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theclairvoyage · 1 day ago

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Homecoming (i)

Joel Miller x f!reader

Freshly divorced and knee-deep in debt, you take a part time job at a local dive bar to make ends meet, which introduces you to a sexy, mysterious contractor. The attraction between you two is instant and painfully obvious - where will it take you?

WC: 10k

Warnings: Explicit - MDNI! eventual smut, eventual romance, mentions of divorce, infidelity, betrayal, alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, no outbreak AU

Folks - as someone who is newly divorced, making this story has been a great way to channel all the post-divorce laments and feels into something fun and healthy. And makes the single life a little more exciting. Hope you enjoy! It will be multiple parts, but I'm not sure how many as of yet. Please request/message me about anything you please :)

Divider by the lovely @cafekitsune <3

Summer 2024

A lot of things felt different today.

The usual comfy, pillowtop mattress in your bedroom now felt like a long slab of sandstone, cold to the touch from the icy night.

The sparkly, bragworthy princess cut wedding ring on your finger now felt like a heavy, rusty band of aluminum and cubic zirconia.

But most of all, you felt different.

In the blink of an eye, you made a decision that shifted everything. The carefully shuffled deck of cards had fallen onto the floor, strewn about like the once put-together buildings of a small, Midwestern town ravaged by a tornado.

You hadn’t even told your best friend yet, nor your family. This was unusual for you—but today, you felt like bearing the weight of this choice on your own. And it was heavy, a 20-pound weighted vest stitched to the seams of your skin, dragging your shoulders down with each step.

Ending a marriage is never easy. It’s never the end goal, from the time you say yes, to the time you say your vows.

Your mind races back to the first date you had with your soon-to-be ex-husband, almost a decade prior. The sweet, chivalrous gentleman who had been too scared to kiss you goodnight now seemed like a very distant stranger. Pictures from that very first date are still stuck to the walls of your living room. Oh, how you dread peeling those pictures off the wall.

And though the stone of dread was burning massive holes in your stomach, there was a glimmer of hope in the corner of your mind. You weren’t sure what it meant, but you knew you’d ride it out of this house and onto the next part of your journey like a magic carpet.

Fall 2024

Divorce was many things, but expensive is not the one you worried about the most. Until now.

Sure, you no longer had to split your paychecks into your personal account and the joint account, so it made it seem like you had more money, but that wasn’t the case. Rent, car payment, utilities, student loans, and the list goes on. And on. And one income instead of two hurts.

Your day job was cushy. But the debts of having to close joint credit card accounts with balances, lawyer fees, and furnishing a new townhouse had sucked you dry. It was time to supplement that income until the debts were paid off. Your family had given you a bit of change, but you threw it directly into your now-empty savings account.

Now, you find yourself scrolling through Google, analyzing the part-time jobs in your area. Cashier. Cashier. Clerk. Call center specialist. Customer service representative. Bartender. Cashier.

Bartender?

You click on the ad for a part-time bartender at a local dive bar, The Home Stretch. It’s one you’ve been to before, usually after a long workday or on a random Friday night with your friends. 15-20 hours a week, and not much other information besides “Call the bar and ask for Steve if interested.” It’s reminiscent of a Craigslist ad, which disgusts and intrigues you.

You scrawl the number on a nearby Post-It note and stick it on the back of your phone. I’ll do it tomorrow.

And you did. Steve is a gruff man in his early 60s eager for some help behind the counter of a dive bar he inherited from his father. “Preferably someone with a nicer ass than mine,” he’d said. You chuckled over the phone and mentioned you’d been to the bar many times before.

“Good, won’t need to show you the whole thing, then,” Steve had replied. “Just come in whenever you have time this week, and we’ll get started.”

“Sure thing, Steve. Thanks a lot,” you replied, not realizing until after that he’d already hung up.

Later that week, you show up at the bar around 8:30 PM after a long day at the office. The door swings open with a loud creak, alerting everyone in the vicinity of your presence. Less than 20 pairs of eyes, mostly from middle-aged men, dart quickly in your direction, forcing you to pause. You gulp and force a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

An older bald man perched behind the bar stares at you a bit longer than everyone else. A pair of bent, yellowed reader’s glasses threaten to slip off the tip of his nose as he scans you. You see the lightbulb illuminate in his head as he recognizes you.

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he says brusquely, reaching a callused hand to shake yours. His grip is firm, but short, and you guess that’s how he is as a person, too.

“Hey, thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you say, introducing yourself. He waves you off, like he had nothing better to do.

“Come back to the office and we’ll chat. Too many damn eyes out here,” he rasps, forcing a quiet chuckle from you. His reclusive attitude is a fresh shift from the fake cheery types you constantly deal with at work.

Steve leads you to a small office not far from the restrooms, a quick 20-step walk from the front of the bar. It’s stuffy and old and clearly hasn’t been updated since the early 80s. Wood panel walls, dirty linoleum floors, and a couple of file drawers stand out to you as you examine the small space. There’s no desk, but rather a cracked slab of countertop with three beat-up, green-cushioned barstools underneath. The only sound is the loud buzzing of the fluorescent lights above, which are caked with dead bugs and yellow stains. Gross.

Steve isn’t watching you but seems to read your mind as he shuffles some papers on the countertop. “I know, it’s a bit run down. It’s on my list,” he murmurs, chuckling quietly as he gestures at one of the barstools. You sit, expelling all the air from the cushion audibly. You can feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Steve chuckles again. “Don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s the goddamn stools.”

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. Steve sits at the far stool and takes his glasses off before turning toward you.

“I’ll be honest, I have no plans to actually interview you. You want the job, you got it. You seem like a level-headed gal, and not to be weird, but you’re attractive. You’ll do just fine here.”

Confused, you tilt your head at Steve while cocking one eyebrow.

“Are you sure? I haven’t worked in a place like this since high school,” you hesitate, studying his face. He laughs again.

“I’m telling you, this job is a piece of cake. And you can pick your hours. Are you married?” He asks, nodding toward the tan line on your ring finger. You rub it absentmindedly as you shake your head.

