Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I guess this is home now.”

You were sweating before you even turned the ignition off. Two hours alone in a U-Haul with no AC, no music after the aux cable snapped, and nothing but that sick churn of emotion in your gut. You stared at the peeling trim of your dad’s house, wondering if it had always looked this small or if you’d just gotten old enough to notice.

It was hotter in Austin than back home. Not that "home" meant anything anymore.

You sat there for a minute, fingers resting on the keys, your throat tight with the weight of everything you hadn’t said. Then you exhaled sharp through your nose, opened the door, and stepped out into the heat. The driveway was cracked. The mailbox leaned like it had given up.

Figures.

The door creaked open before you could knock. Your dad stood there, squinting, rubbing his jaw like even seeing you stressed him out.

"You made it," he said. Not warm, not cold, just factual.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

"Long drive?"

"Mmhm."

He looked at the truck behind you, hands on his hips. “You bring your whole damn life or what?”

You didn’t answer. Just went back to unlatch the cargo door. Half of the boxes were labeled, half weren’t. Some still had your mom’s handwriting on them from years ago, Winter Coats, Old School Stuff, Baby Blankets. You hadn’t even packed. You’d left in the middle of a fight and stuffed your life into cardboard while shaking with rage.

Your mom said she didn’t want you living in the unfinished basement of her new husband’s house. Not with his precious five and eight-year-old kids running around, breathing up all the good air. She said it wasn’t safe. That you were too angry, too rebellious, too much.

"You’re nineteen now," she’d said, arms crossed like a shield. "We can’t keep letting you blow up every time you don’t get your way."

You’d screamed at her. Told her you weren’t a babysitter. That you weren’t going to be shoved in the basement while her stepkids got their own bedrooms. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise her voice.

She just looked tired.

That was the worst part. Not the yelling. The calm way she let you go.

She said “Maybe your father can do better.”

And now here you were.

Your dad took one of the lighter boxes, didn’t ask where you wanted it. Just disappeared down the narrow hall toward the second bedroom like the decision had already been made.

You followed, arms aching. The place was exactly how you remembered it, dated blinds, couch stained with old beer, a stack of unopened mail on the counter. It smelled like dust and microwaved burritos.

The second bedroom was small. Not enough room for your stuff, not really. But it had a bed. Sort of. A frame with a lumpy mattress and an army surplus blanket. The closet still had tools in it. You didn’t say anything.

You weren’t picky anymore. You were tired.

You carried four more boxes in silence. He finally muttered, “You didn’t have to bring all this.”

You dropped one down harder than you meant to. “Yeah, well. Mom and Jeremy didn’t exactly give me a storage unit.”

That earned you a look. The kind he used to give you when you’d sneak out to parties or skip curfew in the summer. The you’re your mother’s daughter look. But he didn’t say it this time. Just rubbed his neck and walked back out to the garage.

You followed, swallowing it all.

You’d barely graduated high school. Not because you were dumb but because you were angry. Restless. Rebellious. You went to parties, snuck out windows, made out with losers in the back of beat-up trucks just to feel something. You weren’t bad, not really. But you were reckless in the way girls get when they stop feeling seen.

Your mom kept you under a tight leash. And when she couldn’t control you anymore, she replaced you with a man who wore loafers inside and kids who colored on the walls.

You didn’t even say goodbye to them. Just packed your shit and left.

You hadn’t spoken to your dad in nearly a year. Not really. A few holiday calls. A couple half-hearted texts. He never asked you to visit after mandatory custody ended when you turned eighteen. You never asked to come.

But when you called, eyes red, voice shaking, saying “Can I stay with you?” he didn’t hesitate.

He just said, “Yeah. I’ll clean out the back room.”

You shoved some of the boxes into a corner of the garage. You didn’t even know what was in half of them. Your life, you guessed. The leftovers.

You turned around, arms crossed, your tank top clinging to your back with sweat.

That’s when you saw him.

A truck door slammed next door. You looked up, blinking at the sunlight, and caught sight of a man stepping out, broad shoulders under a faded gray shirt, jeans that hung just right on strong legs. He didn’t look over. Just grabbed a grocery bag from the passenger seat and walked up his porch steps like he had a purpose.

The screen door creaked and clanged shut behind him.

Your dad scoffed, low and bitter.

You glanced sideways. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothin’.”

But he said it like a lie. Like something sour sat at the back of his throat whenever that man appeared.

You lingered a moment longer, eyes on the quiet house next door, heart still pounding from the drive. You didn’t know who he was. Not yet.

But you’d remember the way he didn’t look at you. And the way your father’s jaw clenched like that silence meant everything.

The sun had dipped behind the rooftops by the time you finished dragging your last box inside. A pale orange glow bled through the blinds, the shadows in your new room stretching long and unfamiliar.

You peeled your shoes off with your heel, kicked them near the closet, and sank onto the edge of the bed with a groan. The mattress was just as uncomfortable as it looked, stiff and thin, springs threatening mutiny.

Still. It was a bed.

You sat there for a moment, staring at the boxes you hadn’t touched yet, hands limp in your lap. Part of you wanted to curl up and cry, let the day—and everything it meant—crash over you like a wave. But that part of you was buried deep now. Had to be. You were nineteen. Grown, apparently. On your own, whether you liked it or not.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up and started unpacking.

You filled the tiny closet first. Folded jeans. A few hoodies. A mess of T-shirts, some too faded to read. You didn’t own anything fancy just leftovers from your high school years, party tops from a life that already felt like someone else’s.

The dresser groaned when you pulled it open. You shoved in your underwear and socks, tried not to think too hard about the fact that this room had probably belonged to someone else once before dad moved in. Or worse had never really belonged to anyone at all.

The last box you opened held a mess of random shit. A photo frame you forgot you even packed, the glass cracked. A bottle of expired nail polish. Old notebooks with lyrics and drawings and angry, unread letters scribbled in the margins.

You were placing the photo frame on the windowsill when you noticed it.

The window across the way.

Your bedroom faced directly toward the house next door. The curtain on the opposite window was partially open, revealing a sliver of a room bathed in warm yellow light.

It was.....clearly a man’s space.

No frills. Dark bedding. A few jackets hung haphazardly on wall hooks. A duffel bag tossed by the foot of the bed. A nightstand stacked with what looked like paperback novels, maybe a watch. Reading glasses.

There were no candles. No frilly pillowcases. No hint of a woman.

You stood there, hand resting against the glass, the photo frame hanging forgotten in your grip.

Was that his room? The man from the truck? Who else would it belong to?

You squinted slightly, just for a second. Imagining.

What would he be like up close? He looked quiet, older, but strong. Not like your stepdad with his fake authority and loud voice. Not like the boys you used to kiss in the backs of cars just to feel something.

Just as quickly, you caught yourself and tore your eyes away.

Jesus. You were creeping through a window on your first night.

You turned back to the boxes, cheeks flushed even though no one was watching.

You finished unpacking in silence. Your thoughts drifted, as they always did when the room got too still.

Back to your mom.

To her tight, unreadable smile when she told you Jeremy’s kids needed the space more than you did. That you were “too old” to still be under her roof. That maybe it was time for your dad to step up.

To Jeremy himself, smug, clean-shaven, always sipping some overpriced IPA and looking at you like he knew who you were.

“You’ll never amount to anything,” he said once, loud enough for her to hear.

And she didn’t correct him.

She just looked away.

You tried not to cry then. Just like you weren’t crying now.

Your fingers slowed as you pulled the last drawer shut. The quiet in the house felt different now, less empty, more like a breath being held.

You thought about the summers you used to spend here in Austin.

When you were little, your dad would light sparklers in the backyard, take you to baseball games, buy you ice cream with sprinkles even though he said it was gross.

But once you hit thirteen, the distance crept in like mold. He stopped knowing what to say. Stopped trying, really.

When you got moody, he shut down. Let you go off on your own. Stay out too late. Come home with smeared eyeliner and a pounding head.

He never yelled. He never hit you.

But he stopped being your dad.

And you stopped needing him. Or told yourself you did.

Until now.

You headed down the narrow hallway, the old floorboards groaning under your bare feet. The living room was lit only by the soft flicker of the TV. Your dad sat in the recliner, legs stretched out, beer bottle resting on his belly.

You cleared your throat. “Hey.”

He looked over, like he hadn’t realized you were still awake.

“I was gonna ask…..you wanna order from that pizza place? The one you used to get when I was little?”

He blinked at you, surprised. Then nodded once. “Already did.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

“Figured you’d want pepperoni and banana peppers,like always.”

Something in your chest pinched.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He shrugged, but there was something quieter in his eyes now. Not warm. But not cold, either. Maybe just tired. Maybe trying.

You sank onto the edge of the couch, unsure if you should speak again.

But then, of course, he ruined it.

“I expect you to have a job by the end of the week,” he said without looking away from the TV. “Ain’t gonna be like your mama, useless and sittin’ around all day.”

Your mouth went dry.

The flicker of warmth went out like a candle in the wind.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at the muted commercials playing across the screen.

Of course. It was too much to ask for even one soft landing.

Upstairs, your room still smelled like cardboard and old memories.

And across the way, behind the slightly parted curtain, the man’s room still glowed with light.

Chapter Text

The next morning came fast and hot.

You rolled out of bed sticky with sweat and regret, headed straight to the bathroom, and squinted under the unforgiving flicker of the overhead light. The mirror was streaked. The grout between the tiles black with mold. The toilet had a permanent rust ring like it hadn’t been properly scrubbed since dad moved in.

You sighed.

Not the worst place you’d stayed. But not much better, either.

You brushed your teeth and jumped into the shower, if you could call it that. The water pressure sputtered like it was on its last leg, and the hot water gave up on you halfway through shampooing. You rinsed as fast as you could, half-blind from the sting in your eyes.

By the time you stepped back into your room wrapped in a towel, you were freezing and annoyed. The window was cracked open to catch the breeze, and it actually helped, the early morning air lifting some of the humidity off your skin. You moved toward the dresser, flipping through drawers for lotion and a bra and your eyes flicked instinctively to the window across the way.

Still partially open. Still uncurtained.

It looked empty, but you couldn’t be sure. The light inside was soft, filtered. The bed made. The duffel bag gone.

You stood there a moment too long. Then dropped the towel anyway.

Just for a second.

You added “curtain rod” to the mental list you were forming, along with bleach, shower curtain, toilet brush.

You got dressed in silence, hair still damp, then gathered up your things and headed out to return the U-Haul.

The Uber driver home was friendly, which annoyed you more than it should have.

“Back in Austin, huh?” he said when you told him.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Sort of starting over.”

He asked about work. You said you were looking. He nodded like he already knew the answer.

“Been there,” he said. “I just deliver food. Doordash, Uber. Pays alright when it’s busy.”

You told him you worked at Taco Bell last year. Barely graduated. No college. No direction.

He said, “Good luck. Austin’s tough. Especially this far out.”

“Great,” you muttered, staring out the window.

You took the hint and started job hunting right after.

You weren’t desperate enough to go crawling back to fast food, not yet. You tried upscale restaurants, hotel lobbies, anywhere that had a sign in the window and AC pumping.

You looked nice. Presentable. Hair brushed, makeup simple. You practiced your smile in the car mirror and still felt like an imposter.

You got two on-the-spot interviews. One at a front desk, one at a restaurant downtown with white linen napkins and a hostess who barely looked at you.

Both ended with “We’ll let you know.”

You were used to that part.

By the time you made it to Walmart, the sun was starting to sink and your legs were sore from walking in worn-down sneakers.

You grabbed cleaning supplies first, bleach, toilet cleaner, the good kind of sponges. Then a cheap plastic shower curtain and a curtain rod for your bedroom window.

You tossed in your favorite comfort snack without thinking, then circled back for a bottle of body wash that didn’t smell like despair.

You paid in cash. You didn’t want your dad seeing your card statements. Didn’t want anyone knowing what parts of your life you were trying to clean up.

By the time you got home, your hair was frizzy, your shirt was clinging to your back again, and your heart felt heavier than it had that morning.

You changed into something more comfortable the second you got home, ratty sleep shorts and an oversized tee, the kind of outfit that felt like armor after a long day of pretending to be someone worth hiring.

The air in your room was stuffy again. Your window was cracked open from earlier, letting in a thin breeze and the faint sound of cicadas. You tossed your Walmart bags on the bed and headed for the closet.

Your dad’s old tool bag was heavier than you remembered, half-rusted and smelling like motor oil. You rooted around until you found what you needed, a screwdriver, a few mismatched brackets, some bent nails, a level you didn’t know how to use, and exactly zero instructions.You dragged over the stool from the bathroom and eyeballed the placement above the window.

It was just a cheap-ass curtain rod. Shouldn’t be that hard, right?

Wrong.

The screws wouldn’t catch at first, the drywall crumbling a little with every twist. You muttered under your breath, sweat gathering at the back of your neck. Your fingers ached. The screwdriver slipped and nearly stabbed your palm.

Still, you kept at it, gritting your teeth, grunting a little as you leaned your full weight into it.

Finally, with one last twist, the damn bracket held. You let out a breath and lifted the rod into place.

That’s when you lost your balance.

Your foot slipped slightly on the stool. You gasped, reaching for the wall and caught yourself just before you could fall flat on your ass.

And then you felt it.

That weird, unmistakable sensation of someone watching.

You looked up.

Across the way, in the golden light of the bedroom window you were trying so hard to block out, he was standing there.

Leaning slightly to the side, arms crossed over his chest, grinning. Not mocking, just.....amused. Warm.

You froze, screwdriver still in your hand like you’d been caught mid-burglary.

But then, you smiled. You couldn’t help it.

Fuck, he was handsome.

The quiet smirk, the faint laugh lines, the scruff catching the light.

You gave him a small wave with the hand that wasn’t holding a weapon.

He nodded once, still grinning, then turned away and disappeared from view.

You exhaled.

Your heart was pounding like you’d just run a mile. Your hands were clammy. And—you shifted slightly—yep. You were a little wet.

Awesome.

The curtain swayed slightly in the breeze as you stepped down from the stool, your feet finally back on the ground.

But your head was still somewhere in that window.

You unpacked the rest of the Walmart bags in silence, peeling off sticker tags. The new shower curtain—cheap white plastic with barely-there flowers—hung limply in the bathroom, already wrinkling. But it was clean. That was enough.

