ellie, make sure you watch your language please.” 

Maria’s voice is calm, amused even, and you let out a deep breath, try to steal some of her energy. You’re going to need it if you’re to have Joel fucking Miller skulking around your kitchen. 

Joel turns up at your house with his tool bag about twenty minutes after you get back home. You begrudgingly let him in, don’t offer him a coffee, don’t allow yourself meet those big brown eyes that you know are staring at you. You’re sullen as you lean on the doorframe, watching him assess your perfectly fine kitchen. Let him sit in the discomfort. 

“I’ll get the doors on the cabinets fixed for you today? If you want to decide on a colour, I can come back and paint them another day.” His voice is gruff, stilted, like he’s mad at you, as if you’re demanding he sort this out for you when he’s the one that insisted on coming over. 

“I can paint them myself, Joel, I don’t need you.”

This feels sufficiently pointed enough for you to flounce off into the living room, pretend to read a book. 

He calls after you, an edge to his voice still, like he’s telling you off, “They’ll need sanding first, else it’ll look like shit.” 

“They look perfectly alright now.” You have to raise your voice, make sure he can hear you from the other room, no point having a grump without him being able to witness it. You flop down onto a sofa, stare down at the pages of your book blankly. The words won’t go into your head but you are determined not to sit here and think about Joel, in your kitchen. In your house, empty but for the two of you. Fixing something for you. 

You scowl, concentrate harder, bring the words into focus, let yourself disappear into some Steinbeck. Just the right level of misery for your filthy mood. 

You’re jolted out of your reading when there is an almighty crash from the kitchen and you sprint back into the room to find half the cabinets hanging off the wall and the other half all over the floor. Joel is just staring at the chaos.  

Absolute fury barrels out of you so fast you know it’s like an extra smack in the face for Joel, “For fucks sake, Joel, what the fuck!” 

He whips round, bites out, “Damn good job I came to fix it, I reckon, otherwise it could have fallen on your head! Or Sam’s head!” 

He looks something close to triumphant and you have never been more infuriated with him, and yet it’s sort of satisfying somehow that he doesn’t apologise, means you can keep shouting at him, “Fix it? Fix it! This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t started poking around.” 

“Oh suddenly you’re an expert now, are you? Look at this,” Joel’s eyebrow is cocked, one hand on his hip, the other pointing at the mess of wood left on the wall, “rotten through at the back. It would have broken whether I’d touched it or not!” 

You snap right back at him, “I can’t tell if it’s rotten or not, Joel, it’s in bits all over the floor along with all the jars and mugs and… for fucks sake! Why did you have to start messing around with things that don’t belong to you. I was fine before you started fucking about!” 

There’s a beat. 

You meant to say, it was fine, but that I just slipped right out. Your hands ball into fists. 

“I don’t need this, Joel, you’re making things worse!” 

“I was tryin’ to do a nice thing for you!” His voice is raised still, shaking his head, like this was your fault somehow. 

You’re still dizzy with anger, half a second away from stamping your foot and adding a smashed plate to the heap of cabinet that now lies on the floor. 

“Fuck, Joel, I’m so cross with you right now! You need to sort this out,” you stomp over to him, plan on giving him a hard shove on the arm but his hand reaches up to stop you before you connect. Your eyes meet his in annoyance, expecting to see anger reflected back at you but there’s something else there entirely. Hunger. 

You’re not sure who moves first but your lips crash against his with a force that makes your head spin. It’s not like last time, where everything felt slow and soft, this is hard and fraught. You can still taste the anger on your tongue as you lick into him. He bites at your lip and it feels good, this pinch of pain a stark contrast to the pleasure that is thrumming through you. He grabs onto your hips, pulls you closer. You can’t help the groan that escapes your throat as you drag your hands through his hair, the kiss deepening, the space between your bodies disappearing as you melt into him. 

His hands are roaming your body now and you find you’re kissing him harder, willing him to find your skin beneath his touch, to have the warmth of his fingers claw into you. Instead, a hand tugs tight at your hair, pulls you in a way that exposes your neck so he can run hot, wet kisses against your pulse and you rock against him, searching, searching for him, desperate to feel his want for you. 

It was like this before, the real before, this need to be consumed by Joel, this ache that has you wild with lust. You’re both breathless as he pushes you against the wall, drags your dress up. You gasp as he leans his full weight on you, feeling him hard, straining against his jeans, pressed against the cotton of your underwear, angling himself so he’s grinding where you need him most. You grip onto his face so you can kiss him your thanks, feeling his jaw move as he eats into you, sinking into the dizzying pleasure that’s rolling up your spine as he moves against you.

A ruckus at the front door makes you break apart just as quickly as you fell together. You yank your dress back down, watch with wild eyes as Joel runs his hands through his disheveled hair, rearranges his jeans. 

Ellie’s voice comes through loud and clear, its knowingness reaching your ears before you see her face. 

“Ok, Sam! We are here! At your house! And you’re opening the door, so we’re coming in!” It’s the sound of a suppressed giggle next, “Here we are! In the house, walking down the hallway.” 

Joel calls to her, his voice slightly strained, “Ellie, we’re in the kitchen. Tread carefully, please? There’s a bit of a mess in here.” 

Her head pops round the doorframe, both her and Sam’s eyes wide as they take in the destruction of the cabinets. You hope it’s enough of a distraction from how you and Joel both look, mouths bitten and cheeks hot, atmosphere so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Sam puts down the three books she was carrying onto the side and her disbelieving face makes you smile, “Mama! What happened?” 

“Joel happened. He was just explaining to me how he’s going to fix all this destruction up.” You shoot him a hard stare and he has the grace to look sheepish, those big brown eyes so soft all of a sudden.  

“Oh you are in trouble, Joel! Mama only ever uses that voice when she’s real angry.” Sam, of course, looks delighted. 

Ellie, too, can’t wipe the grin from her face, “Joel sure is in trouble…” Her eyebrow raises in a way that makes it difficult to believe she isn’t Joel’s flesh and blood, adds for good measure, “You best get busy, old man.” 

You take a deep breath, try to order your thoughts. It’s just gone five, little tummies will soon start rumbling and this kitchen is going to be out of action for a while. 

“Ellie, you wanna come with us and get an early supper at the Bison? We can pick something up for Joel if he promises to have the kitchen at least usable by the time we get back?” 

“Can I, Joel?” 

He lets out a loud sigh but you can see something flicker across his face, perhaps a brief moment of pleasure that you’re looking after his girl, but you can’t be sure. Who knows what the fuck this man is thinking right now, you’re not even sure you know how to think straight after that kiss. Your hand almost reaches up to touch your lips, see if you still feel a trace of his spit against them, but you stop yourself, try to make your face the appropriate level of cross for someone whose kitchen has been trashed, not a woman who almost came from being pressed up against a wall and ravished. 