“No, got divorced this summer. Tan line won’t go away,” you respond, giving him another weak smile. He sucks his lips into his mouth in embarrassment.

“Sorry. Glad I asked, though,” he says.

“It’s alright, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last to ask me that,” you say, smiling genuinely now. Steve lets out a bigger laugh, catching you off guard.

“In this joint? Yeah, that’s a guarantee.”

Your first few shifts at the bar were a little shaky, but easy, nonetheless.

Steve trained you on the POS system the first two shifts before handing you off to Jerrica, a middle-aged woman who reeks of cigarettes. She’s tall and thin, covered in tattoos, and has the brightest blue eyes, which are lined on the bottom with thick, black eyeliner. Her deep, raspy voice and serious face are intimidating, but you learn quickly that she’s a very kind soul.

She quizzes you on the POS system and where things are located around the bar. You answer seamlessly, impressing her.

“Smart as a whip,” she beams at you, flashing some yellowed teeth as she smiles.

“I have some good teachers,” you reply with a wink.

The next month or so is a breeze for you, and you’re raking in a lot of extra cash. The hardest part is balancing the two jobs—and the many men that frequent the bar. All of them stare at you, most of them are polite, and some brave enough to ask you for your number. Jerrica warned you it would be like this, though she knew you could hold your own if needed.

One chilly, fall Friday night, a group of younger men, likely close to your age, enter the bar. It’s pretty busy—Jerrica and you have been hustling nonstop since around 8 PM. You catch a glimpse of them as they shuffle in and settle at one of the pool tables.

One of the men meanders up to the bar, and you can feel him staring at you from the corner of your eye. Jerrica takes the lead and approaches him.

“Hey, sugar. What can I get for ya?” she asks, wiping down the counter as he surveys the selection of beer and liquor. He stops and snaps his gaze at you when you walk by with a bucket of ice, dumping it in the cooler next to Jerrica.

“Her, if she’s on the menu,” he quips, smiling at you, looking almost reptilian. You size him up and arch an eyebrow, your face screaming unimpressed.

“She’s not,” Jerrica and you respond in unison, and his sly smile quickly turns to an embarrassed frown.

“J-just kidding. I’ll take a couple pitchers of Coors Light,” he squeaks, looking down at his wallet as he fishes some bills out. His cheeks are bright red. You stifle a smile and return to the back to get more ice as Jerrica pours the pitchers for him. When you come back, he’s gone and facing away from the bar.

“Poor kid, guess we ruined his hopes and dreams,” Jerrica jokes, making both of you giggle.

“He’ll get over it as soon as he finds one of his regular type bimbos,” you say. Jerrica cackles.

“I’m gonna go smoke, be back in a few,” she says, patting you on the back as she slips out of the bar.

You scan the bar, surprised by how many people are here. College football fans flock here during the fall for the pitcher specials and greasy bar food, and there’s not an empty table in sight. Thankfully, most people have stuck with ordering the pitchers, so you haven’t had to mix a lot of drinks yet.

A grunt interrupts your thoughts, and you snap your eyes in front of you to a well-built, middle-aged man in a green and black flannel, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn Wranglers. Your eyes meet and lock for a second longer than you’d like before you clear your own throat, which has suddenly gone dry.

“Sorry. What can I get you?” you ask him, noticing the corner of his mouth quirk slightly.

“Eagle Rare, neat. Please,” he responds, silky voice making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Fortunately, you’re adept at hiding your emotions, so he doesn’t notice the sweat form on your hairline as you try to find the bottle and pour him a glass. Or so you think.

“Here you go,” you say, propping the glass in front of him. He doesn’t grab it, though, he just stares at you inquisitively. You force yourself to meet his gaze.

Oh.

You knew from his voice that he’d be attractive, but you didn’t expect this. He’s fine fine. Curly, chocolate hair, streaked with silver. Aquiline nose. Strong, square, clenched jaw lined with a patchy beard. Thick, tanned neck. Deep amber orbs staring into your soul. He’s stoic, yet the lines on his face tell you he’s experienced all the emotions. Your heart flutters in your chest, vibrating like the quick wings of a hummingbird. Your mouth opens before you can think of anything to say.

“You got a tab?” you sputter, breaking his hot gaze to return the Eagle Rare bottle to the shelf. You swear you see him smirk.

“Yes ma’am. Miller,” he murmurs, his voice a little deeper and quieter than before. He’s staring at you without a semblance of shame, and you can feel it burning into your back. You turn to enter everything in the POS system, taking deep breaths absentmindedly.

“Nervous?” The man asks, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. If you thought you were hot before, you’re feverish now.

“W-what? No… why would I be nervous?” You stammer, arching an eyebrow as you continue messing with the POS system, ensuring that you don’t make eye contact with him. Too bad for you, because he sits down on the stool in front of you and meets your gaze.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. His eyes communicate so many different emotions to you; primarily, amusement. There’s a hint of mischief and something a little more dangerous, a little more smoldering behind it. He cracks a smile at you, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. You need him to leave. Now.

He chuckles before answering you. “Just seem a little uptight, s’all,” he croons, smile reaching the corners of his Hershey’s Kisses-colored eyes. Their warmth is captivating and calming, almost as if they slow time. Ironically, that’s the last thing you want right now.

“Busy night,” you reply quickly, giving him a brief smile before pretending to organize the coasters and napkins next to the POS system.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. See ya around,” he says, standing up and returning to his table in the back of the bar. You smile back at him, baring teeth this time, and nod before turning your back to him to restock the cooler.

It’s a good thing you don’t catch the way his eyes sweep your frame, lingering on your ass for a moment longer than he’d like them to. And your smile brought some heat to the back of his neck, so much so that he feels the need to cover it up with his hand as he saunters back to the table.

Dazed and confused, you barely register that Jerrica has returned from break until the stench of cigarettes threatens to give you a migraine.

“Hey, who is that guy over there?” you ask her, turning your back toward the man and pointing your eyes in his direction. She smirks once she sees him.