You left the tools piled near your bed. You’d deal with them later.

The house was too quiet again.

You made your way downstairs barefoot, dragging your fingers along the railing, feeling the grooves of old chipped paint. Your stomach grumbled, but you weren’t really hungry. You just didn’t want to be in your room anymore. Not right now.

Your dad was in his usual spot, recliner, stretched out like a king of nothing. The TV was on but muted, and the glow flickered across his face in uneven pulses. You noticed the cluster of beer bottles beside him. Six. Maybe more behind the chair.

He didn’t look up.

“You find a job yet?” he asked, voice already slow and sticky with drink.

You hesitated. “I applied a bunch of places. Couple interviews.”

That finally got his attention. He turned his head. “Yeah? And?”

You shrugged. “They said they’d let me know. It’s only been a day.”

He snorted. A dry, sharp sound.

“Of course not.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned forward with a grunt, reaching for another beer from the six-pack ring at his feet. His fingers missed the loop, stumbled, then caught it. He cracked the tab.

“I said, of course they didn’t hire you. You’re just like your mother. Pretty enough to get looked at, not smart enough to get picked.”

You froze. The words hit harder than he probably meant them to.

“Excuse me?”

He stood up.

And for a second, the silence in the room felt thick enough to drown in.

“Don’t sass me in my own house,” he said. Not loud. Not yelling. But steady in a way that told you it wasn’t a joke. “You’re lucky I even let you come back here after the shit you pulled growing up.”

You stared at him.

At the man who didn’t show up to your eighth-grade graduation, who used to nod along when your mom said you were “just a phase,” who stopped trying when you started disappearing.

There were a thousand things you wanted to say.

But you didn’t.

You just turned and walked upstairs. Quietly. Carefully. Like the creak in the floorboards might set him off.

Your door clicked shut behind you and you leaned against it, breathing slow through your nose.

Across the way, the mans light was off.

For once, his window was empty.

You hated how that made you feel. Like you’d missed something steady. Like the world tilted just a little more without him there.

Chapter Text

You didn’t expect it. Honestly, you barely remembered the interview. You were half convinced you tanked it somewhere between the stammered greeting and forgetting how to spell “hospitality” on the application.

But then your phone rang.

You answered too fast, heart stuttering in your throat.
“Yes?”
“Hi! This is Stacey from the restaurant you came in yesterday?”
“Oh yeah. Yes. That’s me.”

She asked if you were free for a second interview. The head manager this time.
You said yes before she even finished.
“I can be there in thirty minutes.”

You got dressed fast. Brushed your teeth in record time. Hair pulled back into something neat enough. You didn't look great, but you didn’t look homeless either. That had to count for something.

You wiped the sweat from your palms on your jeans as you walked into the restaurant again. It felt different today. Brighter. You even smiled at the hostess, who gave you a lukewarm one back.

The interview was with a woman named Tori, sharp eyeliner, sharper eyes, and nails that tapped against her clipboard like a lie detector.

She looked you over and then down at your paperwork again.

“You said you’re nineteen?”

You nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

She tilted her head. “Not much experience.”

“No, ma’am,” you said again, trying not to flinch. “But I’m a fast learner. And I really want this.”

That must’ve been the right answer, because her eyes softened a little.
“We’ll train you,” she said finally. “Start you on evenings. Weekends too if you’re free.”
“Totally,” you said. “Whenever. I’ll be here.”

“Only thing is,” she added, “you’ll need to pick up your own uniform. We don’t supply pants or shirts. Black slacks, black button-up. Shoes too. Closed-toe. Non-slip if you can find them.”

You nodded, stood up. “Thank you. Really.”

She gave you a half-smile and said to expect a call before the weekend.

You walked out feeling like a human being again.

The thrift store was halfway across town, but you didn’t care. You found it by memory, still next to the same sad gas station, the same cracked sidewalk. Inside it smelled like old denim and dryer sheets, and the air was too cold, but it felt familiar in a way that made your stomach ache.

You were holding up a pair of black pants, squinting at the faded tag, when someone said your name behind you.

“Holy shit.”

You turned.

Tabby Parks. Her hair was longer now, and she was tan in the way only girls with pools and time got. You used to spend your summers with her, trading friendship bracelets, sneaking out windows, kissing boys who didn’t matter.

“Tabby?”
“Dude!” She pulled you into a tight hug before stepping back to look you over. “You look good.”

You shrugged. “I look tired.”

“Well, yeah. Same.” She grinned. “I just worked a double shift at the hospital and now I’m out here digging for cute stuff before I leave again.”

“Hospital?” you blinked.

“I’m going into my second year. Pre-med,” she said like it was no big deal. “I’m gonna be a doctor.”

“Wow. That’s…that’s amazing.”

She looked at you, still smiling, but something in her eyes flickered. “What about you? What’ve you been up to?”

You hesitated, then decided honesty was easier. “Not much. Kind of a mess, honestly.”

“That sucks,” she said, and her voice was gentle. “But hey, house party tonight. Couple of the old summer crew’s gonna be there. You should come. Get out of your head for a night.”

You smiled, the first real one in days.
“Hell yeah,” you said. “I’ll be there.”

Your dad was sober when you got home. For once.

“That’s amazing, honey. Knew you could do it,” he said, not quite smiling. He was perched in his recliner like always, TV remote in one hand, six empty beer bottles on the side table just out of reach. The kind of sober that was technically true but still teetering.

“Thanks,” you said cautiously, not wanting to break the fragile truce. “They’re gonna train me."

He grunted, which you chose to interpret as approval.

“I was gonna go out tonight. See some old friends.”

He didn't even look at you. “That’s fine. Just be back by midnight.”

You scoffed. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

He turned to you then, eyes sharp. “I know. But you’re still living under my roof. My rules.”

You didn’t bother arguing. “Okay. Whatever.”

Back in your room, you flopped onto your bed and stared at the ceiling. You passed the time reading, scrolling through your phone, tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt. The minutes ticked by slow. You weren’t even sure you wanted to go out anymore. But you also knew you didn’t want to stay here.

You needed something.

You dressed slow. Pulled on the black miniskirt with the thigh slit, the low-cut halter top, the little lacy bra you kept around for moments like this. You threw sweats over top and tied your hoodie around your waist, like armor.

You hadn’t gotten laid in a while. Maybe tonight would change that.

Your eyes flicked to the window again.

His curtains were open more now. The light in his bedroom glowed soft and amber. His shadow moved behind it.

It wasn’t the first time you’d noticed. And lately...you’d noticed a lot.

You pulled your own curtain aside, pinned it. Just enough to make it look accidental. The sheers did nothing to hide you, not really, but the gesture mattered. It was like saying hi without opening your mouth.

You wondered if he saw. You hoped he did.

It was almost 11 by the time you slipped past your dad, now dozing with an empty bottle still balanced between his knees. You left the door unlocked. You always did.

The party was out at that old farmhouse, the one everyone used to sneak out to when they were fifteen and stupid. It hadn’t changed. Still smelled like dirt and warm beer and cheap perfume.

You found Tabby quick. She was already buzzed, red cup in hand, her laugh loud and free. She pulled you into a hug like you were still sixteen. Like everything in your lives hadn’t splintered.

“I missed this,” she said. “I missed you.”

“Me too.”

Beer pong came next. Then shots. Then more boys than you could keep track of, their names slurring together like lyrics you used to know. You ended up on the lap of a guy with arms the size of your thighs and a laugh that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t your type—too pretty, too loud—but you wanted to feel something. Anything.

You followed him upstairs.

He finished fast in your mouth, barely touched you. You stayed on your knees, wiped your face with the back of your hand and stared at him as he promptly rolled over and passed out.

“That’s it?” you muttered. “Fucking kidding me.”

It was 2:45 by the time you pulled into the driveway. You weren’t drunk, but you weren’t sober. Your skin still hummed with frustration. You just wanted to get into bed. Or maybe your vibrator. Or both.

The door was locked.

“Of course,” you whispered, jiggling the knob like that might magically fix it.

You’d snuck in a hundred times before. Muscle memory kicked in. You climbed up onto the HVAC unit, hands gripping the rusted edge of the gutter just enough to balance, then reached to crack open your window.

You were halfway through, one foot wedged against the vinyl siding, when a voice startled you.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerked back and nearly slipped.

A man’s voice. Not your dad’s. Lower. Rougher. You turned, squinting against the dark.

The handsome neighbor.

Standing in his window across the way. Bare chest. Sweatpants. Hair a mess. Light behind him casting his face in a sleepy gold haze.

Your stomach dropped and twisted.

“Uh..hey,” you stammered. “I, um. Got locked out.”

He exhaled like he was already annoyed, but not surprised. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m coming.”

You froze on the HVAC unit, heart pounding.

He saw you.

Not just now. Earlier. Days ago. Tonight.

Maybe all those times you lingered by the window weren’t one-sided after all.

You swallowed hard and adjusted your skirt, your pulse hammering with something that wasn't quite shame.

He was coming.

You hopped down from the HVAC unit as quietly as you could, brushing the dirt off your palms like it could erase the embarrassment prickling up your spine.

“Sorry if I woke you,” you mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. “I was just trying to get into the house.”

Joel scratched at his jaw, voice still thick with sleep. “Yeah, you were kinda loud. But I’m a light sleeper anyway. S’all good.”

You nodded, cheeks warming.

Then you saw yourself through his eyes.
Makeup smudged. Skirt riding too high. The outline of your bra through your sheer top. A whole damn mess.

Joel’s gaze lingered just a little longer than polite. Then he raised an eyebrow, voice low and dry.

“Aren’t you a little old to be sneakin’ in like that? How old even are you?"

Your mouth opened before your brain caught up. “I’m, uh…twenty-five.”

He didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head a little, like maybe he believed you but maybe he didn’t. His mouth curved at the corner, the kind of look men gave when they knew better but didn’t feel like arguing.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Well, I’ve got a spare key.

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. From the old neighbors, before you guys moved in. Not sure if the locks changed, but” He gave a small shrug. “Worth a shot.”

“Knowing my dad?” You laughed. “He never changed it.”

He nodded toward his house. “Come on. You can grab it.”

You followed him across the yard, bare legs still sticky from the night air, gravel biting at your shoes. The back porch creaked beneath your feet.

“I’m Joel, by the way,” he said as he pushed the door open.

You gave him your name. He repeated it back softly, almost thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said, rummaging in the little bowl by the counter. “Your dad’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

“Yeah?” you said, leaning on the doorframe. “Why’s that?”

“Beats me.” He found the key and held it up. “Ain’t done nothin’ to him. He’s just not the friendliest.”

You snorted. “Yeah. That’s just him. He’s an ass.”

Joel chuckled under his breath. “Well, it’s easy to be grumpy when you’re lonely.”

That caught you off guard.

You paused. The kitchen light flickered above him. He looked older in this lighting more tired than you expected, but not in a bad way. Like he’d seen things. Done things. Like maybe he understood a little more than most.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I guess so.”

He handed you the key. You took it, fingers brushing.

“Thanks again, Joel,” you said. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

You turned to go, but before you made it off the porch, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Joel stood in the doorway still, watching. Not staring. Not smirking. Just there. Solid. Curious.

You smiled at him.

And for a second—just a second—you swore he smiled back.

Chapter Text

The breeze was just strong enough to keep the sweat off your shoulders as you perched on your bedroom windowsill, balancing your ankle across your thigh and carefully brushing coral polish across your toes. The radio hummed softly in the background, oldies, or something close enough. Your phone lay on the windowsill next to you, speakerphone lit up. Tabby’s voice crackled through, bright and nosy.

“So?” she asked, dragging the word out like a string of bubblegum. “Tell me how last night went with Captain Crunch-Body.”

You snorted. “Girl, don’t even start.”

“No, I need details. Was it worth it? Did he rock your world? Did you see God?”

You glanced down at your foot, admired the even coat of polish, and sighed. “He finished in my mouth,” you said, flatly. “Then immediately fell asleep.”

Tabby gasped so loud you nearly dropped the nail polish. “Noooo. He didn’t even give you head?!”

“Not even a pathetic attempt,” you muttered. “I’m seriously considering switching teams. I can't remember the last time a man actually cared about getting me off.”

“I swear, you’re so funny,” she laughed. “Tragic, but funny.”

“It was good seeing you though,” you added. “That part I don’t regret.”

You capped the polish and leaned back, stretching your arms behind you on the windowsill, letting the sunlight warm your stomach through your tank top.

Then you saw it.

Joel.
Shirtless.
Bent over his lawnmower, pulling the starter cord, back muscles flexing under golden skin like a goddamn beer commercial. You froze mid-sentence. His head tilted just slightly—like he’d heard something—and your stomach did a full somersault.

Oh God. Oh God.

You tried to pretend he hadn’t just heard everything.
But the set of his jaw as he turned the mower toward the far edge of the yard said otherwise.

“Shit,” you whispered.

“What?” Tabby asked.

You giggled nervously, ducking back behind your curtain like that would erase your voice from the air. “I think my hot neighbor just heard me talking about how bad men are at eating pussy.”

Tabby screamed laughing. “Wait, not Mr. Miller?”

You blinked. “You know him?”

“Yes, dude, that’s Sarah’s dad. She was a grade above me. Kinda popular, big on church stuff, I think.”

You leaned back into the window, peeking down again as Joel steered the mower in tight lines across his lawn. “I don’t know Sarah,” you said, “but I’d love to call him Daddy.”

Tabby absolutely lost it on the other end of the line. You collapsed into laughter with her, slapping your palm over your mouth as if it might somehow undo the volume of your own voice.

Down below, Joel didn’t stop mowing.
But you swore you saw his hand tighten on the handle.

You hadn’t seen him in days.

Not since that morning on the windowsill where your voice, clear as a bell, had floated down into his backyard talking about bad head and “calling him Daddy.” You’d been hoping, praying, maybe he hadn’t heard the worst of it. But the way he’d gripped that lawnmower handle said otherwise.

Now every time you passed the window, you paused. Just a second.
Curtains still parted. Sheer enough to be an invitation.

But his blinds stayed closed. No flicker of light. No silhouette.
Nothing.

It was fine. You had other things to focus on. Like your first night of training at Carmine’s, that bougie-ass restaurant downtown where they made you wear all black and memorize the wine list before you even set foot on the floor. You’d been prepping all week. New notepad. Fresh pens. Hair twisted into a sleek bun.