“Sure, Ellie, just you know… mind your manners when you’re in polite company, please.” She scoffs, but he gives her a look and she makes a ‘yeah yeah’ noise. He turns back to you, “Thanks, darlin’, I am sorry I made such a mess. But I… well, I’d like to clean it up. Make it good… for you.” 

You’re not sure if you’re talking about the kitchen still. 

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My Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tagging in some pals (please let me know if you'd like to be taken off/added on)

@katareyoudrilling @sin-djarin @guiltyasdave @sizzlingcloudmentality

@yopossum @youcancallmeelle @aurorawritestoescape @almostfoxglove

@evolnoomym @magpiepills @maggiemayhemnj @sp00kymulderr @ghotifishreads

@jessthebaker @bitchwitch1981 @beefrobeefcal @arcane-fox @oliveksmoked

@laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @copperhalfcent @sixhours @bergamote-catsandbooks

And the Are you ready to love me tag list (continued in the reblog)

@there1snothingleft4u @sebastanot @givemeth @umadirectioner @winyourheartemma

@registeredbelcher55 @tangled-tumbler-blog-blog @missladym1981 @casa-boiardi @jethrojessie

@soci0plath @jazzimac1967 @fanf1ctionislife @chewie-bars @fallout-girl219

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Oh, Joel, you numpty!

Are you ready to love me? Part 3

Jackson Joel x f!reader

Rating: Over 18’s only please Word count: 3,087 Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller. Chapter Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning, thoughts of a sexual nature. Reference to character death (Sarah). Minimal descriptions of reader, but she has a nickname (darlin'). Some Joel POV. I'm always fleabag coded. Look away for a *SPOILER* we do have a kiss. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I never thought I'd write a Jackson Joel, but I am loving wandering around feeling ALL THE FEELINGS with these two SO much. I'd love to know your thoughts too 🖤🖤🖤 Thank you to @toomanytookas for the beta read & being part of the incredible group of lads who keep me going & support my madness @secretelephanttattoo @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty

My Masterlist / Series Masterlist

PREV / NEXT

PART 3

Your eyes fly open and you sit bolt upright in your bed, throwing the warm covers off yourself and dragging a hand roughly down your sleep-addled face. The sudden jolt of a memory makes you gasp, the surge of adrenaline that comes with it means you’re up and out of the bed and running across the room before you’ve fully grasped if it’s even really the morning yet. 

There has been something lurking in the corner of your mind, just out of sight, ever since you first ran into Joel again. You’ve been in Jackson for a few weeks now and it has always been there, this little nagging doubt that you couldn’t put your finger on, a loose thread just out of reach that you weren’t able to catch hold of to give a sharp tug. 

That lingering feeling of frustration, that you’ve forgotten something? It’s disappeared with the clear vision of your wallet hidden at the bottom of your pack. Not that you ever needed a credit card again and or that money meant anything to anyone, but for some reason you never quite had the heart to throw away.  You hadn’t even bothered to clear out the faded, scrunched up receipts, mementos of another time when there had been cocktails and late night dancing and… and… there was a photo of Joel and Sarah tucked somewhere in there, you were sure of it. You felt almost like you had forgotten it on purpose, locked it away with all the other Joel memories that had been too raw to visit, pretended it didn’t exist so as not to hurt yourself.  

Yet somehow, twenty years later, that small leather wallet was still in your bag and you were certain that the picture was there too. There’s a small crash as you unceremoniously tip everything that was left in your pack onto the hardwood floor. 

A drowsy Sam calls to you from your bed, “Mama, what are you doing?” 

You’d been trying out the separate bedrooms thing, but more often than not, you found Sam in your bed by the morning. She wasn’t quite ready to be on her own yet, and you found you weren’t quite ready to insist she stayed in her own room. You knew waking up and finding her little body curled up next to you wasn’t going to last forever. It felt selfish almost, to have all this luxury all of a sudden, and to wake up in the morning and hear the sounds of Sam dreaming next to you had a kind of guilt edged around it, like you were being greedy by having her safe and warm. Just a little younger than the little girl in the photo you knew was somewhere in that worn rucksack. 

Your eyes flick to the clock on the bedside table, only ten minutes earlier than you’d usually begrudgingly haul yourself out of bed, “Sorry baby, I just remembered I have something really special hiding in my bag. Can you get dressed for school? We gotta go via Joel’s on the way.” 

“Urgh, that guy again.” 

You hear her groan and roll out of the bed, but you’re busy rooting around on the floor, sure you’ll find that ancient wallet in the detritus that lives at the bottom of your pack. You make a noise almost like a welp when you find it, rubbing at your eyes as if to double check, before your hands reach for the soft leather of the wallet. 

Joel POV

Joel doesn’t like to linger in bed. Once he’s awake he wants to be up and out, the first cup of coffee calling him as the sun rises. He’s stirring in a small spoon of honey, a decadence he doesn’t often allow himself, when he realises he’s been thinking of you all morning. From the moment his toes touched the floor, you’ve been flitting across his mind. He keeps replaying the feeling of you in his arms over and over again, the rise and fall of your chest against his as he held you, the feeling of your breath on his neck.

It’s like he’s in some kind of trance, carrying out his usual routine but not really present, instead matching up his memories of you; twenty something, sharp, slightly dangerous but secretly sentimental, playful, full of so much love, with the woman he met that freezing cold day a few weeks ago. He could feel your strength, the love you have for Sam, but also a new fierceness, with a wariness that certainly wasn’t there before. Secrets and shame, he guesses, just like he carries.

If he were to look a bit closer, he thinks he’d find you holding up a mirror, his own uneasy face reflected back, the knowledge of what it takes to survive in this world written in every line and every scar that now adorns it.

Ellie is still fast asleep, so he’s free to sit at the counter in silence, let these thoughts go off in all kinds of directions as he sips on the hot coffee.

He thinks about your own little kitchen, how tired it looked, how he could offer to come and fix the cupboards doors, give them a new lick of paint. A colour you’d like, something dark, he muses. You always were drawn to midnight blues and rich greens. He lets himself wander round your little plant filled apartment you had before you’d moved in with him and Sarah, always smelling of incense, considers if he could find you some when he’s out near some houses next, if that would make you happy? If the smell would bring back memories of your bodies entwined in bliss, slippery with lust and love. Or if instead it would make you sad, the scent infused with things that could never be again, of missed opportunities and forgotten hopes. 

