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sweetteainthesummerx · 4 months

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THE LOVE LASTS SO LONG (13)

In which they visit Paris!

series masterlist

notes: let me know if you want to be added to the taglist and leave a comment! Enjoy :)

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

alexandrasaintmleux posted on their story

caption: Louvre, pastries and Aubrey

olliebearman posted

olliebearman c'est la vie (the only French I know 😌)

liked by kimi.antonelli, aubreyyang and 701,694 others

user1 ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT SLIDE 3

-- olbreylovers YES THATS DEFINETLY HER THEYRE SOFT LAUNCHINGGG

scuderiaferrari stick to italian

-- user2 ADMIN!!

landonorris nice sunnies

-- olliebearman thanks their borrowed

-- aubreyyang pls return them I can't see 😔

-- olliebearman omw 🏃‍♂️

-- user3 not them flirting under landos comment

-- landonorris right this is so rude I demand compensation

-- aubreyyang we'll get you a magnet

-- landonorris DEAL

user5 they're in love in this essay I will

aubreyyang posted

aubreyyang are you happy to be in paris? 🇫🇷💋

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, olliebearman and 670,332 others

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dior.n.goodjohn OUI!!

-- aubreyyang miss u bae

aryansimhadri pls bring me back a t shirt too

-- aubreyyang will do

user1 THEYRE SHARING SUNGLASSES = THEYRE IN LOVEEE

alexandrasaintmleux mignon

-- aubreyyang je t'adore <3

aubreyyfanpagee I love how we have collectively decided that yes, they are dating

MESSAGES

ollie

r u still up 😊

aubrey

yep what's up

ollie

wanna come to my room and watch a movie?

aubrey

ive heard that line before

ollie

NOOO I would just like some cuddles and a Disney movie pls

aubrey

okay :)

let me shower and ill head over

ollie

see you in 20

Aubrey examined her outfit: a big Ferrari shirt given to her through PR, a pair of cotton shorts and white scrunch socks.

She figured it hardly mattered; more and more everyday, she was sure that Ollie would think she was beautiful not matter what she wore.

When she showed up at his door, he was very broad, damp and shirtless.

Not to brag, but she was one of the biggest young names in Hollywood. She’d worked with male models and actors alike, but none of them managed to stir up a storm in the pit of her stomach like Ollie could.

His sweatpants (grey) were slung low on his hips, and he had a towel in one hand. With a dopey grin, he swung her into his arms as she squealed.

“Oliver, you’re getting water in my hair! I just blew dried it!”

“Yeah? Looks nice.” He told her, all wide innocent eyes as he dumped her on his bed. The big television had Cars 1 & 2 queued up already.

“Nice,” she grinned as he settled in beside her, “very fitting.”

“I thought you’d appreciate my wittiness.” He shrugged modestly, and she poked his rib.

“Watch the movie, Bearman.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He casually flopped over onto her lap, laughing when she groaned at his weight. Aubrey slid her right leg under him, and he shifted so he was lying between her legs, still facing the TV with his head resting on her stomach.

“How are you liking France?” He murmured, sliding a big hand up and down her calf. Something low and hot bubbled in her stomach and only intensified when he dragged the tip of his nose over the sensitive skin of her thigh.

“I love it here. It’s so rare I get to practice my French now,” she carded her fingers through his soft brown hair, “how about you?”

“It’s…” he sighed contentedly, pushing up into her hand like a puppy dog, “it’s…really nice, doing touristy stuff. During race weekends we don’t get to.”

“Hmm. And there’s not much paparazzi around. In America, it’s so terrible. I just want to hide away in my apartment.”

“I’ll bet. Sometimes I forget that you’re super famous.” He admitted, stroking her ankle with his thumb.

“Sometimes I forget when I’m with you too.”

“I think that’s good. We’re just…two normal people.”

“Do you remember my Elle magazine interview?”

“How could I not?” He answered quietly, and she flushed.

“I meant what I said you know. You and Charl and Alex and Lily…I’ve never got to be a teenager and this is really nice.”