A rare, full face of makeup, mascara thick and flirty, gloss shining just right.
You looked good. And you knew it.

Until your car wouldn’t start.

You slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and got a whole lot of nothing. A choking cough. A sputter. Dead silence.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You tried again. Nothing.

With a groan, you slammed the door and marched back inside, heels clicking on the pavement. “Dad!” you called out. “My car won’t start!”

He was in his usual place ,recliner, half-asleep, beer on the armrest. He grunted like you’d just asked him to fix a rocket ship, dragged himself out the door, and popped the hood with a loud clang.

“Battery?” you asked, hopeful. He grunted again.

He poked at something, muttered under his breath, then slammed the hood shut so hard it made you flinch.

“Just like your goddamn mother,” he snapped. “Can’t take care of shit. Can’t listen. Useless.”

You blinked. “Dad, what the hell?”

He didn’t answer. Just stormed back inside, the screen door banging behind him.

You stood there, stunned, eyes stinging, not from tears, but from pure humiliation.

That’s when you noticed the movement from next door.

Joel.
Walking across the grass like it was instinct. Not asking. Not hesitating. Just showing up.

He didn’t say a word at first just opened the hood again, squinting at the engine. His hair was messy, eyes still heavy from sleep, wearing an old grey t-shirt and jeans that hung low on his hips.

Finally, he spoke. Calm. Casual. “Loose wire on your starter. Easy fix.”

You stared. “Seriously?”

He nodded, already reaching in. “Can have it going in five minutes.”

You swallowed. “Thank you. I mean really. I owe you. I just didn’t wanna be late for my first shift and Uber takes forever around here and”

“It’s no problem,” he said, voice low and warm. “Where you working?”

You brushed a stray curl off your cheek. “That fancy restaurant downtown. Carmine’s. You know it?”

He whistled under his breath. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Been a few times. Tough gig. But sounds like a big deal.”

You smiled. “Kinda is.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. The bun. The makeup. The all-black outfit hugging your curves just right. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, socket wrench still in one hand.

“You look sharp,” he said. “You’re gonna do great.”

You felt the blush rise up from your chest before you could stop it. You tucked your lip between your teeth, tried to hide the smile, but it was pointless.

“Thanks, Joel.”

He ducked his head with a quiet smirk, then leaned back into the engine.

“Anytime.”

Carmine’s was shinier than you expected.

Gold trim on the menus. Velvet booths. Host stand made of real damn marble. You felt like a kid playing dress-up in your thrift store black button-up, but nobody said a word. The manager smiled, handed you a tablet, and launched straight into the system tutorial.

Table numbers. Guest notes. Server sections. Allergy tags.
You nodded along like you’d been doing this forever.

By hour two, your feet hurt, your bun was too tight, and you were ready to scream if one more Karen asked where the bathroom was. When your break came, you grabbed your phone and slipped out the back door.

The alley behind the restaurant was nothing special, dumpsters, crates of limes, a dented catering van parked crooked. You leaned against the brick wall and pulled out your weed pen, exhaled long and slow until your shoulders dropped.

A minute later, you heard the door creak open again.

A guy stepped out. Tall, black curls under a beanie, arms covered in faded tattoos. His apron was stained, cigarette already in hand.

“You’re new,” he said.

You didn’t look over. “Guess I am.”

He lit up, watched the smoke curl. “Hostess?”

“Yep.”

He nodded. “Hot.”

You gave him a side-eye. “Charming.”

He smirked. “I try.”

You offered him your pen. He blinked, surprised, then took it. “Shit, you got balls. Smoking that here?”

You shrugged, exhaling again. “I work better when I’m high.”

He laughed, passed it back. “You’re trouble.”

You grinned. “Only if you’re lucky.”

The back door banged again. Break over.

You walked in side by side, not touching, not talking. But you could feel his eyes on you as you slid out the kitchen door, fingers already flying over to the tablet like nothing happened.

Shift ended clean. You thanked the manager, clocked out, and made your way back to your car under the streetlights.

You didn’t go in right away.

Instead, you sat behind the wheel with the engine off, scrolling aimlessly. The glow from your phone lit up your face, the house in front of you still and dark. You could hear the cicadas. A dog barking somewhere down the street.

You felt good. Not amazing. Not fixed. But not a total fuck-up either.

You leaned your head back against the seat and closed your eyes for a second. Then opened them.

There was a porch light flicked on next door.
Joel’s.

You didn’t move. You just sat there. Wondering if he was out there. Wondering if he saw you.

You almost hoped he did.

You didn’t mean to look her up.
Not really.

But Sarah, that name stuck with you. The way Tabby said it, like you were supposed to know who she was. And Joel’s last name...Miller. You put it together.

So you got curious.

Searched her on Instagram first. Found her right away.
Private account. Of course.

But her tagged photos? Wide open. Friends, birthday dinners, graduation shots. She was pretty.
Older than you. Way more put-together. White teeth. Designer bags. Friends with names like Claire and Lacey and Bree.

Still, she looked like him. Not exactly, but enough, same dark lashes, same set to her jaw when she smiled like she meant it. And in some of the older photos…there he was.

Joel.

That’s how you found his Facebook.
Joel Miller. You could have just looked him up on Facebook first but you didn't think he would even have one. But there it was.

No cover photo. But the profile picture, him standing beside Sarah and another man, shorter, broader, tattooed, holding a fish in one hand like a trophy. His brother, maybe?

You scrolled.

Landscapes. Carpentry projects. A few memes about coffee and back pain. Typical dad shit. His relationship status said Single. No sign it had ever been different. No wedding photos. No anniversaries. A couple women bold enough to drop heart emojis in his comments. He never replied.

But then you found it.

A photo from last summer. Joel on a boat, shirtless, laughing at something off-camera, skin tan and slick with sweat. His arms looked carved. His stomach toned but not overly. Man soft, man strong. His salt-and-pepper beard trimmed. Sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shorts.

You stared longer than you meant to.
Saved the photo to your phone.
Then looked again.

Click. Save. Repeat.

Later, when you finally went upstairs, the house was still. Joel’s window dark. His porch light off. You stood by your own window a moment longer than necessary, but nothing stirred. Just night.

You turned off your light. Pulled your top off slow. Slipped out of your pants. Crawled into bed.

Your phone screen lit your face again.

His picture was still open.

Your hand slid under the sheets.
Your other still holding the phone.
You bit your lip, kept quiet.

The soft hum of your vibrator filled the silence, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel small.
Didn’t feel sad.

You just pictured him. His hands.
That smile.

And wondered if he ever pictured you too.

Chapter Text

You didn’t mean to leave the window open. Not really.

But you also didn’t not mean to.

The air had been thick all day, August pressing down hard on the roof like a weighted blanket. Your second shift at the restaurant wasn’t for hours, and the house was too quiet. Too clean. You’d already scrubbed the bathroom and folded the same pile of laundry twice. Anything to keep from checking your phone. From rereading your mom’s texts about your half-siblings and their perfect lives. From wondering if Joel Miller still thought you were twenty-five.

You pulled your hair up, twisting the length into a bun on top of your head with practiced ease, a few loose strands curling against the heat at your temples. You didn’t do much makeup—just a little bronzer, mascara, lip gloss—but it worked. The reflection in the mirror was something between effort and accident. You didn’t want to look too pretty. You didn’t want to seem like you were trying. But you were.

You always were.

Especially now that you’d seen his face in daylight. Now that you’d found his Facebook. Now that your vibrator had a name.

You smirked at yourself. Turned up the volume on your Bluetooth speaker.

It was an old country song, something slow and raw and drenched in pedal steel. One of those that sounded like a memory even if you’d never heard it before. Something your mom would’ve called real music. Something Joel probably listened to in his truck, windows down, hand resting on the wheel with that lazy kind of masculinity that didn’t need an audience to feel big.

You didn’t care if he heard.
You kind of hoped he would.

You danced barefoot across your bedroom floor, dragging your fingertips over your thighs as the lyrics wound around you. The cotton of your tank top clung to your back. You felt the music more than you heard it. The way it moved through your ribs, your hips, the hollow space just below your belly button that still remembered the shape of your own fingers. That night, when you laid in bed and used his picture—the picture—glistening skin, shirtless by the lake. That picture had been your undoing.

And it was still on your phone. Still bookmarked.
Still part of your nightly routine.

You bent slightly at the waist, swaying, not caring how your shorts rode up or how the music bled out of the window. The rhythm of it matched your breath. Matched the heat between your legs. Matched the thought of his hands—calloused, firm, slow—just there, where your waistband sat.

And then you stilled.

Out of the corner of your eye, past the sheer curtain, you saw him.
Joel. Standing in his yard, beer bottle in one hand, his other on his hip.

He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly. Just in your direction. Eyes shaded beneath the bill of his hat.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t go inside. Didn’t speak. He just stood there.

You flushed with heat, equal parts shame and thrill. Your nipples peaked beneath your top. You bit your lip and stepped back from the window, heart thudding.

He turned. Finally.

Walked away.

You watched the spot he left for a long time.
You didn’t close the window.

The restaurant was cold in that industrial way meant to keep cooks from passing out. Second day of training. You greeted two couples, tapped your way through the tablet system, watched an allergy video on shrimp cross-contamination. Easy.

On your break, you stepped out back into the alley behind the kitchen, phone in one hand, weed pen in the other. The sky was fading into blue and gold above the dumpsters. You leaned against the brick wall and took a hit, holding it in until your chest burned.

“You really got balls,” a voice said behind you.

You turned.

Elijah.
Line cook. Tatted forearms. Eyes the color of wet pavement.
Sweat glistened on his neck.

“You know they’ll fire you if they catch you doing that,” he added.

You exhaled slow. “They gotta catch me first.”

He smiled. “Fair enough. Sharing again?”

You handed him the pen. His fingers brushed yours.

“Not bad,” he said after a long inhale. “You always work high?”

“I told you, I work better high.”

He laughed, coughing. “You sound like me three jobs ago.”

You chatted a little. Flirted. He told you he was 24. Said you had pretty lips. Told you to follow him on Instagram. Before your break ended, he followed you first. You didn’t follow back.

Inside, Jaz, another hostess, whispered as she passed you on the way to the host stand.

“Watch out for Elijah. He flirts with anything in leggings.”

You smiled. “That’s fine. I’m not looking for anything.”

You got home late.

The porch light at Joel’s place was on again. You lingered in your car, engine off, lights dim. You scrolled through your phone, ignoring the unread texts from your mom.

Your sister made the travel team! Isn’t that crazy??

You clicked Elijah’s name. New Story post. A selfie in the walk-in freezer, tongue out, sweat on his brow.

Your thumb slid to Joel’s profile. Still no girlfriend. Still nothing personal. Still no sign of the kind of man who makes women cum without even touching them.

You thought about that night. Your hand between your legs, back arched, lip between your teeth. Your vibrator humming as your eyes stayed locked on his picture sunlight on his shoulders, sweat shining down his chest like syrup. You had whimpered his name into your pillow. That was new. You didn’t usually say names.

You turned your head. His living room light was still on.

Your bedroom window was still cracked.

You left it that way.

You didn’t go inside for a while.

Just sat there.

Smiling.

Chapter Text

It was nearly midnight by the time you kicked off your shoes, dropping your bag by the front door with a groan. Your feet were killing you. Work had been slammed, and Elijah was off tonight, meaning no sneaky fries or leftover breadsticks tucked behind the line just for you. You’d messed up twice on the host tablet, been scolded once by the manager, and spent your last hour fantasizing about devouring an entire plate of anything, pasta, mashed potatoes, hell, even plain rice.

But when you opened the fridge, all that greeted you was a sad bottle of ketchup, a half-empty carton of almond milk, and an expired tub of hummus you forgot you bought. You closed the fridge and leaned your head against it.

“Cool,” you muttered. “I’m starving and my only option is a condiment buffet.”

Fast food didn’t sound good. You wanted something that felt like a real meal. Comfort food. Something warm.

You slipped into your slippers, threw on your favorite black zip-up hoodie over your tank top, and tied your hair up into a quick bun. Ten minutes later, you were at Walmart, pushing a squeaky cart through the dimly lit frozen section, humming along to the bad pop song playing over the intercom.

You were halfway to the pizza rolls when a familiar low voice said, “Didn’t take you for the midnight munchie type.”

You turned your head and nearly choked on your gum.

Joel Miller, in all his rugged, late-night glory, stood a few feet away in the freezer aisle. Black Henley. Soft jeans. A few curls sticking to his neck. His basket dangling from one hand.

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “Frozen pizza? Really?”

He looked down like a kid caught red-handed. “Don’t judge me. I got off work late. Figured it was better than cereal.”

You glanced down at his cart and raised a brow. A six-pack of beer. A pack of frozen wings. And…was that a bottle of lube?

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered a little too long.

Joel caught it and cleared his throat, not even trying to hide the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I should’ve buried that under the wings, huh?”

You shrugged, smile curling. “Hey, gotta do what you gotta do.”

He laughed, warm and unbothered. “Ain’t exactly a five-star meal in there, but it does the job. With Sarah outta the house, I don’t really bother cookin’ much anymore.”

You nodded, a little softer now. “Yeah, I get that. My mom used to cook all the time. I miss it. She taught me some stuff, mostly German food, but my dad hates the smell, so I can’t cook it at his house without getting an earful.”

His eyes met yours, intrigued. “German food, huh? Like what?”

“Schnitzel,” you said. “And kasespatzle. Homemade. No shortcuts.”

He let out a low whistle. “Sounds good. You tryna make a man hungry at midnight?”

You grinned, tilting your head. “Maybe.”

He chuckled again, then reached for a second pizza and tossed it in the cart.

You were quiet for a second, then said, “You know….I could make it for you. The schnitzel. You said you missed real cooking.”

Joel blinked at you. “You’re serious?”

“Why not?” you shrugged. “I don’t mind. I like cooking for people. I’m off tomorrow night.”

There was a flicker of hesitation behind his eyes. You could see the gears turning. Could see the subtle shift when his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, quick but definite.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “If you’re offerin’. I ain’t had schnitzel since the county fair in ’02.”

You smiled, triumphant. “Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Joel gave you a small nod, then turned and walked toward the checkout. You stood there a moment, watching him go, the basket still swinging casually at his side, bottle of lube and all.

