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millermouth · 2 months ago

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𝕲𝖎𝖇𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝕲𝖎𝖗𝖑

Summary: During the day, the Boston Quarantine Zone buzzed with life. People worked, slaving away under the military grip that kept order. But at night, deep in the underbelly of a crumbling hotel, was an entirely different ecosystem that thrived in the dark. One that was draped in lace and velvet, thick with smoke, sweat and secrets. And Joel Miller could always be found in the same room at the same time every night, though he never touched and he barely spoke. But he made sure that he was the only man you ever saw. || smut MDNI 18+ dark!joel x reader, QZ!Joel, reader is a sex worker (though there is only 1 scene with any semblance of 'work' with a customer that isn't joel), joel goes by 'hazel eyes', reader goes by the stage name 'kitty', dark themes, brothel, power imbalance, size difference, kind of innocent!reader, possessive!joel, jealous!joel, angst?, joel miller is a dangerous man, actually he's pretty scary too, touch her look at her and you die, pinv, grinding, lap dancing, fingering, f!recieving oral, some rough sex, missionary, stoic joel but he gets a filthy mouth when he's turned on, pet names, reader has no physical description but is starving from poverty, reader is afab, tension tension tension || a/n: where my dark joel girlies at? this is completely a self indulgent fic because all I want is joel miller to be obsessed w me inspired by ethel cain's gibson girl word count: 12k (got a bittttt carried away)

To the untrained eye, the Boston Quarantine Zone looked dead in the middle of the night.

Not quiet, but dead. The kind of darkness that pressed against your eyesight, the stillness of not a soul to be seen. Up in the dark windows of the buildings, curtains were pulled shut and lamps turned low. Burn piles still steamed into the late hours, the flickering buzz of lamplight the only relief from the night. There was no chatter, no footsteps, just the hum of rotting infrastructure as the last signs of life slipped from sight.

It wasn’t really empty, of course not. FEDRA trucks groaned past every five minutes like clockwork, their engines coughing and tires crunching on debris that littered the cracked pavement. Headlights broke through the darkness and swept across the concrete walls still stained with blood and protest graffiti that the painting crew had yet to cover. Soldiers sat in their trucks with their machine guns at the ready across their laps, eyes heavy from long shifts but nonetheless always watching.

Sometimes you wondered if they secretly hoped for someone to catch.

Most people knew better than to be out after curfew, that’s how you stayed breathing, after all. That was how you kept what little you had—your rations, your apartment, your teeth. You didn’t wander, didn’t make noise. You didn’t exist.

But underneath it all, in a velvet-walled hotel basement on the east side of the city, was an entirely different world. One that came alive at night.

It wasn’t exactly a secret. Even off-duty soldiers were easy to spot—feet kicked up, watching girls sway under low red lights, the walls draped in black and crimson fabric. The place still smelled like mold and musk, but there was something else too. Something smokey and warm. Almost inviting.

You remember the first time you were brought down there, and how it felt like stepping into another world.

You’d noticed the girl before, usually she was casually propped against a brick wall or street lamp, soldiers flirting with her and leaning into her as she smirked up at them. She was cleaner than most, her cheeks full, a softness to her stomach that only came from regular meals and hot water. Her raven hair caught the light in a way that made it gleam indigo in the sun. But you never saw her when the sun went down.

Until tonight.

Hiding in the darkness as she headed in the same direction as you, she moved with purpose. Her gait was graceful if not a little rushed to get out of sight. So, with all the courage and desperation you could muster, you matched her pace, asking her where she was from, where she got her nice clothes. She smirked at your questions, eyes raking over you, and tipped her chin to keep up.

She told you about how you could make good income if you were willing. Ration cards by the day, sometimes pills and booze. Even new clothes, if you earned them.

And so, desperate and dizzy, minutes before curfew when your options would shrink even further, you followed her.

You hadn’t expected the noise. It had been so long since you’d heard music like this, and it blasted from rusted speakers while men laughed and yelled and clapped as girls twirled on tiny stages or dropped into their laps. You watched black market currency being exchanged, a man flaunting a rolled cigarette for a girl to take from his fingers with her mouth, a few extra ration cards pushed into a black bralette, an unmarked bottle sliding across a table to another.

“Stay here,” the raven haired girl said, holding her finger up.

As soon as she left your side, you felt it. A presence, a pair of eyes on you.

Most of the men were too drunk or high to care, but someone was watching like a ghost in the shadows. You turned slowly, gaze scanning the dark corners of the room, but you saw nothing. Still, there was a prickle at the back of your neck that wouldn’t go away.

Then the girl returned with a man trailing behind her. Tall, lean, arms like coiled rope. He wasn’t unpleasant to look at, not with that sandy blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. But there was something sour under the surface. Something that made you tense.

You knew a rat when you saw one.

“This is Gage,” she said. “Gage, this is my new friend. Cute, right?”

His eyes dragged down your body, slow and assessing.

“Very cute,” he said. “Though it’s hard to tell under all that shit on her face.”

You grimaced, knowing you must’ve looked rough. You hadn’t bathed in days because you couldn’t afford the bathhouse, not even close. You probably stank. Probably looked like hell.

“She wants to work,” the girl added, smiling at you with something sly in her eyes.

“Does she now?” Gage purred, hands on his hips. “You ever been here before, doll? Know what we do?”

You had a pretty good idea, but you still shook your head as you looked up at him.

“You got a name?” he asked, amused at your wide eyes.

You told him, and the girl giggled. The man reached out to you, and you cowered slightly, realizing now what this was, “That won’t do,” he said, twirling a piece of hair between his fingers, “But we’ll think of somethin’ for ya. Somethin’ real cute.”

He jerked his head toward a hallway lined with curtains. “Come on. Let’s talk.”

And for whatever god awful reason that probably had everything to do with the hunger twisting your guts, you followed.

By the first week in the place, you were already in debt.

A long, scalding bath, clean clothes, makeup, a bed to sleep in had all come at a cost. You hadn’t even had a warm meal yet, and already you owed.

But it was better than where you came from, and so you stayed.

Trixie, you’d come to learn was the girl’s name, or, at least her given name, taught you the basics as she tailored you into the perfect succubus. She waxed and tweezed every inch of hair left on your body until you were raw and smooth like you hadn’t been in years. She said smooth sold better. So you let her. You let her show you how to apply eyeliner without shaking, how to paint on a smile that looked nearly real. She even shared a few bites of her lukewarm oatmeal when you were close to fainting.

Now, on your first working night, you stood in front of the chipped mirror in the communal girl’s waiting area, pink gloss shaking in your hand as you brought it to your lips. You didn’t recognize your reflection anymore, though you often tried to avoid it anyway. Everything about you had been softened, plucked, painted. Your sweatshirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a thin slip the color of wine.

Trixie appeared behind you, her fingers settling lightly on your shoulders. Her eyes met yours in the glass, dark and rimmed in smoky shadow. The corner of her lips lifted with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You have a customer.”

Your hand froze. “Already?” You hadn’t even gone out to line up for the potential suitors. You hadn’t been seen by anyone since you arrived a few days ago.

She nodded once, then leaned in closer, like she didn’t want the other girls to hear what she was about to say.

“I need you to listen to me.” Her voice had lost its usual lilt, the teasing edge flattened out as she spoke with her lips to your ear, tucking a piece of hair behind it. “You do not fuck around with this one. Don’t play dumb, don’t try to be cute. He doesn’t like games, and he definitely doesn’t like the whole bambi thing you’re giving me right now.”

Your stomach turned as you trembled, searching her darkening eyes in the mirror. “W-what does he like?”

Her gaze never left yours, “Quiet, obedience, and no talking. Not unless he speaks first.”

You swallowed hard. “How—? It’s my first day. How did he even know I’m here?”

Trixie’s voice dropped lower. “Gage says he saw you when I brought you in. Asked when you’d be ready.”

The ghost in the shadows. The eyes you felt, but never saw.

“Kitty!”

Gage’s voice cracked through the room, sudden and booming. Everyone flinched, heads turning. His eyes were locked on you.

Right. The new name.

You stood, hands clammy as you smoothed invisible wrinkles from your dress.

Trixie reached out, her thumb swiping gently at the corner of your mouth where your gloss had smudged.

“Be a good girl,” she said, soft and sweet, like this wasn’t your initiation by fire.

The light was dim out in the hallway, humming overhead with a sickly yellow buzz. You followed the narrow corridor past drawn curtains and closed doors, the floor sticky in places, soft in others. You wished you could afford some shoes after they took your crappy canvas sneakers. Another thing to be earned.

Your eyes stayed locked on the planes of Gage’s back as he led you further in, stopping outside a door near the end of the hall. He knocked twice, then opened it. He didn’t step inside, didn’t speak, only gave a nod for you to go in.

The air in the room was warmer than the hallway. Still and thick with a mix of smoke and something sweeter like candle wax, maybe cologne. A few small candles burned low on the tables around the couch, casting flickering yellow light across the room just enough to see.

You stopped in the doorway, breath catching.

A man sat at the center of the room like it was built around him. Like it was waiting for him to fill it. Legs spread, boots planted wide on the rug. One arm rested along the back of the loveseat, fingers curling slightly over the worn wood, the other loose beside his thigh. He didn’t move when you entered. Didn’t shift or adjust. He took up the space without question.

His shirt was black, the fabric thinned and faded, stretched slightly over the broad cut of his chest. It hugged the curve of muscle beneath his arms, which were thick and heavy with the kind of strength that didn’t come from anything but hard manual labor.

He was equally terrifying and beautiful all at once.

As you stepped inside, you traced him in pieces. The width of his shoulders, the slope of his neck. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. You weren’t sure why you were doing it. Maybe to delay the moment when his attention reached you. Maybe to understand the shape of something that could so easily break you in half.

His face was hewn from earth and fire, no softness or youth left in him. Features strong and severe, cut from time and consequence. A thick beard framed his jaw, dark with streaks of gray that caught in the candlelight. And a scar, jagged across the bridge of his nose only made him more striking. The sudden thought of running the tip of your finger across it flitted in your mind. Of asking him where he got it. If the other guy got to walk away.

Quiet. Obedient. Don’t speak unless spoken to.

So you gathered the courage to look at his eyes instead.

They were already on you. You hadn’t even noticed when they landed. Deep and shadowed, colored with something in between green and gold and something even darker. They moved slowly across you. He didn’t leer or oggle. They were empty, void of emotion or feeling.

And still, he said nothing.

So you stood there. Letting him look. Letting him see.

You tried to hold his gaze while your stomach coiled tighter, while your knees threatened to buckle. You drank him in like he was the only thing left in the room. And as his eyes met yours, steady and unblinking, you got the feeling he was doing the same.

“Close the door.”

Even his voice was low and controlled, vibrating in his throat like gravel and honey. You obeyed without hesitation, grateful for the excuse to break his gaze. Turning slowly, your shaking fingers found the knob, pulling the door shut behind you with a quiet click.

When you turned back, you didn’t meet his eyes. Your hands fidgeted at the hem of your dress, nerves coiling through your stomach until you thought you might be sick.

“Sit.”

You blinked, glancing up at him. He gave a slight tilt of his head, and only then did you notice the chair across the room—plain, wooden, placed just far enough from him to maybe let you breathe. You hadn’t noticed it before. You hadn’t seen anything but him.

Slowly, knees wobbling, you took a seat, crossing your ankles in the demure fashion Trixie taught you, fingers intertwined with each other in your lap.

You sat like that for a while. So long, in fact, you had to uncross and recross your legs multiple times, pins and needles vibrating through your muscles each time from lack of use. He stayed in his seated position, eyes on you, arm still hooked behind the back of the loveseat, never saying another word.

It was odd. You were warned about him, about this brutish, intimidating man, and yet… he did nothing. You knew what this job was—the physical aspects of it. And you’re certain he knew as well, since everyone seemed to know who he was, what he was capable of.

An hour later, three short knocks rapped on the door. You had been taught different knocks meant different things, and this one, short and quick, meant you needed to wrap up, that the buyer only had a few more minutes left with their purchase.

That was the first time he moved. He leaned forward, arm sliding down to reach for his pocket, eyes finally leaving your figure. You watched him closely, barely breathing. There was a grace to it, an ease that didn’t match his size. Like a predator stretching after a long rest.

He pulled out a few ration cards, and stood. His boots crossed the floor in slow, solid steps towards you, and your back locked straight against the groaning wood of the chair. He stopped in front of you and held the cards out.

“I–” your throat cracked with lack of use, and you gently cleared it. Don’t speak unless spoken to. But he hadn’t spoken to you.

“I’m not supposed to take p-payment.” you managed to say quietly, head ducking.

“I’d rather not give that prick anything I don’t have to.” he ground out, and you looked up at him then, at the clear disdain for the man who clothed you and put you to work, and his eyes were burning into you as he added, “Take it.”

“I didn’t…do anything.”

He still held out his hand with the cards.

After a beat, you gave in and reached for the cards, careful, trying not to touch him. But your fingertips just barely brushed his, and you flinched like you’d been burned.

If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Or maybe he was just used to it.

You sat frozen, heart hammering, heat crawling up your neck. Your legs pressed together beneath your dress, muscles tight with something you weren’t sure how to explain. Embarrassment. Tension. Fear, probably.

When you looked up at him again, his eyes were as unreadable as ever.

And without another word, he walked toward the door.

But the next morning, you had your first warm meal in weeks.

The next night, Gage came for you again.

He didn’t say who was waiting. Just jerked his chin like before and started walking, expecting you to fall into step. You did.

The corridor hadn’t changed. Same buzzing yellow lights overhead, same warped floor beneath your bare feet. The walls felt closer than they had the night before. Closer, or maybe just quieter. No voices behind the curtains. No music bleeding from the lounge. Just that thick, stale air.

When you reached the door, Gage opened it and gestured you inside. He didn’t follow. And this time, he shut the door behind you.

You turned, and froze.

He was already watching from the same position on the couch. His legs were spread, the faded denim stretched along his broad lap, posture relaxed as his arms bracketed the couch behind him. His gaze was steady on yours, though just as unreadable as ever.

“You again.” you said before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t sharp or even shy, just curious. You could almost swear there was a twitch of his lips. Nearly a smile.

You didn’t wait to be told. You crossed the room, the creak of the floorboards the only sound beneath the moth eaten rug, and sat in the wooden chair facing him. You kept your knees close together, hands folded tight in your lap.

“I was told not to speak to you,” you said, keeping your voice steady. Testing the line again, just to see if it would hold. You wondered how far you could push, how much you could get him to say. Since, after all, if this was going to be the same as last time, you’d be sitting in an hour’s worth of silence.

He didn’t look away. “That so?”

You nodded once.

His hand lifted to his face, slow and deliberate, scratching at his beard. The sound was rough, a scrape in the silence.

“Probably for the best,” he said. He was so hard to read. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or dismissal, but clearly an end to the conversation. You pressed your lips together and didn’t say anything else.

So, you sat there while he watched you. Your skin burned with the feeling of his eyes on you, though they weren’t necessarily invasive. He seemed to be taking inventory, a slow assessment of the woman in front of him. The way one might watch a trapped animal so it would stay calm instead of bolting at the first sign of movement.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the time together.

But when he got up to leave at the sound of the three knocks, he walked across the room to you once again, and offered you more ration cards.

“Get some damn shoes.”

For the next week, he became part of your daily life.

The hazel-eyed man would come and sit with you. No touching or requests. Just silence stretched over an hour while his eyes stayed steady on you.

You learned to use the time as best you could. Some days, you let your mind drift, finding stillness in the quiet. Other times, you watched him in return—studied the slope of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the way his hand always curled slightly when it rested on his thigh. When your eyes needed a break, you counted the amount of sun baked flies in the tiny window, the uneven cracks in the wall. Anything to keep from unraveling beneath the weight of his gaze.

At the end of every visit, without fail, he would stand, walk over, and hand you a small stack of ration cards.

And you would eat.

Every day now. Real food. Enough to soften your stomach, enough to put color back in your cheeks. The blush Trixie used to paint on was barely necessary anymore. Some of that was from the food. Some of it was from something else entirely.

Sometimes you caught yourself flushing before you even entered the room.

Because somewhere along the way, you started thinking about him in the hours outside of your time together.

Not obsessively. Just… quietly. The way you might recall a scent or a line of music. A flicker. A shadow. He’d become part of the rhythm of your days, and you didn’t know what that meant. At least, not in a place like this, doing a job like yours.

But you didn’t worry about other clients anymore. Gage hadn’t sent you to anyone else. Maybe because this man paid every day, maybe because he never asked for someone else.

Still, for all the time you spent together, he hardly spoke.

You’d managed to learn that he was from Texas. That he had a brother. But that was it. Two facts about him. Not even a name, no stories he was willing to tell. Nothing you could hold onto. He was a sealed vault, and you hadn’t even touched the lock.

“I’m putting you out in the lounge tonight,” Gage said, barely glancing at you as he counted the ration cards from your last session with your new regular. You always went straight to him after, paying down your debt of the room and board, of your clothes and makeup used each night. There was always something hanging over your head.

“In… the lounge?” you echoed, eyes widening, heart sinking as you stood in his office that night. The lounge was where women danced in scantily clad lingerie, music blaring and contraband was traded. You’d seen it the first night you were here, but never ventured out on the nights since. It felt…nerve wracking. So many eyes, so many wandering hands and snake-like smiles.

Gage gave a quick glance up, just long enough to show his annoyance before settling back into the creaking chair behind his desk.

“Yes, the lounge,” he said, bored. “You’ll need something new to wear.”

Then his eyes lifted again—this time slower, meaner. He held up the stack of ration cards between two fingers and smiled, all teeth.

“Guess that means I’ll keep these.”

He chuckled at your silence.

“Whatever tips you make tonight, those are yours. If you can manage to catch any of those creeps’ attention.”

You nodded. What else could you do?

He waved you off like a nuisance, and you left, swallowing against the lump in your throat, blinking hard to keep the tears from coming. That money had been your first real hope of paying anything down. Now it was gone.

More currency lost. Which meant the longer you had to stay here.

This place was a pit you were never crawling out of. But it was still a bed. Still a place to bathe. Now that you were eating regularly thanks to Hazel Eyes, it didn’t always feel so bad. Especially since you hadn’t needed to use what god gave you to make the money.

That night, Trixie came to your room with a bundle of black fabric draped over her arm.

“Suit up,” she said, tossing it to you.

You unfolded it, blinking. Your fingers ran over lace, sheer flowery mesh, and thin straps that tangled like spiderwebs.

“I-I’m supposed to wear this?” you stammered.

“It’s lingerie,” Trixie said with a sigh, already annoyed. “You’ve seen the other girls. Don’t shoot the messenger. Gage said you’re in the lounge tonight, so I brought you something to wear.”

Your skin prickled at the thought of putting it on. Of walking out there with nothing to hide behind. Dancing in the least amount of fabric you’d ever seen. Being seen.

Trixie rolled her eyes, grabbed you by the shoulders, and turned you toward the folding divider in the corner of your room. “Change. Now. We still have to fix your face.”

You ducked behind the divider, fumbling with the fabric, trying to figure out where each strap belonged and how to stretch it over your skin. Your hands shook as you hooked it around your waist, tugged it high over your hips. It barely covered anything, every inch of you feeling exposed.

“What’s wrong with my face?” you called out, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.

“Nothing,” Trixie snapped. “But hurry the fuck up. Since when did you get an attitude?”

“Since when are you so stressed?” you muttered more to yourself.

When you finally stepped out, she let out a low whistle.

“Oh hell yes.” she said with a smile.

You tried to return it, but it was more of a grimace. Your stomach twisted as her gaze swept over you, and instinctively your arms came up to cover yourself. She pulled you in front of the large cracked and dusty mirror, smiling over your shoulder as you looked at the reflection.

You were downright sinful.

The black bodysuit clung to you like it had been sewn in place. Lace traced every inch of the bodice, delicate patterns sweeping across your ribs and dipping down the center of your chest. It tapered high at the hips, the fabric thinning until it disappeared between your legs. Thin straps hugged your waist, another set wrapping around your hips like they were the only things keeping the sheer fabric attached to your skin. (inspo)

But Trixie’s smile faltered. Her brows pinched.

“What?” you asked quickly, covering your chest with both hands. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands dropped to her hips as she studied you.