“Me too. I mean this is pretty glamorous, but,”

“It’s still better than just the cameras and the fame.” She concluded for him, suddenly feeling very sleepy.

“You’re better than any camera and all of the fame in the world, Yang.” He murmured.

Her fingers slid to his ear, fiddling with the soft his earlobe.

She wondered what they were. He was her best friend, no one could make her laugh or feel so much like he could. Being with his was easier than it had been with Mace or anyone else. He always told her what he was thinking.

"You are something special, Ollie Bearman."

Aubrey woke up to the sound of a Shakira song and a space heater pressed up against her.

She realized, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, that the Shakira song was Charles’s ringtone and the space heater was one Ollie Bearman.

She was tucked under the covers, her legs tangled with his much longer ones. Her face was pressed into his bicep, his forearms locked firmly around her waist. He looked so angelic, sleeping through Hips Don’t Lie. She sat up slowly, reaching for her phone.

“Hello?” She asked blearily.

“Hello? That’s all you have to say for yourself? Alex and I are worried sick! Where are you?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry! I fell asleep in Ollie’s room,” she heard Alex yell on the other side of the line and Charles gasp, “no! Not like that. We watched a movie and knocked out, honest.”

She felt like she’d been caught by her parents.

“Aubrey?” Alex came onto the phone, “You will tell me everything later. Also can we please leave before lunch to shop? Charl owes me a bag. I told him you two would end up in a situation like this!”

“You guys bet about us?” Ollie lifted his head, squinting up at her.

“No..?” The older woman tried, “Okay, yes. See you in an hour!”

“Wha..” He asked, voice deep from sleep. She bit her lip, no one should look that good waking up.

He pulled her back down, pressing his face into her hair.

“We should get up,” she murmured, having no intention of moving for a while.

“Sure.” He replied, burrowing them further into the sheets.

aubberieyaang posted

aubberieyaang ARGH I CANT STOP SMILING HEHEHHE

liked by walkdontrun, aryannawhatrudoinghere and 15 others

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celine_diorr another fallen soldier :(

-- aubberieyaang HE TOLD ME IM BETTER THAN FAME

-- celine_diorr damn maybe hes kinda good to keep around if he can get us more paddock passes

-- chuck_bushes yo can I get in on that

walkdontrun EW THERE ARE CHILDREN ON THIS PAGE

-- aubberieyaang ...

liv_laugh_love maybe so american was actually about you guys all along

-- aubberieyaang still a banger tho

★・・・・★・・・・ ★・・・・★

Taglist: @callsignwidow @iloveyou3000morgan @honethatty12 @taygrls @destinyg237 @ilivbullyingjeongin @eiaaasamantha @1uvsptnik

#f1 drivers #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 #ollie bearman #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman x you #charles leclerc #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #ollie bearman fluff #ollie bearman imagine #oscar piastri #ollie bearman x female reader #ollie bearman x y/n #mutual pining #best friends to lovers #angst and fluff

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theclairvoyage · 4 months

Text

Centrifugation: Chapter 10

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

An anonymous source discloses something that threatens to ruin your relationship with Joel.

Chapter Warnings: allusions to smut, ANGST!, anxiety, mentions of past traumatic event, adult language, kissing, fluff

WC: 4.2k

Divider by @plum98 <3

Tuesday, October 26th | 1505

Shaky hands reach up to unlock the door to your apartment, keys jingling with your movements. Fuck. Your hand falls to your side as you try to recollect yourself. Eyes closed, you take a few deep breaths and straighten your spine. Why am I nervous? This is my goddamn apartment.

“Okay,” you say to nobody. “It’s fine. It’s just a door.”

Courage pools in your belly. Taking one last deep breath, you unlock the door and push it open, eyes widening at your surroundings. The place is spotless. Keri stopped by your place to stock the fridge and clean up for you a couple days ago. She must’ve either baked or sprayed some Febreze in here—it smells like cupcakes. A smile forces its way on your face.