You bit your lip, then turned back to the freezer and grabbed your pizza rolls. But you didn’t stop there. You pushed your cart down three more aisles, collecting everything you’d need, pork cutlets, breadcrumbs, onions, nutmeg, eggs, flour. You even grabbed the same beer he had.

Driving home, your thoughts weren’t on Elijah and his flirty texts he was sending. You were thinking about Joel.

About what the lube was for.

About whether he was thinking of you like you’d thought of him.

Whether he’d pictured your mouth. Your thighs. Your hands.

When you got home, the silence of the house felt different. Charged.

You unloaded the groceries quietly, tucked everything neatly into the fridge. You didn’t shower. You didn’t brush your hair. You just ate, changed into an old shirt, climbed into bed, and let your phone fall onto your chest, the soft hum of the ceiling fan spinning above.

Joel Miller. Schnitzel. Lube. And you.

Tomorrow was gonna be interesting.

You woke to the sheets tangled between your thighs, lips parted, breath hot. The dream was already gone—disintegrated like smoke—but the ache it left behind was sharp and real. You stretched, slow and lazy, your limbs heavy with want. You didn’t need to remember the details. You remembered how it felt. The weight of him, the rough rasp of his voice, the press of his hips against yours. You remembered being touched like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The dull throb between your legs made it hard to think straight.

You reached for the nightstand without hesitation, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out the picture on your phone, the one you kept from facebook. The one you had scanned with trembling fingers the night you first saw it on his Facebook. Joel Miller, shirtless with a smug grin. It wasn’t even a sexy photo. Not really. But the idea of him, the way he looked like a man who knew what to do and how to do it, that was enough.

The vibrator came next. You didn't close the window.

You didn’t bother being quiet.

Let him hear.

Let him wonder.

Let him know.

When you finally came, the sound ripped out of your throat, body trembling, the name sitting unspoken in the back of your mouth like a secret. You lay there afterward, heart thudding, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, the phone still clutched in your hand.

You were smiling.

Eventually, you got up. The house was empty. Your dad was probably off working his shift, standing in some empty parking lot with his flashlight and his holier-than-thou attitude, judging every choice you made from a distance while ignoring his own reflection. You didn’t care. You had plans tonight.

Good ones.

You moved through the day like a woman on a mission, pulling ingredients from the fridge, setting them on the counter, reviewing the recipe in your head. Schnitzel wasn’t hard, but it took rhythm. Timing. And you’d decided Joel wasn’t just gonna enjoy the meal, he was going to learn how to cook it with you. You wanted him close. You wanted his hands messy with flour and oil. You wanted him beside you, smelling your shampoo, watching your mouth as you explained something slowly.

You wanted to see what made him blush.

Mid-afternoon, you took a break and flopped on the couch with your laptop, diving deeper into his Facebook. You needed more material. More hooks. He didn’t post much. Mostly pictures of Sarah, graduation, prom, a birthday cake shaped like a cowboy hat. A few blurry ones from construction sites. A couple old camping shots. One where he was playing guitar at a cookout, the caption reading “Dusty strings and cheap beer.”

You made a mental list.

Coffee. Guitars. Fishing. His daughter. Construction. Music.

Not a lot to work with. But enough.

You knew he took it slow. You knew he was cautious. You also knew how to be patient.

After your shower, you stood in front of the closet for ten minutes before settling on the tight ribbed tank top that hugged your chest just right without screaming look at me. Paired with a worn pair of low-rise jeans that fit like a second skin and barely clung to your hips. You tossed on a cardigan to make it casual, pulled your hair back into a soft ponytail, and kept your makeup light, just enough to warm your skin and make your eyes pop.

Joel didn’t seem like the type who liked glitter or red lips. You figured he liked women who looked real. Women who looked like they belonged barefoot in a kitchen or on the back of a motorcycle, laughing at his dry jokes.

You stared at your reflection, heart thudding.

You looked like you belonged in his life already.

You packed up everything carefully flour, eggs, the pork cutlets already pounded thin and waiting in a plastic container. The kitchen smelled like lemon and garlic, and your hands were dusted in breadcrumbs and excitement. You double-checked your reflection one more time after washing up, hair up, neckline low enough to tempt but high enough to pass for casual. You grabbed your tote bag and headed out the door, crossing the porch and stepping out into the warm night air.

Joel’s porch light was on.

You knocked twice.

He opened the door like he’d been standing just on the other side.

“You really brought all that?” he asked, eyeing the overloaded bag in your hands.

“You think I was gonna let you eat frozen pizza again?”

He stepped back to let you in. “I like frozen pizza.”

“Mmm, yeah. With lube on the side?”

His ears went red instantly, but his smirk gave him away. “That was for”

“Save it,” you said, brushing past him into the kitchen. “I like the mystery.”

You noticed immediately that he’d picked up what little mess he had. No beer cans on the counter. Dishes done. Tools off the table. He even lit a candle, just one, low and flickering on the kitchen counter.

Romantic.

You dumped your bag down on the island, surveying the space. Joel moved toward the fridge and grabbed a beer, popping the cap with ease and holding it out toward you.

You took it, your fingers brushing his.

“Nice music,” you said, nodding toward the old radio on the windowsill. Something low and country was playing, an old song you hadn’t heard in years.

Joel tilted his head. “You like this?”

You smiled. “I love this song.”

He turned it up a notch, the gravel of the singer’s voice filling the warm room like honey over whiskey.

“So,” you said, rolling up your sleeves. “Change of plans.”

Joel raised an eyebrow.

“You’re helping me cook.”

He looked horrified. “Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh come on. You can lift heavy things. You can stir.”

He shook his head. “Last time I tried to impress a woman, I damn near burned the house down. Had to repaint the ceiling.”

You grinned. “Are you trying to impress me, Joel Miller?”

He looked at you for a second too long, then shrugged. “No.”

“Good. Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He sighed. “You’re dangerous.”

“You’ve got no idea.”

He came around the island anyway, standing beside you while you laid out the ingredients.

“Okay,” you said, touching his wrist briefly, “step one, salt and pepper the cutlets. Gently. Not like you’re building a fucking shed.”

He did. Kind of.

You showed him how to dip the pork in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs, explaining each step slowly, deliberately. You kept eye contact as you talked, and he kept looking back, his gaze steady but flickering now and then to your mouth. You noticed. You bit back a smile and dipped your fingers into the egg.

“You’re good at this,” he muttered as you guided his hands.

“You’re not,” you teased.

He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re a damn brat.”

“But a cute brat,” you said sweetly, brushing your arm against his as you leaned over the pan.

He burned his first one, of course. Cursed under his breath. You laughed and shoved his shoulder gently.

“Still edible,” he said, cutting off the dark end.

“Barely,” you teased.

He shook his head, but he was smiling.

When everything was cooked and golden, you went to the bathroom to check yourself, fix your hair, splash cold water on your flushed cheeks, reapply lip balm just in case. When you came back out, Joel had already plated everything. The pork cutlets looked perfect, crispy and warm beside a scoop of mashed potatoes he must’ve microwaved because they weren’t yours.

You sat across from him at the little table in the kitchen, knees brushing under the wood, a beer in your hand.

He took a bite, eyes widening. “This is.....damn. This is good.”

You giggled. “Told you I was a good cook.”

He shook his head, chewing, and stood suddenly.

“One more thing,” he said, heading over to the kitchen.

When he returned, he had a store-bought German chocolate cake in a plastic container.

“Didn’t know what kind you liked,” he said gruffly. “Figured I’d try.”

You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt. “I love German chocolate.”

He cut a generous piece and slid it in front of you.

“First bite’s on me,” you said, holding out your fork.

He leaned forward, let you feed it to him.

Your eyes locked.

You both laughed.

It was light, but it was hot. The chemistry between you, undeniable. Flickering like the candlelight between bites.

You waited.

You weren’t gonna make the first move. Not with an older man. Not in his kitchen.

But God, you hoped he would.

Because you were right there.

And so was he.

One move.

That’s all it would take.

You waited.

You waited through dessert, through his crooked grin and his rough hands brushing yours while you rinsed plates in his sink. You teased him,light jabs about his terrible breadcrumbing technique, about how he could barely hold a fork without looking like a caveman. He laughed, sure, but it stayed in the safe zone. Nothing crossed the line.

You leaned against the counter while he dried the last dish, trying not to look annoyed. Or disappointed. Or like you’d spent the past three hours laying every breadcrumb not on pork, but on him, leading him toward you like you were the one-piece-of-cake-at-a-time witch of the woods.

But Joel Miller? That man was a fortress.

When you grabbed your tote bag and headed toward the door, he followed like a damn gentleman.

"Wait," he said as you stepped out onto the porch. He dug around in his pocket, pulled out an old flip phone—of course—and asked for your number.

“In case of emergency,” he said.

You raised a brow. “What kind of emergencies are you expecting, Joel?”

He didn’t answer. Just watched as you typed in your number, saved it under your name with a little heart next to it, just to mess with him.

You handed it back.

He glanced at the heart. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just pocketed the phone.

You gave him a little smirk and stepped off his porch. The night air had cooled down. Your skin felt flushed anyway.

You didn’t look back.

Well. That was...disappointing.

But still, you had your foot in the door. Or at least your number in his phone.

And if Joel Miller thought this was over?

He had no idea who he was dealing with.

You were just one step closer to his

Well.

Let’s say heart.

For now.

Chapter Text

A few days passed.

No texts. No calls. Not even a glimpse of Joel through the damn window.

You checked more than you cared to admi, first thing in the morning, when your alarm went off. Right after work, with your keys still jangling in your hand. Late at night, when you lay in bed and turned just slightly toward the curtain, wondering if maybe he was there, watching, thinking, breaking down.

But his lights stayed off. His driveway stayed empty.

Instead, it was Elijah you saw. At work. Flirty, loud, too charming for his own good.

He made you laugh, though. Called you trouble. Brushed past you a little too close, left the scent of his cologne in his wake like a challenge. He flirted with everyone but for some reason, you didn’t mind it until his hand brushed yours. Until he looked at you just a little longer than necessary. Until he leaned in, low and warm, and whispered something inappropriate in the walk-in that made your whole body catch fire.

You giggled and smacked his arm, told him to quit it, but then you felt him press up just slightly against your back. Not aggressive, not even bold just.....there.

And oh.

Your breath caught. You turned fast, eyes wide, cheeks burning.

He grinned like he knew exactly what he’d done. Bastard.

You stood in that damn freezer for a full extra minute after he left, fanning your face with a tray of burger buns like it could erase the imprint he’d left behind.

It didn’t.

When your shift ended, you drove home, windows down, trying to cool off. You rounded the corner to your house and saw Joel’s truck in the driveway.

Finally.

You could’ve marched right over there. Could’ve knocked. But you didn’t. Not yet.

Inside, your dad was already on one. Yelling before the door even shut behind you.

“No goddamn food in this house,” he barked. “And if you drank my last beer”

You glanced at the can in his hand.

“Pretty sure it’s right there,” you said dryly.

“Don’t get smart.”

Too late for that.

You grabbed your wallet, turned back around without a word. Fast food and a cheap six-pack later, you were back in the kitchen, handing it all off without a thank-you. You reminded yourself—again—that you lived rent-free. That he wasn’t always like this. That it was just stress, just age, just life.

Whatever.

You climbed the stairs, heart still bitter, but your steps slowed as you passed your window. Joel’s bedroom light was off. But the curtain was different.

Shifted.

Half-open.

You didn’t turn your own light on.

You stood in the moonlight, the soft blue glow washing over your skin, and pulled your shirt over your head. Unhooked your bra slowly, letting the strap slide off your shoulder with practiced ease. You let your pants fall next, standing in nothing but your lacy panties, facing the window.

Your chest rose and fell. You didn’t smile. Didn’t pose.

You just stood there, quiet and still.

And maybe it was nothing.

Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he wasn’t watching.

But you felt it. That heat. That charge in the air like static, crawling up your spine. Like eyes on you.

Like him.

You turned away eventually, slow and calm, and slipped under your covers.

Sleep came slow that night.

And dreams came hot

The next day a text came in just past noon.

hey can we talk

That was it. No punctuation. No emojis. Just that.

Your heart slammed into your ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. You stared at the screen for a second longer than you should’ve, then practically flew down the stairs, didn’t bother with shoes, didn’t check the mirror. You were knocking on Joel’s door within minutes.

He opened it, brow raised.

“Wow,” he said, glancing down at your bare feet. “That was fast.”

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah. I was home.”

Your mind was racing, every possibility fighting for space.

Did he see you last night?

Did he want you?

Did he hate it?

You studied his face, tried to read the expression. But it was calm. Relaxed. Not tense, not flustered. Nothing like what you were feeling.

He stepped back, opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

You followed him in. The place smelled faintly like cedar and something warm, maybe his cologne or maybe just him. The same low hum of old country played from the radio on the counter. That stupid, soft playlist that made your stomach flutter.

He turned toward you, held something out.

A key.

Your brows pinched together.

“I’m heading outta town this weekend,” he said, tone casual. “Fishing trip with my brother. Tommy.”

You blinked.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s nice.”

He nodded. “Just figured, if anything happens. Power goes out, door comes unlocked, whatever. Could you keep an eye on the place for me?”

You took the key slowly. “Sure. Of course.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking around like he was trying to remember if he’d already forgotten something. “Ain’t really any reason to come in or anything, but, figured I’d leave it just in case.”

“Normally I’d ask Sarah,” he added. “But she’s at school. Hours away.”

You nodded again. “No problem. I got it.”

There was a quiet moment.

Then he smiled just a little, just enough to soften him.

“Still can’t stop thinkin’ about how good that food was.”

You smirked. “Well, whenever you’re ready for your next lesson”

He glanced at you sidelong. “Might have to take you up on that offer.”

You handed him back a smile and tucked the key into your pocket like it didn’t weigh a thousand pounds.

Like it wasn’t the start of something.

Like it wasn’t already burning a hole straight through your jeans.

You admitted, soft and sheepish, “I don’t know much about fishing.”

Joel let out a low laugh, the kind that rumbled deep in his chest. “Well, I do,” he said proudly, shifting to grab two beers from the fridge. He popped the tops, handed one to you. You followed him to the couch, tucking your legs under you as you sipped.

“I’ve been fishin’ since I was a kid,” he said. “My dad used to take me and Tommy out early in the morning. Still remember the smell of the lake, the way the fog hung over the water like it was hiding something.”