“Haven’t you had the same customer these past few days? The one I warned you about?”

You nodded, turning around. “Y-yes.”

“It’s just…” She tilted her head, lips pursing.

Your heart thudded. Had you done something wrong? Was there a mark on your skin? Something that gave you away?

She shook her head. “Let me just say—every other girl I’ve seen come out of a room with him? They never walk out without bruises.”

Your eyes flicked down your own body. No black and blue hues, no soreness. Nothing but nervous sweat and hollow hunger.

“Bruises?” you asked.

Trixie raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “On their hips, their waists. Their legs and arms. I’m sure in more in places that I don’t want to see.”

Your stomach turned.

She leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “You know. From him.”

But you didn’t. Your face must’ve said as much.

“He’s not exactly gentle,” she added, blunt now. “Well… at least not with the others.”

You didn’t know how to respond.

Because you hadn’t told a soul. Not a single person in this place knew that he’d never laid a hand on you. That he barely spoke. That every time you stepped into that room, he looked at you for a while… and then handed you cards when it was time to leave.

You didn’t understand it. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Because it’s not like it was a bad deal. You didn’t have to trade your dignity for the payment, and he wasn’t terrible company, although he was mostly silent. But still, there was something in the back of your mind that wriggled, that taunted you, that begged the question.

Why hadn’t he wanted you like he wanted them?

Trixie squinted, like she was trying to figure something out. Like she was running a tally in her head you couldn’t see.

But you just stood there in your little black nothing, skin flushed, heart pounding.

“Oh,” you finally said, voice quiet.

That was all there was to say.

You’d forgotten how loud the music was in the lounge. It throbbed through the floor and up your legs, filling your chest and head with a hazy, heavy rhythm. Red light drenched everything—the stage, the couches, your own skin. It pooled in corners and spilled across the leather, catching in the smoke that hung like a veil over the room. Everything smelled like sweat and perfume, sticky-sweet and cloying, with something sharper underneath.

You were pulled onto one of the smaller stages by a girl whose name you couldn’t remember. Some kind of gem. Ruby? Diamond? Probably Ruby. She always wore that firetruck red lipstick that smelled like cherry wax.

She pressed against you, laughing into your ear, her hips rolling as she ground herself into your lap. You held onto the cold metal pole behind you, using it more for balance than performance. The heat of her body against yours, the rhythm of the music, the way your knees brushed together, all blurred together in the dim light.

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to enjoy it or just make it look like you did. She was so good at pretending, her smile never slipped, and her eyes glinted in the dim lighting with a look that said you were doing fine. You weren’t, but she let you have it, and you appreciated the lie.

Ruby flipped her hair over one shoulder, hands skimming your waist. But then her attention snagged on something behind you. Her eyes lit up, lips parting in a sly grin.

You followed her gaze just in time to see a man leaning against one of the couches, waving a hand in the air, fingers pinched with a freshly rolled cigarette, mouth grinning like he already knew she’d come.

“Kitty,” she purred, breath brushing your cheek. “I’ll be right back. Keep dancing.”

She didn’t wait for your answer. She slipped off the stage, hips swaying as she sauntered over to him, arms already lifting to drape around his neck as she threw her leg over his lap. He welcomed her with a hand at her waist and a toothy grin.

And just like that, you were alone.

The red spotlight shifted slightly, catching on your skin, suddenly feeling like a heat lamp above you, all exposed and alone. You adjusted your grip on the pole and swallowed thickly. You didn’t know where to look. The stage felt too high. The eyes in the crowd felt too sharp.

You started to slide toward the edge, ready to duck off the platform and disappear into the hallway. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe you could vanish before someone else pulled you back up.

But then you saw him.

He was a shape at first—broad, still, shadowed. But then your eyes adjusted, and the shape became a man. Him. Sitting low in one of the booths, half-lit by the glow from the bar, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. Watching.

He wasn’t relaxed. Not like he was behind closed doors with you, in that worn-out loveseat that creaked under his weight. No. He looked different here. Bigger, hardened, his mouth in a flat line and his jaw was tight.

And he did not look pleased.

Heat crawled up your throat, settling in your cheeks as you began to cross the room, hips dipping gently with each step. Your new shoes caught the light overhead, glittering with every movement. The lounge pulsed around you, smoke in the air, bass in your chest, but your focus tunneled on him, on the weight of his gaze and the line of his mouth.

Every step felt so loud. So heavy. You didn’t know what this was, what you were walking into, but at least he was familiar, and right now, that felt like enough.

When you finally stopped in front of him, his gaze never left you, and you said, voice shy and quiet, “Hi.”

He leaned back, slow and steady, pressing his hands into the velvet cushion on either side of him. His knees spread slightly, posture settling into something wider. Bigger. And still, he said nothing.

Maybe this was a mistake.

You cleared your throat, fingers fidgeting with the dainty lace edge at your hips. His gaze flicked away for just a moment—scanning the room, taking in the space around him like he was cataloguing exits. Then his eyes came back to you, sharper than anything before.

“Sit.”

You hesitated. Because, truthfully, there were two ways you could go about this. Since there was no familiar wooden chair for you to place yourself, to cross your legs and wait for your timer to go off. No, you had the couch beside him…or his lap.

The smoke in the air curled in your lungs, the lights felt too warm, and a strange heat swam just under your skin. You weren’t sure if it was courage or just a lack of sense.

You knew him. Well enough. And it was time to push boundaries and see if it got you killed.

So, you climbed on top of him. Your legs bracketed his denim clad thighs, just hovering, poised just above his lap, waiting for a reaction.

But one never came. If anything, you saw the muscle of his jaw tick, but other than that, he stayed locked on you, not giving anything away. So you hovered there for a moment, uncertain.

You wanted something. So you let your hands slide up his shoulders, fingertips brushing the coarse fabric of his shirt. He was so warm, so broad and strong, and your fingers felt so dainty against the black of his shirt. You started to move, slowly rolling your hips in a soft rhythm against his lap. Testing the waters. Testing him.

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes stayed on yours, sharp and heavy, drinking in every breath you took.

"You’re mad at me." you stated, though you meant it more as a question, a tether. Your voice was barely audible above the music and you leaned in a little closer, pretending not to notice the way your heart kicked in your chest.

Still, no answer. Just that stare.

You swallowed and let your hands trail down his arms, forcing your voice to stay light even as your mouth went dry, continuing to dance on him.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

A lie.

And you both knew it.

Slowly, his wide, warm hands found your hips.

The contact was light at first, barely there. But the moment he touched you, your breath hitched.

It was like every nerve in your body lit up at once.

Broad fingertips pressed into the bare skin of your hips, rough and warm and impossibly steady. It wasn’t a grab or anything forced like a warning. It was a claim. Quiet, controlled, and unmistakable.

You felt the heat of it crawl up your spine.

And your body—stupid, traitorous thing—moved into it. You shifted closer, just a fraction, your thighs tightening where they straddled him. Your hands slid onto his chest without thinking, palms flat, searching for something to hold onto.

Every other girl that comes out of that room never walks out without bruises.

And suddenly, the green eyed monster that lived dormant in your body roared to life.

You wanted them. You wanted to feel what it was like to have his fingers digging into your flesh, taking you, making it clear who you’d been with, keeping you there for hours instead of just staring and never saying anything.

You felt his thumb brush against the skin of your exposed ribs, thick and calloused, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

He leaned up a little, lips at the shell of your ear, making your skin prickle like it had been licked by flame. You didn’t dare move.

“Seventeen.”

His voice was low, nearly drowned out by the bass, but the words sliced clean through the noise. You froze.

He didn’t shift or raise his voice, just spoke like he was telling you about the weather, like the number didn’t matter. But his hand flexed once on your hip tighter.

“I counted seventeen men who looked at you like they’d already paid for a turn.”

He paused, letting it sink in, making all the blood in your body roar in your ears.

“I’ve been sittin’ here,” he went on, his mouth near your ear, so close the heat of it crawled down your neck, “wonderin’ how many of ‘em I could blind with my bare hands before anyone got the nerve to stop me.”

His breath ghosted over your cheek, warm against your skin, sinking into your hair, trailing down the curve of your throat.

“Would you be scared then, darlin’?”

Your throat went dry, your tongue sitting heavy behind your teeth as something kicked heavy in your chest, close to panic but you kept still above him.

Your mind felt like it was pulled by the jaws of two creatures. One was the lamb– the instinctual, fearful part of you that whispered to run, to scramble off of him and race back to your room, bolting the door locked and staying there, never to see or speak to him again. The lamb that cowered like a scared little cat. Like a Kitty.

But then, there was the panther. The thing with yellow eyes and gleaming teeth, the darkness you’d never quite understood but always felt. The one who curled its tail around your desire and need. The one who dreamed of him, hands between her legs, waking slick and aching in the dark.

You felt his hands move on you then, not restraining or trapping, but actually loosening. Like he was offering you a window out, letting that stray cat out who cowered and ran out into the street where she belonged. You could’ve moved, could’ve bolted like your instinct told you to.

But you didn’t. Maybe you should’ve.

Instead, you leaned forward an inch, your breath caught between your ribs as your heart constricted on itself. Every part of you was too warm, too aware of how close he was. He felt larger than life beneath you, your thighs aching with tension, a thrum in your legs that had turned molten.

You rocked your hips against him. This time, slower, firmer. No longer that teasing hover from before.

Your voice was a thread when it came. “No.”

Maybe a lie, maybe a partial truth. You knew, for a fact, as if it was clear all along, that he’d never hurt you. No matter how many girls he’d bruised or bent in half, you were different. He coveted you, protected you, watched you.

He didn’t break the silence again for a while, and so you moved again, letting your hips sway over him, lowering into his lap further and further until you could feel him beneath you, hot solid and growing. Something you’d imagined so many nights, chasing the ghost of it with your own fingers. And now, it was real. Now, your skin was burning, your breath turning shallow. That pulse between your legs grew meaner with every second of silence, every beat of his eyes locked on you, every time your body tried to interpret the weight of his attention.

When you finally dared to glance up again, his eyes were already on you. Nearly blown black with his widening pupils, drinking you in. And there was something else. Something that crinkled at the corners of his eyes, that glinted in the light.

A smile.

Crooked and proud, he grinned up at you and his fingers suddenly tightened where they laid against your hot skin, so broad and warm and rough to the touch. His half lidded eyes were sparkling with something like pride. Like satisfaction. Or maybe it was just the pleasure of watching you shivering above him.

His touch stayed steady on you, though it didn’t guide or move you. Just held you there while you moved on your own, swaying in his lap, brushing soft lace against rough cotton. Your nipples stiffened from the friction, every pass of fabric sending heat crawling across your chest.

“Go on then, pretty girl.” he murmured, “Show me you ain’t scared.”

You’d been thinking about him all day.

The weight of his hands on your hips. The quiet threat in his voice. The way his mouth had tugged into that barely-there smile, like he was just starting to enjoy watching you come undone.

It had been days since you’d seen him, but your body still remembered the heat of his touch. The pressure, and every inch of skin still hummed with the ghost of him. You’d been dreaming of him just last night; waking up with your thighs pressed together, breath shallow, shame curling low in your stomach. Not because of what you’d done, but because of what you wanted next.

You hadn’t seen him since. He’d tipped you enough to cover your room for days without working. That should’ve been a gift.

But instead, you missed him.

And tonight, you had a feeling. A curl of something low in your stomach told you it would be him again. That maybe this time, he’d say more. Maybe he’d touch you again. Maybe he’d let you touch him back. Maybe—stupidly, hopelessly—you’d learn his name.

You pictured the way it would happen.

He’d already be there when you walked in, sitting back in that same seat, legs spread, arms loose, watching you like he always did: like no one else in the world existed. You’d climb into his lap again, more confident this time, ready to feel him shift beneath you, ready to let things go just a little further. His hands would find you without hesitation. Maybe he’d speak to you, really speak to you. Let you hear more than one line at a time. Let you know something real.

And if he smiled again, that crooked one he had shown you in the lounge, you were pretty sure you’d come apart without him even having to try.

So when Gage leaned through the door to the girl’s communal area and called your name, voice sharp and flat, your pulse kicked up.

“Kitty, let's go.”

You stood too quickly and smoothed your hands over your maroon slip dress. You didn’t even try to hide the way your breath came in short gasps, already walking toward the hallway, already picturing him on the other side of that door.

You opened it with your heart halfway in your throat.

But it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Hazel Eyes.

It was a stranger.

Thin, wiry, and twitchy-looking, like he couldn’t sit still for long. His shirt clung to him from sweat, not size, and his fingers rubbed obsessively over his thighs like he was trying to wear holes into them. He grinned when he saw you—a crooked, eager smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

He sat in the same place he always had, lounging back like he thought the pose gave him power. But there was nothing intimidating or steady about him, nothing nearly as controlled. His eyes darted all over you as you stood in the doorway, to your neck, your chest, your bare legs. His pupils widened as they moved quickly over you, so eager that you felt stripped bare before you’d even taken a step. He wasn’t much older than you, but he still was like a nasty stray dog with a piece of juicy steak held in front of his nose.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, patting the spot beside him on the velvet couch. His voice had that high, weaselly edge, “Come sit.”

You blinked, frozen. Your hand was still on the doorknob, and for a second, the thought of shutting it again flashed through your mind.

But instead, you stepped inside.

You walked like you were sinking through water, slow and stiff, every step a betrayal of what you'd hoped for. Gage hadn’t said who was waiting, but you hadn’t needed him to. You’d assumed. You’d hoped.

How stupid.

How foolish of you to think this job would ever be anything but what it was. You weren’t special. You weren’t different.

What were you expecting? That the man with hazel eyes would be waiting for you every night like it meant something? That your bravery and the slow, desperate grinding had gotten to him somehow? That behind those sharp eyes was a heart that cared?

He had a life outside of this place, unlike you.

You sat on the far edge of the couch, keeping a careful space between you. Hands folded, spine stiff, your eyes stayed on the curtain pooling in the corner of the room.

The man’s gaze didn’t leave you.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said, his grin tightening. “Promise I’ll be real nice.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept your eyes fixed on the corner of the room, on the red velvet curtain pooling on the floor.

He laughed, a jittery sound. “Shy one, huh? That’s alright. I like shy.”

His hand moved before you saw it coming, just a light touch on your arm, but enough to send a bolt of discomfort straight through you. His fingers were cold, too light, too lingering. You tensed, but didn’t pull away.

This was the job. You reminded yourself again. Over and over.

You stayed still. Because that’s what you were supposed to do.

He must’ve taken it as permission.

His hand drifted higher, fingers brushing your shoulder, fumbling awkwardly against your collarbone. Then, with one finger, he hooked the strap of your slip and pulled it down, slow and teasing, letting it slide along your skin until it fell limp against your upper arm. Not enough to show anything, but easy enough to pull down if he wanted to.

You swallowed hard, throat bobbing, the sound loud in the tight silence. Your skin crawled.

“MILLER!”

The shout cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

You jumped so hard you nearly knocked the man’s hand away from your chest, your whole body stiffening as the hair stood up on the back of your neck.

The man jolted too. “What the fuck?”

The voice echoed again, louder, angrier.

“She’s with a customer, jackass! BACK OFF!”

It was Gage’s voice, pissed and scrambling. Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. Suddenly, the door burst open so hard it bounced off the wall with a groan of the hinges.

It was him.

Hazel Eyes was in the doorway. Big and broad and absolutely fuming. He looked like he was burning from the inside out. His chest heaved beneath his flannel, shoulders rising and falling like he was holding something back with every ounce of strength he had. His eyes landed on the hand that was hovering just over your arm, fingers touching where the strap had been pulled down.

He didn’t speak, he barely even paused. But instead, he moved. Crossing the room in three long strides, he grabbed the man’s collar with a brutal grip, yanking him up off the couch like he weighed nothing.

The man barely got a yelp out before he was slammed into the wall hard. The plaster cracked on impact, the entire room shaking. Candles toppled from the tables, wax spilling across the floor as a side table crashed and splintered.

You barely could move, hands gripping the edge of the sofa seat as your heart flew to your throat.

The man stammered, trying to raise his hands. “Hey! What the–what the fuck, man?!”

But then Hazel Eyes grabbed the man’s wrist, fingers wrapping around his hand. The one that had touched your skin.

And without a word, without a warning, he snapped it.

The sound was sickening. Bone against bone, cartilage tearing, sharp, wet and strong.

The man screamed a high, pathetic sound as he crumpled at his feet, clutching his wrist with the other hand, body folding inward like he might disappear from the pain.

Hazel Eyes didn’t even blink.

“Jesus!” Gage gasped from the doorway, and your eyes darted between them, panic and something else spiraling through you—terror and relief tangled too tightly to separate.

He stood over him, chest heaving, jaw locked, face dark with fury that wasn’t theatrical, it was real. It was ancient and seething.

In the doorway, Gage still stood frozen, his eyes wide and mouth half-open like he was considering stepping in, but wasn’t nearly stupid enough to try.

“Next time you touch her,” he spat, “I’ll crush the whole fuckin’ arm. Now get the hell out.”

The man scrambled. Clutching his ruined wrist, he stumbled through the doorway, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to escape. Gage chased after him, still muttering something useless like an apology.

Then, Hazel Eyes turned to you.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

His eyes were still burning, his chest still rising and falling. He crossed the room again, slower this time, not saying a word. You stared up at him, your heart trapped in your throat.

His fingers, those same ones that had just broken a man’s hand, reached out. And gently, almost reverently, he lifted your strap. He pulled it back into place on your shoulder, and instead of pulling away, his fingers brushed over your cheekbone with the barest graze.

And despite it all, you leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. His hands were warm and rough. Capable of so much violence, and yet touched you with gentleness.

His eyes moved over your face, taking in every part of you, but giving nothing away. He looked unreadable, steady as ever. As if he was unmoved by what had just happened.

Then his voice came, low and even.

“You’re done here.”

You stared up at him. The words didn’t make sense at first. Your brain caught on them like fabric on a nail.

“What?”

His jaw twitched, but his gaze didn’t shift, “I’m takin’ you out of here.”

You blinked, the words hitting harder the second time, but they still didn’t land right. You shook your head once, slowly, not understanding.

“You can’t. That’s not—”

“I can,” he said, cutting through your protest with the same cold certainty that had shattered a man’s hand only minutes before. “I did.”

He stepped back just enough to reach into his back pocket. The motion was calm, deliberate. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, yellowed at the edges, and dropped it beside you on the couch. You stared at it without moving.

“Debt’s paid,” he said. “Room, contract, clothing and late fees. All of it.”

You didn’t touch the paper. Your chest rose and fell, shallow and fast.

“They’ll come after me,” you said, hating how small your voice sounded. “You don’t get to just walk out of a place like this.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

Your stomach twisted. You couldn’t look away from him. His presence filled the entire room. The walls felt smaller with him standing there, blocking the door, shoulders squared like he’d made peace with violence a long time ago.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you do that?”

He looked at you for a long moment. You could see it behind his eyes, the thoughts moving like slow machinery, everything measured, deliberate, exact.

Finally, he spoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

“W-where…where am I supposed to go?”

His eyes softened a bit. You were slowly realizing this was the most he’d ever spoken to you before.

He turned toward the door, glancing into the hallway. It was quiet now. The chaos from earlier had died down. Gage was probably still occupied with damage control, or maybe trying to figure out if anyone would report what happened. Hazel Eye’s hand hovered just above your shoulder, not touching, but close enough to guide.

“Come on,” he said.

And so, you followed him.

The city air was cold and wet outside, heavy with the stink of rain and smoke. You walked close to him as he led you through the side streets, cutting between buildings and sticking to alleys, always with one eye on the shadows. He knew the back alleys, knew how to hide from the FEDRA trucks that grumbled by in the dead of the night. It was so dead, like the city was holding its breath right along with you.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a building that looked abandoned from the outside. The windows were dark, one of them cracked. The metal door was rusted at the hinges. He pushed it open with the weight of his shoulder, held it for you without speaking and led you up the stairs.

You made your way down the dark hall and he opened the door to an apartment. It was clean but bare. The furniture was minimal, just a couch, coffee table and a small radio in the corner. The kitchen was small but organized. There were bottles of booze littered around and bags of contraband. But it was still homely, with boots by the door and a jacket hanging to dry from the rain.