Joel finds he’s stood in the shower, head drenched under the hot water, drifting between sweetness and hunger, because yes, he’d loved you so much it made his heart ache, but he’d also felt a desire so hot it almost burned. Hands desperate always to be touching you, to have your soft skin beneath his fingertips, the taste of you on his lips. He remembers being almost dizzy with it, a greed that filled his veins and had him delirious with want. He places his hands against the cool marble tile of the shower, tries to steady himself because if he closes his eyes tight enough it’s like he can feel you, how your body would melt against his, the way he could make you whine as he fucked you, slowly, deliberately, knowing just how to make you cry out, watching your back arch and your legs shake.

He’s falling into the memory, letting himself get swallowed up and lost in you. He’s fantasising so much it’s almost like he can hear your voice. 

Fuck, he can hear your voice?

He quickly shuts off the shower and cranes his neck towards the noise, hears Ellie’s reply loud and clear, “Oh shit, it’s you! The girlfriend, no, the ex-girlfriend! Whatever man, you’re so pretty? No wonder Joel keeps going on about you.” 

It’s something akin to blind panic that has him throwing a towel around his waist and bolting out of the bathroom door, one hand gripping the soggy cotton as he practically falls over his still wet feet as he calls out, “Ellie!” 

It’s a gleeful Ellie that greets him at the bottom of the stairs, grin wide on her delighted face, “Joel, we got visitors!” 

She lets out a high pitched giggle and even Sam, normally so po-faced when Joel���s around, is laughing. He turns to you hiding your own mirth behind your hand, but he can see it in the sparkle of your eyes, in the way your shoulders are shaking, a ripple of amusement across your chest. He knows exactly what your face would look like if he could pull your hand away, how you’d be biting your bottom lip to sniffle the laughter, and he wishes so much that he could capture that joy with his own mouth.     

He can feel his face burning, a steady drip drip drip onto the floor from the water rolling off his shoulders from his drenched curls, “Sorry… I heard voices and I… sorry, I’ll go get myself decent. Ellie, can you offer our guests something to drink, please?”

Ellie is still hooting and he takes two steps at a time to escape, “Go put some clothes on, old man!” 

He can hear her teasing Sam, “He’s not normally a naked kind of guy, I think he was worried I was going to tell you all his secrets.” His heart leaps into his mouth as Ellie says to you, “Or maybe it’s that you’re going to tell me all his secrets.” 

Back in the safety of his room, he lets out a stream of curses. He hasn’t been that naked, that exposed, in front of anyone for a very long time.

His thoughts are scrambled, regret that he didn’t get to introduce Ellie to you properly, anxiety that you’ll be scared off by his older, war-torn body, confusion as to why his body should matter to him… so he just keeps swearing as he pulls on his clothes, shaking his head and occasionally pressing his hands against his eyes, as if to stop the near constant rumble of this clash of emotions. It’s the first time you’ve been in his house, the first time Sam has been here, the first time you’ve met Ellie and he’s fucked it up already. Too rash, too panicked, he never knows the right thing to do these days. He feels like it’s another thing to add to his long list of fuck-ups. 

He used to be so steady for you, all those years ago, you could lean and lean and he’d absorb it all. Sure, things had been difficult to begin with, but what was the phrase? The course of true love never did run smooth. As soon as he thinks it, he raises his own eyebrows at himself. 

There’s no time to dwell on this thought, there’s a gentle rapping at the door. Couldn’t possibly be Ellie, her knocks are far more chaotic, written in capital letters. 

“Joel, are you decent?” 

He looks around the room, far too late to change anything, but he wonders what you’ll make of his space. Will it remind you of the room you used to share? He chucks his towel in the laundry basket, sits down on the end of the end. Braces for impact. 

“Yeah, come in, darlin’.”

Is that a hitch in his breathing as you walk into the room? A jump in his pulse? He can’t help the smile that creeps up onto his face as he takes you in, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that settles in his chest. 

“My turn to apologise, I’m so sorry we barged in unannounced. But I found something I had to give you right away.” Your hand is outstretched, a photo the size of a dollar bill between your fingers, curled at the edges so much he can’t make out what it is right away. “I’d completely forgotten I even had it, it’s been sat in my wallet for about twenty years… but as soon as I remembered it, I wanted you to have it.”

Joel stares at the picture, unseeing, for a good few moments. His mouth drops open and he blinks, rapidly. He’s gone from overthinking to not having a single thought in his head all at once. 

You sit softly down next to him, hands gentle, helping to hold it flat so he can really look at it, “I took it that day at the lake, do you remember? You looked so handsome with your hair all slicked back and Sarah was so brave out on the water, she laughed the whole day.”

He stares at Sarah’s face, taking in every detail, the tilt of her head mirroring his own, bright white smile, cheekbones that held the first shape of adulthood. A glimpse of the woman she never got to become. The strand of curls falling across her face, he can almost feel the texture of it, what it would have been like to tuck it behind her ear for her as she rolled her eyes at him for fussing. It had been a gloriously sunny day but now he curses the warmth that had caressed their skin, wishes it had been cloudy and grey so he could see her eyes fully in the photograph, that they hadn’t been half closed against the sun. 

He knows he won’t be able to make his voice come out normal, so he doesn’t even try, “‘Course I remember.” The sound feels crunchy in his throat, too much emotion bubbling in his chest to be able to think straight, “I can always see her face, when I miss her I can see her, you know? But this… This is so solid. It’s like having a little piece of her back. A bit more proof that she really existed.” 

“She was a force of nature, Joel. We all loved her so much.” 

He places the photo reverentially on the bedside table, turns his body fully towards you, blinking back the tears that are stinging at his eyes, “Thank you, truly, darlin’. This is one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.”  

“Number of times I almost lost that damn rucksack, feels like fate that I was able to bring you this. I only have one photo of me and Sam, I know how important they can be.” 

Joel blames you for what happens next. Because when you reach down, bring his hand up to your mouth and place a soft kiss on his knuckles? It’s like a jolt of electricity has run down his spine. Before he can even think, he’s pulled your face to his and kissed you. It’s almost like a reflex, a need so deep there wasn’t a moment of hesitation. And you’re kissing him back, lips tender, soft, searching, and he finds he’s clasping your face as a honeyed, gentle whine slips from your throat. 

Did it always feel like this? That the world has stopped and there’s nothing but you and him? Your lips part and he chases your tongue with his own, a feeling so sweet and urgent all at once, that desire that has lain dormant for so long ignited once more. There’s a fire in his chest and he welcomes it, licks into you with a fierceness that he feels echoed as you kiss him back. 