You smiled, letting his voice wash over you.

He leaned back, looking relaxed, content. “Ain’t just the fishin’, either. I love camping. Outdoors. No people. Just the sound of the world bein’ quiet.”

You lied without hesitation. “I love all that, too. Camping, hiking, anything outside.”

You hated bugs. You hated sleeping on rocks. You’d never even pitched a tent that wasnt in a man's pants.

But he looked pleased, so it was worth it.

“Don’t know many good spots around Austin,” you added, swirling your bottle. “Gotta drive a ways to get some real views.”

Joel nodded. “That’s true.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Maybe you’ll have to show me one day.”

He stiffened just enough for you to notice. His mouth opened like he might say something, then closed again.

“I don’t know about that,” he said finally.

“Why not?” you asked, tilting your head with a teasing smile.

He turned red. Not just a faint flush red. He scratched his jaw, cleared his throat. “What does a girl your age want with a guy like me?” he muttered. “I’m in my fifties. You’re what, twenty-five?”

“Exactly,” you said, leaning in just slightly. “I like older guys. They take their time. Know how to make a woman happy.”

Joel shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know about all that,” he mumbled. “Ain’t had a woman in years.”

You smiled coyly. “Is that what the lubes for?”

He nearly choked on his beer. Coughed. Eyes wide. “Jesus,” he croaked. “

Joel sat forward, shaking his head. “You’re around my daughter’s age. I just” He hesitated. “It’s wrong. I’m sorry. I’m not saying you’re not beautiful, because hell, you are. But”

You stood slowly, finishing your drink and setting it down on the coffee table.

“Sometimes the best things in life don’t feel right at first,” you said gently, walking toward the door.

His voice followed you.

“Hey….."

You paused, hand on the doorknob.

“Maybe you should stop changin’ in front of the window with the curtains open.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, lips curling.

“Maybe you should stop watching,” you said.

And then you slipped out the door, letting it close behind you with a soft click.

The second your feet hit your porch, you ran, heart thundering, laughter caught in your throat, adrenaline fizzing through your veins like champagne.

You were getting under his skin.

Exactly where you wanted to be.

Chapter Text

It was Saturday.
Joel had been gone a few hours. You weren’t on shift at the resturant tonight, and boredom was chewing a hole in your brain. So naturally, you did the only logical thing, marched yourself right next door to his place to snoop.

You didn’t know what exactly you were looking for. Maybe a dark secret. Maybe a dusty box of mementos. Maybe….just something that’d make sense of the man who looked at you like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve.

The living room was first. Family photos on the walls, him, Tommy, and Sarah in various stages of Texas sunburn. Not a woman in sight. Not one framed picture of a girlfriend, wife, or ex. Huh.

You wandered into the kitchen. Opened a few cabinets. Took note of his preferred brand of coffee and how he stacked his mugs upside down like a psychopath. Then the bedroom. You peeked into drawers, justifying it with a little shrug. A man with hands like Joel had probably had something worth finding.

And you weren’t disappointed.

His Nightstand had a flashlight, pocket knife, a dog-eared porno mag from at least a decade ago, and the bottle of lube you caught him buying. You flipped through the magazine, snorted at the aggressively untrimmed body hair, then squinted at the title like this was what got him going? Maybe you should stop shaving.

You put it all back carefully, smirking, then wandered into his closet and pulled one of his flannels off the hanger. Threw it on. It was oversized, soft, and smelled like cedar, dust, and something deeply, stupidly masculine. You closed your eyes and just breathed him in for a moment.

Then you turned and looked toward the window.

And realized just how perfect the view into your bedroom was from here.

Well. Shit.

So he definitely saw you that night. The one where you changed clothes without pulling the curtain. The one where you stood there in nothing but your underwear, taking your time.
You flushed. Then grinned.

Well damn, old man.

The next door was cracked open. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Smaller room. Office-slash-spare bedroom. Tools on the table, curls of wood on the floor, a guitar in progress laid out like a half-finished prayer. Wooden carvings lined the walls, wolves, owls, hands, stars. Beautiful work. Careful. Focused. You could see the soul in each one.

Then, finally, the back room. Purple walls. Boxes. Posters peeling slightly at the corners. It had that feeling, teenage girl room, paused mid-life. Sarah’s, obviously.

You stepped inside, tread gentle. Bent to pick up a stuffed bunny from the floor, worn at the ears.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my room?”

You jumped like you’d touched a live wire, heart nearly leaping out your throat. You spun around fast.

A woman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a perfect arch of judgment.

“Oh. Uh…you must be Sarah.”

“Yeah, no shit. And who the hell are you?” she snapped. “Oh my god! please tell me you’re not my dad’s girlfriend. That would be, so gross. You’re, like, twelve.”

You barked out a laugh. “I’m not his girlfriend. Swear. I’m just, I’m his neighbor. He asked me to keep an eye on the place while he was gone.”

She squinted at you. “So you’re just snooping?”

You paused. “…Yes.”

“Damn.” She grinned. “Okay, I like you.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I came to throw a party. He’s gone, so why not? I won’t tell him you were snooping if you don’t tell him I had friends over.”

You raised your brows. “A party?”

“Yep.”

“Can I come?”

She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

You smirked. “Need help with anything? Booze? Music?”

“Nah. Got it covered. I do this every time he goes out of town.”

You whistled. “Wow. You’re bold.”

She rolled her eyes like it was nothing. “Come back in a few hours. Try not to wear that flannel, it’d be weird.”

You looked down at yourself. “Rude, but fair.”

You went back home still wearing Joel’s flannel.you stood in front of your dresser for a long minute before folding it gently and tucking it away in the bottom drawer like it was something sacred.

Then you changed into something more party-appropriate.
Hair curled. Lip gloss on. A little extra eyeliner than usual. You’d had a week—one of those weeks—and after snooping through Joel’s house like a lunatic and feeling hot under the collar over his ancient porn stash, you figured you were long overdue for a little fun.

By the time you heard the bass thumping through the neighborhood, the sun had dipped just far enough to give everything that golden-hour glow. You headed over.

The place was packed. Easily forty people crammed inside and out, red solo cups everywhere, smoke curling from the porch. You weaved your way through clusters of laughing strangers and a few vaguely familiar faces, coworkers, people from the bar, someone who definitely tried to use a fake ID last week to order wine at the resturant.

Out back, you found Sarah holding court with a group of loud girls, a beer in one hand and her phone in the other. She looked up and grinned when she saw you.

“Damn, girl,” you said, impressed. “How do you get away with this? Doesn’t anyone ever narc to your dad?”

She sipped her drink and gave a smug little shrug. “I know the one neighbor that matters. I pay ‘em off one way or another.”

You raised a brow. “One way or another?”

She just smiled. You didn’t ask.

You wandered. Talked. Drank. Danced in the living room when someone started up that early 2000s playlist. Took a shot of something that definitely wasn’t tequila, but burned like it. And then you saw him.

Elijah.

He was leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, sleeves rolled, curls a little messy, that same too-smooth smirk he wore every time he slid up to the hostess stand on your shift.

“Well hey, pretty thing,” he said, low and amused. “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

You smirked. “Oh hey, Elijah.”

He stepped in closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like he had a right to. “Damn, you look good out of uniform.”

You gave a half-shrug. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You took a shot together. He passed you his joint. The edges of the night began to blur in that warm, floaty way, where everyone’s face looked softer and your body buzzed like a song.

You ended up on Joel’s couch.
You weren’t sure how.

Elijah's lips were on yours, and his hands were under your shirt, grabbing your boob. You laughed into his mouth, biting your lip just enough to tease.

“Wanna come over?” you murmured. “I live next door. Just gotta be quiet. My dad’s asleep.”

He hesitated. “Nah. That’s okay. Maybe another time.”

It hit you sideways. The rejection. Like a beer to the gut.

“Oh,” you said, blinking, pulling back. “Sure. Whatever.”

You left him there on the couch and wandered back toward the party, smile shaky but intact. You danced a little more. Played beer pong with someone who was terrible at it. Took another drink. Laughed too loudly. Let yourself forget it all for a while.

By the end of the night, when most people were trickling out or passed out in corners, you found Sarah again in the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said, a little hoarse. “That was a great party.”

She winked and leaned in. “Just remember, your secret’s my secret.”

You smirked, blowing her a kiss before slipping out the back door and heading home through the dark.

Joel’s flannel still sat folded in your drawer like a secret.

Chapter Text

You woke up with your mouth tasting like stale beer and regret. The inside of your skull was pulsing like someone had wedged a speaker in there, turned the bass all the way up, and left it on loop. Light was coming through your bedroom blinds at a criminal angle, too high. Too bright. Too late.

“Shit,” you muttered, throat raw and dry. You reached for your phone. 10:43 a.m.

Your shift started at 10.

You leapt out of bed like the mattress had caught fire, still half-drunk and wearing Joel Miller’s flannel for some reason. The one you definitely weren’t supposed to have. The one you definitely weren’t supposed to have worn to sleep after a party in his house last night. You tore it off, tossed it under the bed, and scrambled into your uniform, wrinkled, stained, and still damp from that dryer that got stopped.

No time for makeup. No time for a shower. You brushed your teeth, slapped on some deodorant, and sprayed yourself with the cheap perfume you kept near the door for emergencies like this. You smelled like desperation and fake vanilla.

The drive to work felt like trudging through wet sand. Every stoplight made your stomach churn. You were pretty sure you still smelled like tequila and smoke. When you finally pushed through the back door of the restaurant, your manager, was standing there. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped.

“Go clock in,” she said sharply. “We’ll talk later.”

You gave a stiff nod and hurried to the back, heart sinking lower with every tick of the clock. Your head was pounding, your apron was half-tied, and the brunch crowd was already piling in.

It was going to be a long fucking day.

The kitchen was loud, the air greasy, and the ticket printer wouldn’t stop screeching. You barely had time to breathe, let alone think. By noon, you’d spilled coffee on a customer, dropped an order, and been stiffed twice. And of course—of fucking course—you saw him.

Elijah.

Leaning against the soda fountain like he had a goddamn modeling contract. Flirting with the new girl from waitress training, Amy or Annie or something with a dumb, sweet smile. She was giggling like a schoolgirl while he reached over to "help" her stack menus.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d not even hooked up, nothing serious. You’d made that clear.

But the truth was, he reminded you of your ex. A little too much swagger, a little too good at slipping into your life when you were lonely. Your ex had cheated on you two years ago. Took your favorite hoodie with him and never gave it back. That had been your one real relationship. And you still hadn’t shaken the feeling that you’d been the joke in someone else’s story.

So no, it didn’t matter. But also? It really fucking did.

You turned away, jaw clenched, and tried to focus on your job. An elderly couple came in. Very picky. You could handle picky. You could not, apparently, handle the husband giving you a full five-minute rant about his undercooked steak from last time he was here, while his wife smiled apologetically, mouthing “I’m sorry” behind his back like she was a hostage.

“I’ll let your server know,” you said, voice tight.

“Well, I hope so,” he huffed. “Some of us don’t like being poisoned.”

You smiled. Tight. Frozen. “Of course.”

You spun on your heel, went into the kitchen, and slammed your hand down on the counter so hard the chefs all looked up.

“What the hell is her problem?” someone muttered.

Fifteen minutes later, your manager pulled you aside. "That guy you just snapped at? He’s a local business owner. Comes in every Sunday. You do not talk to people like that.”

“I didn’t talk to him like anything,” you said, arms folded. Genuinely confused.

She just stared at you.

You sighed. “Okay. Sorry.”

“I’m writing you up.”

That hit you like cold water to the face. “Seriously?”

“One more like that and it’s not just a write-up.”

You nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and walked out back before you said something that’d get you fired on the spot.

The alley behind the restaurant smelled like rotting grease and old cigarettes. You lit one anyway. The burn in your lungs helped ground you. Your fingers were trembling, and you couldn’t tell if it was from rage, hangover, or the sick cocktail of both swirling in your stomach.

The door creaked open behind you. “Hey.”

You turned, expecting your manager again, but it was Kara, the redhead who’d worked the Sunday shift longer than anyone. She always wore too much eyeliner and carried breath mints in her apron pocket.

She pulled out a lighter and joined you. “Rough day?”

You shrugged.

“Tori chewed my ass out last week ‘cause I forgot to ring in a salad,” she said. “Happens to all of us.”

You exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

She gave you a long look. “You okay, though? You’ve been kinda...off.”

You almost told her. Almost said you’d went to a party in your sexy neighbor’s house, that you’d kissed Elijah on his couch, that you’d slept in a flannel shirt that didn’t belong to you and woken up feeling like shit. That your anger issues—the ones you inhereted from your father—were starting to show back no matter how hard you tried to shove them down your throat.

Instead, you flicked ash off your cigarette and said, “Just tired.”

“Yeah. Aren’t we all.”

You stood in silence for a minute. The breeze shifted, bringing the scent of fried food from the kitchen vents. Your head was still aching. Your chest still tight. But at least no one was yelling at you.

Yet.

When you pulled into the driveway, you didn’t get out right away.

Instead, you let the car idle, your head resting heavy against the steering wheel. The engine ticked and cooled beneath the hood, and you let your eyes close for a minute too long. Everything inside you felt sore, mind, body, heart. Like your bones were holding in a scream.

Eventually, you turned the key and stepped out into the fading light.

That’s when you saw him.

Joel.

Leaning against the porch railing like he’d been there for a while. Arms crossed. Watching. Embarrassment hit you so hard it made your skin prickle. Shit. How long had he been standing there? Had he seen you slump over like that, all dramatic and pathetic?

You pushed your hair behind your ears and walked over, forcing something that resembled a casual smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm.

You gestured toward his boots. “You catch anything?”

He nodded and pulled his phone from his back pocket. “Couple trout. Not bad for a last-minute trip.”

He turned the screen to show you, a picture of him holding two decent-sized fish, the river glinting behind him. His smile in the photo was easy. Real.

“Nice,” you said, trying to match it.

“You wanna come inside for a beer?”

That nervous flutter hit your chest. Shit. Last you remembered, his house had been full of people. Strangers, red Solo cups, music thumping through the floorboards. Elijah's lips on yours on the couch. You hadn’t meant for your drinking to get out of hand, but parties had a way of slipping through your fingers, especially when you were already spiraling.

Still, you nodded and followed him up the steps.