He locked the door behind you, then turned the bolt. You stood in the center of the room, your body suddenly aware of how thin your dress was, how quiet the space had become.

“You’re safe here,” he said, “You can…stay as long as you want.”

You nodded numbly, arms crossing over your chest and rubbing your bare arms.

Seeing you shiver made him move toward the closet at the far wall and pulled the door open. You could hear the scrape of hangers, the rustle of fabric. He offered you a plain black t-shirt. Faded and worn, it looked enormous in his hands. He crossed the room and handed it to you, then turned to rummage in a drawer. When he came back, he was holding a pair of loose cotton boxers, the waistband stretched from wear.

“They’ll do for tonight,” he said. “I’ll get you somethin’ better tomorrow.”

He turned his back without asking, giving you a quiet moment to change. You slipped the dress off slowly, your body still running hot and cold, nerves frayed and pulsing. You pulled his shirt over your head, fabric falling to your mid-thigh. It swallowed your frame completely, the sleeves hanging low on your arms. The boxers were baggy and soft at your hips, barely visible under the cotton shirt. You smelled like him now. Like woodsmoke and earthy musk, it was intoxicating against your skin.

When you turned around, he was waiting for you to move, his back to you. But as he turned, his eyes were a different shade of darkness.

His jaw was tight. His mouth didn’t move, but his stare dragged over every inch of you like a hand. He didn’t speak or compliment. He just looked. Like he had no language for what he was seeing, like it made something burn in his chest he didn’t know how to smother.

You felt your cheeks go hot.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said finally, voice low and strained as he turned away to walk to the sofa in the middle of the room.

You shook your head, reaching out for his wrist, “No, please.”

He looked down at where your fingers wrapped around his skin, then back up at you.

“Please,” you said again, quieter this time after releasing his wrist. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Maybe that was what finally broke something in him. You couldn’t tell for sure. His expression didn’t change in any obvious way, but his shoulders dropped slightly, his posture shifting as if he had let go of something he’d been holding in too long. He didn’t answer you aloud, just turned and led you through the doorway to the right. The bedroom was simple, almost austere. A mattress sat on a metal frame just high enough to keep it off the floor, with a small table at the side and a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. It didn’t feel like a space made for comfort, but it was clean, private, and quiet.

You climbed in first, sliding under the blanket and pulling it up over your legs. The sheets were cold at first, but soft from repeated washing. You lay on your side, leaving space beside you, waiting without looking to see if he would follow. He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, watching you. Then he sat down slowly, lowering himself onto the mattress with a weight that made it shift beneath you. He didn’t press against you right away. He lay still, close but not touching, his back against the pillows. But the silence stretched too long, and the ache in your chest pushed you to move first. You shifted closer to him, slowly, inch by inch, until you could curl into the crook of his shoulder and let your head rest against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Surprisingly, his arm came around you with ease. There was no urgency in the way he held you, no claim, no demand. Just heat and pressure and stillness. His hand settled low on your stomach, warm and broad, his palm covering the soft cotton of his shirt stretched over your skin. You didn’t tense. Your muscles, for the first time in days, started to release. Your breathing began to steady. You felt the weight of your bones return to your body in a way that told you you’d been floating for too long without realizing it. The room was quiet except for your joined breathing, the low hum of something electric behind the walls, and the rustle of fabric where your legs shifted to tangle lightly with his.

After a long stretch of silence, your voice came barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”

Because how long had it been since you met him? And you had no idea who he really was, not beyond the heat of his stare or the weight of his hands or the way he watched you. You wondered briefly if he even knew your name, or if it was just Kitty to him, like everyone else.

“Joel,” he said finally, his voice quiet, rough at the edges.

“Joel.” you repeated, testing it on your tongue. His fingers moved lazily against your side, tracing light strokes through the thin cotton of your borrowed shirt, and you looked up at him with a small, tired smile.

“Pleasure to meet you,” you said, and then offered your own name. Your real one. The one almost no one used anymore.

He didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, his fingers shifted to your chin, rough fingertips catching gently beneath it, angling your face back toward his. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a moment longer, heavy with something you didn’t quite have a name for yet. Then, slowly, with no rush at all, he leaned down.

His lips brushed yours, warm and soft despite the roughness of everything else about him. You felt the scratch of his beard, the tension in his jaw, the restraint in his body as he held himself still. You kissed him back, just as softly at first, your hand lifting to find his face, your palm resting against the edge of his cheek where his beard was sharpest. The moment stretched, quiet and close and steady. Not desperate or greedy. Just two people locked in something real for the first time, with no one watching and no price on your time.

And when you pulled away, breath catching in your throat, your lungs were already straining like they couldn’t get enough air.

But then, his mouth followed yours again, like he couldn’t get enough, catching your next inhale with another kiss. This was more urgent, deeper and needier. His hand lifted, cupping the back of your head, fingers sliding into your hair. The pressure was firm was still so careful, thumb brushing the curve of your skull and angling you just the way he wanted. He kissed you like he needed you, like he’d been starving for it.

Your lips parted beneath his and he groaned, low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your ribs. The weight of him shifted, one hand bracing beside your head, the mattress dipping under him as he climbed over you. His body covered yours, solid and warm, blocking out the cold air and the rest of the world all at once.

You reached for him without thinking, both hands on his back, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Your legs shifted beneath the blanket, one thigh slipping up along his side until it hooked over his waist, drawing him in closer. Your bodies aligned easily, like you’d done this before, like you were made to fall into each other this way.

The kiss deepened again. His hand moved from your hair to your jaw, holding your face steady as his tongue slid against yours, slow and hot. He tasted like whiskey and mint, like the only thing you ever wanted to taste for the rest of your life. You were arching up into him, chasing his tongue for more, desperate for him.

The blanket slipped down your hips. His weight settled over you more fully, and everything inside you went tight and hungry at once. You could feel him now, aligned with you, settling between your legs but kept apart by fabric. Your hips rocked up into him, letting yourself glide over the heavy outline of his cock. Something inside you shivered at the sheer thickness of it.

There was no hesitation anymore. Not from him, and certainly not from you. The air between your bodies had turned thick with it, every part of you alight with need.

Your fingers slid beneath his shirt and he grunted softly against your mouth, then broke the kiss only long enough to strip it off over his head. His chest was solid and scarred, his skin hot to the touch, and as he leaned back over you, he pulled the hem of his t-shirt—the one you were wearing now—up over your hips. His hands were large, his touch rough but reverent as he peeled the cotton away from your skin.

He sat back for a breath, eyes dragging over your body with a weight that made you feel flayed open, every inch of you exposed under his gaze. But he didn’t just look. He took it in, like he’d been waiting for this, memorizing you piece by piece. His jaw was clenched tight, his nostrils flared, his breathing heavy. The muscles in his arms twitched like he was holding back something animal.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the first time I saw you, baby,” he muttered, voice low and nearly wrecked. His hands slid up your bare thighs, spreading them apart with slow pressure.

His fingers trailed higher, brushing over the thin waistband of his boxers on your hips. He hooked a hand into the fabric and dragged them down your legs, letting them fall to the floor.

"Thought about it every time I sat with you," he said under his breath, "Every. Time."

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. You couldn’t believe how talkative he was suddenly. You didn’t know how to respond as your breath caught in your throat as he moved between your legs, lowering himself until he was staring up at you from the center of the bed, shoulders broad and looming. His hands slid up your thighs again, thumbs parting you gently, reverently.

“Wanted to kill Gage for puttin’ you in that frilly little outfit on stage,” he said, quiet, almost absent, like it wasn’t a confession but just a fact. “Still might, for lettin’ that fucker touch you tonight.”

His hands guided your trembling legs over his shoulders as your back arched against his touch. You were already panting, your hands fisting in the sheets, your body betraying how desperately you wanted this, how long you’d been aching for it.

He gently worked the pads of his fingers over your center, trailing over the lips of your cunt, studying you, reverent in his worship of your most sensitive parts. His thumb rubbed brushed over your clit before running tight circles over it. And then, thicker than anything you’d felt before, his fingers stretched you open, slick sounds of your arousal filling the air along with your soft, needy gasps.

“Look at you,” he murmured, admiration deep in his voice, "So goddamn pretty,"

You reached for him blindly, one hand on his forearm, the other finding the dark hair at the top of his head. He kissed your pussy gently, a groan escaping him at the taste, his tongue working around your clit as your hips rocked against his fingers.

Your breath hitched, your thighs twitching around his wrist, and your voice broke open on a gasp. “Joel–oh my–”

He groaned into your slick center, the sound low and thick like gravel, like it pained him to know how much he loved his name on your lips. His fingers curled inside you, dragging slow and deep, curling just right against your velvet walls.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice muffled against you. “Gotta open ‘er up for me a bit. Don’t wanna hurt ya.”

You whimpered, legs falling open wider. “I can take it,” you breathed, barely able to think around it. “I can take all of you—please, I need—”

You couldn’t stop the tightening in your spine, the way your thighs began to tremble, muscles tensing as the heat surged higher and higher. Joel groaned against you, tongue flattening as he worked your clit faster, more focused now, unrelenting. His free hand slid up your body, warm and rough, until it cupped your breast, fingers spreading wide to hold you there.

But just as you were about to snap, about to feel those stars sparkling behind your eyes in white hot euphoria, he stopped. He didn’t pull away fast, just kissed your clit once, soft and slow, almost reverent. Then he slipped his fingers from you with care, even as your body cried out for more, your whine sharp in the silence he left behind.

Your body twitched in protest, hips still rolling gently like you could summon the friction back with enough desperation. Your breath came in quick, uneven pulls as your chest rose and fell, your fingers curling into his shoulders like maybe you could hold him there, force him not to stop.

He moved over you with predatory grace, his body eclipsing yours as he braced his arms on either side of your head. His eyes swept your face, studying the wreckage–flushed skin, parted lips, pieces of your hair sticking to your face with sweat.

He tilted his head slightly, and there was something in his expression that looked almost concerned, but there was a twinkle to his eyes as he cooed again, “I know, I know,” he cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he leaned in, lips brushing yours as he said, “But I need to feel it. Wanna feel you come around my cock, baby girl. Been damn near dreamin’ of it for too long.”

You whimpered, nails digging into his upper arms as Joel sat back on his knees, his hands moving to the backs of your thighs, guiding your knees higher, folding them gently against your chest. His eyes dropped between your legs, and his jaw flexed hard. You could see the way his breath hitched when he took you in, saw the slickness coating your thighs, how it glistened where your folds opened and dripped on the dark fabric beneath you. He ran one hand from the inside of your knee down to your thigh, slow and warm, grounding you.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Look at this fuckin’ mess.”

He took himself in hand and stroked slowly once, then again, watching you the whole time as he pressed the head of his cock to your entrance, rubbing it through the wetness before pushing just the tip inside. You gasped, the stretch already enough to make your eyes roll slightly. His hands moved to your legs again, steadying you.

It was slow. Achingly slow. Not because he was teasing but because he was savoring it, watching every inch disappear into you, watching the way your mouth opened, your body pulled him in, your fingers curled into his arms again and clung there. Your thighs shook in his hands, breath hitching on every inch. He stretched you, nearly feeling like his cock split you in half over him.

“Sweetest pussy I've ever had, feels like a goddamn vice around me, darlin',” he whispered, voice cracking a bit. His eyes watched himself disappear inside of you, and not until he was fully sheathed, his coarse dark hair tickling your mound, did he look up in your eyes, hand moving to tuck a piece of hair out of your face, “Talk to me, how’s that feel, hm?”

“S-so-ooh– feels so big,” you barely manage to get out between heaving breaths.

“I got you” he said, soft now, low and steady. “Gonna take real good care of you, sweet girl.”

He started to move slowly, hips rocking into yours with deep, steady thrusts, each one sinking further, stretching you wider, the warmth of him sinking deep in your belly with every push. His body was all heat and weight, his breathing loud in the room, his scent clinging to your skin. His hands never stopped moving—one dragging down the length of your thigh, the other brushing damp hair back from your forehead, his thumb stroking just beneath your lower lip as he stared down at you.

“You’re takin’ me so good,” he murmured, voice soft but ragged. “Like you were made for it. For me.”

You mewled beneath him, overwhelmed by the fullness, the rhythm, the steady pressure that refused to let up. He let your thighs fall open wide, folding you beneath him with ease, his body dropping down to press chest to chest. The coarse hair on his skin rasped against your nipples, the friction stoking another wave of heat between your legs, and you gasped as he moved deeper still.

“All mine,” he whispered, breath hot against your throat, his mouth trailing to nip at your jaw.

“Yours,” you breathed back, barely able to speak. It wasn’t just a word. It was a truth, dragging itself out of you like a prayer. You’d been his since that first night.

You moaned into his mouth when he kissed you again, your hands moving to his back, clawing at his skin as he fucked you slow, deep, steady. It was overwhelming in a different way—intimate, almost unbearable in how much he felt like he was giving you, how much of him you were taking in. It was too much and not enough all at once, every thrust dragging out a little more desperation.

The pressure was already building again, slow and thick between your legs. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, burying your face against his neck, thinking about what you heard. What you knew he was capable of. Wanting to see more, to feel more. That green eyed monster in your chest still growled, teeth bared, wanting to know. Because you wondered if he was hiding it for your sake, so you wouldn’t turn tail and run.

“I want more,” you whispered, breathless against his skin. “I want more, Joel. Please.”

He groaned at that, his hips faltering for just a second, and then he was pulling back, just far enough to look down at you again.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but dangerous. He kissed your chin, then the tip of your nose, and finally your lips. “What do you want, pretty girl? You gotta tell me.”

Your lip trembled, part nerves, part anticipation. “I want to know what it felt like.”

You reached up, hands cupping the back of his neck, and pulled him close again, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want you to show me what it felt like when you wanted to blind every man in that room. When they looked at me and you were just sitting there… watching. When you thought about me in our room. In your head. Show me how it made you feel, Joel.”

His entire body went still.

When he pulled back, it was slow and measured. His eyes found yours and they were no longer soft. His pupils had gone so wide that the golden hues were barely visible, just the thinnest ring around a black center. His expression had darkened, jaw tight, mouth a flat, unreadable line.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby” he said, voice low, quiet enough to be a whisper, but with none of the tenderness from before. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You stared up at him, breathing hard, trembling slightly beneath his weight.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I do. I want it, Joel. Please,”

His hands tightened where they held you. One slid up to your wrist, pressing it gently, then pinning it against the bed above your head. The other gripped your thigh, rougher now, fingers digging into soft skin as he pushed your leg higher, spreading you wider beneath him.

The next thrust was suddenly brutal—deeper, faster, his hips slamming into yours with bruising force, his control unraveling in an instant. You screamed in bliss, head rolling back into the pillow, pleasure laced with shock at the sudden shift.

“You wanna see what it felt like?” he growled, voice gravel-dark as he fucked into you again, harder this time, his body moving with full weight of his fury now. “That rage you pulled outta me? That’s what it was. Every second I sat there, watchin’ you parade around for them, knowing you belonged to me.”

Your mouth fell open in a moan, your free hand clawing at his back, and he caught it too—both wrists pinned now, his body caging you in, his mouth just above yours.

“I watched them eye you like you were for sale. Like they could afford you. And all I wanted was to rip their eyes out and break their jaws for it.”

He leaned in, teeth scraping your jaw.

“I thought about this,” he said, biting your skin just hard enough to make you whimper. “About gettin’ you open and writhing under me. About markin’ you, makin’ sure they knew who you belonged to.”

You cried out as he drove into you again, deeper than before, pain and pleasure spiking hard through your core.

“You like that, baby?” he growled. “You like knowin’ what you do to me?”

You weren’t sure you could form a coherent sentence let alone a thought, so all you could do was chant yes, yes, yes, your voice high and wrecked, your body trembling beneath him, skin trembling where you stayed pinned open under his hands.

Joel shifted his grip, so he could hold both wrists in one broad hand above your head and against the pillows, the other moved to your face, cupping your jaw until he lightly wrapped it around your throat. He barely added any pressure, but the feeling of his rough fingertips around your neck made your eyes roll.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath scalding against your skin, “If you hadn’t been in that room tonight,” he said, voice flat and deadly, “after I saw his hands on you—I would’ve killed him.”

Your breath caught, your body arching toward his. You didn’t even realize how much you wanted to hear it until the words landed.

“Would’ve snapped his neck. Maybe I should’ve.”

He kissed just beneath your ear, and his fingers flexed slightly around your throat.

“You get that? There’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you. No one I wouldn’t put in the ground. I would do anything.”

The monster in your chest stretched its claws. It purred at the sound of the quiet fury in his voice, at the fire lit behind his eyes. It licked at your wounds, lighting a fire in your bloodstream. Your blood roared with it, and your body surged up into his.

You cried out his name, back bowing as heat crashed over you. White-hot stars burst behind your eyes as your orgasm took hold, walls fluttering and gripping him tight, pulsing around the thick stretch of him inside you.

Joel let out a sound that was barely human—a ragged, guttural snarl as his hips snapped forward once, twice, then buried deep. His cock twitched inside you, his grip tightening around your wrists as he came with a low, broken groan, his mouth catching yours in a rough, gasping kiss.

You could feel the heat of him, the long ropes of his release spilling into you, the weight of him collapsing on you as he trembled, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours.

His grip on your wrists loosened, hands sliding free, only to curl around your waist, holding you close as he pressed his lips against yours, this time with gentleness.

Eventually, after the both of you caught your breath, he rolled off you slowly, your hips twitching as he pulled himself out of you. The bed dipped and creaked beneath his weight, but he didn’t move away. His arms found you again, broad, and thick, and pulled you with him, tucking you into the space over his chest with ease.

You let yourself be pulled into him, boneless and raw, your cheek pressed against his skin, still slick with sweat, the steady beat of his heart echoing beneath your ear.

Outside, the city moved on. Somewhere in the distance, a truck rumbled past, making its rounds through the dead of night. But the room around you stayed dark, quiet and warm.

After a long stretch of silence, you looked up at him. The question had been sitting in your chest for weeks, “Why didn’t you ever talk to me?”

His eyes, now hazel and soft in the low light, found yours. He didn’t answer right away.

“When you’d come see me…” your voice trailed. “You never said anything.”

He watched you for a second longer, then exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet, like the words tasted off on his tongue.

“Didn’t want to scare you.”

You didn’t say anything, just let him keep going.

“I didn’t know I had it in me, not like that. Not ‘til I saw you.” His hand moved absently, tracing your side. “There’s a part of me that ain’t ever really stopped wanting to burn the whole fuckin’ place down.”

Another beat of silence passed between you.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he said. “Didn’t want you to know what I’d do.”

He didn’t say for you. He didn’t have to.

You already knew.

And when you closed your eyes and drifted off to sleep, you didn’t need to dream of him. He was already there.

taglist: @fridayf1ghting, @lizaispunk, @yourgirljasmiin, @ivuravix, @televangrl, @nymenate, @magicxmiller, @catch1ngmoths, @shivispunk, not sure if you wanted to be on the taglist but you did comment so: @aureatelys, @weirdoneattheparty, @gojosanna, @mani-pedro, @tobesolovelysstuff, @lowrisemiller, @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu, @sweetlylcv, @94namkooksworld, @lady-djarin

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vxsellie · 26 days ago

Text

THE ACT OF DEFROSTING

de ⟡ frost. verb To release from a frozen state; to be freed from ice.

warnings. long ass monologues. graphic depictions of senility & illness. mentions of animal deaths (hunting). brief descriptions of blood. slow ass slowburn. mentions of past death. mentions of past grief & family loss. descriptions of mild injuries & blood. eventual sex. mentions of grief & sorrow. depictions of alcohol & inebriation. drunk sex. descriptions of death.

notes. inspired by CMBYN, POALOF, and any other stories in which they wasted so many days. ──── wc. 22,419

DECEMBER 1ST.

It’s winter again—which means you’ll be seeing her soon.

For the next three months, you will be living alongside Ellie. And, throughout the trip’s duration, you’ll both be acting as though the other does not exist.

In truth, you know of little in regard to her being. You know she doesn't like to make conversation, you know she enjoys drawing in that worn out journal of hers, you know snow sticks to the auburn of her hair, you know she enjoys the crackling sound of a fireplace, and you know she befriended your grandfather when she was fourteen. You don’t know how they met, you don’t know the sound of her voice, and you don’t know her last name. But you know that, ever since he’d first fallen ill, the two of you care for him conjointly during the winter months.