You pull away slightly, looking into his eyes so hard he feels like you’re seeing past every layer of his skin, right into his chest and exposing his furiously beating heart. Your hand reaches up and holds his where it rests still against your face, thumb gently rubbing against his fingers. 

“Joel?” It’s a question that he has no idea the answer to. 

He’s not ready to speak yet, he just wants to live in this moment for a bit longer, so he leans his burning forehead against yours. You sigh and seem to accept the pause, and your eyes flutter closed at the same time. It’s so quiet. As he listens to the sounds of your shared ragged breathing, a peal of laughter dances up the stairs from your girls chatting in the kitchen, and he finds there’s a kind of peace in the chaos that’s swirling round his mind right now. 

A house with growing girls in it, with you sat by him on the bed, it’s almost too much, almost too good. He starts to feel a bit panicky, like the air in the room has got too thick and he can’t quite breathe properly. 

His voice is hushed as he says something he doesn’t really mean, doesn’t know why he lets it escape, “I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” 

There’s a shift in the energy and you drop back away from him, that closeness that he could feel snuffed out in an instant. He remembers you do this, when things get heavy you pull back and retreat into yourself, a mask slipping over your beautiful face that almost blanks it into nothingness. He used to be able to coax you out, felt like he was the one with the magic key to bring you back to yourself, but today the rising panic in his own chest stops him from being able to bring you both down to earth, stop the spiralling. 

“I’ve got to get Sam to school, we better get going.” 

You’re not graceful in your exit. There’s a vibration in the air that he doesn’t like, a bitter tang in his mouth that he knows is regret. He follows closely behind you and he wishes he were brave enough to reach out and grab your arm but he holds back, watches as you turn on a smile for Sam and Ellie. He recognises it, this switching to parenting mode where you pretend everything is fine to keep the wheels on. 

Sam and Ellie are hunched over a comic book, and Joel gives Ellie a tight smile. He sees her eyes narrow, never misses anything that kid, and he hopes she isn’t going to give him a hard time. He studies the floor in silence. 

“Ok, Sammy, we best get going so you’re not late for school.” Your voice is business like, firmly manoeuvring Sam out of the chair and towards the front door. Sam is mostly pliant, shooting a hard glance towards Joel and then a warmer smile in Ellie’s direction.  

“Can I come see Ellie again, please, mama? She said she’d take me to the library!” 

“Sure thing, baby, we’ll arrange it. Thanks Ellie, it was good to meet you. Sorry for disturbing you this morning, Joel, maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” Your face is cold, eyebrow arched in such a devastating way his stomach goes immediately tight and he can’t help but grimace. 

He stutters, “I… no, thank you for the picture. I didn’t…” 

You shake your head, hand at Sam’s shoulder as you usher her out of the house quickly. As soon as the door clicks shut, Ellie’s head turns sharply towards Joel and she pounces. 

“What the fuck did you do, Joel?”

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My Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tagging in some pals (please let me know if you'd like to be taken off/added on)

@katareyoudrilling @sin-djarin @guiltyasdave @sizzlingcloudmentality @milla-frenchy

@sawymredfox @yopossum @youcancallmeelle @aurorawritestoescape @almostfoxglove

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@there1snothingleft4u @sebastanot @givemeth @umadirectioner @winyourheartemma

@registeredbelcher55 @tangled-tumbler-blog-blog @missladym1981 @casa-boiardi @jethrojessie

@soci0plath @jazzimac1967 @fanf1ctionislife @chewie-bars @fallout-girl219

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

🥹

Those feelings are all still there 😍

Are you ready to love me? Part 2

Jackson Joel x f!Reader

Rating: Just angst & longing this part (my whole blog is over 18’s only please) Word count: 2,680 Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller. Chapter Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning. Reference to character death (Sarah). Minimal descriptions of reader, but she has a nickname (darlin'). I'm always fleabag coded (*arm touch*). Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: WELL! Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed the first part, it has been so gorgeous to spend time with soft Jackson Joel and I adore this reader (and Sam) so much. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this one 🖤🖤🖤 Thank you to @toomanytookas for the beta read & being part of the incredible group of lads who keep me going & support my madness @secretelephanttattoo @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty My Masterlist / Series Masterlist PREV / NEXT

PART 2

You kept it together for a whole three minutes after you dropped Sam off for her first day at school in Jackson. Not even a whole day, she is just having three hours of settling in time, but you are now seriously considering sitting down on the steps outside the wooden school building and waiting every torturous minute right there. She’d seemed fine, you reasoned, excited even. Held onto you extra tight as you hugged goodbye, but happily walked into the classroom and gave you a small, shy but reassuring smile before she’d turned to join her new classmates. 

If anyone was going to have trouble adjusting it was you, as demonstrated by the fact you’re having an absolute meltdown at the thought of being without her for a few hours. You can’t believe you’re crying, again. You’ve barely been here a week and Jackson has already made you soft, broken down those protections you worked so hard at and kept making you deal with all sorts of things you hadn’t planned on revisiting any time soon. 

Things like Joel fucking Miller, standing in front of you right now, a look of concern on that stupidly beautiful face, all sad eyes and a deep frown. You attempt a watery smile, bring a hand to your brow to shield your face from the crisp morning light that streams behind him and stings at your already delicate eyes. 

“You ok? You never used to be much of a crier.” 

You shrug in response, “Yeah, I know. I’m surprised too. I’m fine, really… I guess I’m having the classic my baby’s first day at school breakdown, just running a few years behind is all.” 

Joel offers his hand and you reach out almost without thinking. You pause before the actual contact, hold his gaze for a moment, searching his face in this fraction of a second, trying not to remember the last time his hand had held yours like this.

You recall reading somewhere that your skin takes seven years to completely replace itself. If that’s true, no part of your body now has ever touched this version of Joel Miller. Every line, every bump and ridge and blemish, would be new to you. How can it be then, that your hand in his feels like coming home? No, no, it can’t be true. Those freckles that sit against his collar bone, the ones you’ve tasted with your tongue, you know they’ll be hiding there under the leather collar pulled up tight against the cold. He’ll still carry scars from the before, when you knew his body as intimately as your own, resting alongside the new ones that undoubtedly mark his body. Your eyes flick to the one at his temple, your face unable to hide your curiosity, but you don’t say a word. That kind of discussion takes time. Perhaps one day, you’ll sit like teenagers, comparing war wounds as an excuse to touch each other’s scars, marvelling at how the skin knits back together but never feels quite the same again. 

Joel’s fingers grip around yours as he pulls you up, the warmth of his touch feels like comfort. You want him to be the one to break the connection, so you’re stood together in the snow, hands still linked, a strange sort of frozen handshake that neither of you seem willing to end. 