The door opened. And to your surprise, relief, even it looked...normal. Clean. The couch cushions were fluffed, the countertops wiped down. No beer cans, no sticky floors, no lingering smell of tequila and sweat.

You blinked. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just...everything looks great.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? No problems while I was gone?”

You walked over and sank down onto the couch, careful to sit on the side opposite where you’d been last night. Where you’d laughed too loud and kissed someone you didn’t really care about. “No problems,” you lied with a little smile. “Everything went smooth.”

He nodded like he half-believed you. Then he studied your face for a beat longer than comfortable.

“You okay?”

You shrugged. “I’m fine.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two beers, handing you one. You took it. Cold can against your fingers. He didn’t sit too close, just dropped into the armchair across from you, legs spread, one hand resting lazily on the can.

“I might not know you well,” he said, “but I can tell when someone’s lying.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I look that bad, huh?”

“You look like hell,” he said, smirking.

You tipped your can toward him. “Cheers.”

He clinked his against yours with a quiet thunk, then took a long sip. You stared at the label. The words just tumbled out of you.

“It’s work. Just..trouble hiding my anger. Pretending like it’s not there when it is. And then when it comes out, it comes out all wrong.”

You hadn’t meant to say any of that. But you did.

Joel didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “I know what that’s like.”

You looked up. “You?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve had a few jobs where I saw red more than I saw daylight. When I was younger, I’d punch walls or throw shit or just...shut down. Not proud of it.”

“You seem so chill now.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m old now.” He grinned. “Didn’t used to be like that.”

There was a second of silence, then he leaned forward slightly and rested a hand gently on your knee. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t flirty. It was solid. Steady. Protective in a way that made something twist low in your stomach.

“It’s okay to be angry,” he said. “Just be careful not to let it consume you.”

You looked down at his hand. At the roughness of it. The calluses. The strength.

You smiled. Soft. “Thanks.”

He pulled his hand away, cleared his throat, and leaned back again.

You talked for a few more minutes. Nothing heavy. Just surface-level stuff, fishing, the weather, the state of the grill out back. When you stood up to leave, he didn’t stop you, just gave you a little nod as you stepped out the door and back across the yard.

Your house was dark. Your dad was passed out in the recliner, TV still playing some rerun from a channel no one watched anymore.

You went into your room, peeked through the curtain, and caught a glimpse of Joel in his room. He looked up at the same time. You gave him a little nod, and he returned it, barely perceptible.

Then you let the curtain fall.

You changed out of your work clothes, peeled off the day. Then you wrapped yourself in his flannel, the one you’d worn the night before. The one that still smelled like cedar and sun-dried laundry and him.

You wondered if he’d even noticed it was missing.

And if he had, why he hadn’t said anything.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

You'd been home for hours. The kind of long, nothing-feels-right evening that dragged its heels and left you itching under your skin. You’d called your mom just to hear a voice that felt familiar, but she’d barely let you speak, rattling off updates about your sister’s new sports, your brother’s schooll project, some art award your youngest sibling just got. Not one question about you. Not a single one.

You hung up mid-sentence and stared at your phone for a long time.

Elijah’s name sat unread in your inbox, bold and buzzing, another useless reminder of how disposable you were to the people you used to try for.

You’d made your dad some dinner, boxed mac and cheese and overcooked sausage links he barely acknowledged between TV commercials. He fell asleep before the credits rolled on some old western rerun, mouth open, beer still in his lap.

So you were alone now. And your room was warm from the shower steam, soft-lit, quiet but alive. The window was cracked, the breeze brushing in cool against your damp skin, teasing the tops of your thighs like breath.

You knew Joel’s routine. You weren’t proud of it, but you did. Knew he always showered around ten. Always walked barefoot across his room in that soft, slouchy way he did when he thought no one was watching. Knew exactly when the bedroom light turned off and the lamp by the bed switched on.

You could see his window now, his bedroom light just flickering on. You didn’t glance toward it. You didn’t have to.

You walked slowly to your dresser, your skin still dewy from the shower, shirt clinging in spots where your body hadn’t quite dried. No bra, just a soft, loose tee sliding against your nipples with every movement, your lace thong peeking high over your hips.

You could feel his presence like gravity, heavy, watching, pulling.

You moved deliberately, but not too deliberate. Casual. Unbothered. A girl in her room. Alone.

You stepped toward the window but didn’t look out. Instead, you tucked one leg up and settled into the windowsill, curling your body into the corner like it meant nothing. Book in your lap, knees drawn loosely, one shoulder visible, shirt slipping just a little too far to the side. Your hair still damp, skin still flushed.

You cracked the spine of the book open, let the pages fan, but you weren’t reading.

You could feel him.

Eyes on you. Thick. Curious. Quietly ravenous.

After a few minutes, you stretched. Long and slow, arms overhead, letting the shirt ride up with the motion, belly exposed, the lace of your panties drawn taut across your hips. The streetlight caught you in silhouette, bathing your bare thighs in gold. You stood, then, setting the book aside.

You turned from the window, back facing it now.

You peeled your shirt up and over your head, revealing the gentle slope of your spine, the bare curve of your waist. You stood like that a second too long, pretending to look for something, fingers running absently through your hair.

You knew he saw. You wanted him to.

Then you crawled into bed. Naked but for that little thong, sheets cool beneath your body as you stretched out on your stomach, one leg bent just enough to catch the angle of your hips in the light. You didn’t close the curtain. You didn’t pull the blanket up.

You didn’t need to.

If Joel Miller wanted to sleep tonight, he'd have to do it with the image of you burned into his eyelids.

And if you slept with a smile on your lips, well, that was your little secret.

You woke up to a soft buzz from your phone.

Joel: Thought I told you to be more careful.

You blinked the sleep from your eyes, heart skipping a beat at the message. A grin tugged at your lips as you sat up, still wrapped in your sheets, still warm from the dream that lingered behind your eyes, one that probably mirrored his.

You: Thought I told you not to look.

You hit send, tucked the phone against your chest, and waited. Minutes. Then hours. But nothing came back.

By the time you got home from work, the sun was low in the sky, casting long orange shadows across the yard. You spotted Joel in his driveway, talking to someone. A girl.

Your stomach dipped.

As you got closer, he waved you over.

"Hey," he called. "I want you to meet my daughter, Sarah."

Sarah.

The Sarah.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer, forcing your features into something resembling polite curiosity. Sarah turned toward you with the same eyes you’d seen the night she threw that party at her dad’s house, the night she was drinking tequila and dancing on the couch while Joel was out of town. The night she winked at you in the hallway, swaying with a red solo cup in her hand.

"Nice to meet you," she said with a half-smile.

Joel looked confused "You two didn't go to school together? You're around the same age."

"Nice to meet you too." You kept your voice even, light. No trace of recognition. No trace of tequila or temptation. "No, I actually went to school upstate. My dad only moved here a few years ago, he didn’t have custody during school time."

Joel nodded. “Oh, right, right. Forgot about that.”

Thank God, you thought, exhaling quietly. That lie had worked. For now.

"You girls wanna come in? Got some Chinese and a few cold beers."

You looked toward your house. “I gotta check on my dad real quick. I’ll be over in a few? Just gonna change.”

Joel nodded, and you turned, heart pounding. The air still felt thick with unspoken things.

Inside, your dad was already asleep on the recliner, half a pizza box resting on his lap, the TV casting a faint blue glow. You grabbed the remote, turned it down, and tiptoed to your room.

You almost reached for Joel’s flannel. Almost.

But you stopped. Not yet. Not tonight.

Instead, you slipped into something casual but soft, just enough comfort to keep you grounded, just enough effort to make you feel like yourself. You brushed your hair, wiped the faint grease from your cheeks, and headed out into the dusk.

Joel’s door was open. “Come in,” he called from the kitchen.

You stepped inside to the warm scent of takeout and the low sound of laughter. Sarah sat on the counter, while Joel leaned over the sink, popping a piece of orange chicken into his mouth.

“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, grabbing you a plate. “Got way too much.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his. “Thanks.”

He handed you a beer next. You caught the faint smile tugging at his lips as you took it.

You sat down with them at the table, three chopsticks clinking, three beers sweating in your hands, and the conversation flowed easy. Sarah had her father’s sharp wit and his stubborn eyes. The two of them teased each other relentlessly, about burnt pancakes, about Joel’s terrible aim in darts, about how she beat him at bowling three times in a row last month.

Joel laughed freely around her, softer somehow. Lighter. And God, it was hot. Seeing him like that. Seeing how much he loved her, how deeply he cared, how solid he was in a way most men could never be.

You envied her. Not just the closeness, not just the way she could tease him and laugh without consequence, but the way she could say “dad” without it sticking in her throat. You watched them and wanted what they had.

But you also wanted something else.

Your eyes kept drifting back to him, the veins in his forearms, the soft flex of his biceps as he reached for a napkin, the glint of his silver ring catching the light. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs every time his voice dipped low or his tongue darted out to lick sauce from his thumb.

You squeezed your thighs together under the table, biting down on your straw.

After dinner, the three of you moved to the living room and sat around the coffee table playing Uno. Sarah was fiercely competitive, throwing wild cards like grenades, cursing under her breath every time you blocked her with a skip.

You teased Joel relentlessly, siding with Sarah, watching his cheeks flush as you ganged up on him.

“You’re a sore loser,” you laughed, flicking a draw four his way.

“Yeah, well, you’re a cheater,” he muttered, glaring at his cards.

“You’re just mad ‘cause I’m better at this and better at using chopsticks.”

Sarah doubled over laughing. “Oh my God, Dad, you suck!”

He groaned, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I invited either of you.”

But when he looked at you again, the air shifted.

His eyes lingered. Too long. Not on your cards. Not on your face. But your mouth. Your chest. The curve of your legs tucked beneath you. His gaze dipped, then lifted again when Sarah wasn’t looking.

You swallowed hard. You saw it. And you knew, he knew you saw it.

There was heat in that room that had nothing to do with the food or the laughter. And the worst part was you didn’t want it to stop.

After a while, Sarah stood up, brushing crumbs from her jeans as she slipped her phone into her pocket.

“Well,” she said, stretching, “I should probably head out. My boyfriend’s waiting.”

She leaned down and hugged Joel first, then gave you a warm—if slightly curious—smile. “It was really nice to meet you. Hope I see you again soon.”

“Yeah,” you replied, matching her tone. “You too.”

You watched her leave, the front door closing behind her like a period on the sentence that had been the night. Joel stood there for a moment in the quiet, rubbing the back of his neck, the silence stretching just long enough to feel heavy.

You gathered plates, stacking them one by one. Joel joined you, wordless at first, rinsing dishes while you dried. The sounds of the kitchen—running water, soft clinks, the distant hum of the fridge—filled the space, but not the air. That was thick. Charged.

Finally, Joel cleared his throat.

“It was nice having you over,” he said, voice low, a little rough. “Maybe next time we could do something a little different home-cooked, maybe.”

You looked up at him from the sink, brow raised.

He didn’t look at you at first, just wiped a plate slowly. “Sarah’s birthday’s coming up. She loves homemade lasagna. If you know how to make that.”

You laughed, soft and warm. “Well, I’m no expert. But I can help you learn.” You tilted your head, teasing. “We can try together.”

Joel gave a small chuckle, finally glancing at you with a look that lingered.

“That sounds nice,” he said, and it did.

You leaned against the counter, fingers still damp from the dish towel. “I can make a cake too, if you want. Something chocolate. Or lemon. I bake better than I cook.”

Joel shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. Tommy’s bringin’ the cake.”

He paused, then added, “It’s not for another two weeks…..just figured I’d give you time. Maybe we can practice before.”

You grinned and gave him a wink. “That does sound nice.”

More than nice, actually.

It sounded dangerous.

Once everything was cleaned up, you lingered for a moment longer than you needed to. Joel leaned one hand on the counter, his beer long gone, eyes on you like he was waiting for something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

“I guess I should get going,” you finally said, voice soft.

“Yeah,” he said, almost too quickly. “Gotta shower. Get to bed.”

You smiled.

Like you already knew that.

Because you did.

You remembered the way he looked, dripping wet and towel-clad, not all that long ago. You remembered his hands, his mouth, the things he didn’t say.

And God, it would’ve been so easy. To reach for him. To press yourself into that familiar warmth. To tilt your chin up and kiss him until his knees buckled and his hands forgot how to do anything but hold you.

But the tension was delicious.

And Joel Miller was the kind of man you didn’t just take.

He was the kind you broke.

The kind you made need you.

So instead, you stepped back. Gave him a small smile. Turned on your heel and walked out that door with a sway in your hips he couldn’t have missed if he tried.

When you got home, you didn’t peek through the window. Didn’t text. Didn’t leave the curtains open for him.

No show tonight.

Let him miss it.

Let him ache.

And if he looked through his window, if he watched your light go out and wondered what you were wearing beneath the covers, well, that was his problem.

You’d make sure the next two weeks hurt just enough to make the lasagna taste better.

Chapter Text

Back in high school, your mom made you go to therapy.

First, it was for the divorce, when your dad left, then came back, then left again. You were young and hollowed out. Then it was for the anger. The kind that sat behind your ribs and itched. The kind that made you snap at teachers and glare at girls in the hallway who whispered behind their hands. The kind that made you punch lockers and throw your cell phone across the kitchen one night when your mom told you to "try journaling instead."

Therapy didn’t help.

Not really.

But sports did.

Softball, volleyball, anything that got your blood pumping and your lungs burning. Anything where you could hit something or jump higher than someone else. That was your language. Your release. You were strong, fast, and mean when you needed to be. You learned how to channel all that fire into winning.

But you weren’t a kid anymore. The games stopped. The trophies gathered dust. And now, when you felt the ache creep up your throat—when you wanted to scream or throw something or claw out of your skin—there was nowhere to put it.

So, you figured, maybe it was time to run.

Literally.

It started small. A loop around the neighborhood. Just enough to get your breath going. But then the thought crept in, slow and sharp, like a splinter in your mind Joel.

Joel Miller.

Your grumpy faced, too-handsome neighbor who kept stealing your breath without even trying. Who looked at you like he was always doing the math in his head, trying to figure out how wrong it would be if he touched you.

You realized you could time your run with his routine.

You knew his mornings. You’d seen him with a mug in one hand and a toolbelt slung low on his hips, fixing something outside. Always in those goddamn jeans.