You tip your head back and gaze through the fogged train window, noting the landmarks you’ve come to memorize—the silver lake which is frozen over at this time of year, the willow tree that looks more like a mop with its snowy branches, and then, finally, the large sign reading: Jackson.

You reach under your seat to collect your belongings. First is your duffel bag, stuffed full with winter clothes. Next is your annotated copy of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’, creased and stained yet indubitably loved. Then, lastly, comes your laptop that harbors the entirety of your work for this past year.

When the train lurches to a halt at Jackson’s ramshackle station, you’re the only one to alight. The platform is coated in such a heavy sheet of ice you nearly slip the moment your boots touch it. With a huff, you pull your bag onto your shoulder and begin the trudge toward your grandfather’s home. It’s roughly a fifteen minute walk from here, but you don’t mind the journey seeing as it’s a rather scenic one. You pass a trickling creek, a boisterous church bell, and more than a few flickering streetlamps.

Before you know it, you’re ascending the wooden steps of your grandfather’s porch. You shift the weight of your bag atop your shoulders as you reach under his window sill for the spare key left for you and Ellie. During the warm months, he hasn’t a need for the key because your great uncle, Tommy, is here to assist him.

You slot the key into the lock, twist it, then nudge the door open with your knee. It swings wide to reveal a warm, wooden foyer. You place your bag onto the floor before turning around to shut and lock the door behind yourself. As you begin to strip out of your fur coat and heavy boots, the scent of pine reaches your nose and you know, in an instant, that Ellie is already here.

It doesn’t much matter who arrives first so long as they do so prior to Tommy’s departure. That way, he’s able to explain whatever changes have occurred in the past three seasons, which diet your grandfather is currently on, and where to find certain items within the home.

You walk into your grandfather’s room before daring to settle into your own. His room is cozy, decorated with flannel blankets and warmly scented candles. Atop his bed, with a machine located to the left of his bedpost, your grandfather resides with a small smile on his face. That’s when you notice he’s speaking to someone, to Ellie. They both turn, having noticed your presence at the same time.

“Sorry,” you utter, “I hadn’t meant to intrude.”

Ellie inhales deeply, turning away from you. She places a hand atop both of your grandfather’s, leans forward to whisper something in his ear that makes him chuckle, then presses a soft kiss to his hairline. She pushes to her feet, allowing the legs of her wooden chair to scrape loudly across the floorboards. Then she leaves without saying another word.

“Pain in the ass, that one.” Your grandfather says with a weakened laugh. You walk forward, placing your bag on the floor before sitting in the chair Ellie once occupied. He reaches for your hand and you let him take it, rubbing the pad of your thumb along his scarred knuckles. He looks at you with his wizened eyes. “It’s a shame, y’know, that y’all don’t get along. I think you’d really like each other.”

“Maybe one day.” You tell him with a small smile, though you don’t quite believe your own words. He squeezes your hand fondly, returning the smile with one of his own. But he sees right through you; he knows you’re lying.

DECEMBER 7TH.

You’ve long since settled into your room, having turned it into a place more susceptible to being called our own. A thick, indigo duvet lays atop a firm mattress as you slowly awake from a dreamless slumber. The space is warm despite the flurries of snow that can be seen outside your window.

You toss your legs over the side of the bed, the frigidity of the floorboards beneath your bare feet causing a chill to travel up your spine. You shudder, wrapping your arms around yourself as you walk down the hallway. Tommy has decorated the home with the nick-nacks his brother had once spent countless hours sculpting. From clocks to shelves to small wooden creatures.

You enter the kitchen and begin to brew your grandfather a mug of coffee, having memorized exactly how he likes it. As the water heats, you saunter into the living room and brace your hands in front of the fireplace so as to warm yourself up. Still crouched down, your ears pick up a muffled thudding sound coming from outside. It’s harsh and repetitive, instantly setting you on edge. You stand to your feet and peer out the nearest window only to find that it’s Ellie chopping wood.

Her hair is tied back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, though two strands have fallen loose and now frame her face delicately. She swings a hatchet high in the air before slamming it down onto a piece of wood, splitting it in two. She’s breathing heavily, puffs of white air coming from her lips.

Before long, you grow disinterested and walk away. You pour the heated water onto the grinded coffee beans, stirring the two together until it reaches the proper ratio. Then, while blowing gently into the mug, you begin walking toward your grandfather’s room.

You’re passing the foyer when the front door swings open and the coffee is spilled all down your chest. You shriek, staggering backward as pain blooms across your skin. Ellie drops the pile of wood from her arms and comes forward with wide eyes and parted lips.

“Shit,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to–”

“It burns!” You shout, tugging at your clothes. You remove your shirt, rubbing harshly at your skin in an attempt to rid it of the agonizing sensation that currently adorns it.

Ellie grabs your wrists, halting your movements. “Just– go take a shower, okay? I’ll make a new coffee for Joel and try to wash the stain out of your shirt.”

You nod, still wincing slightly before hurrying to the bathroom. You shut the door behind you and twist the faucet knob, willing the water to be as cold as possible. While the tub steadily begins to fill, you examine your chest in the mirror. The skin is red and irritated, inflamed by the torridity of your grandfather’s priorly untouched coffee. With a grimace, you remove the rest of your clothing before stepping into the tub. You slide down until the water is lapping around your collarbones, cold yet relaxing as it eases the pain from your body.

Shutting your eyes, you tip your head back against the tiled wall behind the tub. The backs of your eyelids flash Ellie’s face, her voice ringing through your ears. You open your eyes, opting to instead stare at the ceiling so as to not be haunted by the newfound knowledge of what she looks like up close. But the ceiling is just as blank as the darkness of your shut eyes.

It’s strange—now that you think of it—that you and Ellie have been caring for your grandfather since you were both sixteen and, after all this time, you’ve never spoken to one another. You’d deemed it a simple fact of life, residing on the same level of inevitability as the rising sun and the beat of a heart. But it doesn't have to be like that, does it? Your grandfather said it himself: it’s a shame you don’t get along.

When you exit the bathroom, twisting a towel into your dampened hair, you have a goal in mind. And that goal is to get Ellie to open up, no matter the cost.

When you find her, she’s sitting at your grandfather’s side, helping him drink his coffee. She has one hand on his back as he struggles to sit up, her other hand wrapped around the mug as she brings it to his shaky lips. When he leans back, only then does her gaze fall onto you—standing in the doorway with a towel in your hair and a thin shirt covering your body.

“Ellie.” You say, stepping forward with an awkward sort of smile. “I didn’t get to thank you earlier for–”

“Don’t worry about it.” She grounds out before pushing to her feet.

She rounds the bed, heading for the door with a deepened scowl on her face. As she brushes past you, you grab her arm to halt her movements—the same way she’d grabbed your wrist in the kitchen. Ellie whips around, shoulders tense, and stares you directly in the eye. They’re green, you think before she yanks her arm from your grip and storming out of the room in a hasty flurry of chagrin.

In her absence, the room feels vast and empty. Apparently her contempt had been enough to fill the air without needing to exchange any words. You catch your grandfather’s eye, but he’s just grinning as though he knows something that neither of you are yet ready to hear.

With a sigh, you stalk toward the abandoned chair beside his bed. The cushion is velvet, the legs and back are mahogany. Your grandfather built it himself—before he got sick, of course. His hands are scarred from the years spent handling a sharpened chisel, his knuckles and fingertips having taken the brunt. You reach forward, grabbing one of those hands and holding it. You can feel the callouses in his palms that never faded, regardless of how many years passed.

“I told ya.” Your grandfather chuckles lightly. “She’s a pain in the ass, ain’t she?”

“She’s… something.”

He laughs a little louder this time. He rolls his head to the side, staring fondly at the doorway she’s stomped out of. “Ah, if ya think she’s bad now, ya should’ve met her when she was younger. That kid never knew when t’quit. She carried around a book of puns and couldn’t tell how much everyone hated listenin’ to ‘em.”

You shake your head, unable to imagine Ellie in such a way. The girl you know now is as cold as the winter she brings with her. Perhaps if you cared for your grandfather in the summer, your perception of her would be warmer. But, seeing as that’s not the case, it remains icy. Still, you enjoy the mental image of Ellie telling puns and being unable to read social cues.

“How did you two meet, anyway?”

A question you never dared to ask before, for it felt like an invasion into her privacy. But it isn’t; not really. You’ve known one another for years, it’s about time you get to learn a little about her. Perhaps it’ll explain why she’s so distant toward you yet so kind and gentle toward your grandfather.

“I was wonderin’ when you’d ask me that.” The old man smiles, causing his gray mustache to lift slightly with the upturned corners of his mouth. He exhales a fond sigh, staring up at the ceiling as though he can recall the memory as clear as day. “I was huntin’ in the woods behind my house. It was the only time I’d ever done it without takin’ Tommy with me. A good thing, too. ‘Cause he probably would’ve told me to pull the trigger as soon as I had my gun trained onto a movin’ animal. I almost did. But then its head popped outta the bushes ‘n’ I realized it wasn’t an animal at all. It was a little girl. Her hair was a mess ‘n’ she smelled like cow shit, but she was human.”

“Ellie?” You ask.

“Mhm. Same freckled face and ferocious attitude as today.” He says with a wide grin, but you never noticed that she had freckles. “I shouted at her, like anyone in my position would. I asked why the hell she was doin’ out in the woods all alone. But, instead of answerin’ me like a civilized person, she called me a nosy asshole and tried to steal my quarry. Now, I’d never fight a kid over somethin’ as trivial as that. So I let ‘er have it. Bad idea, apparently. Not because she came back the next day lookin’ for more of my shit t’steal, but because Tommy tagged along. And he was not a fan of my newfound parasite. He told her to fuck off ‘n’ to shoot down her own damn deer. Of course, she argued with the most vulgar language I’d ever heard from the mouth of a child so young. Long story short, she won the deer on the condition that she’d agree to learn how to shoot her own meat from then on out.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. But only ‘cause she had the best teacher imaginable.” He says with a tinge of pride in his voice. “Every day for the followin’ three months, she’d meet up with Tommy ‘n’ I in the woods. We’d teach her how to hunt and, on the occasion that she’d shoot down her animal, she was allowed to keep its meat. This agreement worked for a while. That is…until she quit showin’ up. Now, I’d gotten t’know that little girl throughout those past few months ‘n’ I was, rather understandably, worried. I barely got any sleep that night, afraid she’d gotten kidnapped due to ‘er lack of survival instincts—for example: meetin’ up with a couple o’strangers in the woods every day like clockwork.”

“But she was fine, of course.”

“Physically, yes. Mentally, not so much.” He replies. “Her momma had gotten deathly ill. She’d been takin’ my deer meat to bring home to her ‘cause they weren’t makin’ any money with her stuck in bed all day. Her momma had a friend, Marlene, who agreed to take ‘er in, but Ellie was rather vocal ‘bout ‘er hatred for the woman. But, as it turns out, a fourteen-year-old’s tantrum doesn't persuade anyone in the court. The judge gave Marlene custody over Ellie ‘n’ she was fully moved in within the week. But, even after everythin’ that’d happened with ‘er family, she continued t’meet me out in the woods for shootin’ practice. She was mournin’ her momma and she was hatin’ her new guardian, yet she found peace in the time we shared. Some days, I’d invite her inside t’make sure she was eatin’. Other days, she’d not utter a single word t’me.”

“And then you got sick, too.”

He nods solemnly. “By the time I’d fallen ill, she’d grown up a bit. She still wasn’t her usual self, but she was doin’ better. My diagnosis was enough t’undo all that’d finally begun to heal in that girl’s heart. Hell, she cried harder than my own daughter. It was like she was already grievin’ a death I hadn’t yet gone through. Can’t blame ‘er, of course, but still…it was rough. Then Tommy moved in t’help me out and the two o’you signed up for the winter months and here we are.”

You don’t know exactly what you expected, but that certainly hadn’t been it. Ellie is quite rough around the edges, so you always assumed there were underlying bruises nestled within her past that you’d never quite be able to discover. But this was worse than you could ever have imagined. Not only did her mother die when she was only fourteen, but she was bed-ridden in the same way your grandfather currently is. It’s like a mirror was placed within her life’s timeline so as to force her into experiencing everything twice over.

Now you’re even more determined to get her to open up.

DECEMBER 20TH.

You’ve been trying to make conversation with Ellie for two weeks now. You wake up earlier in the mornings to make her a mug of coffee before she leaves to chop wood for the fireplace, and you stay awake later so you can make supper after the exhausting day she’s sure to have endured. And, whenever you cross paths, you start talking and don’t stop until she leaves the room—which, honestly, never takes very long.

“How was your day?” You ask her while serving a scoop of pasta onto her paper plate. Ellie looks up at you with a frown from where she’s sitting. You ignore her judgemental expression, leaning forward to scoop a portion of supper onto your grandfather’s plate as well. He thanks you kindly, holding a fork in his shaky hand.

The two of you used to just eat whatever you could find in the cabinets whenever you’d get hungry. Some nights, you’d have eaten a can of beans well past midnight. Others, you’d cook yourself a nice meal and eat it beside your grandfather’s bed. It didn’t matter what you or Ellie ate, so long as he was fed something good and healthy.

During these past two weeks, though, you’ve made sure to spend time cooking up something nice so as to ensure a slice of her day will be spent in your company. So long, it’s worked quite well. That is, if you ignore the fact that she responds in one-word statements.

“Mine was good.” Your grandfather replies once it’s become obvious that Ellie won’t be entertaining this particular conversation. “Same as every other day, though, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m glad it was good.” You smile. “Mine was pretty good, too. I went shopping for some—much needed—groceries, picked up a few prescriptions for you, and then came home to cook spaghetti because I remember it being one of your favorites.”

He smiles. “Thanks, honey. You remember quite well.”

“How could I have forgotten?” You ask. “Every single time I visited you as a kid, we would have pasta for supper. And when I would ask why, you’d just say ‘spaghetti is Papa’s favorite’ and then you’d tell me that if I didn’t finish it, you’d finish it for me.”

“And I still will.” He threatens, pointing his fork shakily in your direction.

You laugh, warmth filling your chest as the three of you continue to eat the meal you’d prepared. You cherish this moment, allowing the small details to soak into your mind. Because, though you claimed your day had been good, there were a few points you’d left out of your retelling.

While shopping, you ran into a distasteful group of people that reminded you of circling predators; the encounter had left a sour taste on your tongue and a heavy weight in your chest. Then, while picking up your grandfather’s prescribed medicines, the clerk treated you like an idiot. She almost gave you the wrong bottle—thrice. Then, after arguing with each other for nigh ten minutes, you came to realize that the confusion emerged because you were giving her the wrong name. Because his prescription changed. His dosage had been raised. When you asked the clerk what this meant, she said his illness was getting worse and he was likely experiencing indescribable pain.

It’s impossible to imagine, though, as you look at him now—smiling and laughing as though nothing is wrong. He looks healthier than ever, his eyes glinting with cheer as his skin flourishes beneath the dull yellow lights of his bedroom.

And, when you lie awake in bed later that night, the clerk’s words are the only thing you can think about. Her sharp voice having turned gentle at the sound of your franticness, her softened gaze as she kindly explained the reason behind the alteration in your grandfather’s dosage. You turn over underneath the indigo duvet, restless and unable to rid your mind of terrible thoughts regarding your grandfather’s impending demise. What would he want written on his tombstone? Who would even show up to the funeral considering he lives so far out into the countryside? Would you have to give a speech, and what the hell would you even say? Would his house go to Tommy, or would it be sold to a younger family of four? Fuck, you can't stop thinking about it.

When you finally manage to fall asleep, your dreams are just as horribly restless. You shoot awake at least four times, gasping as your grandfather’s slackened jaw and empty eyes haunt your mind. It’s four in the morning when you decide you’ll be unable to fall back asleep.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, no longer shocked by the chilliness of the hardwood flooring beneath your heels. You walk down the hallway until you reach your grandfather’s bedroom door. It’s cracked open, allowing the sound of his soft snoring to pass into the vacant hallway. You push the door lightly with your toe, causing the hinges to creak gently against the quietude of nighttime.

Your grandfather lies in bed, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. You walk into the dimly lit room, your feet patting lightly across the floor as you approach the velvet and mahogany chair beside his bed. When you sit in it, you make sure to not scrape the legs against the floorboards.

For a long time, you just sit there and stare at him. You watch his chest move with each breath, you watch his fingers twitch in his sleep, and you watch his eyes shift under their lids. Then, slowly, your fatigue begins to catch up to you. You lean forward, placing your head in his lap as you slowly fall into a restful slumber. The last thing you remember before falling asleep is the feel of his hand coming up to cradle your head like he used to do when you were a toddler.

When you wake again, it’s to the sound of muffled speaking. You lift your head, blinking a few times so as to register what’s happening. Your grandfather is already awake, sitting up against his pillows as he rubs your head absentmindedly. He’s speaking with someone, looking up at them from his place in bed. You roll your head to the side, finding Ellie standing by his nightstand, unaware that you’re awake.

She looks softer like this; warmer. Her eyes are gentle and her hair is dampened from a recent bath. She’s dressed in her pajamas, a pair of thin shorts hanging from her hips beneath an oversized shirt she must have stolen from your grandfather. She’s speaking to him, talking with her hands as her mouth moves with the corners tugged upward. Then you see her freckles, lightly dotted across her skin like stars in the night sky. You wonder if they create constellations, too.

“—Well there ain’t much that can be done ‘bout that, I’m afraid.” Your grandfather is saying to her thoughtfully. “Sometimes rabbits jus’ ain’t dumb enough to take the bait.”

“But I built the trap perfectly.” Ellie insists, her tone a bit childlike.

“Like I said,” he shrugs, “there ain’t much that can be done.”

Ellie frowns, but ultimately accepts this answer. You watch as she bites the inside of her cheek in thought, trying to puzzle out something that can be done. Though, after a few moments, she gives up. Ellie steps forward, leaning in to press a kiss to your grandfather’s hairline, then leaves the room as she says something about needing to change so she can start hunting.

You’re still pretending to be asleep when your grandfather nudges your head and says, “Quit eavesdroppin’, kiddo. Ya ain’t slick.”

You wince, rubbing the back of your skull as you grumble, “I was slick enough for her not to catch me.”

“That was luck, honey, not skill.”

You frown at him, feigning offense. He doesn't fall for it, of course, and instead just laughs at your attempt to make him feel guilty. With a huff, you rise from the chair and promise to return with a warm mug of coffee. That seems to excite him but, just before leaving, you add: “On the condition that you apologize for insulting me.”

Your grandfather, petulant as ever, mumbles his apology under his breath rather than speaking it aloud. But you know it’s the best you’ll get, so you accept it with a warm laugh.

You’re waiting for the water to heat up when a pair of footsteps patters across the wooden flooring. You glance over your shoulder to find that Ellie is sauntering into the foyer. She’s no longer dressed in a stolen shirt and flowy shorts. Instead, she’s wearing multiple layers of jeans and more than three heavy winter coats. She’s crouched down and lacing her boots when you approach her with a grin.

“How did you sleep?” You ask her, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet.

She flicks her gaze upward before frowning and looking back down at her boots. “Fine.”

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.” You muse. “Do you remember, two weeks ago, when we bumped into one another and I spilt scalding coffee down my shirt?”

“Yes.” She grunts.

“You were rather talkative in that moment.” You tell her. “How come you don’t talk anymore?”

“Dunno.”

Then she’s pushing to her feet and exiting through the front door. You watch her leave through the side windows. She walks down the sidewalk to the backyard, likely intending to chop some wood for the dying fireplace. It’s funny, though, knowing that she’s the only one who truly pays any attention to the fire yet she’s willing to spend hours at a time tending to it.

Prior years spent here, you remember catching her sitting in front of the fire late at night, just listening to the way it crackles and hisses. Perhaps there’s a story to explain this infatuation of hers. Or perhaps she simply enjoys waking up early to chop wood and then stays up late watching all of her hard work burn into a pile of ash, just so she can wake up and do it all over again. Probably not the latter.