You set your purse on the kitchen island and gaze around. Empty sink, full fridge and pantry, clean countertops. Clean blankets thrown over the couch, new candles centered on the coffee table, remote on top of the TV. There’s a small piece of paper on one of the candle lids. You trod over to the couch and pick it up to read, grin creeping up your cheeks.

Hey, love. I made your favorite enchiladas and stocked the fridge full of your favorite goodies. Laundry is done and folded. There’s some special liquid in the fridge, too—but don’t take it when you’re on your meds!! 😉 Call me if you need anything.

-Ker

Curling the note up to your chest, you walk over to the fridge and open the door. Keri was right—she got everything you like. Cheese, salami, fruit, wine, cookie dough, orange juice, and two giant containers of half and half. A large, covered baking dish is calling your name.

Two enchiladas and what feels like half a pound of cookie dough later, you turn on the TV and scroll through Hulu until you find your favorite comfort show. It starts halfway through the last episode you played.

“Picture it: Sicily, 1922…” Sophia Petrillo’s loud, Brooklyn-accented voice speaks to you. You smile and sink into the couch, whipping your phone out to check your messages.

Joel: Have a great night, baby. Sweet dreams.

You send him a picture of your blanket-clad body curled into the couch, along with a witty caption. Missing your couch already. He replies after a few beats.

Joel: Gorgeous as ever. I’m missing more than that, though. Gnight baby. See you tomorrow.

You: Night, Joel. 🥰

Happy to be home and tired of binging your show, you decide it’s time to rinse off the day with some hot water and get ready for bed. After hopping out of the shower and changing your bandages, you pick your phone up from the bathroom counter and stare at the screen.

Three messages from an unknown number stare back at you. The area code is unfamiliar to you. The fuck? Your stomach flip flops like a fish on a dock as you shakily long press on one message to open it.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Better watch your man.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Sent 2 photos

Shock sucks the air out of your lungs. You blink once, twice, three times to make sure this is what you’re really looking at. Beads of sweat emerge from the pores on your forehead, and your hands tremble. This is exactly how you felt after you left the hospital—panicky, lost, terrified.

The first picture is of Joel’s truck parked outside of a Motel 6, with someone in the passenger seat next to him. It looks like a woman, but it’s too dim to make out the rest of her features. The second picture is the same angle, but of Joel leaning near the woman’s ear, smile plastered on his face—and there’s no question that it’s him. Salt and pepper beard, curved nose, those fucking brunette tendrils you adore so much. He’s even wearing one of his green flannels that you’ve worn while he’s fucked you. This photo is better lit, almost like headlights of a passing car flashed on as soon as it was snapped. The woman’s face is—gorgeous. She’s Latina, with beautiful caramel skin, long, shiny black hair cascading down her shoulders, bright red lips, piercing hazel eyes, and a low-cut top that shows some massive breasts stuffed in a pushup bra.

The phone slips out of your hand and lands on the bathroom tile with a thud. Fuzziness clouds your vision, and your pulse is racing so fast there’s barely any time between heartbeats. Confusion hazes in your mind, interrupted by a loud voice telling you to sit down before you pass out. You plop on the toilet seat and pick up your phone.

Nausea pierces your stomach as you stare at the photos again. Clamping your eyes shut, you lean back against the toilet and take some deep breaths, allowing reason to squeeze itself back into your head.

When were these taken? Where? Is this pre-Omaha Joel? Is that girl his cousin?

His hair and beard look the same as they did yesterday—and the motel looks like a Motel 6 near the Denny’s on 84th and Center, posted up right by Interstate 80. Though it could be somewhere else, maybe in Texas, you’re almost certain it’s Omaha. Oak and maple trees line the back of the motel, with leaves of various shades of red, yellow, and orange—you don’t know enough about Texas to know if they have fall foliage like Nebraska does. Maybe you don’t want to know.

Your heart feels like it stops beating altogether at the realization that this was taken very recently—maybe even today.

A tear drips down your burning cheek and lands on the screen of your phone, painting the woman’s face in rainbow pixels. Somehow, she looks even more beautiful than before with your tears plastered on her perfect face.