Joel brings up his other hand, cupping it around yours, “We need to get you some gloves, your hands are freezing.” 

You wish your breath didn’t catch in your throat, that this wasn’t the closest to an embrace you’ve had in literally years. 

“I’ve always run cold,” a smile creeps on your lips, tilting your head slightly as your eyes meet his, “and you always ran hot.”

He laughs, a low chuckle that drips into your ears like honey, and you join him, hands finally falling to your sides. The laughter, it makes him look younger somehow, almost bashful, a glimpse of the Joel you used to know, all rounded cheeks and deadly eye crinkles. 

“I get it, the not liking being separated thing. Takes a while to get used to not being with them the whole time. I…. I had a long while when it was just me and Ellie and the horse, so yeah, I get it.” 

You groan. “Oh fuck, the fucking horse. I haven’t checked on him since we got here, I completely forgot about the poor beast.”

“I wouldn’t worry, the guys up at the stables run a tight ship, they’ll be looking after him,” he gives you what can only be described as a smirk, “probably better than you ever did by the sounds of it?” 

“Hush now, I’ve become a pretty good horsewoman I’ll have you know. Not that I had much of a choice. Took a while but me and Blythe came to an understanding. Better at riding than I ever was at driving at least.” 

“You wanna go check on him? I can take you up there. Haven’t got to be on patrol today, jus’ out running some errands.” 

The prospect of spending a few more minutes with Joel makes your pulse flicker, a tightening of what could be nerves in your belly. You try to ignore it, this ridiculous feeling. The things you’ve survived, the choices you’ve had to make in order to keep you and Sam alive? As if you’d be anxious walking a few blocks over to the stables. You do find you’re worrying at your lip slightly, only stopping when you can feel Joel’s eyes on you, consciously turning your trepidation into a small smile. 

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that. You can keep my mind off the whole cutting the cord thing.” 

You walk together for a bit, quiet now. The sounds of Jackson melding with the satisfying crunch of snow beneath both your feet. You have so many questions, but you let the buzz of intrigue fade into the rhythm of your matching footsteps, walking in time, quick little surreptitious glances at each other. 

You both start to speak at the same time. 

Joel begins, “Can’t tell you how good…”  

Just as you say, “This is so strange isn’t it?” 

A shared laugh again, Joel smiles that crooked smile in your direction, “Go on.” 

“It wasn’t important. It’s just strange, the world literally ended and yet here I am, twenty years later, walking in the snow with Joel Miller. Like maybe no time passed at all.” 

He hums, “Jackson will do that to you. So much of it feels like before, makes you think about how things could have been different.” 

“I don’t like to do that, feels too dangerous. That way madness lies.” 

“Maybe, but maybe it also means you can start thinking properly about a future. What that could look like for our… for the kids.” 

You nod. It has been creeping in, this sort of quiet hope that Sam could live a life that holds some gentleness, and if not a soft life, one not with fear etched into it, no need to have dread a part of every minute of every day. If you really scratched at what you dream of, revealed the truth under your layers of determined pessimism, that’s what would be scrawled on your heart. For Sam’s life to have joy and peace, to be truly safe. 

“If I can keep Sam protected, that’s all I want. I bet that’s how you feel about Ellie, you’d do anything to keep her safe?”

There’s a moment. You’ve both stopped walking, an intensity in your words which has slowed your feet to a standstill. You watch as something flickers across his dark eyes, try to understand what you see, how his jaw is set, a stillness and determination that you don’t think you’ve ever witnessed on his face before. You may not have seen it, but you recognise the feeling, almost like becoming detached from yourself. It makes you remember that you don’t know what this man, this stranger really, has had to do to get here today. How he and Ellie got to Jackson, how they even came to be together. Yet another story not for today. 

“I’d do anythin’. Anythin’.”

You make sure you’re looking him dead in the eyes as you reply, so that he can understand a little of who you are now, “Then we’re the same.” 

You remain locked in this moment, eyes hard, mouths mirroring each other in the tight lines they’ve become. It feels like a silent agreement, something of an understanding. There’s a split second where you think he’s going to reach out to you, pull you in close into that broad chest, but a loud call breaks the tension, the sound of Tommy calling from the stables. 

“Oh hey there, darlin’! You finally remember you have a horse?” 

You wave at Tommy, grateful for the ease in the atmosphere and you watch as relief crosses over Joel’s face, “I better get going actually, Tommy will take you to see Blythe, I’m sure.” 

“Ok. Thank you for bringing me up here, I really do appreciate it, Joel.”

Joel’s eyes are downcast as you walk away and you resist the urge to watch him go, instead make your way over to Tommy and the big grin you can see on his face. 

You stuff your cold hands in your pockets, the sensation of the cotton tight against your skin comforting, although not as comforting as Joel’s hands. You realise then that being held by him, being able to let him carry some of the weight you’ve been burdened with all these years, that’s also something you want. 

There has been a time when you’d been arguing, a hundred years ago, where he’d held you as you’d cried. Your tears were truly rare a thing back then, and although it had been painful and embarrassing, there was a kind of peace there in his arms that only Joel had ever been able to offer you. Perhaps the time has come that you can give some of that comfort back. So much has changed since then, but where the years have made many people harder, you feel like you recognise a secret softness still living in Joel, one that needs to be nurtured and cared for. Could you do that for him? Could you take on another heart, when yours is so bruised? 

You haven’t quite got used to the fact that you have a kitchen, one with hot and cold running water, so doing the evening dishes still feels like something of a novelty. It’s why it takes several knocks at the door and Sam yelling, “Mama! There’s a man at the door!” for you to notice. 

“Oh! I’m coming, baby, sorry I didn’t hear the door going.” 

In truth you’d been a million years ago, wandering through some recollections you didn’t often let yourself sift through. Cosy, domestic memories of fingers in soapy water and coffee brewing, Joel’s hands slipped around your waist whilst you’d played house all that time ago. You shake your head slowly, as if the movement will shuffle these thoughts back into the boxes they came from, but it’s almost like they haven’t closed properly and escaped into reality, because there he is, standing in your doorway once again. 

Sam hovers next to you, a scowl on her face, lip almost in a curl of disgust, “It’s this one again.”

“Sam! You know this is Joel! Can you at least pretend I taught you some manners?” 

You hear a flicker of laughter from Joel, but he quickly masks it with a cough. A smile sits at your lips as you take him in. Somehow your mind can’t quite accept that he’s real, you’re still itching to run your fingers down that fine nose, dig your nails into his chest, make sure he isn’t some kind of apparition. 