“Joel Miller, and he’s a hot commodity here,” she says, chortling quietly. Her eyes sweep back to you, and she lowers her head before continuing, devilish smirk on her face.

“You interested? He really doesn’t entertain any of the women here.”

Skeptically, you narrow your eyes at her before turning around to gaze at him again, which turned out to be a shitty idea because his intense eyes are already on yours. A quick panic sets in, and you whip around to face Jerrica. She chuckles.

“Oh, he might entertain you, though… just based on how he’s staring at you now,” she teases, trying hard not to laugh.

“Jesus. I’m taking my break,” you huff, snatching your phone from a cubby underneath the bar and walking toward the back patio before she can say anything else.

“I can help you with that!” Jerrica calls out to you, her voice drowning in the sound of the bar as the patio door slams shut.

Once outside, you close your eyes and inhale deeply. The brisk autumn air sooths your airways, and you can feel your heartbeat finally slowing to normal pace. The fire pit in the middle of the patio is calling your name. You plop down in one of the freezing metal chairs next to it and watch the flames dance, not noticing the squeak of the patio door as it opens.

“Mind ‘f I sit here?” A deep, rich voice asks, startling you from your trance. It’s that sexy rugged mysterious man, Joel Miller.

Fuck.

You shake your head and gesture to one of the chairs, not meeting his eyes. “No, go ahead.”

He half-smiles and pulls back one of the metal chairs next to you, sitting with an audible groan. You chuckle quietly.

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, eyeing you inquisitively.

“Sounded like it hurt,” you tease him, still not looking at him. He laughs. Not only does it sound genuine, but it awakens something in your belly you didn’t expect. Something molten. You look at him, discovering that once again, he’s already looking at you.

“Finally,” he says quietly, almost an exasperated whisper, eyes traveling your face as he takes a sip of his whiskey.

“Hm?” you ask, confused. He finishes the glass before setting it on the empty chair next to him, swishing the spicy liquid around his mouth before swallowing. You study the muscles in his neck and jaw as they flex and groove. He turns to face you again.

“Y’been avoidin’ my eyes,” he says, tilting his head at you ever so slightly, as if silently asking you why.

The heat in your belly rises, enveloping your chest and neck. You scoot away from the fire to cool off.

“Oh, s-sorry. I try to keep my distance from customers. Makes work a little easier,” you stammer, hoping he’ll buy that. It’s not wrong, but it’s not the main reason you avoid his gaze.

“I see,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you that indicates he knows. His gaze flicks down to your hands, which are held up near the fire. “Are y’cold?”

The heat in your chest says no, but the shivering of your limbs says yes. You shake your head.

“I’ll be going back inside soon. I’ll be fine.”

He stands suddenly, and you wonder if you’ve upset him—that is, until you see him shrug off that green flannel.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Well-built doesn’t seem to cover what you see as he shows off his bare forearms and the muscles peeking from beneath his worn t-shirt. You can tell he’s done manual labor for a long time from the carving of his muscles and the scars that litter his tanned, freckled skin.

“Here,” he says, walking behind you to place the flannel over your shoulders. The act catches you off-guard, and you’re frozen in place. His hands smooth the fabric over your traps, sending electricity from the source to your spine. The scent of his flannel drapes you, also—a rich combination of amber, pine, and whiskey.

“Oh, that’s nice of you. Thanks,” you say, watching him as he walks over to the empty chair housing his empty glass. You smile at him once he makes eye contact with you, and his pupils dilate imperceptibly.

“Don’t mention it. I’m gonna order another whiskey, y’can wear it as long as y’need to,” he says, half-smiling at you again. You watch him as he re-enters the bar, paying close attention to how his jeans hug all the muscles below his torso and acquainting yourself with his confident saunter.

“Jesus,” you whisper to yourself, burying your nose in the collar of his flannel and taking a deep breath. The smell is so good, so unique—it’s not something you’ll forget easily.

You check your phone and notice that your 15-minute break is well over. Absentmindedly, you slip your arms in the sleeves of Joel’s flannel and head back inside. It’s still busy, but people have shuffled out, meaning the night is starting to end. Thank god.

As you step behind the bar, Jerrica smirks at you as she notices your new garment. You shake your head and roll your eyes at her before grabbing a pad of paper and pencil to take inventory of the coolers. She sidles up to you, giggling.

“Yeah—he’s interested in you,” she rasps, making your spine stiffen.

“He’s just being nice. It’s kinda cold out there,” you say, waving her off. She giggles again.

“Uh huh. You gonna keep it?” she teases. You shake your head before heading back into the kitchen toward the walk-in refrigerator, feeling his eyes on you. Your stomach twists and flips as you picture his face, arms, and hands from just moments ago on the patio.

When you come back with a basket full of beer, you notice his seat is empty. Disappointment rushes over you. You see a stack of cash and a receipt next to the POS system. Jerrica is pressing buttons on it.

“He left this for you,” she says, smirking at you again. She points toward the stack of bills and the receipt, which is flipped over. You notice some blue ink scrawled almost illegibly on the middle of the paper.

It’s a phone number; with an area code you don’t recognize. There’s a message underneath.

Call me sometime. Keep the flannel.

-Joel

Your chest feels tight, and your stomach is flipping in overdrive. You re-read the message probably 20 times before folding it into your pocket.

“I told you!” Jerrica says, pointing her index finger at you. “You better not let that one go.”

“I don’t even know him, and once he finds out I’m divorced, he’s probably going to change his mind,” you say, scowling at her. She huffs, irritated.

“He’s divorced, too. You forget he’s older than you. I’ve never seen him give his number to anybody in the 5 years he’s been coming here,” she says, impressed.

“I’ve been out of the game way too long, Jerr—I don’t even know how to approach this,” you admit, embarrassed. She grabs your hands and squeezes them.

“He’s a good guy. He’s not the frat boy type, obviously. Just call him and go from there,” she says, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Call him? What is this, 1995?”