So you started dressing for the part.

You dug through your drawers until you found your old workout clothes from high school, tight, stretched, a little too small but not unwearable. Black spandex shorts that rode high on your thighs. A racerback tank top that clung to your ribs and barely contained your chest. Your sports bra wasn’t doing much heavy lifting either, and honestly?

You weren’t mad about it.

You stretched deliberately in the front yard, arching your back and raising your arms overhead until your shirt rode up just enough. You were acting casual, sure. But if he looked—really looked—he’d see exactly what you wanted him to.

Then, just before you took off, you popped in your earbuds.

Not because you needed music.

Because you needed a reason not to stop. Not to say something. Not to look too eager.

And then you ran.

Not fast.

Not at first.

You jogged slow past his house. A real tease of a pace. Enough to keep the bounce in your step, enough to give a show, your ponytail swaying, your skin already glowing, your chest rising and falling like an invitation. You waved when you saw him. Smiled like you didn’t have a single thought in your head.

Like you weren’t trying to ruin him.

You swore you saw him freeze. One hand on his toolbelt. One brow lifted. His jaw tense, eyes trailing a little too slow down your frame.

And you swore—honest to God—you saw the front of those jeans shift.

That first time lit something inside of you.

So you made it a routine.

The was the only time you let him see you all week.

That was the rule.

No texts. No glances through the window. No late-night “oops I forgot something” drop-ins. You starved him. You let him ache.

And every morning, like clockwork, you jogged past his house at 8:04 a.m.

You waved.

You smiled.

And you watched Joel Miller grip the railing of his porch like he was holding on for dear life.

By the sixth day, he cracked.

Your phone buzzed midmorning with a simple text

Joel: You avoiding me?

You didn’t respond right away. Just smiled to yourself, biting the edge of your lip as you leaned back in your chair, letting the satisfaction settle. Then finally, you typed

You: Nope. Just been busy.

You left it at that. Let him stew in it a little longer.

Not even an hour passed before he replied again

Joel: I bought the stuff for lasagna if you’re free this afternoon. Wanna give it a try?

You didn’t hesitate this time.

You: Sounds good to me.

And just like that, the trap was reset.

You knocked on his door that evening, no bra beneath your thin tank top, just enough perfume behind your ears to make the room feel warmer. When he opened the door, he looked a little flustered, eyes skimming your neckline before politely, awkwardly meeting your gaze. You gave him your best innocent smile.

“Ready to cook?” you asked.

Joel let you in with a quiet chuckle. “Depends on how generous you’re feelin’ tonight with those skills.”

The kitchen was an absolute war zone.

Pots stacked on top of unopened sauce jars, an empty egg carton next to a sealed box of lasagna noodles, and—for some reason—a frozen bag of corn sitting on the stove like it had a purpose.

You picked it up, held it between your fingers, and smirked.

“Didn’t know this was traditional.”

Joel looked over and scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, uh, yeah. I wasn’t sure what all you’d need. Figured better too much than not enough.”

You tossed it into the freezer with a laugh. “Well, A for effort, Chef Miller.”

The next hour passed in saucy chaos. You teased him every chance you got, light bumps against his hip when reaching past him, making fun of how he couldn’t spread ricotta evenly to save his life.

He told you about his week, fixing a roof in the rain, a busted generator, some asshole yelling at Tommy over a plumbing estimate. You told him about yours, how your manager Tori was riding your ass about your “attitude,” how you almost quit on Tuesday, how Elijah, the line cook, was hitting on anything with legs.

“And then,” you said, without thinking, “he kissed me on your couch last week.”

Silence.

Your mouth opened before your brain caught up. “Shit. Wait. I meant, my couch.”

Joel’s brow arched. “He kissed you…on my couch?”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks. “No, I mean, I just, I misspoke.”

He gave you a slow, unreadable side-eye. “Right.”

You cleared your throat. “Wasn’t anything. He's a boy. You know how boys are.”

Joel’s voice dropped, just slightly. “If he can’t see your worth, he ain’t anything special.”

You glanced at him, trying not to let your smirk show. “That’s why I like older guys.”

He paused. Let out a short laugh, but didn’t meet your eyes. “Not sure all older guys are better.”

You shrugged, keeping the moment light. “Guess I’ll just have to find out.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. You let it go, pivoted back toward the food. “Okay, okay. No offense, but your spreading technique sucks.”

You reached over, guiding his hand with yours, showing him how to layer the cheese just right. His palm was warm, his skin rough beneath yours. As you leaned in, your nipple brushed his bicep, hard, sensitive, obvious.

You knew he felt it.

You could see the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, something hot and dark and tipping on the edge of restraint. You held the look for a moment. Let it charge the air between you.

Then you let go of his hand.

“Almost done,” you said lightly, popping the dish into the oven like nothing happened.

He cleared his throat. “You stickin’ around? Make sure I don’t burn it?”

You tossed him a look over your shoulder. “Of course. I’m not letting you ruin our masterpiece.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Well. Guess that means it’s time for a drink.”

“Beer?”

He shook his head and walked to the pantry. “Was thinkin’ something a little stronger. That okay?”

“More than okay.”

He came back with a bottle of whiskey, half-full, dark, promising. He poured you each a glass.

You threw yours back in one shot.

“Jesus,” Joel said, half laughing, half alarmed. “You’re supposed to sip that.”

“Oops.” You coughed, eyes watering. “That was like…three shots in one.”

He laughed, full and loud this time. It was the kind of laugh that made your stomach twist a little.

“You’re a menace.”

You grinned. “Buddy, you better get on my level.”

“Oh, I’m old, remember? I can’t do all that.”

You walked up to him, tapped his chest gently with your finger. “I dare you.”

Joel blinked, then looked at the cup in his hand. Then back at you.

“Fuck it.”

He took the drink down in one go, steady, calm, not even a wince.

“Damn,” you said, impressed. “You’re a pro.”

He leaned a little closer. “You have no idea.”

Two drinks later, you were perched on the edge of Joel’s kitchen counter, legs swinging lightly, your bare thigh brushing against the cool cabinet beneath you. Joel stood between your knees, too close to be proper, not close enough to be satisfied. His hands were braced on either side of you, and your head was tilted back, laughter echoing through the room.

He was telling some ridiculous story about his dumbass brother Tommy, how he’d once tried to impress a girl by showing off his motorcycle and ended up stalling it in the middle of the street, forcing her to walk home while he tried to kick-start it for twenty minutes. Joel mimicked Tommy’s voice, exaggerated and full of Texan bravado.

You snorted. Actually snorted.

Joel blinked, then laughed again, softer this time. “That was adorable.”

Your eyes locked. His were warm and stormy at the same time, the kind of brown that felt like molasses and warning signs. You could feel it, something shifting in the air. The ache in your chest was spreading downward, pooling low in your belly, making your thighs tighten around him just the slightest bit.

You swore he was going to kiss you.

His hand twitched at your waist.

But then the timer went off.

Beep beep beep.

You coughed, trying to ignore the way your skin burned. “Better get that, Miller.”

He stepped back reluctantly, muttering something under his breath as he grabbed the oven mitts and opened the oven. The smell hit you instantly, cheesy, rich, golden perfection.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, hopping down from the counter to peer over his shoulder. “We made that?”

Joel grinned. “Damn right we did.”

You let it cool while you moved around the kitchen together. He handed you plates while you lit candles—yes, real candles—and you teased him for making it all romantic.

“What, you lightin’ mood candles now?” you asked, raising a brow.

He shrugged. “Sarah left ’em here. Figured they oughta get used.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You sat across from each other, knees brushing under the table. The tiny dining nook glowed in soft amber light, shadows dancing on the walls. You couldn’t remember the last time something felt so intimate without being overt. Just two people eating food, legs touching, hearts tiptoeing toward something dangerous.

Joel served you first. Your fork sank into the lasagna, and the first bite, holy hell.

You moaned.

Not on purpose. Not exaggerated. A real, genuine, deep-in-your-soul moan.

“Fuck, that’s delicious,” you groaned.

Joel blinked.

Then, grinning, “Language, young lady.”

“Oh, sorry, daddy,” you said, full smirk, full sarcasm.

Joel nearly choked on his whiskey, coughing into his arm like he'd swallowed it wrong. He set the glass down carefully. “Uh, don’t do that.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Do what?”

He looked at you, finally meeting your gaze, but this time the spark in his eyes was sharper. Controlled. A little colder.

“You know what I’m sayin’,” he said quietly.

The heat between you flickered, suddenly complicated.

You shifted in your seat, posture stiffening just slightly. “Right,” you said. “Sorry about that.”

He shook his head, cleared his throat again like he was trying to clear something bigger than air.

You both ate in silence for a bit after that, the buzz of the night still lingering, but the softness cracked just slightly at the edges. It wasn’t ruined. But it was…dented.

When the plates were scraped clean, Joel stood and grabbed the casserole dish. “You want to take the rest home? For your dad?”

“Sure,” you said, grateful for the out. “He’ll probably love it.”

He packed it up carefully in foil, set it in your hands like a peace offering. You lingered at the door, half-hoping he’d say something else. Invite you back in. Kiss you like he should’ve earlier.

But he just rubbed the back of his neck and said, “see you next weekend?”

You smiled, soft and small. “Yeah. Next weekend.”

You walked home, lasagna warm in your hands, your head spinning with every almost, every flicker of could-have-been. You didn’t sleep that night, not really.

But you dreamt of Joel’s hand on your waist and what might’ve happened if the timer hadn’t gone off.

Chapter Text

The week dragged by, busy and heavy, and you were glad for the excuse to stay out of the house. Between your new job, the leftover tension from your dad’s bad mood, and the ever-present itch under your skin when Joel crossed your mind, you kept your head down and your schedule full.

You and your dad had a few small arguments, nothing explosive, but enough to leave a bitter taste. About trash. About dinner. About you coming home too late. He never said what he really meant, just grumbled under his breath like you were a burden instead of his daughter. Like your silence wasn’t already doing him a favor.

You got your first paycheck on Thursday. It wasn’t much, but it was more than you’d ever had in your own hands. You handed your dad two hundred in cash without being asked, then quietly tucked the rest away. Gas money. A new lighter. A small, safe gift card for Sarah’s birthday.

You didn’t even know how old she was turning, just that she was older than you and probably wouldn’t want anything too personal from a girl she barely knew. So you picked a neutral card and a Target gift card, added a handwritten note that said Hope it’s special. -From next door, and sealed it like you weren’t already sweating through your shirt.

By Saturday, your nerves were humming.

You didn’t tell your dad where you were going, just that you’d be back later. He didn’t ask questions. Just grunted from the recliner, eyes on some crime show, cigarette ash trembling over the carpet.

You hit your weed pen twice before you left the driveway.

By the time you knocked on Joel’s door, the buzz was soft and warm behind your eyes. Just enough to dull the sharp edges of anxiety.

Joel answered looking frazzled. Shirt wrinkled, hair still damp from a shower, a little flushed like he’d been running around trying to get everything just right.

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “You nervous?”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Yeah. It’s a big day. I always try to make it special for her, but I think I went too kiddie this year. Decorations feel….off.”

You glanced around.

Balloons. Streamers. A homemade banner taped crooked above the window that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH! in chunky blue letters. There was even a paper crown on the counter.

You smiled gently. “They’re cute. She’ll love it.”

He looked at you like he wanted to believe that. Like your opinion mattered.

“Shit,” he said suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I still gotta pick up her gift. And grab Tommy from the mechanic’s, his truck broke down again. Can you start the lasagna while I’m out?”

“Of course,” you said, already slipping off your coat. “I got it.”

He looked relieved, grateful, then a little something else, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. But he nodded and left without another word.

You set to work like you’d done it a hundred times before. The kitchen felt familiar now. Comfortable. Yours, even if it wasn’t. You put on music from your phone—something soft, slow, Southern—and sang along as you boiled noodles, mixed ricotta, layered sauce and cheese.

By the time Joel and Tommy walked in, the lasagna was baking, and the kitchen smelled like comfort.

You greeted them at the door with a casual smile, leaning in the doorway like you lived there. Tommy looked surprised, caught between polite and curious. He gave you a quick hug and looked you up and down, not in a gross way, but like he was trying to do the math on who you were and what this was.

You let him wonder.

They stepped into the living room, talking in low voices. You pretended not to listen, but your hands stilled over the counter when Tommy’s voice dropped just enough for the words to carry.

“She’s way too young for you,” Tommy muttered. “C’mon, Joel. Don’t play dumb.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. You heard the tension in his silence.

Tommy kept going. “I saw how she opened the door like she owned the place. I can feel the tension. You like her. Don’t even deny it. Hell, that’s the one you’ve been watching undress in the window, huh?”

You flushed, every cell in your body lighting up with heat and embarrassment. You knew Joel had been watching. You weren’t stupid. But hearing it said out loud—especially by his brother—made it real in a way that stung.

You didn’t flinch. Just swayed to the music, adjusted your shirt, and mixed the salad like your heart wasn’t racing.

Joel came back into the kitchen a minute later. You didn’t say anything, and neither did he. But he glanced at you like he knew you’d heard every word.

“What time is Sarah coming?” you asked, voice light.

“Any minute,” he said. “She’s bringing her boyfriend.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How do you feel about that?”

He sighed, leaning against the counter. “Nothing I can do about it. She’s grown. All I can do is hope she’s smart. Safe. Uses protection.”

Tommy snorted from the other room. “Like you used protection, huh?”

Joel threw a dish towel at him without turning around.

Sarah and her boyfriend, Thomas, showed up just a few minutes later, arms full of laughter and easy energy. He was taller than Joel by an inch or two, blonde, polite, a little too eager. But Sarah glowed around him—proud and sweet—and you liked that. The five of you moved naturally into conversation, slipping from small talk to deeper things like jobs, future plans, little bits of life you didn’t usually share with strangers. But with them, it felt effortless.

You brought the lasagna to the table, still warm and bubbling, and Sarah took one bite before moaning dramatically and declaring it the best thing she’d ever tasted. Everyone laughed. Joel looked smug. You shrugged, playing it cool, but the praise warmed you deep in your chest.

After dinner, the kitchen echoed with off-key harmonies and soft laughter as all of you sang happy birthday together. Joel pulled a small cake from the fridge—a store-bought thing with squiggly icing and pink candles—and Sarah blew them out with a wish she wouldn’t tell.