You carry the mug of coffee to your grandfather's bedroom, sitting at his side while you help him drink it. He tries to hold it, but is far too shaky to do so for very long. Eventually, he gives in and allows you to hold it for him, placing it to his lips as he tips his head back. It’s a rather long and awkward process, but you fill the time with conversation and you fill the space with laughter. So, after a few moments, the stilted feeling has long since vacated the room.

When he’s done drinking, you bring the mug back to the kitchen to wash it for tomorrow morning. It’s his favorite mug, after all—the outline of an owl etched into its face. You handwash it daily for him to reuse each day, uncaring for the chore so long as he appreciates the effort, which he always does.

You’re standing in front of the sink, your hands wrapped in bubbles, when the front door opens and closes. Ellie walks into the foyer covered in icy chill and irritation. She stomps over to the fireplace, loading the newly chopped logs into the hearth. Then she stomps back over to the foyer and begins peeling off her layers. Her boots come off first, then her knitted hat, then her multitude of coats.

You place your grandfather’s mug upside down on the countertop to dry, then you reach into the cabinet for a new one. Not for yourself, but for Ellie—because she appears rather irritated today despite the gentility of her aspect earlier in the morning.

You’re rinsing the mug in the sink when you call over your shoulder, “Don’t run off just yet, Ellie, I’m making you a coffee!”

She frowns at you, but doesn’t argue. She hooks her final coat on his hanger before walking into the living area to start the fire. And, within a few minutes, she manages to spark a flame and create a small inferno within the furnace. Ellie is sitting at the island when you turn around to grab the coffee beans from the other counter. However, due to the mug having just been rinsed, it’s wet and slips easily from your hands. It falls to the floor and shatters instantly, glass shards splaying all across the kitchen.

Ellie instantly moves to get up, but you tell her not to. Begrudgingly, she obliges and agrees to stay seated. Your grandfather is yelling from his bedroom, asking what happened. You call out a response, explaining that you’d dropped a mug and you’re both alright.

Almost immediately after you finish assuring him of your wellbeing, you step on a piece of glass. The sharp wedges instantly within the soft flesh of your foot. You inhale a sharp gasp, yanking your foot off the floor as bolts of pain shoot up your leg.

“What–” Ellie stares at you in disbelief. “Why the fuck do you try so hard, anyway?”

You snap your head up to meet her gaze and, due to the current agony in your foot, you’re just as irritable as she. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You!” She shouts. “You just won’t stop!”

“Me!?” You shoot back, hands shaking as you cradle your foot. “All I’ve done in this past month is cater to you and your selfish ass attitude! I’m not going to apologize for being a decent person, though I can see why you’re shocked that someone actually gives a shit about you. I’m sure not many people do that.”

Ellie clenches her jaw tightly before pushing to her feet. The stool scrapes against the floor loudly, sending a shiver up your spine. She scowls at you. “Quit acting as though you know what’s best for everyone. Stop obsessing over me and figure out your own shit. You obviously need to.”

Then she’s storming out of the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door closed. You hear the lock click into place behind her, though your attention has already been diverted back to your foot and the piece of glass lodged into it.

Fuck her. You think to yourself as you pull the bloodied glass from your skin. And, as you lift your head to gaze down the hallway, you wonder why you even tried.

JANUARY 2ND.

The ten days foregoing your argument with Ellie are torture. The two of you spend the entirety of this juncture ignoring one another, basking the home in an unnerving silence. Honestly, considering this quietude was once all you’d ever known with Ellie, it shouldn’t be difficult to tolerate. But it is. Because the air is thick with unspoken words that are certain to hurt.

When she enters a room, you make haste to exit it; when you’re speaking with your grandfather, she opts to do so at a later time. You no longer make an effort to connect with her and she no longer endures such an agonizing form of torment.

Most days, Ellie just sits in front of the fireplace and draws in that worn-out leather journal of hers. Others, she busies herself with work—chopping firewood, hunting deer, trapping rabbits, and shovelling snow from the sidewalk. The only times you ever see her is when you’re both accidentally in the same place. Like when you pass through the living room with a pile of blankets in your arms to find Ellie feeding the flames of the fire with newly chopped wood. Or like when you arrive home earlier than expected to find her sitting beside your grandfather with tears in her eyes. Or like when you wake in the middle of the night to fill a glass of water to find her sitting at the island while scribbling messy notes into her journal.

The examples are endless, but as is your loathing for her. You tried—so hard—to befriend Ellie. Not because you wanted to, but because your grandfather claimed the two of you would get along. A bad idea, albeit a valiant one. You should have known there was a reason that you two had never spoken prior to this winter despite having known one another since the age of sixteen. You should have known she’d end up being an asshole.

In fact, the height of her vileness resided within that final dreadful week of December. See, because you’d stepped on glass, your foot had to be wrapped in a bandage that made it rather difficult to travel long distances. Due to this, you were unable to walk to the grocer or to the pharmacy, causing this responsibility to fall onto Ellie’s shoulders. This arrangement lasted only a few days, though it felt like an eternity.

You spent most of your time at your grandfather’s side, explaining the situation to him with the smallest amount of bias possible—though you were unable to help yourself when it came to using vulgar words when describing Ellie’s attitude. Your grandfather just chuckled, claiming that story made his day. You rolled your eyes with a huff, forever unable to understand the mind of a man so senile. He allowed you to prop your wounded foot up on his bed while you read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ aloud to him. When Ellie returned from the store, her presence was made very clear via her stomping feet and grumbled cursing. Of course, your grandfather found this all hilarious.

But, thankfully, your foot healed within a few days and you were back to work in no time. You mopped the floors and scrubbed the dishes and tended to the limbless plants in the back yard. All the while, you refused to meet Ellie’s gaze. Sometimes, you could swear you felt her staring. But you never dared to turn—just in case she was, you cared naught to reveal your acknowledgement of her existence. Sure, you could be deemed childish for such petty behaviour, but you didn’t really give a shit.

Today marks the tenth breakfast you’ve eaten since Ellie put that glass in your foot. Indirectly, of course, but you still tell yourself the entire thing had been her fault.

You push your indigo duvet from your body with a yawn, stretching your arms over your head. The icy bedroom window opposite the bed reveals the thick blanket of snow resting atop its sill. It must have snowed a lot last night, thus covering the driveway you just shovelled. Perhaps, if you ignore the snow’s existence, Ellie will become irritated enough to do the shoveling herself. Yes. That is your plan.

You stand from the bed and approach the window, wrapping your arms around yourself. That’s when you spot a small butterfly perched atop the grille, its black wings moving languidly through the icy air. You stare at it for a moment longer, recalling a book that’d mentioned how seldom butterflies are found in the wintertime. This one in particular—if you remember correctly—is a Mourning Cloak butterfly.

Even twenty minutes later, while you’re making your grandfather a mug of coffee, you cannot seem to rid your mind of thoughts pertaining to the Mourning Cloak. Was it a sign that something will happen to your grandfather today? Or are you overthinking things and it was just a damn insect? You can’t tell.

Ellie enters the foyer with an armful of firewood. As she walks past the kitchen toward the living area, your eyes meet. Only for a second. Then you’re turning the faucet off and carrying the torrid mug to your grandfather’s room. Still, a heavy weight of superstition beats at your ribcage.

“Mornin’.” He grunts as you enter the room. The strong scents of pepper and saffron assault your nose as soon as you walk inside. You blink, looking around for any new candles Ellie may have put on his shelves. But, alas, there are none. Your grandfather takes quick notice of your expression. He chuckles before saying, “You must be smellin’ the stew Ellie made for me last night. She was nervous as a cat when she asked me to taste it. Said she’d never cooked anythin’ before, but wanted to try out somethin’ new.”

“And?” You inquire while approaching his bed with a warm smile. He sits up, grunting as he reclines his aching spine into his plush pillows. You hand him his mug of coffee, sitting down in the velvet and mahogany chair. “Was it any good?”

“‘Course it was.” He says firmly. “Even if it was tasteless ‘n’ cold, it would still be one o’my favorite meals ‘cause she made it for me. That’s what matters, after all. Not the end result, but the memories made along the way. She spent hours tryin’ t’get every ingredient perfect. And, even when it was as good as she could possibly get it, she gave it t’me with a frown.”

He’s been doing this thing lately where, no matter what’s happening, he’ll somehow make every conversation about Ellie. He speaks of her in a fond tone, mentioning only her best qualities. You know what he’s doing, though, and it’s not going to work.

When you were attempting to befriend Ellie, your grandfather was at his happiest. He enjoyed eating every meal with you both and he enjoyed watching the two of you interact—albiet scarcely. And, now that you’re no longer speaking to each other, your grandfather speaks about you both to the other in hopes of rebuilding that prior acquaintance.

“Ellie is a wonderful girl. She has passions, hobbies, ‘n’ she cares for her loved ones so deeply that it’s almost painful t’watch.” He says with a sigh. “And you’re the same exact way. ”

“Thank you.” You reply, leaning forward to gently press a kiss to his wrinkled cheek. He smiles when you pull away, his gray eyes memorizing the features of your face. He’s still nursing his coffee mug, holding it firmly between his hands. You place a hand atop one of his, giving him a saddened smile. “Thank you, but I’m not sure she and I are capable of getting along in the way you’re hoping.”

Your grandfather nods with a quiet understanding, shutting his eyes as he accepts this response. You squeeze his hand gently before pushing to your feet and walking toward the door. You’re about to reach the doorway, when he speaks up.

“She reminds me of your mother.”

Oh.

Oh, that was an agonizing combination of words to hear falling from your grandfather’s lips. He hasn’t mentioned your mother since she passed away five years ago. Sarah Miller was a lovely woman with an even lovelier soul. She was the embodiment of summer, carrying all of its warmth and brilliance within her heart wherever she went. Your mother wasn’t bed ridden when she died, nor was she ill. No, she just– died. She went in her sleep, which is what most people hope for, but that hadn’t exactly made the process easier.

Your grandfather was already stuck in bed by the time the news reached him. He reacted rather horribly, to be honest, demanding that he must be present for the funeral and that no parent should ever have to outlive their child. Thankfully, your mother passed in the summer, meaning you and Ellie weren’t present for the horridity of your grandfather’s grief. Still, that winter was a tough one.

He refused to eat, seldom got any sleep, and would lash out whenever you mentioned her. But you knew how he felt because you’d lost her, too. You were experiencing the same feeling of loss that he was. So, after a few weeks of failing miserably at taking care of him, you just gave up. Ellie picked up the slack—wordlessly, of course—and made sure your grandfather’s grief wouldn’t eat him alive. She’d check up on you, too. She would knock on your bedroom door to wake you in the mornings and would knock when it was time to eat lunch. Nothing else passed between you. Well, not until this winter.

“She reminds me of your mother.” It plays on a loop in your head as you go about your day, swirling around in your skull like water swirls around a drain—ceaselessly heading toward that imperceptible finish line. Though, in this case, you’re not sure if there even is a finish line.

You’re lying across the couch cushions with ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ clasped between your hands. You’ve read this novel at least five times now, long since having grown bored of Lord Henry’s manipulative dialogues. It’s entirely your own fault, though, considering you’d only brought one book with you for the entity of this trip.

Your grandfather has bookshelves, sure, but you learned the hard way that your tastes in entertainment are vastly different. While you prefer outdated literature, he prefers self-help books. So, yes, you’ll put up with reading about Dorian’s moral deprecation for another two months. If you grow too bored, you can always watch TV, though your grandfather only has three channels—which are the news, the history channel, and an endless loop of Tom and Jerry’s best episodes.

“You’re not bored of that shit, yet?”

The sound of a voice coming from behind you makes you jolt, dropping your book on the floor with a light thud. You abandon all thoughts pertaining to Oscar Wilde, though, as you whip your head around to face Ellie. She saunters into the living room with her journal tucked under her arm.

You narrow your eyes at her, snatching your book from the floor with a huff. “You can’t speak of boredom when you spend hours each morning tending to the same damn fireplace.”

Ellie hums in response before sitting at the opposite end of the couch. She’s close enough to you that the heels of your socked feet graze the skin of her bare thigh. It’s oddly intimate, sending a discomforted chill down your spine. Though Ellie doesn’t seem to notice—or care—as she flips her journal open and begins to scratch her pencil across the parchment.

She lifts one leg so as to prop her journal on her knee but, other than that, there’s minimal movement from her end of the couch. On your end, there’s naught aside from deepened scowling and curious expressions. You don’t trust this; not one bit.

But, as the minutes tick by and the fireplace crackles gently in the background, you begin to ponder on the possibility that you’re the problem. Ellie hasn’t spoken, nor has she done anything to cause suspicion. At the thought you, slowly, lift your book to your chest and begin to continue reading from its worn-out pages. Ellie remains unmoved as her wrist twists with each shape she writes down.

A long moment of time stretches between you.

“Okay, this is terrible.” Ellie blurts out after half an hour of tense silence. She snaps her journal closed, drawing your attention toward her. You peek your eyes over the edge of your book, a brow raising. She turns to you, frowning. “I want to apologize.”

You lower your book completely, placing it atop your chest. You don’t say anything as you stare at her expectantly.

“I should never have gotten pissed at you for breaking the mug. The entire reason you were grabbing the damn thing is because you wanted to make me coffee. I didn’t ask you to, but you did. Because you’re a good fucking person, even to assholes like me. And, when you got glass in your foot, I should have helped you pull it out. But I didn’t because, like I said, I’m an asshole” She pauses. Then, “It was wrong and I was wrong and I am sorry.”

You sigh through your nose, pushing up on your palms until you’re sitting upright. Your feet press into her thigh as you shift your weight around, but neither of you move. Then, slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips. “At least you’re self-aware.”

She lets out an airy chuckle, the sound laced with something akin to relief. “Fuck off.”

You laugh before lying back against the cushion. And, when she resumes journaling and you resume reading, the atmosphere is no longer tense and coiled. It’s comfortable and soft. And, as you listen to the crackling fireplace and the scratch of her pencil, you’re able to puzzle out why the butterfly appeared at your window this morning—growth.

JANUARY 17TH.

Living with Ellie has become far more tolerable when compared to that of before. She is no longer the cold woman you once deemed her to be. She’s—albiet slowly—begun to thaw through that icy facade of hers, thus revealing the warm interior that she’d been harboring all along.

Your relationship is still a bit stilted, though it’s not nearly as strained as it had been before. She talks now, which is a massive improvement despite how small of an accomplishment it may seem to be. Her voice is no longer a foreign terrain, but instead something as familiar as the prose of Oscar Wilde. You’ve been taking mental notes on it, as well, creating bullet points regarding the small details you notice in her tune.

First, she sounds far more gruff and intimidating when she’s shouting at you for having stepped on broken glass. Second, she uses curse words like a writer uses a pen: incessantly. Third, she rambles when she’s nervous or when she knows she fucked something up—like when she forgot to put the fire out one night and woke to a simmering heap of coals. Fourth, she pauses a lot when she wants to make sure her words are precise and perfect, such as when she gives instructions or when she’s telling a detailed story. Lastly, she says your name as though it’s something divine to behold. There’s a sort of breathiness to her tone when she utters it, a sort of reverence.

Your grandfather, for one, has been indescribably pleased by your guys’ newfound friendship. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the third day of January when he first witnessed evidence of it. In truth, it’d been accidental. You were reading a page of your novel to him when Ellie sauntered down the hallway and, as she passed his bedroom, smiled at you. Instantly, your grandfather was overjoyed and demanded that he always knew you could get along.

He now demands to eat supper with all three of you present, to play card games at least once a week, and to be told every detail of Ellie’s apology over and over until you’re both sick of repeating the story. A few times, Ellie simply refused to reiterate it, calling him annoying and decrepit. You tried to keep a straight face, though you failed and ended up laughing for five minutes as the two of them began bickering over meaningless topics.

You cook most of the meals as of late, making sure to use Ellie’s rabbits and deer for supper. Some days, however, you allow her to take control of the kitchen—watching from the island as she struggles to make sense of a random recipe she’d found in one of your grandfather’s old cook books.

That’s what she’s doing now, in fact.

The kitchen is currently shrouded in smoke as Ellie attempts to juggle three different recipes. She’s making pasta, though the water has long since boiled over the edge of her pot. Not only that, but she’s gone out of her comfort zone and begun to make salad and garlic bread to accompany it. Needless to say, this endeavor has not been going well thus far.

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” You ask as she finally notices the overflowing pot.

“No!” She shouts, though it’s clear she hadn’t meant to. She’s just overwhelmed and struggling. Ellie is quick to retract her exclamation, too, once she realizes how harshly she’d snapped at you. “Sorry, I just– No thank you. I want to do this on my own.”

“Okay.” You nod. “But my offer still stands.”

She places napkins around the pot in an attempt to dry the spilt water—which is rather ineffective seeing as she still hasn’t turned down the heat. You rest your chin in your palm, leaning forward as you watch Ellie bustle around the kitchen like a bull in a china shop.

Then the oven is beeping and Ellie rushes open it. You’ve just opened your mouth to remind her how hot the pan is when she grabs it with her bare hands. She intends to place it on the island, though only manages to move a foot before she’s dropping the pan with a loud clatter and blowing at her reddened palms with a loud, “Shit!”

You’re laughing as you hop down from your wooden stool. You round the island and walk over to the sink, twisting the knob so as to make the faucet spew icy water. Ellie is quick to rush to your side, placing her hands under the steadily streaming water. She exhales a relieved sigh, shutting her eyes blissfully. You watch her with an amused gaze.

“Still don’t want my help?”

She cracks her eyes open before narrowing them at you. “Fine. But I still get to tell Joel I made dinner.”

“That sounds fine, I don’t–”

“Without help.”

You instantly scowl at her before reaching over her shoulder to turn the faucet off. Then, with a tightened frown, you give in. “Fine.”

The first few minutes of carrying out this arrangement are terrible. The first thing you do is turn down the heat of the stove, which instantly causes the boiling pot to recede into itself. Then you’re forced to throw away most of the garlic bread that’d fallen on the floor, leaving the three of you with only one piece to share. Ellie calls it without hesitation, but you insist your grandfather should be the one to eat it. With a childish sulk, she agrees.

You put Ellie in charge of making the salad, though she still struggles to chop the vegetables without them rolling away from her cutting board. You offer to help but, of course, she refuses it.

The two of you move about the space with a soft semblance of naturality. Because, despite never having spoken prior to last month, you’ve known one another for years—which is easy to forget when everything about Ellie feels new. Her voice, her irritability, her green eyes. But other things feel familiar, such as the act of being in her presence and moving alongside one another like two fish in the same school.

The sound of her footsteps patting across the wooden floorboards, the gentle scent of pine still clinging to her skin after spending all day in the woods, the feel of her body brushing across yours when she reaches for something across the counter, the sight of her fingers wrapping around the coveted spice. All of these things make you feel as though you’d known Ellie throughout the entirety of your life.

When you finish making the pasta and have scooped three servings onto each of your plates, Ellie does the same while adding her salad to a small glass bowl. Then, with a wide grin, she begins walking toward your grandfather's bedroom. And, as she enters it, her grin only grows wider.

“I made dinner tonight!” She exclaims as she places his dishes atop his lap, sitting at the foot of his bed so as to watch him closely when he takes the first bite.

Your grandfather smiles at her warmly. “I already know it’ll be great, kiddo.”

“Thank y– Joel, eat the salad first.” She orders when he begins to twirl his fork in his pasta. He raises a brow at her attitude, but obliges wordlessly. He removes his utensil from its prior placement and instead moves it to the bowl of salad. Ellie leans forward, excitement flooding her body as the sustenance enters his mouth. The food hasn’t even had time to touch his tongue when she’s asking, “Is it good? Do you like it? Did I add too much ranch? I think I did, but I like ranch so I couldn’t really tell what’s considered too much, you kn–”

“Ellie.” He interrupts her softly. “It’s wonderful.”

Her tensed shoulders instantly relax at the reassurance. She leans back, nodding gently as the affirmation soaks into her mind. Then she turns to find that you’re placing her own plate and bowl on her lap. She thanks you quietly, still riding out the high of being validated in regards to her cooking.

You sit down in the velvet and mahogany chair, using your knees as a makeshift table. The glass plate is hot and burns your skin, but not enough to cause pain so you leave it. You take a bite of the salad and can instantly tell Ellie added too much ranch. Hell, there’s more ranch than lettuce. But then you lift your head and find that she’s watching your expression very closely. So you nod, smiling, and take another huge bite. Ellie instantly grins, hues of red tinting the skin of her ears.