She guffaws. “Honey, he’s old like me. He’s probably no good at that texting stuff.”

“I guess we’ll see,” you say with a snicker.

Later that evening, after a great close, you sink into the couch in your living room. The cushions envelop you, along with the borrowed flannel you’re still wearing. Joel’s scent is still clinging tightly to the fabric, entrancing you each time you inhale. That, and the lingering stench of beer and tobacco.

You check your phone. It’s late, and you need a shower. You sit up, rubbing your temples. Joel’s face invades your thoughts every few moments. Usually, when you meet someone new, you have a hard time picturing their face in totality—like you can only remember fragments. Your brain fills in the missing pieces with faces you already know, creating a strange amalgamation of a person.

Joel, though? Nope. You remember every detail, from his patchy salt and pepper beard to his tanned, lined forehead. You remember the way he looked at you, how his eyes bore into you like a laser beam. And each thought makes your stomach churn.

Perhaps it was too soon to get back into the game—though you were free now, and you had nothing but time. You enjoyed his attention and admiration—it was much different than the attention you didn’t receive during your marriage. And he was divorced, too, so maybe he had some words of advice for you.

Absentmindedly, you rub the skin on your empty ring finger. The tan line has faded over time, and you’ve grown accustomed to the absence of the once-heavy ring you wore. You turn on the shower and disrobe, tossing the stress on the ground along with the pile of clothes.

As you scrub the day away in your scalding shower, a thought emerges.

You step out, dry off, and reach for Joel’s flannel after moisturizing your bone dry, red skin. You button it up until you reach your chest, leaving a scintillating section of skin exposed. The flannel is long enough that it covers the most private parts of you, but the tops of your thighs peek out.

After checking yourself in the mirror 30 times, you pull your phone out and snap a mirror picture. You compose a message to Joel’s number, which is still unsaved, and type a quick sentence before attaching the picture.

I think I’ll keep the flannel if you don’t mind.

You crawl into your crisp sheets, put your phone face-down on your nightstand, and count sheep.

Saturday morning rolls around, and you’re squirming under the sheets. Not because you didn’t sleep well, but because a vivid dream surged through your mind. One that involved your hot, naked skin sandwiched between your sheets and the hot, naked skin of a familiar man.

As you lie there, you replay the montage of events in your head. His hot breath in your ear, whispering sweet praises. His teeth scraping the skin on your neck and chest, leaving little petechiae in their path. His strong hands gripping your ass as he plunges deeper into you, bringing you closer to the edge with each thrust.

You sit up and rub your eyes, grabbing your phone to check the time. It’s almost noon, and you’ll be back at the bar in roughly 4 hours.

3 new messages.

Suddenly, you aren’t groggy anymore, remembering the risque text you sent to Joel before you slept. Your stomach somersaults as you open the messages.

Joel: Jesus Christ.

Joel: Looks way better on you anyway.

Joel: What a nice way to wake up.

Your neck heats up at his compliments. You type a witty response.

You: Thank you. Surprised you can text more than 2 words at a time. You chuckle before putting the phone down and getting ready for the day, still clad in his flannel shirt.

Saturday night at the bar made Friday night seem like a cakewalk.

The place was packed wall-to-wall, teeming with drunk football lovers of all ages, races, and creeds. Jerrica and you barely had time to take your singular break—and Steve helped man the bar all night, which said a lot. One young bartender called in, and the other two showed up hungover, so they were worthless.

You half expected Joel to come, but he never showed up. You ignored the cold feeling of disappointment curling around your ribs, and instead reminded yourself that you really don’t know him, and he has a life of his own.

Now, it’s 1:00 AM, and the bar is starting to empty, lifting some weight from your shoulders. The place is filthy—bar food everywhere, chairs strewn about, trash littered on the floor and tables. Jerrica emerges from the patio, blowing the last puff of cigarette smoke out before stepping into the bar.

“I’ll clean up, hon’—you take your break,” she orders you, tone half serious, half playful. You nod, trading the towel you’d been using to wipe the counter for a bottle of beer. Steve doesn’t mind whether you have a drink or two toward the end of the night during your break, and you haven’t indulged until today. An ice-cold domestic beer sounded heavenly, like stumbling upon an oasis after trekking through the Sahara for days.

You step out onto the patio, plopping down in your usual chair in front of the fire pit. It’s cold tonight, but the heat from your sweaty skin keeps you from noticing. You kick your feet up onto a nearby chair and lean back, gazing at the stars while you take swigs of beer.

The patio door screeches as it opens, but you’re too tired to look up. Probably another patron needing a smoke break.

“Thought maybe y’weren’t here today,” a familiar, deep Southern voice fills the air. You snap upright in your chair, repressing the grin threatening to push against your cheeks.

“Could say the same for you,” you tease him, watching him approach you. He’s got a ratty, long-sleeved Texas Longhorns shirt on and the same beat-up Wranglers he had on yesterday. You take a slow sip of beer, catching the way his eyes lock onto your lips as they kiss the bottle.

“Watched the game at my brother’s. Figured it’d be a shit show at any bar within a 50-mile radius,” he says, swishing around the whiskey in his glass as he watches you.

“You’d be correct, sir,” you reply, tilting your head back to down the rest of your beer. Joel gulps audibly—hearing you address him that way and seeing your exposed neck do something to him, something he needs to stifle.

“Couldn’t resist stoppin’ by, though,” Joel says, ambling over to the chair occupied by your legs. The pitch and tone of his voice have changed, from friendly to raspy, almost sultry. Your pulse quickens. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why’s that?”

He chuckles lowly, his deep chocolate eyes transfixed on yours. The heat coming from them is enough to make you sweat, and his velvety laugh makes your core ignite.

“Think y’know why,” he responds, sipping his whiskey, eyes unmoved from you. The scenes from your dream emerge in your head, forming knots in your stomach. The hairs on the back of your neck prick your skin as they stand.