Anger sears your insides and clutches your throat. You ignored every little voice in your head that was telling you something wasn’t right, shoved it into the depths of your brain and tried to stay present, optimistic. Joel had given you everything—took care of you, made you feel safe and loved, went out of his way to be there for you. What was the fucking point of this shit? He could have easily dropped you and carried on with his life.

Standing up from the toilet, you lean over the sink and splash some cold water on your face and neck, arms propped up on the bowl as you hunch over and continue to take deep breaths.

How am I gonna address this with him? Send him the pictures with no context? Screenshot the messages, including the number?

No, no, no—the latter would be too easy for him to explain. You wanted him to squirm and roil like you are now. Sure, you weren’t exactly a fucking couple, but you never expected him to do this. Fuming, you save the pictures and pull up your messages with Joel. You look at his contact picture in your phone—it’s one of him and you from your date at Village Pointe, when he’d watched you admire the flowers at one of the boutiques. God, he’s fucking handsome, and he looks so happy.

Fuck that. You send the pictures over to him and shut your phone off before stomping off to bed.

Wednesday, October 27th | 0712

Cheerful chirps of the American robins outside your window wake you. You rub your eyes, quickly realizing that they’re sore—probably from all your sobbing the night prior. Dread fills you quickly as you recall the events from last night.

Shit. Your phone is off. Probably wasn’t the best idea, considering you’re still recovering from a traumatic event and people might worry if they can’t reach you.

Anxiety weighs your arm down as it reaches for your phone. You hold the power button and watch the screen light up with fast, shallow breaths.

15 missed calls. 10 from Joel, 2 from Sarah, and 3 from unknown numbers. 20-something messages, mostly from Joel. Your heart skips a beat and your finger inches toward one of them to read it before stopping.

Nope. You’re not giving up so easily. He can squirm for a bit. After all, he made a conscious choice to do this. Another question burns the back of your brain, though.

Who took the pictures?

You open your messages and see that the unknown number that sent the 3 messages is the same one that texted you the pictures. You open them, and your stomach falls to the floor as you read.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Oh, girl. You sent him those? Tsk tsk.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Now you’re giving him time to come up with an explanation??

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: If you can’t get rid of him after he did this, imagine what else you’ll let him get away with.

Lips tightened and jaw jutting angrily, you puff out a hot breath and feel anger bubble inside you as you type a response.

You: Who the fuck are you? What is your problem?

They don’t miss a beat replying.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Someone you don’t want to fuck with. Let it go now and you’ll get over it in no time.

A rough, defiant snarl rips through you as your fingers zip across the screen.

You: You’re so threatening that you have to send shit anonymously? Grow the fuck up.

You: Fucking clown 🤡

The number doesn’t reply immediately. You sit up in bed, hot tears starting to brew behind your eyelids. And your head is pounding—likely from the crying, which has no doubt left you dehydrated. You slowly stand up and wait for the stars to fade from your vision before padding into the kitchen.

As you brew a strong pot of coffee, your phone rings. You close your eyes, inhale deeply, and flatten your palms on the countertop to ground yourself. The cold material heats up underneath your fingertips, leaving condensation in their wake.

You pick up the phone, slowly. It’s Joel. The air in your chest halts. Do you answer, or continue ignoring him? Part of you wants so badly to hear his deep voice, hear him tell you this was all a big mistake, and the photos are AI.

But you know that’s not the case. You accept the call and wait a beat before speaking, lips sucked into your mouth.

“Baby, you there?” His voice is frantic, and you can hear him pacing in what you guess is his kitchen. It’s early, and he’s probably making coffee of his own.

“Why are you calling me?” Your voice is frigid, distant, setting the stone blocks of the wall you’re placing between him and you.

He sighs heavily, footsteps echoing in the background.

“Darlin’, it’s not what you think, I—,” he groans, exasperated. You interrupt him before he can finish.

“I’m sure you can, you’ve had plenty of time to think about it,” you snarl, voice scathing. Joel is silent for a moment, shocked at the anger in your voice. He’s never seen or heard you like this. He chooses his next words carefully.