His soft voice has an edge of playfulness this evening and you love to hear it, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to barge in on your evening. I just had a little something I wanted to give Sam, seeing as it was her first day at school today.” 

You can practically see Sam’s ears perk up at that, her head immediately turned in his direction and eyes bright. Her hand instinctively reaches for the hem of your shirt, scrunches it between her fingers in excitement and you let your palm rest comfortingly in her back. 

Joel drops down into his knee, makes himself level with her height and addresses her directly, “Maria told me you were a big reader and I saw this out on patrol. My daughter Sarah, who your mom used to know, well she had these stories and I remembered she loved them… I’m hoping you haven’t read them before?”

He holds out the book to Sam and she takes it with both hands, reading aloud the name on the worn cover, “Little House on the Prairie. I haven’t read one of these before, have I mama?” 

“I don’t think so, baby. Say thank you to Joel, please.” 

“Thank you, Joel.” She pauses, looking at the illustrated cover, clearly thinking something over, “Does Sarah live here now, in Jackson?” 

Joel rises from the floor, shakes his head slowly, “No, she died a long time ago. But my… Ellie lives with me now. She’s fifteen, so a bit older than you, but I know she’d love to meet you. Not so big into the reading that one, loves to draw though.” 

Sam nods, taking Joel’s words in, and you know she’s used to the sadness that comes with everyone’s stories, although hearing Sarah’s name still feels raw to you. 

“Baby, why don’t you go and get your jammies on, ready for bed? We can read some of your new book together in a bit.” 

Sam skitters off up the stairs to her room, book in hand, and you share a smile with Joel. Feel that tightness in your chest that sits there when it’s just the two of you, a physical sensation you remember so well; excitement and trepidation all at once. It makes you feel much younger than your years, makes you forget the grey hairs you keep finding in your hairline and how you have to scrunch up your eyes to read now. When you look at Joel there’s a warmth to your cheeks that feels like forever ago. A taste in your mouth that reminds you of a sweetness. As his eyes meet yours, you recall how you always loved how dark they were while somehow still warm, playful. 

You tilt your head at him, “You wanna come in? I got some weird tea Maria gave me.” 

You can see he’s glad to be asked, a little flush of pleasure dancing across his cheeks, but you know he’ll make an excuse even before he speaks. A new shyness there that he never used to have. 

“No, I better get back to Ellie. I meant what I said, I’d like to introduce you both to her. She’s pretty special.”

“I’d like that very much.” 

“Oh, before I forget. I know today being Sam’s first day and all was a big moment for you. I couldn’t get you anything fresh but… well, it’s just a little thing. You deserve a celebration too.” 

In Joel’s hands he holds a small posy of dried wildflowers, petals perfectly preserved, a twist of dark red velvet around the stems. It’s so beautiful you want to cry out, instead a gasp leaves your mouth and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders without a second thought. He’s careful with his gift, keeps the hand holding the flowers outstretched, but the other rests around your waist, sinking into the hug. It feels like heaven. 

You lean back slightly, your face so close to his you can see the shine in his eyes, “Oh Joel, they’re so stunning! Thank you. How ever did you find such a thing?” 

The brightness of his smile lights up his face, “I have my ways. Can’t be telling you all my tricks straight away.” 

He doesn’t break the embrace, so you don’t either. Drop your head down onto his shoulder and stay in that safety for a few more minutes. Let his scent, familiar yet foreign, fill your lungs. The pulse at his throat like a distant drum calling you home. 

“I better get going,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah, ok, thank you for everything,” you reply. 

Neither of you move. 

When he finally leaves, it’s like he left some of that Joel Miller warmth with you, because you don’t feel a second of the cold as you look at him walk out onto the snow covered path. You hold the flowers so gently, scared you'll snap the delicate stems, and brush your fingers against the soft velvet of the ribbon. He keeps turning round to look at you and you watch until there’s no way you can see him in the darkness of Jackson.

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Pals & Tag list - let me know if you'd like to be taken off or added on

@tangled-tumbler-blog-blog @missladym1981 @casa-boiardi @jethrojessie @soci0plath

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@gothicxbarbie @katw474 @sunnytuliptime @sophiagladiator @tezooks 

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@jessthebaker @bitchwitch1981 @beefrobeefcal @arcane-fox @oliveksmoked 

@laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @copperhalfcent @sixhours @bergamote-catsandbooks @registeredbelcher55

@puddles221b @chrrypascal

[readingiskeepingmegoing]

Are you ready to love me? Part 1

Jackson Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Just angst & longing this part (my whole blog is over 18’s only please)

Wordcount: 3,200 Summary: Reunited in Jackson, it’s been 20 years since you last saw the love of your life, Joel Miller. Chapter Content: Slow burn, Jackson Joel, reunited lovers, reader has a kid, Joel has an Ellie. Slight age gap. Lost love and yearning. Reference to a c-section scar. Reference to character death (Sarah). Minimal descriptions of reader altho she does mention needing to comb her hair & has a nickname (darlin'). I'm always fleabag coded. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: There’s no real plan here, except I know they’re going to fall back in love, they just don’t know it yet. I don't have the chapters mapped out, but I know how it will end. This is an entirely new series, but if you wanted, you could read this as what would happen if my Difficult reader survived the apocalypse. Thank you to @toomanytookas for the beta read & being part of the incredible group of lads who keep me going & support my madness @secretelephanttattoo @whocaresstillthelouvre @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @milla-frenchy @sawymredfox Listen to: This is part of @burntheedges 🎶Summer Tunes🎶 Writing Challenge so listen to my song, “Are you ready to love me?” By The War & Treaty

My Masterlist / Series Masterlist / NEXT

PART 1

You’ve never believed in happy endings. Even before the world came crashing down around you, you’d always been sharp, all pointed edges and a cynicism so deep that it ran black through your veins. Maybe it made it easier, watching everything fall apart, to not have had to let go of too much hope? You’d already worked so hard at crushing down any softness within you. The world ended and you could just concentrate on dragging your body through each day, finding new ways to survive, no pesky optimism slowing you down. 

You know you’re lying to yourself. Right before the end, you’d let yourself feel something akin to hopefulness. Prised open your cold heart to a beautiful man and his daughter, had started to think that maybe, just maybe, your life could be gentle. With tender touches and morning kisses, with safety and warmth and Joel fucking Miller wrapped protectively around your sleeping body. Foolish really. Lost forever on outbreak day. You often wish you’d never met him, because how could you miss the taste of sweetness if it had never crossed your lips?  