A few moments pass by before he sets his glass down on an empty chair. Hands free, he lifts your ankles up and sits in the chair, propping your feet on his lap. His thumb strokes the skin between your shoes and the bottom of your cargo pants, sending tiny sparks through the pores there. This is the second time he’s touched you, and both times it’s felt like mild electrocution.

“If you’ve come to retrieve your flannel, you’re out of luck. It’s not here,” you taunt him, steering the conversation where you both want it to go. His hand slips under the leg of your pants, stroking the skin on your shin and calves. You twitch at the new sensation.

“Ticklish?” he asks, stopping to grip your calf lightly. You shake your head.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” you admit, your voice quiet. The tension between the two of you is palpable, almost painful. The primal urge to jump onto his lap and kiss him has you in a chokehold. He grunts, interrupting your carnal thoughts.

“Heard you’re divorced,” he says, fingers massaging the tight muscles of your calf. It’s slightly painful, but the release of tension feels amazing.

“Is there a question in there?” you quip, raising a brow at him. With a laugh, he nods.

“Yeah, finalized a few months ago. Started working here to pay off some debt from the split,” you respond, trying to remain lighthearted.

“Been there myself. S’not a fun time. Got any kids?”

You shake your head. “Neither of us wanted them in the beginning, and then he changed his mind.”

He purses his lips, nodding slowly. “S’tough but makes the split easier when y’ain’t got any.”

“I take it you have kids?” you ask, curious. He nods again.

“Just a daughter. She’s in college now. Split up when she was real young,” he tells you, moving to massage your other calf. He lightly digs into your flesh, hitting a knot in your mid-calf. You yelp and grip the arm of the metal chair. Your reaction embarrasses you, and you clap your hand over your mouth. Joel’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth rising slowly in a devilish smirk.

“Sorry. That hurt?” he asks, switching from kneading to light stroking of your skin.

“Just tight, is all,” you reply, the heat from the back of your neck moving to your ears.

“Mhm. Don’t need that now, do we?” he says, increasing the pressure of the strokes as he tries to tackle the knot. His hands feel good, and you find yourself closing your eyes as he works the knot out. You resist the urge to moan as his fingers massage your tight muscles.

His fingertips slow their pace after a few minutes, stopping to rest at your ankle. You open your eyes and look at him.

“Reckon y’gotta get back in there,” he says teasingly, squeezing your ankle. You sigh heavily.

“I know. Thanks for the massage. What do I owe you?” you ask him, pulling your feet off his lap to stand. He watches as you adjust the waistband of your pants, accidentally revealing your navel to him in the process. He clutches the glass of whiskey in response.

“Another glass of whiskey,” he murmurs, before dropping his voice to add, “And maybe another picture of you wearin’ my shirt.”

Your heart jumps into your throat, and you force a swallow to shove it back down into your chest. You take a step toward him, and he stands from the chair. He’s a little taller than you, but not by much.

“I usually don’t send strangers multiple pictures of me… especially ones where I’m not wearing much,” you tease, watching the way his eyes trace your lips. You swear you hear a growl bubble in his throat.

“Guess I gotta work on that, then,” he says, itching to caress your lips with his finger.

“Well, you know where to find me,” you respond, sidestepping him to return to the bar, huge grin plastered on your face.

2:00 AM rolls around, and Joel’s still at the bar. You emerge from the office with your things to find him propped against the bar, chatting with Jerrica. He’s facing her, but his eyes move to you, sweeping up and down your frame as you approach.

“I’m heading out. You good to take me home, Jerr?” you ask her, clocking out on the POS system.

“Of course. Let me finish up here and we’ll go,” she says, squeezing your arm affectionately. She bids Joel farewell before finishing up her closing duties, leaving you two and the magnetism between you alone.

“I’ll take you, if y’want,” Joel offers, fishing his wallet out. He grabs a stack of bills and divides them, placing one half on the bar and giving the other to you. Warmth blooms in your chest. He tips you way too much, but it’s a kind gesture.

“Sure, I’d like that. It’s not too far from here,” you tell him, “Just let me tell Jerr.”

“Not a problem,” he says, hopping up, shoving his hands in his pockets as you walk over to Jerrica to tell her.

“Better get yourself a breath mint,” she whispers, pinching your arm lightly. You sniff your breath in the palm of your hand and wave her off.

“I’m good. Nothing will happen anyway,” you say, rolling your eyes. She giggles, pulling a stick of gum out of her back pocket.

“Just take it, and no tongue on the first one!” she teases you. Your neck flushes again, but you pop the gum into your mouth and make sure it’s chewed up enough to hide in your cheek before Joel sees.

You’re giddy as you exit the bar. Joel’s hand finds your lower back as he guides you out the front door and through the parking lot to a fancy pickup truck parked in the spot furthest from the door.

“You’re one of those people, huh?” you ask him. He chuckles.

“I could use the steps. S’lotta work fillin’ in paint chips from door dings, too,” he grumbles. He walks you over to the passenger door and opens it for you, offering his palm as leverage as you hop into the elevated seat. His hand is warm, and a little sweaty. You wonder if he’s nervous, too.

He trots over to the driver’s side and starts the truck, turning the volume knob down as Waylon Jennings croons over the speakers. You smirk at the small action, wondering if he’s embarrassed by his music choice or the fact that he was likely singing on his way here.

You guide him to your place, which is less than ten minutes from the bar. He’s a great driver—calm, smooth, and not too fast. His right elbow is propped on the center console, just inches from your arm, though you keep your hands clasped in your lap. Your nerves ignite as you get closer to your place, anticipating what may or may not happen once he drops you off.

He pulls in the driveway of your townhouse and parks the truck.

“I’ll walk you up, stay put,” he commands softly, getting out of the truck and walking to your door. He opens it, offering his hand again as you step down.

The knots in your stomach are so tight, it feels like you might throw up. You can’t remember the last time you were so nervous with a man, if ever. You let go of his hand once you’re on level ground, wiping your clammy palm on your pant leg. He follows you to the front door, hand locating your lower back once again.