“Please, let me see you and we can talk about this,” he pleads, agonized. Part of you wants to smile, making him grovel at your feet—the other part is heartbroken, the photos plastered in your mind permanently.

“I really don’t want to talk to you after what I saw. I-I trusted you, and you had every opportunity to cut things off with me… Jesus, Joel, we weren’t even a couple!” you spit, voice transforming from strong and firm, to shaky and choked. Your fists are clenched so hard, your knuckles are bone white, and salty tears roll down your cheeks.

“Baby, you don’t realize h—,” he starts, but you cut him off again.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you spit through gritted teeth.

“Please, please, just lemme explain and it’ll all make sense,” he cries, almost whimpering. Frustrated, you hold a deep breath in your ribcage and pinch the bridge of your nose as you contemplate a response.

“I’ve seen everything I need to see,” you say, surprisingly calmly. “You made me look and feel so… so fucking stupid. I don’t even know who sent me the fucking pictures and now they’re threatening me, I j—,” you continue, and this time Joel cuts you off.

“Threatening you?” he hisses. Your eyes roll so hard it hurts.

“Gimme a fucking break, Joel. You’re pissed you got caught—you don’t give a fuck about me,” you sear, irritated. Part of you knows that you’re not being entirely truthful—you know that he does care. But you want it to sting, and it does. He inhales sharply.

“Now you know damn well that ain’t true, and that I lo—,” he stops himself, your stomach twisting at the realization of what he was about to say. He clears his throat.

“I want you to be happy. If that ain’t with me, then I have no choice but to let it be. But if you wanna talk, I’ll be here. I’m askin’ ya one more time to let me explain,” he chokes, the pain evident with each syllable. He sounds like he did when he first came to the hospital after the stabbing—broken and worried.

You close your eyes for a moment and think about your life since you’ve met Joel.

Happy, exhilarating, euphoric, a whirlwind.

A new version of you��confident, glowing, sexy. Now it all seems so abstract, utopian.

What’s the worst that could happen? He explains, you don’t believe him, and you never see him again? As much as you’d like to stick to that plan, you know once you’ll see him it’ll be over.

“Baby, you there?” he asks quietly, hesitantly, trying not to poke the bear.

“Yes, I’m here. Thinking,” you reply, matching his volume. “Fine. We can meet up. Tomorrow,” you offer, tone stern. You need a day to think.

“Whenever y’want. Just let me know and I’ll be there,” he says, voice like a warm hug. It’s pissing you off, how easily he can melt you. You give him a pinched mhm. He sighs.

“D’y’need anything? Bandages, food, anythin’?” he asks, kindness slicing your heart open.

“No. Keri stocked my place while I was gone. I’m good,” you reply coolly.

Shit, you don’t want to tell Keri—you can’t bear to rehash what you saw last night and break your heart all over again.

“I’m—m’sorry, baby. You mean the world t’me,” he laments. You pinch your eyelids shut, running a clammy hand through your hair. He’s not making this easy.

“Do you realize how hard it is to believe that after seeing those fucking photos, Joel? How do you think I feel whenever I think about them?” You sob, hands waving with each pained syllable that escapes your mouth. He sniffles on the other end, but you continue.

“Seeing you close to that… that woman, who is clearly so much fucking better than me, that perfect fucking wo—,” he cuts you off.

“Nobody is better than you. Nobody. Get that through your head,” he says, voice angry. You groan angrily as tears continue pricking your eyelids.

“What do you expect? Like… I don’t understand what you thought I’d think. Maybe you thought I’d never find out,” you mutter.

“Y’won’t believe me when I tell you what’s really goin’ on. She’s not who y’think,” he sighs, and you can hear him hanging his head on the other line. “I’ll tell y’everything tomorrow.”

Jaw ticking, you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “Okay.”

“F’you need anything, y’know I’m here. Bye, sweetheart.”

“Bye.”

Wednesday, October 27th | 1239

After the call with Joel, your crying and frustration exhausted you to the point that you fell asleep on the couch while watching TV. The quote from the Golden Girls episode you watched struck a painful chord with you, sending you further into the abyss.