You’d been 22 when it happened. Try not to count the years now. Old enough to have a nine year old in tow and it be perfectly acceptable, although you often find yourself thinking you’re a teen mom. Making it up as you go along, not the confident, cool-mom you’d thought you’d be when you were young, before everything went dark. No fancy family car or monthly manicures, distinct lack of gossiping over wine and bitching about husbands stacking the dishwasher all wrong. You don’t let yourself do this often, but the new comforts of Jackson have brought it all rushing back; the what could have beens that you know it didn’t do any good to dwell on. How life would have looked if it hadn’t all blown to pieces is never a comfort, only a curse. 

To think of your own misshapen life is one thing, to consider how your daughter’s might have been is even worse. You grip onto Sam’s hand, holding her extra tight, her warm little fingers curling into yours in response. 

Sure, you’re not the mom you once daydreamed about, but you do keep her as safe as you can. Safe, protected, loved. She has shoes that fit her, warm clothes, and now, finally, Jackson to call home. It feels almost like a dream, being ushered in with the other newcomers to the place you were terrified was just a myth. A secret you nursed every night, a silent thought that never crossed your lips as you traveled the months it took to get here, listening to Sam talk so earnestly about what Jackson might be like. You had to believe the rumours were true, that Jackson existed in some form and could offer you both a kind of life rather than simply surviving. It was the thought of being able to put Sam into a real bed at night, soft covers and a door to close tight, that’s what had got you up off the hard ground every morning, helped ease the ache in your muscles from another long day on your horse, Sam tucked tight in front of you. 

Maybe you did allow a little hope to creep in, just sometimes.

You like Maria instantly, she’s not exactly warm, but she’s practical, calm in a way you find reassuring. Your years of having to survive mean you’re good at reading people and you feel like you can trust her; you know she’s sussing you out just as much as you’re doing the same and there’s comfort in this knowledge. You make small talk as she walks you to your new home, the ground crisp with fresh snowfall beneath your heavy boots, the footprints of the residents of Jackson a stark reminder that you’re part of a community now, no longer just you and Sam. 

You’ve spent a couple of nights in a building that houses new arrivals whilst the council sorted out a more permanent residence. It was all so organised and efficient, you couldn’t quite get your head around it. The hot running water had made you gasp at first, a feeling of real delight sat warm in your stomach as you’d helped Sam clamber into the bathtub and enjoy her first proper soak in years. 

Everything feels so easy here, it aches at your chest in a way you can’t quite understand. You think it’s happiness, but it’s also a new fear: that now you’ve had a whisper of comfort, it will hurt even more if you have to leave. Or if it’s taken away from you, like so many things before in this hard existence. 

It’s also a bit of a shock how well presented everyone is in Jackson, almost uncanny how next to normal it feels here. You half-heartedly run your hands through your hair, which hasn’t seen a comb in maybe years, suddenly feeling a bit self conscious for how bedraggled you look. You keep Sam’s hair in braids but it’s so long it’s almost down to her waist. You put your hand on her shoulder, holding her close as she walks beside you, feeling silly that you’re worrying about what you look like, what Maria will think of your mothering skills based on the length of your child’s hair and your own lack of self-care. 

There was a time when you used how you looked like a weapon, the power it gave you was thrilling. You could twist men round your little finger with a simple flick of your heavily lined eyes in their direction. Your painted red pout enough to weaken any boy's resolve, a well-timed bite at your lips was practically lethal. But you’d stopped being that girl long ago, chose only to keep hold of her sharpness, carefully nurtured her pointed claws and her ability to wriggle out of tricky situations. That was what kept you alive all these years, not a pretty face. 

Maria’s eyes are kind, you wonder if she’s seen this all before, a hesitation in the newest residents, almost scared they’re going to wake up and find Jackson isn’t real. 

“I know it can be a lot to take in, but you’ll both find your place here. We’re happy to have you.”

You exchange smiles and she continues, “Once you’re a bit more settled, I’d love to have you both over for some tea, I can help you with a lot of the practicalities. We operate as a commune, so you’ll find plenty to keep you busy. We’ll get this little lady into school.” 

Sam is nervous around strangers, but you feel her stand up straighter beneath your fingers, the excitement buzzing within her, “See Mama, I told you they’d have a school!” 

“You did, baby, you did.” You squeeze at her shoulder gently, glance at Maria, “Sam’s a big reader, I hope you’ve got plenty of books. She’s read everything I could find her.”

“We’ve got a whole library for you, Sam. I’ll send one of the girls to come and show you round, maybe Ellie,” Maria’s face changes quickly, as if she’s realised she’s made a bit of a mistake. Her voice is slightly hushed as she looks pointedly at you, “How do you feel about swearing?”     

Sam suddenly giggles, a little burst of noise that lights up her eyes and makes you join her, anticipating what’s coming next.  

“Mama loves to curse. She says I have to wait until I’m 16 and then I can too.”

Maria joins in the laughter, “Your mother sounds like a sensible woman. Maybe she could have a word with Ellie, she didn’t get the 16 memo.” She waves at a dark haired man standing outside your new front door, turns to you, “I asked my husband, Tommy, and his brother Joel to stop by, there’s a few things in the house that needed finishing up for you.”

It all happens so fast. 

Almost as soon as your brain registers the names, you realise you’re staring directly at the unmistakable face of Tommy Miller, who in turn lets out a, “Holy shit!” 

You immediately freeze. 

Joel steps out from behind his brother, a “What the fu…” falling from his lips, but there’s no end to his sentence. It sort of vanishes into the cold air, snatched into a horrible silence as Joel also stands stock still. His mouth actually falls open and you watch dumbly as his hand shoots up to Tommy’s arm, grabbing it tightly. You can see the white of his knuckles. 

Joel Miller. The man you were in love with in 2003, who you never saw again after outbreak day. The man who’s haunted your dreams ever since, a remnant of the past that you couldn’t ever scrub off your skin however hard you tried. 

You know you should speak but you can’t make any sound come out, you’re rooted to the spot and you feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on you, Sam’s included. She turns slowly into your body, pressing her face into your side and wrapping her arms around you. Her warm little body a reminder that you need to keep breathing, that this is real life and not a waking dream. You hold her close, try to calm the rush of thoughts that are crashing around your head, making you dizzy. 

That he’s not only alive, but he’s here. Your Joel. Or at least, a man who used to be your Joel. 

Joel speaks first, hesitant, “Is it really you, darlin’?” 

His voice hits you square in the chest. Exactly as you remember it, surprisingly soft for such a tall, broad guy. You’ve never forgotten how it made you feel. You’d also never truly dared believe you’d hear it again. 