“Do you want to come in? If not, it’s okay. I know it’s late,” you offer, gauging his face as you press the keypad to unlock the door. His flaming eyes and the clenching and rolling of his jaw say yes, but the stiffening of his shoulders betray his hesitation.

“Mind ‘f I use the restroom?” he asks, gaze flicking between both your eyes. You smile warmly at him and nod, not missing how his eyes lock onto your lips immediately.

“Not at all,” you reply, opening the door and pointing toward the bathroom, down the hallway beyond the living room and kitchen.

He saunters down the hall, hopefully not noticing the way you’re checking him out, marveling at how well his jeans fit him and that goddamn suave walk of his. He shuts the door, and you exhale deeply, pressing your back against the now-closed front door.

You ponder the next steps as he’s in the bathroom. One, he could just leave. Two, he could kiss you goodnight, and then leave. Three, he could… well, you can’t think about option three, which closely resembles your dream from the previous night.

As you hear the sink in the bathroom turn on, you scurry over to the kitchen sink to wash your own hands, giving you a quick distraction from your nerves. The door opens as you scrub your hands, fingertips pressing hard into your palms to relieve some tension.

His footsteps approach you just as you’re drying your hands, your back facing him. He gets closer until you feel the warmth of his body radiating behind you. He takes the towel from you and places it on the counter before placing a firm, strong hand on your shoulder and turning you toward him.

Fuck. This is it.

Hand still clasped to your shoulder, he stares into your eyes and moves in closer to you. The proximity of him and the realization of what’s about to happen has you seeing stars in the corner of your eyes.

After what feels like eons, Joel’s lips finally meet yours, softly and pliantly. The kiss is tender, but deliberate, like he knows exactly what he wants, but needs to make sure you’re at his level before progressing. The hand on your shoulder wraps around your upper back, and his other hand grips your waist to pull you flush to him. His warmth is hypnotizing, and you melt into him, completely at the mercy of his touch.

You respond, wrapping your arms around his solid torso, feeling his strength and the span of his back as he deepens the kiss. His scent overwhelms you, giving you a euphoric head rush. He tastes like whiskey and mint, and you wonder when he slipped an Altoid or piece of gum into his mouth between the bar and now, like he knew this would happen. Butterflies scatter throughout your body at the realization.

His firm hand on your upper back moves to the other side of your waist, and he hoists you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, taking you by surprise. You squeak, and he breaks the kiss momentarily to laugh, the deep, silky sound shooting straight to your core. His palms rub on your thighs before traveling up to grip your hipbones, calloused fingertips grazing bare skin between the waistband of your pants and the hem of your shirt. You moan lightly at the touch, spurring him on. His hands reach further under your shirt, stopping at your sides, thumbs swiping at the soft skin surrounding your navel.

Joel’s lips travel down your jaw and land on your neck, teeth grazing and tongue swirling on the sensitive skin. You moan again, louder this time, as his mouth sends shockwaves of pleasure up and down your spinal cord. He groans in response, gripping you tighter and kissing up to your earlobe. Your legs are hooked around the back of his thighs, pulling him close, and you feel his arousal on your hip.

You’ve never been kissed like this before, not even the first time you made love with your ex-husband, or on your wedding night. It feels surreal, almost cinematic—like you’re shooting a love scene with a hot stranger, ignorant to the surrounding cameras and crew. Your body is aflame with passion, burning you from the outside in—the flames twisting around each vein inside you, heating the blood that travels back to your core.

Joel breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, panting. Both of you exchange labored breaths for a few moments as you recollect the last few minutes.

“Think I better get goin’,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you gently before hoisting you off the countertop.

“Too much to handle?” you tease him, walking him to the front door. You hear him growl, and in the blink of an eye, he grabs your waist and pushes you against the front door before closing the gap between you, his hips flush with yours. There are only inches between your lips, but you can taste the hunger emanating from him as he stares into your eyes.

“You have no idea what I wanna do to you, darlin’,” he hisses, hands squeezing the globes of your ass as he leans in to kiss you again. You moan into his mouth before reaching up to tug at the curls on the nape of his neck, pulling his lips off yours. He sucks in a sharp breath.

Oh. He likes that.

Still clutching his curls, you rub your thigh against the erection threatening to bust his jeans. “I think I can guess,” you tease him, moving your leg up and down his length. His eyes close in pleasure, and he groans softly. You cup his jaw and bring him in for one more searing kiss.

“No need to rush things,” you coo, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb as he watches you, wrecked. He chuckles before letting go of you, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Alright then. We’ll take it slow,” he rasps, smoothing curls out of his sweaty face.

“Does that mean you want to see me again?” you ask coyly, batting eyelashes at him.

“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” he replies, kissing you one more time before heading out to his truck.

Fucking hell.

Only been a few hours, but it feels like days

Only been days, but it feels like months

Life moves fast when you’re doing what you want

I guess I’m doing what I want, hope you’re doing what you want

The next four weeks didn’t go at all how you expected them to.

You worked at least 3 shifts at the bar each week, and Joel didn’t show up once. Worse, he didn’t text or call you, either. You went from understandable—because he’s probably busy—to confused, then upset, and finally, bitter.

And then you sat down and had a real conversation with yourself about expectations. Were they too high? Were you out of the game too long to scrutinize this logically? Were you being too clingy? You’d only texted him a few times, noticing that the messages hadn’t delivered normally, like he didn’t have service or blocked your number.

The fiery kiss you two shared lingered in your mind every day. The morning after it happened, you’re positive you’d lied in bed for an hour just replaying each moment before daydreaming about how the night would’ve progressed had he stayed over.

The combination of his rough and soft touches had you aching for him—the firm gripping of your hips as he lifted you on the countertop, the soft strokes on your delicate skin. The way his lips and tongue moved so smoothly with yours and the flaming trail they’d left on your neck and jawline sent shivers up your spine. And left you unbelievably horny.

Each time you’d thought of the passion, the feelings of regret and embarrassment soon followed. Though that was the single life, you figured. It was time to accept the new normal.