I don't want to talk about it. Oh, how could George betray me this way? Dammit, those wedding vows were sacred to me. Well, they must have been. I turned down hundreds, thousands of offers. Teachers, doctors, astronauts. I even said no to a journalist famous for his work on 60 Minutes. Now, if that's not fidelity, I don't know what is. Then I find out that the only man I ever loved cheated on me. On me! Oh, I could just die.

Blanche discovered her late husband had an affair that produced a child—but only when the adult child showed up at her doorstep. It puts things in perspective for you.

One, you and Joel aren’t married—maybe this is a sign not to let it progress further.

But—you hated to admit to yourself that he was the only man you had ever loved.

Does the pain come with the territory, or is it an omen?

You roll off the couch, frustrated still but filled with a bolt of energy. You needed to get out of here. It’s not like you have work the next day, or anytime soon—somewhere far, far away was calling your name.

Fuck it. You decided to head to Chadron early—your grandma’s house was ready for you and clearing your mind with some time at the rustic farmhouse sounded hypnagogic. Thinking of the rolling hills, buttes, pine trees, and open skies filled you with tranquility. Joel’s face sits in the back of your mind, beautiful brown eyes filled with love and adoration. A wave of sadness engulfs you.

Joel would have to figure out fast if he really wanted this.

Having packed a decently sized suitcase in less than 30 minutes, you stuff it in your car and hop in the driver’s seat. You quickly type a text to Keri asking her to check up on the place every few days before starting the car. The gas tank was at half, and with you leaving later in the day, it was probably smart to fill up before starting the 7-hour drive.

You make a quick stop at a QT not too far from your apartment and fill up. As you watch the numbers on the pump display tick, a sleek black truck pulls up to the pump next to yours.

Shit.

It’s Joel.

He steps out and saunters over to you. It’s only been a day since you’ve seen him, but it feels like months. His handsome face looks sullen, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes absent. His frown lines have deepened, stubble grown out, some new gray hairs have erupted along his chin.

And then you see his eyes. Despondent pools of dark chocolate, no traces of the golden flecks you’ve grown to love. What pisses you off the most, though, is how much love pours out of them. It’s so hard to be mad at him when you know that he loves you.

He stops at your side, and you turn away to stare at the numbers. The nozzle clicks and the numbers freeze. Ignoring him, you yank the nozzle out of your car and shove it back on the holder, fingers still gripping the handle. His warm hand envelopes your forearm, rendering you motionless. You can’t look at him.

“Sweetheart,” he says, tone of his velvet voice echoing the sullenness in his eyes. He takes the pump from your hand and turns you toward him.

Tears pool in your eyes for the zillionth time the last 24 hours. Your lip trembles, and you snap your eyes shut. He cradles your face in his hands and tilts your head up to look at him. Your eyes are still squeezed shut.

“Look at me,” he says your name gently, and the familiar scents of sandalwood and bourbon waft into your nostrils, relaxing you subconsciously. Involuntarily, you inhale deeply and slowly open your eyes. A single tear falls from the corner of your eye as you stare at him.

He winces at seeing you in pain—pain that he caused. He leans in and kisses the tear on your cheek. Your gut feels like he reached in and twisted it.

“Where y’going, darlin’?” he says quietly, soothing your cheeks with his thumbs. You can only imagine how this looks—the two of you wrapped in each other in the middle of a gas station, tears streaked down your cheeks and looking a hot mess.

“To Chadron,” you sniff. At some point you grabbed his forearms, the familiar feeling of safety washing over you.

“So soon? Baby,” he says, deep line etched into his forehead. You reach up and smooth it with your thumb. He closes his eyes, exhaling in relief at your touch.

“I needed to get away from here,” you say quietly and absentmindedly, distracted from smoothing his skin. He grabs your hand and kisses it, featherlight, eyes locked on yours. He opens your hand and leans his cheek into your palm.

“Let me come with you. Please,” he pleads softly. His eyes are melting you from the inside out.