Supper is eaten with laughter in the air and warmth in your chest. Your grandfather asks what the fuck was going on in the kitchen and, when you begin to explain, Ellie cuts you off to say she’d not done anything wrong. He laughs, turning to you before asking what she’d done. You tell the story of the garlic bread, making sure to end it by saying Ellie managed to cook the rest all on her own. Your grandfather congratulates her but, when he looks away, she wears an appreciative expression when your eyes meet.

Even after everyone has long since finished eating, the three of you stay awake late into the night. You exchange random stories, laughing together as the moon rises higher in the night sky. Then, slowly, exhaustion begins to weigh heavy on all of your shoulders. Your grandfather—predictably—is the first to announce his fatigue and claim that it’s nearing his time for slumber.

Ellie begins to take the dirtied dishes to the kitchen while you tuck him into bed. You fluff his pillows before easing him into them. He relaxes instantly, his eyes shutting with relief. Then you pull his duvet to his chin and ask if he needs anything else. Of course, he claims to be content, so you press a kiss to his hairline and leave the room. You flick the light off before slowly shutting the door.

When the latch clicks into place and you turn around to walk down the hallway, you’re instantly shocked to find Ellie already standing two inches away from you. You gasp, startled by her sudden proximity. She clears her throat, apologizing. And, just by the sound of her voice, you can tell there’s something she’s itching to say.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask her softly.

She thins her lips, fidgeting with her fingers. “Nothing, really, I just– I was wondering if you were doing anything tomorrow.”

“What?” You let out a breathy chuckle, visibly confused by her strange behavior. “I’d assume that you know my schedule quite well, by now.”

“Well, yeah, but– Y’know, I was just thinking…” She averts her gaze, staring down the hallway so as to avoid eye contact with you. Her next words come out of her mouth in a long string, all jumbled together. “I noticed you’ve been rereading the same book over and over. Then, on my way to the store– I was buying another shovel ‘cause I left the other one in the road and it got run over. Uh, anyway. On my way to the store, I passed a bookshop and was wondering if, maybe, you’d want to go? You don’t have to go with me, of course, I just thought I could show you where it was. If you want, I could wait outside and–”

“Ellie,” you breathe. “Of course I want to go with you.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes!” You exclaim with a laugh. “I intended on bringing more than one book with me on this trip but, evidently, forgot. So now I’m stuck reading about Dorian fucking Gray on an endless loop. I’d love to go to a bookstore. And don’t be foolish, of course you’re coming inside with me.”

Ellie exhales a heavy breath, her expression slackening instantly. She appears relieved but, more importantly, she appears domestic and comfortable. All the muscles in her body are relaxed and she’s dressed in her pajamas and her hair is slightly mussed. The sight is naught short of endearing, honestly. And, looking at her now, you’re unsure how you ever managed to hate her.

JANUARY 18TH.

You wake with excitement already bubbling over in your chest. It floods your lungs and weaves between your ribs, making a home of your body. And you let it because, well, you’re going to a bookstore.

Despite always having taken the responsibility of doing the weekly shopping, you never truly explored Jackson. You’ve waved at a few neighbors and passed a couple landmarks, but you never properly explored it per se. In fact, the vast majority of this small town is completely foreign to you.

When you enter the kitchen, Ellie has already returned from chopping wood and is now crouched in front of the furnace, feeding the flames. Her features are highlighted warmly by the fire’s gentle glow—which only further melts that prior iciness from her body. You walk into the kitchen and begin making your grandfather’s coffee. You make yourself and Ellie one, as well, just for the fuck of it.

You’re leaning against the counter, watching the snow fall into the grass outside, when Ellie enters the kitchen. You don’t even hear her footsteps approach—likely a trait picked up from hunting so frequently—which causes you to jolt when her voice is suddenly behind you.

“What book do you–”

“Shit!” You exclaim, whipping around to face her with wild eyes. She holds her hands up in defense, chuckling under her breath at your reaction. You roll your eyes at her, pressing a hand to your thumping heart. “Holy fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” she giggles. “I was just asking which book you want to buy. Y’know, if you have any in mind that you hope to find.”

“Not really.” You shrug. “Just anything that’s not Oscar Wilde.”

Her head tilts to the side. “I thought the book was about Donovan Green.”

“Dorian Gray.” You correct her. “And, yes, it is. Oscar Wilde is the author.”

“Ohh.”

You then turn back around to finish making the coffees. You leave yours on the countertop, hand Ellie’s mug to her, then carry your grandfather’s to his bedroom. She follows behind you, blowing into her cup, as you push the door open.

Inside, he can be seen sitting up in bed with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He’s reading the ingredients of a chip bag, holding it away from his face. He looks up at the sound of your guys’ approach, discarding the snack in favor of the drink in your hands. You sit on the edge of his bed, passing the mug to him kindly. Then he’s taking a sip despite the way it’s certain to scald his tongue. He smacks his lips, raising his gaze to thank you for the coffee.

“Joel,” Ellie steps forward with her mug clasped between her hands. “We were talking last night and, well, we were wondering if you’d mind us leaving for an hour or so. I found an old bookstore that I want to take her to, but I didn’t know if you would–”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Go on ahead, kiddos. I’ll be fine for one hour, don’t let me hold ya up.”

“Really?” You ask, tone teetering on uncertainty. Admittedly, you hadn't even considered the fact that doing this would render your grandfather alone at home for an extended amount of time. You were just so excited that the thought had slipped your mind. You suddenly feel indescribably grateful for Ellie and her recollection of this fact.

“Really.” He insists. “Now get outta here.”

Despite your residual doubts, you leave the room. Your grandfather assures you he’ll be okay and explains that he’ll likely spend the entire hour trying to read the back of his chip bag. Ellie tells him that if he needs anything, to call her using the landline—which she spends a few minutes setting up on his bedside table. While she does this, you go to your bedroom to change.

You layer your jeans and put on three coats atop your shirt. Then, perched at the foot of your bed, you pull four pairs of socks onto your feet. By the time you reach the foyer, you’re sweaty and wondering why the hell snow exists. You reach over to put on your shoes, but you struggle to tie them considering how limited your movements are due to the layering.

As if on cue, Ellie rounds the corner to the foyer, only to find you annoyed with yourself. She chuckles under her breath before walking over. Then, without a word, she crouches in front of you and begins to lace your boots. Her fingers move with a steady precision that had been completely absent last night when she struggled to chop vegetables for her salad.

“Thanks.” You say.

She shakes her head, not responding. The lack of words reminds you of the beginning of the trip; of all the years spent in unsettling silence. You stare at the top of her hair as she continues to move. The crown of her head reflects light and, due to its auburn color, it almost appears golden. Like a halo. Then she’s lifting her chin and meeting your gaze.

Her skin is adorned with gentle freckles, only a few hues darker than her pigmentation. Her eyes meet yours in a sea of mossy green, her pupils darting between both of yours. She parts her lips, exhaling through her mouth softly. And, for a moment, you’re lost—unsure where you are or what you’re doing—as your entire world orbits Ellie and her indescribable resemblance to sublimity.

Her head is between your spread knees, which is a rather intimate position for two people of your being. One of her hands is still brushing your ankle. Rather, the thick fabric that covers your ankle, but still. You’re not sure how long the two of you reside like that but you do know you were willing to stay.

Ellie blinks a few times, clearing her throat before standing from the floor. She swallows harshly before grabbing her knitted hat from its hanger and pulling it onto her head. She pushes the front door open and allows you to exit first. Instantly, the frigidity of the winter air bites at your cheeks and the tip of your nose. You shudder.

“It’s not a very far walk.” Ellie assures you. “Only a few blocks north.”

You nod as your teeth begin to chatter. “Yeah, okay.”

The snow crunches under your boots with each step, leaving a trail of passage behind. Some of the sidewalks are shoveled while others aren’t. Joel Miller’s, however, is definitely shoveled. In truth, his house looks like it belongs to a young pair of people who cannot seem to stop moving around.

You walk with Ellie toward the bookstore in silence. But it’s not awkward, it’s comfortable. She breathes through her mouth, leaving puffs of air behind her. You copy her, making the clouds join together behind you. She laughs, the corners of her mouth tugging upward strikingly. You smile at the sight, focused solely on her instead of the bookstore in your near future.

When you arrive, the interior of the shop is so warm that you peel your coats off without hesitation. Ellie does the same, folding hers over her arm. She offers to take yours, but you refuse—not wanting to burden her after already making her walk all this way.

The gentle ambiance of the shop is warm and welcoming with its sounds of soft chatter and quiet footsteps. The floor is carpeted and the walls are taupe. It’s cozy, homely. And, before long, you’re heading toward the literary section. Ellie trails behind you, watching as your fingertips lightly graze the spines of certain books. You can feel her eyes on you the entire time.

And, as the minutes tick by, you grow increasingly more impulsive. You grab one book, then another, then another, then, before long, you’re struggling to hold them all. Ellie offers to take a few and, this time, you accept. You place the novels in her arms and relish in the lack of weight placed upon your own limbs.

“These all look boring.” She comments as you add yet another paperback to the pile.

“They do not.” You frown.

“They’re old.” She says. “They were written in the tenth century, there’s no way they’re entertaining.”

“Yeah? Well what do you prefer to read?”

“Uh–” She frowns, the tips of her ears turning red. “You’ll make fun of me.”

You’re instantly intrigued by this. You raise a brow at her behaviour, tilting your head. Your voice is soft when you speak next because, really, listening to her is like watching a sad puppy hurt itself. “I won’t make fun of you, Ellie, I promise.”

“Well, I prefer comic books.” She admits before rambling a bit. “They’re easier to read and easier to understand. I know it’s a bit childish– which is why I didn’t want to tell you, at first. Because you’re reading these big huge philosophical novels and I just– I like comics.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed of that.” You tell her gently. Then you nod your head to the left, saying, “Also, I think I saw a comic section over there.”

Ellie instantly perks up, turning toward the direction that you nodded. You watch the way her eyes light up as she reads the genre sign. She, with a tone tinged with excitement, asks if she could visit the section once you’re done shopping. You laugh, telling her that she can do anything she wants and that you’re not her keeper. Her ears redden a bit before she nods.

You end up adding one more book to the pile before you’re both heading toward the comic section. You take the stack of books from her, allowing her to add her own choices to the heap. Honestly, the moment you enter the aisle, you notice a difference in her demeanor. Her eyes are brighter and her lips are tugged upward—passion. The exact kind that your grandfather mentioned when he compared the two of you.

You end up spending ten minutes with her in this section, walking behind her through the shelves as she rambles about the different authors she does and doesn’t enjoy reading. At one point, she gets on a tangent about a series called Savage Starlight that she doesn't stop talking about even once you’re both at the register.

You place the pile of books onto the counter. And, when you begin to sort them into two sections, Ellie stops you and says she’ll pay for them all.

“What?” You blurt out. “No, no, no. You’re here because of me, I’ll pay.”

“I’m here because I wanted to take you here.” She corrects you. “This was a gift, now let me pay.”

“No.” You insist as you reach into your back pocket for your wallet. But then, as soon as you have it in front of you, Ellie swipes it from your hands. You gape at her. “What the fuck?”

“I told you to let me pay.” She replies simply before handing a wad of cash to the woman behind the desk.

You complain about this all the way back to the house, scowling at her as you walk down snowy sidewalks and ascend the stairs of your grandfather’s porch. You only drop it once you’re in the foyer and she’s unlacing your shoes before you even have the chance to shut the door fully. Then her hand is on the back of your calf, easing your foot upward to remove the boot fully. Then the other one.

Later that night, when you’re eating supper with your grandfather around his bed, you tell him about her insufferable insistence on paying. He laughs, deeming that to be an issue common among couples—neither of you catch on. Because, in retaliation, Ellie is quick to tell him about how pretentious your taste in books is. To this, your grandfather laughs heartily while agreeing. You gasp dramatically, pointing out that he’d once claimed to enjoy ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’. More laughter, of course, which lacks a genuine response.

Then, when you’re lying in bed at night, reading your new novels in the lamplight of your bedroom, your mind keeps returning to that moment with Ellie in the foyer. When she’d held your gaze whilst knelt in front of you like your body was an altar.

Your stomach churns at the memory.

JANUARY 28TH.

You spend almost every second with Ellie. Her voice is music and her soul is sunshine. You’d be a fool to feel anything aside from awe in regards to her change—from an icy woman bereft of charm, to a warm girl whose laughter sounds akin to the call of angels.

You make her coffee each morning and, when you know her to be feeling morose, you wake early so as to deliver it prior to her daily tasks. One time, you knew she’d be in a foul mood but woke later than you’d intended. So, clad in thin pajamas, you ran out into the yard where she was chopping wood to deliver the coffee. She turned, startled, but instantly broke into a shocked laugh. Your entire body was aching from the frigidity, but she was happy and that’s what mattered. When she came inside a half hour later with the firewood, a smile was still splayed across her lips. She made fun of you for a week.

At noon, Ellie is in charge of making lunch because she’s become increasingly passionate about cooking—rather, the compliments she receives after cooking. At first the meals were terrible, ridden with too much spice or too little char. But, as time crawled onward, her ability got better and she learned how to balance the ingredients. Now, in fact, noon is your second favorite time of the day. Because, while Ellie floats around the kitchen, you sit at the island and read aloud your book to her. Sometimes you can tell she’s not listening but, if you dare to stop, she instantly turns to ask why you’d gone quiet—it’s a bit endearing, really. Other times, you know she’s listening because she makes a comment on every fucking paragraph.

Nighttime is nice, too, because you both spend it in the company of your grandfather. He still smiles whenever the two of you interact, as though he cannot believe the scene before him. He smiles when Ellie says your name, half groaning it as she insists that this is the best meal she’d ever eaten. He smiles when you ask her to pass the pepper, your fingers brushing as it’s exchanged. He smiles when you enter the room together, holding three plates and three cups, while bickering over something meaningless. He smiles a lot, of late, and you’re glad to see it.

After supper, once your grandfather has fallen asleep, the two of you sometimes opt to stay awake. As the moon arches into the sky and the stars dot the darkness and the fireplace crackles in the living room, you sit together on the sofa. Some nights, you read while she journals. Other nights, you both read different books, enveloped in gentle quietude. Most nights, though, she watches the fire silently while you read your books aloud to her. These are your favorite nights, because it feels like a conversation without having to go through the endeavour of materializing topics to discuss. But, no matter what you’re doing, this is your absolute favorite part of the day. With the scent of pine in the air, the solid feel of her body beside yours, and the warm glow of the fire, you’re certain you’ve never been more at ease.

“Hang on,” she whispers one night, halting your reading.

You’re lying on your stomach, novel in front of you, as your ankles rest on Ellie’s lap. She sits with her legs criss-cross while massaging your calf and watching the fire hum from within its furnace. You turn, peering at her from over your shoulder. “What is it?”

“Do you wanna do something fun tomorrow?” She asks with a pair of green eyes glinting with interest. She places both hands on your calf, biting the inside of her cheek as she anxiously awaits your reply. She should know by now, though, that your answer will always be an assertive ‘yes’.

“When have I ever declined an offer to do something fun with you?” You ask with a breath of laughter. Then you place your book face-down on the cushion, removing your legs from her lap so as to sit up to fully face her. Your eyes narrow playfully. “What do you have in mind?”

“After eight years of annually taking a train to Jackson, I’m sure you’ve noticed the frozen lake just outside of the town.” She muses. You nod, unsure where she’s going with this. “Well, what if I said I saw a shop down the road that sells ice skates?”

“I’d love to, but–” You frown. “I’ve never skated before.”

Ellie shrugs. “I can teach you.”

“What about my grandpa? A trip like that would take all day.”

“Already thought of it.” She says with a grin. “There’s a neighbor down the street who’s our age and willing to watch over him for the day. I made sure she wasn’t a psycho, don’t worry.”

You try to conjure up other things that could possibly hold you back from taking this trip. Not because you don’t want to go—you do—but because it simply sounds too good to come to fruition. You love your grandfather, truly, but spending every single day in this little home can easily become repetitive and cause a severe case of boredom. This year, since befriending Ellie, you have someone to talk to which makes the cabin fever less prominent. Prior years, however, became rather miserable whilst nearing the end of January.

So, when you’re unable to think of any other possible reasons to not take the trip, a wide smile crawls upon your face and settles there. Then you nod, thus giving Ellie the needed confirmation regarding her plan. She smiles as well, visibly becoming quite giddy with the excitement of what’s impending.

JANUARY 29TH.

“And his lunchtime medicine is–”

“In the bathroom cabinet above the sink.” Dina finishes with a light laugh. “Yes, I know. You’ve told me eighteen times.”

You wring your hands, your heart thumping anxiously beneath your ribs. You’re not sure if it’s due to the fear of something happening to your grandfather in your absence or due to the excitement of getting out of this god forsaken town for the first time in two months.

Dina is a kind woman. She is wearing a casual outfit and speaks as though you’ve been friends for years. You and Ellie sat across from her in the kitchen, explaining to her everything that Tommy once explained to the two of you—which medicines he should take and at which times, where to find his glasses when he inevitably loses them, and what time he should be in bed to ensure he won’t be in a sour mood come morning. Dina absorbs all of the information like a sponge, asking questions and offering comments.

But, even after she has repeated it back to you ten times now, you’re still worried something will go wrong. Dina assured you that she knows your grandfather quite well after living beside him for ten years. She told a story of how they first met: she’d just moved in with her fiance when your grandfather knocked on her door with Tommy at his side and a plate of cookies in his hands. He welcomed them to the neighborhood with a kind smile, explaining which people to stay away from and which stores to shop at for lower prices. She speaks of him fondly, recounting times he’d asked for her help with gardening or cooking a certain meal.

Then, after an hour or so of discussion regarding your grandfather, Ellie is reminding you that it’s nearing time to leave. You give Dina two more instructions—which she was already made aware of—before following Ellie to the foyer.

While you voice your worries, she kneels before you and begins to lace your boots. This has become a rather habit of hers, always making sure to be there whenever you’re about to leave the house. Even when you’re just leaving for a few minutes, she rushes to your side so as to be the one to tie your shoes. You’ve assured her countless times that you can do it on your own, but she insists on helping. So, after a while, you’ve just given up and now allow her to do it without complaint.

“What if he chokes on something while she’s using the bathroom? Or– I dunno, what if he tries to sit up and pulls a muscle in his back?” You’re rambling at this point, leaned back onto your palms as you stare up at the wooden ceiling. “What if she gives him too many pills or, oh god, what if she gives him the wrong one? We can’t go. Ellie, we have to–”

But when you look down at her face, she’s smiling. Almost as though she’s holding back a laugh. You instantly stop talking, frowning at her as she finishes tying your boot. When she lifts her head and meets your gaze, she can no longer hold it in and bursts out laughing. “Joel will be fine. That guy has survived worse fates than one measly day of solitude.”

“But what if he’s not?” You continue to fret as she uses your knees to push herself to her feet. Ellie holds a hand out and you take it, allowing her to pull you from the bench. Your mind continues to swirl around thoughts of distress. “What if–”

“What if he’s perfectly fine and Dina is a lovely woman and we have a lot of fun?” Ellie suggests. You turn to her, eyes frantic as you tighten your lips into a thin line. She grins, nudging your shoulder. “C’mon. He’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You can’t promise something like that.” You scoff.

“I can if I know it’s true.”

“But you don’t.”

“But I do.”

Ellie then swings the front door open, holding it as you walk outside onto the porch. She follows behind you, twisting the lock before turning to meet your unsure expression. She chuckles, placing a hand on each of your shoulders before asking, furtively, “Do you trust me?” Dazedly, you nod. She smiles, “Then trust that my promise isn’t hollow.”

With a huff and one last gaze over your shoulder, you accept this. And, as you follow Ellie to the shop, you tell yourself over and over that your grandfather will be fine. Because Ellie was right—he has survived worse than this, what with his passion for hunting; Dina is a lovely woman and possibly is the best person Ellie could have asked; and you will have fun skating, because it’ll be with someone you trust.

The shop is small, more like a trading post than an actual store. The entirety of the building is made of wood, warmed almost too much by the burning coals within a dying fireplace. A bell chimes as Ellie pushes the door open to reveal the messy interior. The burly man behind the counter smiles as you both enter, welcoming you like an old friend. Ellie places a hand on your lower back as she guides you to the shelf that harbors the ice skates. The man behind the counter makes comments on their durability and why you should buy them.