Now it’s Friday night, and you’re late for your shift at the bar. You’d left the office late after enduring a chaotic day, which put you directly in the crossfire of rush hour traffic. That, and a perfectly timed late fall, early winter freezing rain spell had immobilized traffic and put you a couple hours behind. You called Steve and Jerrica—they were understanding, of course. But the stress of your day and the feeling of letting the bar down had you in a foul mood.

You roll in at 8 PM, more than 2 hours after you normally come in. Flustered and frustrated, you power walk to the back office to drop your stuff off, noticing that it’s busier than normal. Finally, you make it behind the counter. Jerrica is pouring some pitchers but glances your way with a smile.

“Jesus, Jerr. I’m so sorry. It was an awful day,” you lament, pulling your unkempt hair out of your face. You looked a mess, wearing a slightly small t-shirt and old, ripped jeans. Not exactly cold-weather friendly, but that’s what you get for giving yourself 5 minutes to change.

Jerrica chuckles as she hands the pitchers off to customers. “I understand, hon. Really, it’s fine. We’ve had a good crowd tonight.”

“Thank god. Need me to stock anything?” You glance at the cooler, noticing that it looks a little barren.

Jerrica nods. “Please, and I’m low on ice, too.”

Eager to fix the mess you helped create, you start to work. Four buckets of ice, several trips to the fridge and back, and one sheen of forehead sweat later, everything is stocked. The bar is still busy, but a rare quiet moment where everyone seems to have a full drink gives Jerrica an opportunity to take a smoke break.

“Be back soon. Don’t hurt ‘em now,” she teases you, squeezing your upper arm as she trots toward the patio.

You take a moment to scan the tables, nodding or waving at most of the regulars. It’s a relief to work in a place like this, where the majority of them are nice, blue-collar folks just trying to relieve the tension of the American work life, and you know they appreciate the work you put in.

Your heart stops when you see a familiar head of curly hair atop broad shoulders in his usual spot. And of course, as usual, he’s already looking at you. There’s a smile on his face, and fuck, he looks good. He looks a little fatigued, obvious by the faint, dark circles under his eyes and overgrown stubble, but nonetheless thrilled to see you. The curls on his head are mussed and flattened in certain spots, like he had a hat on for a while and hasn’t had time nor energy to fix them.

And then you remember you haven’t seen or spoken to him in about a month, and the polar vortex swirls in your chest. You smile at him, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, and distract yourself with organizing the cash drawer, hoping that he feels the cold front.

Jerrica returns from break, sidling next to you. She must feel the ice emanating from you.

“He asked about you,” she says, not looking up at Joel. “Said he’s been crazy busy with work and hasn’t had good cell service where he’s been. Some odd job a few hours away. He seemed real sorry, honey.”

A heavy, resigned sigh escapes your lungs. You close your eyes and lean your head back, inhaling deeply before facing her. She was the first person you told about the kiss and the subsequent ghosting. She then let you know that Joel was a successful contractor who’d been running a business with his brother for years, a detail he neglected to share with you. You knew you were probably being harsh, but a little communication would’ve put you at ease.

“I get it, just wish he would’ve told me. It would’ve taken two seconds,” you say, closing the drawer and turning to face her. She mirrors you.

“You look exhausted, girlfriend. Take a break and take a beer with you if you need it.”

“Fine,” you reply, feigning stubbornness. Jerrica laughs before handing you a bottle of your favorite domestic beer. You grab your sweatshirt from under the register and slip out back.

Thankfully, it’s empty out here, leaving you alone with the crackling flames of the fire pit. And though the beer is the same temperature as the air outside, it feels damn good as it washes down your throat. You sit as close as possible to the fire, propping your elbows on your knees as the warmth invades your space.

Like clockwork, the patio door swings open and out comes Joel. Your back is facing the door, but you know it’s him—the familiar scent and staccato of his footsteps give him away. Two hands lightly squeeze your shoulders, making your scalp tingle and chest tighten. He starts rubbing them softly.

“These are tight,” he murmurs as his hands work up your traps and neck, shrinking the knots embedded in the muscles there. His deep voice is raspier than usual, like he’s been yelling.

“Been stressed,” you respond, closing your eyes as he rubs the stress out of you. You want to be pissed, but don’t have the energy to put up a front anymore.

“I can help ya with that,” he murmurs. You puff out a quick breath, frustrated—at him, and at yourself for being frustrated with him. Joel squeezes your shoulders a little tighter, leaning down. His beard tickles the skin on your temple, and your pulse quickens.

“’M sorry,” Joel hums, lips close to your ear, “I shoulda called, or let you know what was goin’ on. Been busy myself.”

“I understand, Joel. It would’ve been nice to know. I thought maybe it was me,” you answer quietly. He sighs in response, letting go of your shoulders and plopping down in the chair next to you.

He places a hand above your knee and squeezes lightly. “You did nothin’ wrong. The opposite, actually. I ain’t been able to get you outta my mind since I left that night,” he admits, chuckling softly. Finally, you bring yourself to look at him.

He looks exhausted up close, the sharp edges of him a little worn, but still ruggedly handsome. His eyes are less amber and more muted brown, like they haven’t seen the light in a few days.

“You look tired,” you say, reaching up to fix some of his messy curls. He closes his eyes as you touch him, like it provides him with instant relief.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he murmurs, pulling your hand from his head toward his mouth, planting a soft kiss on the top. The gesture floods you with guilt. He smiles at you, a silent It’s okay.

“Wanna make it up t’you,” he adds, kissing your hand again before returning it to your lap.

“I’ll allow it,” you tease him.

“Let me drive you home. Tommy has my truck, and it’s slick out there,” he asks, squeezing above your knee lightly. The now serious tone of his voice indicates that this is not a request, but a soft command. You cover his hand with yours and squeeze in response.

“That would be great,” you respond. “Though I’m going to need a long shower—I didn’t have a chance to take one in between jobs.”

He raises an eyebrow as he removes his hand from your leg, jaw clenching as he imagines what your body looks like naked and soaked. He can only imagine it’s perfect, given how good you look in clothes.