“Not before you explain what the hell those pictures are… and who sent them,” you say, arching one eyebrow. He sighs, long and heavy, glancing to his left as he shakes his head and rakes a calloused hand through his stubble. He huffs again before turning back to face you.

“S’my cousin, Valeria. She left her abusive husband in Laredo and is stayin’ at that Motel 6 since that asshole cut her off. I paid for her room f’the next few weeks while Tommy n’ I figure out somethin’. I’m sure I was givin’ her a kiss on the cheek. M’sorry I didn’t tell you—it was sudden, and she wanted me to keep it a secret,” he says with a loud swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing. Your shoulders slump instantly. You feel like a fucking idiot.

“As f’who sent ‘em… no goddamn clue. Pretty fuckin’ close to hiring a PI,” he grumbles, chest puffing out slightly. The knot that’s been tightening in your stomach the last day finally releases, relieving tension throughout your entire body. Your shoulders lift and fall as you take deep breaths, before tensing again as you realize you made a mountain out of a molehill.

Jesus. You’re a complete asshole. Of course, you assume the worst. You’d be surprised if he still wanted you after this charade.

The tears flow before you can try and stop them. You bury your face in his chest, and he wraps his solid arms around you, rubbing your back and soothing you as you sob quietly.

“Shh, baby, s’okay… I understand,” he murmurs into your hair. “Don’t cry. You’re still my favorite girl.”

You alternate between giggling and sniffling into his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Joel—that was psychotic behavior,” you bemoan. You feel him shake his head.

“Don’t apologize, baby,” he coos. “Y’didn’t answer me, though.”

“Hmm?” you say, craning your neck to look at him.

“Y’gonna let me drive you?” he asks, gazing into the somber pools of your eyes. You roll them, small smirk stretching your cheeks.

“I ‘spose. Only ‘cause you asked so nicely. And ‘cause I’m a fucking asshole.” He chuckles, pulling you into his warm embrace. He kisses the crown of your head.

“My asshole,” he soothes. You squeeze him tightly, a nonverbal apology flowing from your fingertips into his broad back.

“Baby,” he says, and you pull back to gaze at him. His eyes flick between yours, a question hidden behind his pupils. You arch one eyebrow at him.

“I love you—y’know that, right?” he says, the volume of his voice lowered, redness creeping up his neck. He looks shy, almost childlike.

Shock doesn’t fill you; rather, warmth blooms in your chest. You knew he did—it was just a matter of when he decided to tell you verbally. He shows you constantly with his actions. The corner of your mouth ticks up in a sly grin.

“Fastest you’ve ever told someone that, yeah?” you poke, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes.

“Been through more in 12 days with you ‘n anyone in a lifetime—seems like we’ve known each other a long, long time,” he says, picking some stray hairs from your face.

“Yeah, very true… I love you too. Even though you hate the coffee I drink.” He beams at you, shoulders shaking along with his deep chuckles. He leans in and stops just prior to his lips brushing yours.

“Hey, I’ve tried and tried to like the sugary shit—ain’t my thing. But you certainly are,” he croons, pressing his lips against yours before you can respond.

This kiss feels much like your first one, back at McKinney’s—passionate, fresh, experimental. It doesn’t heat up immediately, either—you two savor each other’s lips and embraces, content in the softness and sweetness of this moment of forgiveness. It’s almost a new beginning for both of you. Liveliness surges through your veins, scraping the sludge of uncertainty, self-doubt, and anxiety from the walls that have built up since the stabbing. His lips are chapped, longer stubble chafing your skin, hands holding you a bit tighter than they did when he kissed you goodbye yesterday. He pulls back, teeth lightly pulling your lower lip with him.

“Y’know, you’re sexy when you’re mad at me,” he teases you, lusty undertones echoing in his deep voice.

“Don’t make it a habit, Miller,” you scold him, squinting your eyes at him. He laughs again.

“Come over so I can pack, and we can hit the road, sound good?”

“Sure does.”

Taglist: @burntheedges, @syd-djarin, @anoverwhelmingdin, @danaispunk <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #centrifugation #pedro pascal fandom

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