Ellie picks out a pair for herself, checking the size thrice before she helps you. You murmur under your breath that you like the green ones, but you know the black ones will fit better. She suggests that you could always try them both on, but you decide to settle for the black ones.

“Good choices.” The man smiles as Ellie places both pairs atop the counter while pulling out her wallet. The man’s hair is bright orange and his shirt is plaid, looking like a lumberjack from a child’s film. He takes Ellie’s cash before putting the shoes in two separate boxes and sliding them across the countertop. Ellie grabs them both, not giving you the chance to pick them up yourself. “Have a lovely day, ladies! And make sure to be careful on the ice!”

“Thanks, you too!” You call over your shoulder as Ellie holds the door open for you. When you exit the shop and descend the porch stairs, you turn to her with a frown. “I can hold my own back, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” She responds. “But I wanted to hold it for you.”

Despite wanting to argue, you know it will have been futile, so you—begrudgingly—accept her terms.

The town rises with the sun, people exiting their homes as they head off to work. You pass one house where a pair of twin toddlers can be seen playing in the front yard. Their mother watches from the porch with a fond smile as they waddle in tandem through the snow. You kindly wave at them as you pass, causing one of the kids to topple over her own feet. Instantly feeling guilty, you rush forward to help. You grab the child under the arms and haul her back upright. She giggles, flashing a gummy smile with only two teeth in her mouth. The mother waves at you, calling out an appreciative ‘thank you’.

Then you keep walking. Ellie tells you not to feel obligated to help people, but you brush her off and claim you wanted to—like how she wanted to carry your shoe box for you. To that, she hasn’t an argument. She simply nudges your shoulder, calling you an asshole under her breath. You laugh.

It takes fifteen minutes to reach the edge of town. When you do, you’re welcomed with a line of bare trees and naked shrubs. Ellie grins widely before picking up speed, walking with haste into the woods. You jog after her, passing the ‘Welcome to Jackson’ sign that you’ve priorly only ever seen through a train window. It’s much taller close up.

You catch up with Ellie, a smile tugging at your lips, as she leads you through the woods as though she’s been here countless times. She hasn’t, of course, she just has an indelible connection to forestry as a whole. The foliage calls to her like the voice of a deity. She knows the trees like an astronomer knows the stars or a sailor knows the tides—irrevocably.

The two of you walk side-by-side for five minutes more, basking in the atmosphere. Sunlight, golden and gentle, filters through the naked limbs of overhead trees. It paints Ellie in hues of warmth that you’d once deemed impossible.

She was once the embodiment of reserve, cold and icy in all but name. She met the snow like an old friend, bathed in the flakes like she was already made of their dendrites. But, as you get to know her, you’ve come to realize she’s not as bitter as you’d once believed her to be. No. An hour each morning is allotted to tending to the fireplace, honing its flames and feeding its coals. She’s not frigid simply because she’s used to the cold. She’s warm because she cherishes the heat of fire, no matter the time of day nor the fatigue in her bones.

“Here we are!” She beams with a widened smile.

You lift your head to find a small decline in the snow leading to a frozen-over lake. It’s large and stretches past the trees, farther than you can see.

Then you turn to find Ellie sitting on an oversized rock, slipping the skates onto her feet. You walk over to her, watching over her shoulder as she laces them easily. When she stands, she wobbles a bit and is forced to grab onto the rock for balance. You laugh at her, offering your arm to help her to the lake. She shakes her head, claiming that she still needs to tie your shoes and, for that, she cannot leave.

With a fond huff of air, you plop down onto the rock and hold your foot out to her. She crouches down, struggling a tad considering the huge blades on the bottoms of her shoes. She tugs at the knot she tied for you only this morning. Then she’s reaching for the box she’d carried all this way for you, removing the lid, and pulling two ice skates from within it. She removes your boot, sending a chill up your spine from the sudden coldness that seeps through the fabric of your socks. Then she slips the skate onto your foot, working with deft steadiness that can only be defined as devotion; as reverence.

Once both skates are on your feet, she stands—albiet unsteadily. Her movements are similar to that of a baby deer and, before too long, she’s slipping and falling onto where you’re still sitting atop the rock. Her hand falls onto your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin as she catches her breath.

Ellie, with parted lips and wild eyes, raises her head to meet your gaze. Your faces are inches apart, her hips between your knees. Your brow twitches with curiosity, unable to register the feeling that suddenly floods your chest. You’re close enough to count the freckles on her skin and name every color within her irises. You exhale a soft breath through your mouth, gaze darting across her face.

“I thought you said you were good at this.” You whisper.

Her gaze flicks from your eyes down to your mouth, then back up again. “It’s been a while.”

You huff a laugh. She does too, and the sound reaches your ears like a melody you’d been longing for since birth. Then your expression is slackening and you’re leaning closer, just by an inch. Ellie’s breath hitches. She blinks rapidly before loosening her hold on your shoulders and pushing to her wobbly feet with a thinned mouth.

For a long moment, you don’t move. Then she’s turning to you with a smile that makes it feel like everything that just—almost—happened, never did. She holds out a hand, kind and friendly, for you to take. So you do, allowing her to pull you to your feet. Then you’re both wobbly. You more so, of course.

Once you reach the ice, it’s much easier to stand yet also much easier to slip. Your balance wavers and you’re suddenly gripping onto both of Ellie’s forearms, using her body like a pair of crutches to hold yourself upright. She laughs under her breath, twisting her wrists to hold you steady.

“Bend your knees.” She whispers. Her voice is so quiet and so close to your ear that a chill goes down your spine—and not from the cold. Your heart pounds within your chest but you oblige, bending your knees slightly as she instructed. Instantly, it’s easier to move with fluidity than when your legs were locked. “Good.”

Her lips caress the shell of your ear. It startles you, enough so that you snap your head upward and lose your balance. Suddenly, you’re tumbling toward the ice with her coming down with you. You hadn't meant to pull her, but you don’t feel bad for it. Not when she’s hovering over you, breathing heavily, with her hands propped on either side of your head and her body slotted between your legs.

She blinks, brows furrowing. Her cheeks turn pink, though you suppose it could be due to the cold. Her lashes flutter, just for a second, before she lowers her head. Your noses touch and you swear she can hear how fast your heart is beating. She pauses, allowing you to take the next step. And—without hesitation—you do.

You crane your head upward, meeting her halfway as your mouths meet. She tastes of firewood and solicitude. Her lips are soft and pillowy with a gentle semblance of warmth, not an inch of her soul rendered cold. You lift your arms from the ice to her back, snaking them around her shoulders so as to pull her even closer. She obliges, bending her propped arms to rest on her elbows in place of her palms.

When she pulls away, you’re both breathing heavily and a bit shakily. Ellie blinks once, twice, thrice before she’s suddenly pushing to her feet and shaking her head fervently. You watch her, mind swirling, as she struggles to collect herself.

“I didn’t mean to–” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she squeezes her eyes shut. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Maybe not,” you offer softly, “but it did happen.”

She turns to you, looking down to where you’re still sitting on the ice—partly because you don’t want to startle her and partly because you don’t know how to get up by yourself. She frowns. “You’re Joel’s granddaughter, this is like– super fucked. I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t–”

“Ellie.” You snap, grabbing her attention. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

She exhales a sharp breath, nodding, “we’re fine.”

JANUARY 31ST.

Since the kiss at the frozen lake, it’s been quite awkward whenever you’re in the same room as Ellie. It’s not bad, necessarily, it’s just… off. She’s quiescent, lacking in her usual loquaciousness. A few times, you’ve wondered if she regrets it. In truth, you hadn’t thought of her in a sensual light until the lake. But, since then, you’ve not been able to stop.

When her gaze catches yours, you wonder what her eyes would look like in a dimly lit room. When her hands wrap around a mug, you wonder what they’d feel like on your body. When she speaks, low and gruff, you wonder what kinds of things she’d say when sharing a bed. When she bites on her bottom lip, you wonder what her teeth would feel like if they were to graze the bare skin of your hip bone.

It makes you feel dirty, actually. Like you’re in desperate need of a bath despite having already taken one today. Your hair is still damp and your skin is still adorned with the scent of soap. And yet your thoughts make you yearn for another and another so as to wash your mind clean of such filth.

You’ve just finished eating dinner with your grandfather. He noticed the change in your guys’ relationship instantly, though he seems to know better than to say anything about it. You all still eat dinner together, but the conversations that arise are a bit stifled and awkward. Ellie refuses to meet your eye and won’t even speak to your grandfather when he addresses her. She wears a blank stare and stiff shoulders, eating from her plate whilst enveloped in absolute quietude.

“So,” your grandfather muses. “What’d you girls do today?”

Ellie does not respond, instead turning her head into a downcast position, thus toward her plate. She almost appears… ashamed. With a soft clearing of your throat, you decide to fill her silence. “I started a new book today.”

“Really? Oh, lemme guess. Is it another borin’ one?” Your grandfather teases, raising his brows in inquiry as he bites on his fork.

“It’s a classic, yes.” You frown. “Macbeth.”

“You’re reading Shakespeare now? Like, actual Shakespeare?”

At this, you nudge his shoulder with a gape. He laughs, apologizing halfheartedly for insulting your taste in novels. He does, however, insist that he’s never met a person younger than eighty who enjoys reading Shakespeare for fun. But, after that, the conversation on books is dropped and thereby moves onto a new topic regarding laundry and the nuisances it evokes.

Before long, Ellie finishes her meal and takes her leave without a word. You watch her leave, frowning at the back of her head as she exits the bedroom with her dirty dishes. Your grandfather’s voice falls silent as he observes the scene before him. The negligence in Ellie’s gait; the longing in your gaze.

“Somethin’ happened.” Your grandfather says. You turn at the sound of his old and wizened tone—through it, you’re able to predict that he’s going to be giving you a long piece of advice that you hadn’t asked for. With a sigh, you turn in your chair to face him fully, preparing yourself for his rigmarole. “I dunno what occurred between you two. In truth, I don’t care t’hear it. What I do care to hear is an apology. I know Ellie pretty damn well enough to make a few guesses as t’what occurred. Somethin’ happened between you that crossed a very thin line between friends and lovers, right?”

You don’t reply.

“Thought so.” He nods solemnly. “Somethin’ you should know is that Ellie has been through hell ‘n’ back. In every aspect of livin’, she’s experienced pain. Family, friends, lovers. She lost her mother to the same form of illness that has taken hold o’me. She lost her best friend, Riley, to another sort of illness that resulted in her life endin’ when she was only thirteen. And, when she finally began to heal from it all, she fell in love with a girl named Cat—who ended up breakin’ her heart into a million fragments.” Your grandfather frowns deeply, reaching out to grab hold of your hand. He runs the pad of his thumb across your knuckles. “Now, I dunno what exactly happened between y’two. And, maybe, Cat ain’t the reason she’s behavin’ this way. But I thought you deserved to know ‘cause I doubt she’d tell ya herself.”

Once again, responding to him feels too big of an endeavor for you to overcome. You feel conflicted whenever your grandfather tells you tales of Ellie’s past. On one hand, you’re appreciative of his words because you’re aware that he is likely to be your only source of information regarding her past. On the other hand, you wish Ellie would be the one to tell you these things. You wish she trusted you deeper so as to confide in you about things of this sort. But alas, that is not the case.

Your grandfather releases your hand and, with a small smile, he rolls his head to the side—thus conveying the fatigue lodged within his muscles. You stand from the chair, pull his duvet up to his collarbone, and press a kiss to his wrinkled and bearded cheek. Then, with a whispered ‘goodnight’, you take your leave.

The hallway is vacant and silent, shrouded in the absence of the girl who once would leave this room by your side. You remember the way you’d both have to stifle your voices at night while getting water. You remember tripping over a floorboard and catching yourself on her shoulder, causing her to burst out laughing. You remember reading to her in front of the fireplace—which is already snuffed out and cold.

You turn around, leaving the living room and heading back down the hall. You’re unsure why you even tried; of course she wouldn’t be here. Why would she? With a huffed sigh, you saunter down the hallway toward your bedroom. A few feet from your door, you pass Ellie’s. You halt.

It’s silent inside but, within, you know she resides. You stand outside of the door for only a moment, only long enough to hear that familiar gentility of her pencil scratching the page of her journal. She’s awake. It shouldn’t surprise you, really, considering she’d been spending every night for the past month staying up late with you. Her mind cannot rest just yet, for it’s gotten accustomed to your company.

Just as you’re about to continue your trek to the bedroom, your grandfather’s priorly spoken words ring through your skull. “What I do care to hear is an apology. I know Ellie pretty damn well enough to make a few guesses as t’what occurred. Somethin’ happened between you that crossed a very thin line between friends and lovers, right?”

Then you’re knocking on her door

The scratching of her pencil suddenly stops at the sound of your knuckles meeting the wooden door. You listen closely as her pencil clatters atop her desk and her journal snaps shut. Then the legs of her chair are scraping across the floor and her feet are approaching the doorway. The knob twists. The latch clicks. The door swings open.

Ellie’s standing there with dampened hair and an oversized shirt—the face of domesticity. The room behind her is bathed in the soft orange glow of candles, allowing the scent of citrus to absorb the space. She blinks, brows creasing. Then her voice, smooth and quiet, glides through the tense air between you.

“Do you need something?” The words are a bit harsh and blunt, though the softness to her tone is enough to prove she doesn’t mean for them to sound as so.

“I want to apologize.” You say. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I mean– well, to be honest, I thought the feelings were reciprocated. But I see now that wasn’t true and that I shouldn’t have assumed such a thing. I’m sorry. Or, to quote a woman I once knew… it was wrong and I was wrong and I am sorry.”

For a moment, Ellie does not reply. Then there’s a shift in her body. Her eyes glint something akin to ardor and her shoulders relax a little in the presence of you. Then, before you’re able to react, she’s taking a step forward and cupping your jaw in one of her hands. She leans forward, brushing her nose against yours, and whispers, “You weren’t wrong.”

Then she kisses you—soft and reverent. Her fingers flex against your skin, the tips of them pushing slightly into the side of your neck. She breaks for air, cheating heaving slightly. You halfway expect her to recluse in the way she had back at the frozen lake. But, instead, she dives right back in. And, this time, she kisses you with more ferocity than before—hungry and rapacious.

Her other hand finds the dip of your waist before she tugs you into her room. You follow, like a fish on a hook, as she shuts the door behind you with a light thud. Citrus fills your lungs, sharp and tangy and devout.

Ellie’s mouth never leaves yours as she stumbles toward her bed, your feet tripping over one another. Then the back of your knees is hitting the side of her mattress, drawing her hand to cup the back of your head as you fall onto it. The mattress dips under your guys’ amalgamated weights.

Breath leaves your lips heavily yet unhurried. Your lashes flutter, just enough to catch the sight of her like this: close and intimate and pious to the act of redamancy. Her pupils are blown and her lips are wet. She lifts her gaze to meet yours and, for a moment, you think you’re drowning in a sea of green hues.

Then she tips her head to the side and leans back in for more—more of you, more of this. Her mouth, open and shaky, presses into the soft spot behind your ear. She places kisses along the line of your jaw. Your head falls back, eyes lidded as you stare up at her wooden ceiling. She kisses down the column of your throat until she finds the pulse between your collarbones. Her teeth graze the skin there, drawing a gasp from your mouth.

Your hands find her head, half cradling it and hand yanking it. She chuckles against your skin, low and amused, before she comes back up to your face. Ellie hovers over you for a second, eyes darting across your features. Then she begins tracing her hands down the length of your body. Slowly does she move, fingers caressing each dip and waver of your skin.

Then she finds the hem of your waistband, running the pad of her thumb across the elastic. She hesitates, searching your face for any semblance of refusal. But, instead, she finds only awe and the willingness to allow her anything; everything. So long as she’s the one doing it.

With an avid nod, you grant her the permission to cross yet another thinly inscribed line within your relationship. Ellie is slow, savoury, as she dips her hand under the fabric of your pants. Almost instantly, you’re squeezing your eyes and breathing heavily. Ellie sinks forward, lowering her mouth onto yours. It’s not necessarily a kiss, but rather a fusion of devotion. She whispers your name, breathless and shaky, into your mouth as you breathe, heavy and shaky, into hers.

She stellifies you, turning your mind to mush and your body to pomace.

Before long, you’re on your back as your mind slowly comes back to you—emerging from the shadows of bliss as a shapeless creature that hasn’t the care to stay long. Ellie holds you through it all, whispering into your ear and peppering kisses across your face. From your nose to your chin to your cheeks, she kisses you. Then, once you’re present enough to do so, you snake your arms around her neck and pull her into a heated kiss. It doesn’t last long considering your lack of breath, but it’s enough.

Her hand is drawn out of your pants and presses into the mattress as she hovers over you, awestruck as she takes in the sight of your blissed-out face. You stare up at her, fond and vehement, before a small grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. Then you’re laughing, chest shaking as your eyes shut.

“What?” Ellie asks, genuinely confused.

“Nothing, nothing.” You say through your fit of laughter. “It’s just– I was expecting the exact opposite of this when I came to apologize. I thought you’d just ignore me, brush it off, or something.”

“Wanna hear a secret?” She inquires, rolling onto her side next to you. You narrow your eyes at her, nodding slowly as though you’re not sure if you trust this or not. Then she says, “I’ve been in love with you since we first met. Sixteen years old and shaking your hand at that snowy train station, I instantly knew I was doomed. That’s why I never talked to you. I was scared of fucking up my words or– I dunno, saying something stupid, I guess. But when you burned yourself with Joel’s coffee, I couldn’t help it. It was my fault that you spilled it at all but, also, I couldn’t stand seeing you in pain.”

You stare at her, lips parted and eyes widened. Ellie’s face is tinted in hues of red, blotching her pale skin in a display of chagrin. You turn onto your side as well, the mattress squeaking as your weight adjusts, facing her with that shocked expression.

“Eight years?” You ask.

Ellie nods, still blushing. “Eight years.”

“You could have told me! Or, if you didn’t want to admit it just yet, you could have said something to me!” You blurt out. “I thought you hated me!”

“Hated you?” She lets out a laugh. “I don’t think there’s a world in which I could ever hate you. You’re too well fused into my soul.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “Awe. That was shockingly poetic.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She turns onto her back, frowning at the ceiling. She has one arm propped under her head so as to act as a makeshift pillow. “I was being honest and you’re making fun of me.”

You giggle, rolling over so your chest is against hers. You’re practically on top of her, your face less than a foot away from her own. She blinks up at you, her cheeks turning an even darker shade of red. You press a short kiss to her lips. “I’m not making fun of you, El. I was just surprised to hear something so eloquent coming from you.”

“You don’t think I can be eloquent?” She asks, furrowing her brows playfully. You hum, feigning thought as if this is something needing a long moment of consideration. Ellie gapes at you, feigning shock. “Sorry I don’t read Shakespeare, but that doesn't make me illiterate.”

“You heard that?” You smile. “I thought you weren’t listening to our conversation at supper.”

“I’m always listening when you talk.”

FEBRUARY 11TH.

You know what your grandfather meant when he compared Ellie to your fallen mother. He hadn’t intended to suggest that Ellie could ever replace Sarah’s role as his daughter, he simply meant to say that they both withhold the same amount of sunny brilliance within them.

Despite priorly believing Ellie to be cold and bitter, you’ve since shoveled away her coat of snow to find nothing but warmth and kindness. She’s funny and gentle and caring and, honestly, you should have spilled coffee on yourself far sooner than you had.

Eight years, it was, that Ellie spent loving you whilst believing it to be one-sided. She’s told you stories from her perspective on all of which occurred since first meeting one another. When you were kids, she avoided you like the plague because she thought it would make her feelings go away. And, when she was seventeen and started dating Cat, all she could think of was you—which indirectly caused the end of their relationship. And, at eighteen, she knew for certain that these feelings would never go away. At twenty, she promised herself that she’d never utter them aloud to you because she didn’t want to infringe on your visitations with your dying grandpa. And, from there, she simply carried on her goal of staying away from you so as to protect you from the burden of knowing her.