You nod very slowly. Darlin’. That’s what he and Sarah used to call you, even Tommy did in the end. No one’s said it out loud to you in twenty years. You can feel your body start to shake, a tremble that you can’t control, a heavy pull at your throat where a lump of sadness has formed. You don’t cry, you never cry, yet you can feel tears threatening your eyes now. Sam’s arms grip tighter. 

Maria’s voice cuts through the silence, “Well, now this is unexpected. Right, don’t just stand there boys, let’s help these ladies into their new home. There will be plenty of time for getting reacquainted but right now everyone is at risk of freezing, we need to get inside and warmed up.” 

It breaks the spell, Tommy runs down the little wooden steps, practically tripping over his feet, takes the backpack from your shoulder, “Can’t say I’m not shocked but it’s good to see you, darlin’. You’re looking so well. And with a kid!” he shakes his head in amazement, “Welcome to Jackson.” 

You manage to croak, “Thank you Tommy… I… I can’t quite believe this.” Your legs feel unsteady beneath your feet and Sam refuses to let go of your hand, her eyes suspicious as she takes in both men, a little scowl on her face. “It’s ok, baby, I’m ok. I was just surprised. I used to know Tommy and Joel a very long time ago.”

“Before the zompies?” 

You stroke her hair, reassure her with your touch, “Yeah, before the zompies.” 

Joel is right by you now, you can feel the heat of him, but you can’t look at him. Can’t bear to look at his face properly just yet. 

“Zompies?” There’s a strain in his voice, like he’s trying to be light, doesn’t want to scare you away, mindful of the wary child clinging to your side. 

You find some words, “It’s.. it’s a thing we say, about the infected.”

Joel repeats it slowly, “But… Zompies?” 

Sam glares at him, “I couldn’t say zombies when I was a baby. I know they’re infected people.” 

You sneak a look at him now, at Joel Miller being chastised by your child and seemingly taking it on the chin. There’s that lopsided smile, a flash of even teeth. It reaches all the way up to his eyes, with those heavenly crinkles there that you wished you didn’t remember so well. Deeper, a part of the texture of his face now, even when his smile drops as he catches your eye for a split second. The look on his face, like he’s just seen a ghost, you’re pretty sure yours is the mirror image. You feel like your stomach has dropped to your toes. 

Maria calls down the stairs, “Hey, does anyone want to come up and see their new room?” 

Sam hangs back, looks to you for reassurance, and you give her an encouraging nod, “Go on, baby, be brave. I’ll be right up after you.” 

You watch as she scampers up the wooden stairs, glancing back a few times to check you haven’t disappeared. It’s the furthest you’ve been apart in months.  

Joel makes a sort of little cough behind you, “I think we put some coffee in here for you, want me to make you a pot?” 

“Real coffee?” 

He nods, “Real coffee.” 

“Fuck, yes, that would be amazing. Thank you.” 

You follow Joel into the neat little kitchen. The cupboards are tired but everything looks functional, like a real home. Your home. You sit down on the high stool next to the small kitchen island and watch him carefully gather what he needs to make the coffee. You can look at him a little more now; broader than he once was, but still with that swagger when he walks. A confidence that you can’t learn packaged up in well-fitting jeans and a smart flannel shirt. Everyone is so fucking clean here. His hair looks freshly washed, threads of grey running through his curls. The curls are new. You’d always wondered what his hair would look like longer, often trailed your fingers through his thick locks and imagined tugging gently on an actual twist of hair. You shake your head as if to remove these thoughts because there’s a question burning away in your chest. 

Joel turns slowly, faded mug in hand, those deep dark eyes meeting yours. Longer this time. Braver.

“You can ask. I know you’re thinkin’ it.”  

“Sar…?” Her name dies in your throat. You wouldn’t ever normally have dared such a personal question, especially one you didn’t really want to know the answer to, truly dreaded it, but you find you’re desperate to know. Would do just about anything for her to be the next surprise to walk through the door. 

Joel shakes his head and there’s no stopping the tears that again prick at your eyes. A memory of the sweet little girl that loved fairy stories and whose permanently sticky fingers would somehow always find yours, dragging you to look at her latest craft project or simply just to run around in the garden chasing after butterflies. It feels like a punch. You haven’t experienced the shock of a grief like it for a long time, as if someone has reached in and is holding your stomach tight, a closed fist that twists with an excruciating sharpness. 

“I’m so sorry, Joel. I…” You try to scramble together some more words but your mouth just hangs open, you drag your fingers across your face uselessly, an attempt to stop any more tears escaping. It feels selfish, to push your new-found grief onto him when he’s had to live with this loss for so long. 

Silence hangs in the air once more. Joel turns back to the coffee, lets you wipe at your eyes with your shirt in private. You’re both quiet with your own thoughts for a few minutes. 

He turns and places a steaming hot cup of black coffee in front of you and you curl your fingers around the warmth of the porcelain. 

“Thank you.” 

He leans back, arms stretched behind him, open for you, “I got an Ellie. Not my kid… but you know… mine. My Ellie. Bit older than… yours?” 

“Sam. Fairly sure she’s mine,” your hand instinctively reaches to your abdomen, “got the scar to prove it.” 

You wonder if he remembers that Sam was the name of one of your best friends. A girl who you’d held onto for a few years after the outbreak before she slipped from your grasp like so many others. 

Joel blinks. He’s better at you than this, been around some form of civilisation longer than you have, that’s for sure. He attempts a half smile, tender, “S’pretty name. She looks like you.” 

You smile. Let him see how happy this makes you. 

It feels strange, this stilted conversation, because it’s both awkward and gentle at the same time. You wish you could reach out and touch him, let your fingers feel the scratch of his scruff against your skin. You’re startled by this realisation, this need that has been hiding deep within you; you didn’t know that ache even existed in you still. Seeing Joel again is stirring up all kinds of confusing emotions, so you do what you’re best at, crush them down and try to blank yourself to nothingness. 

“This coffee isn’t too bad, best one I’ve had in a long time.” 

“No coffee where you were before?”

You shake your head. You really don’t want to talk about the before, it feels too big, too awful, “Not for a while. We’ve been all over, but mostly on our own. Wish we’d known about Jackson a long time ago.” 

You lift the cup back to your mouth and see Joel hesitate, feel those big, sad eyes watching intently as your lips wet the rim of the mug, and it’s back, that intense need to touch him, to be touched. Almost a burn at your skin. 

The tension is broken by Sam calling for you from upstairs and you slip away from his gaze, still clutching your coffee. 

When you come back downstairs, he’s gone and you’re not sure what that feeling is that floods through your bones. Is it relief, or disappointment?

NEXT

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