“Gonna make the rest of the night difficult,” he laments playfully. “Guess I deserve it, huh?”

You shrug, doing your best to stifle a smirk. It feels like time to head back in, and Joel senses it too.

“S’alright, I’ll be waitin’ for ya when it’s time to go,” he says, scooting closer to the fire. He turns to watch you walk back into the bar, and you catch him as you glance back right before the patio door closes, his eyes glued to your ass. Your cheeks and neck flare with heat.

The rest of the night was filled with nervous anticipation. You went from telling yourself that you’d get a repeat make out session from the first night, to entertaining the possibility of having sex with Joel. The thought of it frightened and thrilled you—it would be the first person you’d slept with since your ex-husband.

After a smooth night, closing time rolls around. After several mop buckets and restocks later, you emerge from the back office. Joel is waiting for you at the bar, the usual stack of bills propped on the counter in front of him.

“I wanna know details,” Jerrica whispers in your ear as she walks up with you. Your cheeks heat up again, and you widen your eyes at her, an unspoken Shut up.

“You’ll be the first to know,” you reply, sly smile playing on your lips. She giggles, waving bye to Joel as she makes one last round of the place before locking up. Joel is watching you approach him, equally giddy and nervous as you. He’d been thinking about what would go down tonight, too—and boy, he was ready to give you everything you wanted. The electricity between you fizzes in the air, like a firework moments away from exploding.

“Ready, darlin’?” Joel asks, standing from the stool and shoving his wallet in his back pocket. You nod, the nickname charming you.

Joel walks you to your car, and again, his hand finds home on your lower back. It’s a gentlemanly gesture, but the feeling of his hand on you makes your core throb. He opens the passenger door for you, offering a hand as you shift weight on the icy pavement and get in your car. You have a nice sedan—one of the only things you purchased on your own during the marriage, much to your ex’s chagrin.

Joel handles the slick roads like a pro, never losing traction. He remembers exactly where to go to find your townhouse. Throughout the ride, you find yourself growing sleepier with each passing streetlight. You’re so tired, you hadn’t noticed he laced his fingers with yours on the center console. It was sweet and domestic, like you’d done it a thousand times before.

You arrive, and like last time, Joel tells you to stay put while he trots around to open your door. Your eyes fight to stay awake—the stress of the day is threatening to drown you. Joel notices.

“Tired, sweetheart?” He asks, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walk inside through the garage.

“Me? Never tired,” you lie, sleep already taking over your voice. Joel laughs as he helps you walk up the few steps that lead into the kitchen.

“Let’s get you to bed, huh?” Panic sets in. You don’t want him to leave, and through the blanket of fatigue covering you, you feel guilty.

“Joel,” you say, turning around and putting two hands on his chest. He looks into your eyes, trying not to laugh at how sleepy you look.

“Hm?” He responds, smirking at you.

“Please stay with me,” you ask. The smile fades from his face as he notices the expression on your face, like you’re worried about him leaving in the middle of the night. He cups your face in his warm, rough hands, marveling at how gorgeous you are, even in your half-asleep state.

“’Course. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He responds immediately, enveloping you with his strong arms, kissing the crown of your head softly. He hoists you up, searching for your bedroom in the dim lighting of your place. He finds it, nudging the door open with an elbow before gently placing you on the bed.

“Let’s get you some clothes,” he soothes, flicking one of your nightstand lamps on. The low light paints him in an amber glow, and though your eyes are half-open, you watch him amble around your room.

“Top drawer,” you mumble, pointing at your dresser. He opens it up and pulls a big t-shirt out.

“Wait, I need to shower—I ne—,” you stammer, before Joel shushes you.

“S’okay. Y’can shower in the morning. Let’s get you to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos, helping you sit up. You feel like a helpless baby, but you’re so exhausted. You’d have slept in your jeans if he wasn’t here.

He undresses you, peeling the sweaty shirt from your torso. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of your half-naked torso, dotted with tattoos and soft skin, mesmerized at how your old t-shirt bra complements the tone of your skin and the curve of your breasts. You’re beautiful, even in your rattiest clothes. He pushes the soft tee over your head, doing his best not to ogle. You unclip the bra underneath the shirt, pulling it through one of the arm holes. Joel chuckles.

“S’magic, how y’all do that,” he says, making you giggle. You lie back, ready to fall asleep. Joel pats your leg.

“Y’can’t sleep in jeans. What d’ya sleep in?”

“Panties,” you mumble, eyes closed. “Middle drawer.”

Joel clears his throat uncomfortably and opens the drawer, impressed with the variety of underwear he sees folded in it. He pulls a pair of blue cotton and lace panties and returns to the bedside, trying like hell not to imagine what you’d look like with these on. And though his desire for you is strong, he is ever the gentleman, wanting never to overstep your boundaries. He pauses next to you. You sit up, exhausted but aware of his hesitation.

“I’m gonna use the restroom, darlin’. Be right back,” he assures you, his soft, deep voice caressing your eardrums. He steps into the bathroom connected to your bedroom and shuts the door softly.

You take the cue and peel your jeans and underwear off, replacing them with the blue panties, appreciating his respect for you and your privacy. You lie back down and turn your lamp off, your tired eyes quickly welcoming the darkness that paints the room.

Half-asleep, you slip under the sheets on one side of the bed, back facing the bathroom door. Moments later, Joel emerges quietly, and the telltale clink of a belt buckle tells you he’s taken his jeans off. Though moonlight seeps through your blinds, it’s not enough to see him as he prods toward the bedroom door to shut it.

He gets into bed and reaches for you immediately, the warmth of his body cloaking you like another blanket. You reciprocate and wrap your arms around him, inhaling deeply as he nestles you against his chest. The scent of him is hypnotizing—amber, pine, cedarwood, and whiskey. A blend that is eclectic and brooding, yet warm and romantic. He strokes your hair as you melt into him, your legs tangled together under the crisp sheets.

He presses his lips to your forehead and whispers goodnight before sleep finally takes over you.

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

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

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