She also recounted her thoughts regarding these past two months. When you spilled your grandfather’s coffee, she rushed to your aid due to feelings of guilt and devotion to you. Then, when you tried to befriend her, she continued to ignore you—not because she wanted to, but because she felt that she had to—which you told her was a silly reason. But, after a week or so, she was unable to take it any longer. All of the frustrations with herself that’d been accumulating for the past eight years were suddenly let loose when that mug broke. She was worried and she hated that she was worried, so she acted as though she hated you, despite that not having been the case. Then, for the following juncture in which you loathed her, she forced herself to act the same way to you so as to make it appear as though your hatred was reciprocated. But, again, she didn’t last long before everything was let loose. She apologized for everything, thus evoking your guys’ friendship. Then, when you kissed her at the frozen lake, she felt as though she’d not only failed herself but Joel, as well.

Of course, you assured her that all of these things were foolish seeing as she could easily have just voiced her struggles.

Anyway, for the past week and a half, you and Ellie have embarked on a new journey with one another. Not quietude, nor loathing, nor friendship. But, instead, truth—for once. You’re not officially dating, but you might as well be. You kiss her whenever she enters the house and, whilst within it, she cannot ever seem to rid her hands from your body. And each night, as darkness falls over the town of Jackson, your hands roam and your mouths meet in heated worship.

Your grandfather knows because, well, he always knows these things before you do. He seems to love it—despite Ellie’s worry. He claims to have always known through the way Ellie looked at you when she was sixteen. He also said, now that you’ve both finally accepted your mutual adulations, you’re prohibited from ever arguing again. Ellie laughed, saying she’d never dream of it.

“G’morning.” Ellie says as you trudge into the kitchen. You yawn, stretching your arms over your head, as the scent of coffee meets your nose. You blink a few times so as to rid the sleepiness from your eyes, then your gaze is searching for the source. That's when you notice the three mugs placed atop the counter. Ellie hands one to you. “Made you coffee.”

“I see that.” You reply in a whisper before pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Thank you.”

She smiles bashfully before grabbing hold of the other two mugs and beginning to carry them toward your grandfather’s room. You follow behind her, nursing your own drink, as she pushes the door open with her knee. Inside, your grandfather is already sitting upright in bed, writing something onto a sheet of paper. He turns at the sound of the door hinges creaking, smiling as he watches the two of you approach his bed.

Ellie hands him the mug before sitting at the foot of his mattress. You take the chair, watching as she helps him drink from the glass. Lately, his illness has been getting worse. He’s lost a lot of weight and his hands have become too shaky to eat or drink on his own. You worry for him; so does Ellie. Just the other night, you laid in her bed with teary eyes as you discussed your concern for his health. She comforted you, though you could tell she shared the same feelings.

“What were you writing about before we came in?” You ask as Ellie removes the mug from his lips.

“Jus’ in case.” His voice wavers from impending weakness. “I was, uh– I wrote a couple o’letters. J-Jus’ in case, y’know, somethin’ happens to me ‘n’ I don’t get the chance to talk t’everyone. Wrote one to Tommy. Wrote one to Maria. Wrote t’some old friends o’mine: Bill, Frank, ‘n’ Tess. Wrote two to Dina and her fiance. And, of course, I wrote the longest ones to my granddaughter and to my best friend.”

The room falls silent at that. It’s rather known that your grandfather hasn’t many days left. But for him to speak of it like this—in terms that make it sound so… solidified—it places a heavy weight in your stomach and it lodges a tightens in your throat. You suddenly don’t feel strong enough to speak. Ellie must notice this, too, because she’s the first to break the silence.

“You’re not going anywhere, old man.” She scoffs. “You’ll have the chance to talk to everyone and each member of their families. No need to write letters.”

“I know.” He agrees with a small nod. He doesn’t appear conflicted, nor does he appear sorrowful. He's just accepted it. Welcomed it, even. But this isn’t a truth which can simply be endured with a curt smile. It’s his death you’re talking about—the loss of your grandfather’s life. He shrugs. “It’s jus’ in case, anyhow.”

The atmosphere, after that, changes rather drastically.

The inside of the home becomes rather cold and frigid with the heavy understanding of what’s to come. Each night, you lie awake wondering if your grandfather has died while you’re not looking. Ellie falls asleep by your side, an arm draped across your chest, while you stare at the ceiling with a pit of despair lodged within your stomach.

You no longer leave your grandfather’s bedside for very long during the day. Upon waking, you make sure to check on him before brewing his coffee. Then you sit with him until noon as you help him drink from the mug. He tells you stories of his life—how he’d met Tess, how he’d officiated Bill and Frank’s wedding, and, of course, countless memories with Ellie.

Then, at noon, you cook lunch. Ellie sits at the island, speaking to you in a gentle voice as though she’s afraid you’ll shatter at anything else. She hugs you from behind as you wash dishes, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck. You don’t blame her for her touchiness, considering you’ve not been in the mood for anything more than kissing since realizing your grandfather was writing death letters. She assures you she doesn't mind, of course, and that she understands. But you still feel guilty. When her hands roam late at night or when her kisses descend to your breasts, you try to enjoy it. You do. But then your mind begins to stray and thoughts of your grandfather’s impending grave comes to mind. It makes you feel guilty for enjoying the act of being alive whilst knowing he’s lacking in his ability to do the same.

You three eat both lunch and supper together, trying desperately to ignore the elephant in the room. Your mood is dampened by the inevitability of losing your grandfather. But, as he and Ellie laugh together over bowls of stew, you think you’re the only one bothered by it all. Ellie says it’s wearing on her mind, as well, but you don’t see it.

And, on the sixth night since finding out about the letters, you walk with Ellie to her bedroom. It smells of citrus. She sits at the foot of her bed, unhooking her belt and peeling off her jeans. You flop backward onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling overhead. You breathe in and out, counting each breath you take because it’s the only way to distract yourself from the more tiresome thoughts. You reach forty-six before Ellie’s head pops into view. She hovers over you, her hair framing your face. You look up at her, frowning.

“How’re you doing?” She asks, shifting forward so as to be right beside you.

You sigh through your nose as your brow creases. “I don’t know anymore. He’s getting worse each day and I– there’s nothing I can do to help him. He says he’s fine, that he’s not hurting, but every time I speak with the pharmacist she says that dosage for painkillers has risen. How can– How are you not affected by it all?”

You roll your head to the side, watching Ellie from where she now lies flat on her back beside you. Her green eyes flick across the ceiling, her chest rising and falling softly. She’s dressed in her pajamas now, her skin cleaned and smelling of soap. Her lips twitch in thought as she ponders on your question. Then, with a thin smile, she turns to meet your gaze.

“I am affected by it.” She admits. “Of course I am. I’ve known Joel since I was fourteen and– he treated me like a daughter when all I needed was a parental figure. I know he’s told you about our past together, so I won’t go into detail, but– but I am affected by it. Every day, I’m affected by it. But I’ve chosen to not allow his illness to steal more from us. It’s already taken so much. It won’t take my memories of him, too. I don’t want my final recollection of Joel to be of him sick and in pain, dying. I want to remember him being strong, laughing, and enjoying life the way he’s still striving to.”

You feel tears build up along your bottom lashes. Your throat suddenly feels thick with a grief you’ve not yet been able to swallow. You sniffle and Ellie turns, frowning. She reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before swiping a fallen tear from your cheek.

“It’ll be okay.” She whispers, coming forward to hold you in her arms. You let out a choked sob as she hugs you close to her chest. She runs her fingers along your scalp soothingly. “It’ll all be okay. I promise.”

FEBRUARY 22ND.

It’s ten days later when you’re sitting at your grandfather’s side, your head on his chest, as Ellie reads aloud a page from her comic. Listening to the gentle thrum of his heartbeat soothes the ache in your heart. He rubs your back, though you can feel the shakiness of his hand as he does so. Ellie’s voice is soft as she reads the dialogue from the page.

A sudden knock is heard at the front door.

Ellie’s voice stutters to a stop, her head turning toward the sound. You, begrudgingly, lift your head from your grandfather’s chest and begin to stand. Ellie tells you to lie back down, assuring you that she’ll open the door in your stead. You don’t argue.

She places her book face-down on your grandfather’s lap before standing from the bed. She leaves the room and you listen to her footsteps slowly evanesce. You hear the front door open, straining your ears to hear who it is that she’s speaking it. But their voices are too muffled to make sense of. A woman, you think, you cannot tell. Then the door shuts again and you hear her footsteps approach the room.

But it’s not just her. There are three pairs of feet. You lift your head, sitting upright in the velvet and mahogany chair. Ellie turns the corner, entering the room before the other two. She holds the door for them.

Dina and her fiance are the ones to enter the room after her. Dina walks inside with a wide grin, coming over to hug your grandfather avidly. In the doorway, her fiance lingers awkwardly. He’s a tall man with black hair and a kind smile. He accidentally meets your gaze, giving an awkward wave.

“Joel!” Dina grins as she sits on the edge of his bed. “How’ve you been, lately? You look great!”

“There ain’t no– no need t’flatter me, Dina.” He chuckles heartily, his voice wavering with growing weakness. “I know I look like sh-shit.”

“Handsome and modest? Damn, you’re quite the prize, Miller.” She laughs, nudging him lightly. Then she glances over her shoulder at the man in the doorway. “Sorry, Jesse. Is it too late to decline your proposal?”

“Ha-ha.” He laughs sarcastically. “Yes, it’s too late. The invitations have already been sent out.”

“Invitations?” Your grandfather inquires.

“That’s actually what we came to talk to you about. Our wedding is scheduled for October.” Dina says with a smile, though it’s tinged with a bit of pity. The room is suddenly enveloped in quietude as the statement settles in. You know where this is going—he won’t be living long enough to see Dina and Jesse get married.

Jesse clears his throat when it becomes apparent that Dina’s strength has begun to falter. “Enough of that. We came to let you know of our wedding date and to invite you to a bonfire we’re hosting tonight. We only invited a couple friends and will last only an hour or two. There’ll be drinks and games, if you guys would have to tag along.��

“Ah.” Your grandfather muses shakily. “I– I’d love nothin’ more to– than to attend but I ain’t sure how well my legs w–work nowadays.”

“We thought of that, too.” Dina says with a smile. “Jesse’s great grandma visited a few months ago and bought a new wheelchair, so she left her old one. We could bring it over, if you’d like to try it out.”

Your grandfather thinks for a moment, weighing the options. Then he shrugs. “W– Why the hell not?”

It’s four hours later when you’re pushing your grandfather’s wheelchair into Dina and Jesse’s backyard. He’s dressed in thick winter clothes that Ellie picked out for him, claiming to know his style quite well. You were the one to dress him, though. The entire time, he laughed and made jokes while struggling to so much as lift his leg. You knew he was in pain, but you knew he didn’t want to acknowledge it. So you ignored it.

The snow isn’t as thick as it’d been during the prior two months, but it’s still frigid enough to make your nose and fingers feel like icicles. When you round the corner of their house to find a large and billowing fire, you notice the way your grandfather’s face lights up. You’re sure he’s missed this—being outside with his friends and family. Especially after eight years of being bed ridden and very seldom taken outside.

Dina welcomes the three of you with a wide smile and two drinks for you and Ellie. Then she leads the way to where you can put your grandfather’s chair. She has thick logs set up as seating for everyone else, situated at the perfect distance from the fire to remain warm yet not scaldingly so. There are a few other people here, chatting and laughing lightly. You don’t recognize any of them, but your grandfather certainly does because, the moment you situate his chair, he’s being bombarded with conversations and questions and laughter and memories.

You linger for a few moments, uncomfortable with the notion of leaving him. But then Ellis is tugging on your hand and beckoning you toward a game of cornhole against Dina and Jesse. With a light laugh, you follow her.

With a drink in one hand and a bean bag in the other, the game ensues. Dina stands beside you on Jesse’s team as the bags are tossed. And, as time passes and you become increasingly inebriated, your aim gets worse. But so does everybody else’s. In the end, Dina and Jesse win by two points. While you simply laugh and don’t care, Ellie is demanding a rematch and insisting Jesse can’t count.

You get another drink while the game is reset. Once you’ve returned, the teams have been switched. You’re now standing beside Ellie, who is on Dina’s team. You narrow your eyes at her and she winks, saying she’ll let you win. Dina curses at her, saying she can’t just let you win. You insist that she can.

The game begins and, by the end of it, you’re barely comprehensive of what’s happening. Ellie is in the same boat, if not worse, as her feet stagger with each throw. Jesse does the same, stumbling over himself and earning your guys’ team absolutely no points. By the end, Ellie and Dina win. Jesse is the one to demand a rematch this time despite being the drunkest one present. Dina grabs him by the arm and pulls him away to drink some water. All the while, he continues to demand a rematch.

“Good game?” Ellie turns to you, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. Her green eyes are lidded and bloodshot, her cheeks pink from the alcohol and the cold. She steps forward, snaking her hands onto your hips.

“Terrible game, actually.” You frown at her, though your arms betray you as they wrap around her shoulders to pull her closer. Ellie giggles lightly before lowering her head to your neck and pressing kisses onto the skin. You lean away, though it’s evident that you don’t intend to actually stray from her. Your hands tangle in her hair as you laugh. “You cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat, Jesse just can’t throw for shit. Especially when he’s drunk.” She says skin your skin, the vibrations of her voice sending a chill down your spine. Her mouth is cold and wet against your throat, making the kisses feel simultaneously wonderful and horrible.

“I prefer to be on your team, then.” You tell her.

“Do you?” She mutters against your jaw. “Because I prefer to be on Dina’s.”

You pull away from her with a scowl, laughing lightly. “Asshole.”

The world is a blur of bliss and ecstasy as the winter air breathes over your skin and the lights spin around you. The sounds of laughter and chatter fade away as you focus solely on Ellie’s mouth and needy touches. Her hand traces up your spine. And, for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel afraid to enjoy this moment.

You pull away, causing her to frown. But then you’re grabbing her by the wrist and tugging her toward the treeline. Jesse whistles as he notices the two of you taking your leave, Dina slaps him on the chest while still trying to coax him into drinking a bottle of water. You chuckle at them, shaking your head fondly as you lead Ellie into the trees.

Then, once you’re far enough to feel a semblance of privacy, she wastes no time in spinning you around and pressing your spine into the bark of a nearby tree. If it weren’t for the multiple layers of clothes you’re wearing, that would likely have hurt.

Ellie kisses you, hard. Her teeth graze your bottom lip as she memorizes the inside of your mouth with your tongue. All the while, her hands are roaming your clothed body. She can’t feel the shape of you nor the warmth of your skin, but she seems to enjoy this just as much. Perhaps she’s too drunk to care much. You reach up, hands finding the back of her skull once more and her hair threads between your fingers.

She hums into your mouth before her body shifts. You’re unsure what she’s doing until you feel her knee begin to spread your thighs apart. Your breath stutters for a moment before you nod and allow her to continue. She does, slotting her thigh between both of yours.

Your arms tighten around her as your hips roll back and forth. The world spins and swirls around you, fading away completely from your mind. She holds you tight, as she urges your movements to pick up the pace. They do, becoming hurried and a bit jagged.

You breathe warmth into her open mouth, filling that defrosted soul of hers with adulation.

When you both return to the bonfire twenty minutes later, Jesse can’t seem to stop teasing Ellie—who is still drunk and stumbling a little. Dina comes forward as the two of them sit by the fire. She hands you a glass of water and straightens your hair for you. You thank her, sipping on the chilled drink as it washes down your throat icily.

A few minutes later, you join everyone else around the fire. You sit between Ellie and your grandfather. He’s still talking to his old friends, catching on all of which he’d missed while bed ridden. One of them got divorced, one of them got a new knee, and one of them had a grandson.

You rest your head on Ellie’s shoulder as she rubs her hand up and down your back. You listen to your grandfather speak, his voice laced with happiness despite its light waver. She was right: this sickness has already taken so much from you; why not remember your grandfather like this instead of sick and in bed?

FEBRUARY 25TH.

Your grandfather passes away in his sleep three days after rekindling with a group of old friends. He went quickly and painlessly. But, still, he went.

You were the one to find him, lifeless and cold.

Despite knowing it was doomed to occur, you fell to your knees and sobbed. Ellie must have heard your cries because it only took a few seconds before she was rushing into the room. When she saw the scene, her heart audibly shattered within her chest. She lingered in the doorway, frozen, for a moment. Then she came forward and held you as you sobbed and sobbed.

It took two hours before you gained the courage to call Tommy. When he answered the phone, you could hear in his voice that he already knew what you were going to say. It was tinged with dread and grief. But, still, he let out a pained sound when you uttered those two terrible words—‘Grandpa’s dead’. He said he’d be home as soon as possible.

Dina and Jesse helped you and Ellie bury the body in the backyard. You could barely get any words out without crying. Ellie was recluse and silent, helping to dig the grave without speaking. Dina had tears in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything or ask any questions. Jesse was the one to officially place his body in the ground.

Two days later, Tommy arrived with a suitcase and a missing piece in his soul. He rushed into the house during lunchtime, but neither you nor Ellie had it in you to eat. Your head was in your hands, your spine arched as you shook. Ellie had a hand on your back despite being in a similar state of despair. Dina and Jesse were in the other room, having opted to stay until Tommy’s arrival so as to make sure you both were eating and sleeping.

Tommy went into his brother’s room, which was still shrouded with his scent and his spirit. There, he found the letters.

To my granddaughter,

The first time I ever saw you, you were a wee little thing. You were so small n so fragile. I didn’t even wanna hold you in the hospital for fear of breakin you. But your momma, my Sarah, insisted. She was always so strong n assertive, that woman. She demanded that I loved you. But she didn’t need to demand that. I already did. From the moment I laid my eyes on you, I already did.

When you were growin up, I saw you nearly every weekend. Your momma would bring you to my porch in a little pink stroller that Tommy had bought for you. She wouldn’t even need to knock on the door before I was opening it and pullin you into my arms. You always loved bein held.

Once you were old enough to walk, you were old enough to cause trouble. You painted on the white walls n shattered my momma’s ugly vase. You were a little nuisance, to be honest. But I loved you, even still, because I always would. And because your visits gave me an excuse to make spaghetti n bring Tommy over.

Do you remember spendin Christmas eve at my house when you were seven? I hope you do because that day was one of the best days I ever had. You came over with your momma to help us wrap presents for the neighbors. You weren’t good at wrappin, but we still let you do it because it was impossible to tell you ‘no’. You helped me cook a nice soup and you helped me decorate the tree. Then, when your momma was gettin ready to leave, you cried n cried. You begged her to let you have a sleepover at my house because ‘Santa brought Grandpa the best gifts’.

When your momma said she was movin away, I didn’t believe it. But, as it turned out, she hadn’t been lyin. Within that month, you were both packed up n ready to move three states away from Jackson. You cried when you told me goodbye, squeezing me so tight I nearly couldn’t breathe.

After that, I was lucky to see you once a year.

By the time I got sick, you were sixteen years old but, in my mind, you were still seven and beggin to have a sleepover. I thought I would die without ever seein you again. I now know how terribly wrong I’d been. And thank God for that. Tommy cared for me, but it wasn’t the same as when you came over that first Winter & said you’d be comin to visit every single Winter. Then, as if things weren’t already good enough, Ellie said the same thing. I thought, for sure, I’d died and woke up in heaven.

The two of you didn’t talk at first, but that was okay. I knew, one day, you would become best friends.

When your momma died, I thought my world was over. In a way, it was. I knew I’d never see that golden hair turn gray or that kind smile turn wrinkled. I fell into a pit of despair so deep I thought I’d never come out of it. But then, like clockwork, you and Ellie visited me in the Winter. You were grievin just as much as myself, but you still managed to come all the way to Jackson. Seein you, despite everything, is what pulled me out of my own grief enough to make the most of my final years on this earth.

And it's because of you that I’ve been able to smile, knowin life ain’t so bad. Because it gave me you.

All that to say, these past eight years have been tough, yes, but havin you girls here with me has made every second worth it. If I had to get sick a million times in order to see your faces laughin together, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

With every ounce of love in my heart,

Grandpa

notes. this took so long to write & would have taken even longer to proofread. so i just ,,, didn't proofread it. also because i'm not sure if i want to put myself thru that pain. anyway! i hope someone out there has the patience to read this all the way thru bc i'm so proud of it. love u guys !!

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