Drinks flowed. Joel opened a bottle of whiskey, and Tommy cracked a few beers. You took just enough to keep your nerves soft. The music got louder, and the conversation never lost its rhythm. Everything about the night felt light, dangerously light.

Because underneath the laughter, the tension between you and Joel hummed like a live wire.

You felt it in every stolen glance, every time his eyes flicked to your mouth when you sipped from your glass. In the brush of his foot against yours under the table, accidental at first, then lingering. In the way his jaw tensed when Sarah, sweet and tipsy, asked casually if you had a boyfriend.

“You’re way too pretty to be single,” she teased, then added with an almost theatrical laugh, “and way too young.”

Joel’s head turned so sharply you could feel the air shift.

You just smiled, lips wrapped around the rim of your glass. “Not interested in a relationship right now,” you said lightly.

Joel didn’t speak. Just looked down at his plate like it might answer something for him.

Later, after the plates were cleared and the candles melted halfway down, Joel and Tommy pulled out their guitars. You watched Joel’s fingers dance over the strings like he was born doing it, deft and slow, pulling warmth from the chords like a memory. They played Sarah’s favorite song first, something soft and folky with a whisper of sadness in the melody. She swayed against the wall with Thomas behind her, their arms tangled, her eyes closed in joy.

Then the radio kicked on and the guitars were set aside. Someone cranked the volume and you let yourself fall into the music.

Joel pulled you to your feet. Tommy joined in, laughing. The five of you danced like it was the middle of summer and you had nowhere to be. You twirled between them, light-headed and glowing, your laughter bubbling up with every spin.

Joel dipped you once, his hand solid against your spine, your faces close enough to kiss. You snorted when he twirled you again, and he grinned so wide you saw the crack in all his seriousness.

For once in your life, it felt like something real. Like family. Like warmth.

Like you belonged.

And of course, that’s when the knock came.

Hard. Repetitive. Angry.

Everyone stilled. Sarah looked to Joel, brows drawn.

“You expecting anyone else?” she asked.

“No,” Joel said, voice sharp. He turned to you. “Unless you invited”

But your stomach had already dropped.

You knew that knock. You’d spent your whole life knowing it.

Joel opened the door, and the night collapsed.

Your father stormed in like a weather system, drunk, eyes red, shoulders tense. He reeked of cigarettes and the kind of beer that stains your soul.

“There you are, you little slut.”

The words punched the room silent.

“You think you can just be out all hours of the night with old men?” he slurred, eyes wild.

Before you could move, he grabbed your arm, hard, tight, nails digging in. “Get back home. I need some goddamn dinner.”

Joel stepped between you like a switch flipped in his chest. He grabbed your dad’s wrist and peeled him off you, firm and fearless.

“That’s enough,” Joel said, low and dangerous. “She’s an adult. You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

“I do when she lives under my roof,” your dad barked, spit flying, face blotched with rage. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? You got her in here dressed like that, makin’ dinner like she’s your wife”

“Leave,” Joel cut in.

They shouted over each other. Joel stood his ground. Tommy got between them. Sarah hovered behind the couch, frozen.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look at anyone.

You just grabbed your bag with shaking fingers and stormed out the door, swallowing tears before they hit the air.

You didn’t go home.

You didn’t even think.

You got in your car, hands trembling on the steering wheel, and drove. Fast. Aimless. The road blurred and the music in your chest vanished. You didn’t know where you were going, just that it had to be far.

Far from your father.

Far from the shame.

Far from the ache in your chest every time Joel looked at you like you were something good.

You just drove.

And hoped that somewhere in the dark, there was a place where you could finally breathe.

You didn’t remember pulling over. Didn’t remember the last few turns. The hum of the tires faded beneath the heavy thump of your heart. When you finally looked around, you were in a dimly lit parking lot behind some old hardware store, gravel scattered beneath your tires, a flickering streetlamp buzzing above like it could hear your thoughts.

You turned the engine off.

And crumbled.

Your forehead hit the steering wheel with a soft thud. Your shoulders trembled as the weight of it all—your father, the scene he made, the way Joel had looked at you like he might kill for you—finally cracked something open. The sobs came heavy and ugly, catching in your throat like fists. You didn’t try to stop them. Didn’t try to be strong. Not here, not now.

“Fuck him,” you muttered through gritted teeth, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. “Fuck all of it.”

Your phone lit up on the passenger seat.

Not him. Not your father.

Joel.

You stared at the screen a second too long before you grabbed it, thumb swiping away your hesitation. You steadied your voice the best you could before answering.

“Hello?”

His voice came soft, careful. “Hey, are you okay?”

You swallowed hard, cleared your throat. Lied.

“Yeah. I’m...I’m fine. I’m so sorry I ruined Sarah’s birthday.”

“Hey, no you didn’t,” he said, firm but gentle. “Your dad was just drunk. He’s home now. We gave him some leftovers and sent him on his way.”

You blinked. “Fuck,” you whispered. “I don’t wanna go back there.”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, no hesitation. “Not tonight.”

You gave a short, bitter laugh. “What am I supposed to do, sleep in the car?”

“No,” he said, quiet and steady. “You can come here. I’ll fix up Sarah’s bed for you. She’s staying at a hotel with Thomas tonight. You can have her room. Just come here. You’ll be safe. Does that sound good?”

You wiped your nose with the back of your hand, heart twisting.

“Joel…” your voice cracked. “I don’t want your handouts. I’ll figure it out.”

“It’s not a handout,” he said, firm now. “It’s a hand. When you need help. That’s what friends are for.”

A pause. You stared through the windshield at nothing.

“Is that what we are?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Friends?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s all we can be.”

The words struck like a cold slap. You scoffed, humorless.

“Right.”

You wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe he meant it kindly. But your chest felt hollow. You weren’t sure what stung more, your father’s rage or Joel’s restraint.

“I appreciate the offer,” you said, voice tight. “But I don’t want your pity.”

You hung up before he could respond.

The silence after was crushing.

Your hands trembled as you stared down at your screen, the glow illuminating the raw edge of your tears. You didn’t want to go back. You couldn’t go back. And you couldn’t go to him, not if it meant being reminded of all the things you couldn’t have.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You scrolled down and tapped the name you shouldn’t. The one you’d promised yourself you were done with. The one that didn’t come with safety or kindness, but at least it made you feel something.

Elijah.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

He picked up.

And you let yourself fall.

Chapter Text

You woke up with your head pounding, your thighs aching, and your eyes burning like you'd been crying in your sleep. The ceiling above was unfamiliar, water-stained and cracked, some poster of a band you didn’t recognize curling at the corners in the heat. The sheets smelled like weed and sweat. You rolled onto your side and winced.

You were naked.

Butt-ass naked.

Next to Elijah.

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath, throat dry.

Your memory was fogged at best. You remembered the drive to his place—how you’d barely been able to see through your tears—and how the building looked exactly like you’d imagined it would. Cheap. Run-down. A true bachelor pad. Dark carpet, the faint buzz of an old TV somewhere through the walls, clutter everywhere. No warmth. No welcome.

And now, this.

You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket over your chest even though there was no one to see you. Elijah lay still beside you, his back to the wall, snoring faintly. You stared at the shape of him, at the mess you’d made of yourself.

You remembered smoking. Drinking more. His lips on yours. The heat of it. The need of it.

You’d wanted it. Needed something to blot everything out, even if it was a bad choice. Especially if it was.

But now, now the regret curled in your stomach like spoiled food.

You moved quietly, gathering your clothes from the floor, pulling them on with shaking hands. His bathroom was cramped, the mirror smeared with toothpaste and old fingerprints. But what caught you off guard was the counter.

Tampons. Pads. Makeup wipes. A half-empty bottle of micellar water.

Either he had a girlfriend, or he had enough women over that he kept the place stocked.

Both possibilities made your stomach twist.

You didn’t flush. Didn’t brush your teeth. You just turned off the bathroom light and crept out while he slept. The sun wasn’t up yet, just a faint gray glow peeling across the edges of the world. You slipped into your car like a ghost and slammed the door harder than you meant to.

Your phone was dead. You plugged it into the charger and started the engine, eyes hollow as you pulled out of the parking lot.

You didn’t know how pissed your dad would be.

But you didn’t care.

You just needed to get home. You needed to wash him off you. Scrub last night from your skin.

The ride was silent except for the rattle in your dashboard and the occasional buzz of your phone coming back to life. You didn’t look at it. You didn’t want to look at it. Not to see who tried to reach out, or worse, who didn’t.

You pulled into the driveway just as the sun was beginning to rise, dragging light across the houses like a slow revelation.

You parked beside your dad's car , shut off the engine, and exhaled. When you glanced toward Joel’s house, his porch light was on. Then you noticed it

His bedroom window, still glowing with warm, golden light.

He hadn’t gone to sleep.

Your heart kicked.

You finally looked at your phone. Three missed calls. Four texts. All from him.

Worried. But short. Not overbearing.

You typed out a simple reply, I’m home and alive.

No response.

But when you walked into your bedroom, still half in a daze, you peeked out your own window and saw Joel’s light turn off.

Just like that.

Like he’d been holding vigil.

Like he was finally letting go of whatever breath he’d been holding all night.

Why? you wondered.

Why would he stay up for you?

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

He’d made that crystal clear.

He was just your friend.

And yet you couldn’t shake the weight of it.

You turned away from the window. Kicked off your shoes. Peeled off your jeans like they were stained in guilt. You headed straight to the shower, every step of your body sore, sticky, used. You hadn’t shaved in two weeks, trying to grow it out, trying to look how Joel liked it, even though he never asked, never touched.

Even though he said it was never going to happen.

You stared at yourself in the mirror a long time before you undressed.

Then you cleaned yourself up. Thoroughly.

You shaved everything.

You scrubbed your skin raw like you could erase every fingerprint Elijah left behind.

But no amount of soap would reach the ache blooming in your chest.

You tried to sleep it off.

The hangover, the shame, the taste of Elijah still sour in the back of your throat.

You tossed and turned, your sheets a tangled mess beneath your legs, your body hot and cold and hot again. The room spun when you closed your eyes too hard, but eventually, sleep came for you, deep, dreamless, and heavy like a weighted blanket thrown over your entire soul.

When you woke, it was past noon.

The sun streamed in at a lazy angle, catching the dust floating through the air like glitter in slow motion. Your throat was dry, your stomach hollow, but your head hurt less. You listened. The house was quiet. Your dad must’ve gone to work. Good.

You had the whole day off, though not by choice.

Sunday was always your biggest tip night, and they’d taken you off the schedule two weeks ago after the incident. No warning. No second chance. Just a vague “we’ll call you if we need you” and a polite shrug. It stung. But right now? You were relieved.

You didn’t have to see Elijah. Didn’t have to pretend last night didn’t happen. Didn’t have to smile with shaking hands while carrying menus like your knees weren’t still sore.

You spent most of the day avoiding your reflection.

No makeup. Just a t-shirt that didn’t belong to you anymore and a pair of underwear that sat too low on your hips.

Joel never texted you back.

You never texted him either.

That silence? It ached. Quiet, but sharp. Like a splinter under the skin.

The hours passed. You read the same page of a book six times and still couldn’t tell yourself what it said. You tried watching TV, but the characters’ voices grated. You scrolled, then stopped. Nothing stuck. Nothing helped.

By the time night fell, the guilt and boredom had settled into your bones like a second skin.

It was well past Joel’s usual bedtime. He was a creature of habit, early to rise, early to sleep, just like every blue-collar man in Texas over 35. You knew his rhythm without meaning to. You always noticed the way his bedroom light clicked off around 10:15. Like clockwork.

But tonight?

It was still on.

You sat in your room, phone facedown. The whole house was dark except for the faint blue glow of the streetlamp outside.

And something pulled at you.

You headed over to your window and nudged the curtians with a few careful fingers. The houses sat close enough that you could see straight into his bedroom if the curtain wasn’t drawn, and tonight, it wasn’t.

Not completely.

The fabric was just barely parted, like someone had opened it a fraction and forgotten to shut it.

And there he was.

Joel.

Sitting on the edge of his bed.

Back slightly hunched. His hand slowly working a rhythm that made your breath catch, wrapped tightly around his exposed cock.

You froze. Your heart beat somewhere between your ribs and your throat. You didn’t mean to keep watching, but you did.

You couldn’t look away.

He was facing slightly away, the warm lamplight catching the lines of his shoulders, the tendons in his arm, the tension in his jaw. His other hand clutched a magazine, lazily opened to the centerfold, but you knew he wasn’t really looking at it.

His thumb dragged slow, torturous circles, and you felt your knees lock.

You didn’t even notice your hand at first.

Didn’t feel the way your fingers crept under the waistband of your underwear, soft at first, then desperate, responding like a match to dry pine.

You could’ve stopped. You should’ve stopped.

But you didn’t.

You imagined his hands instead of your own. Rough. Calloused. Experienced.

You imagined what it would be like if that curtain had been opened all the way. If he saw you, cheeks flushed, lips parted, touching yourself to the sight of him like some shameless, aching thing.

The thought only made it worse.

The tension built fast, hot, coiled like a spring in your belly.

Your breath came quicker, shallow and quiet, one hand bracing the windowsill like it could hold you upright. You bit your lip, eyes locked on the scene across the way, until finally

Your whole body seized, then softened, like the exhale after a deep cry.

You sank to your knees on the floor, chest heaving, heart hammering in your ears.

Silence filled the space again.

You stayed there for a long time. Sweat cooling on your neck. Shame curling hot in your gut.

You hadn’t gotten off like that in, God. Maybe ever.

And yet all you felt was hollow.

Ashamed. Satisfied. Confused.

You dared to peek again. Joel had shifted, the magazine discarded on the floor. He was lying back now, one arm over his eyes. His chest rose and fell slowly. Peacefully.

You wondered, did he see you?

From his angle, if he’d glanced out just once….would he know?

Would he say something?

Would he touch himself again tomorrow night, knowing you might be watching?

You pulled the blinds shut and pressed your back to the wall, your thighs still trembling.

You couldn’t go back to sleep now.

And you definitely couldn’t pretend this didn’t happen.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t seen Joel in three days.

Not in the yard. Not on the porch. Not behind the blinds.

He’d shut his curtains completely. Changed his entire damn routine. Didn’t sit out with his coffee in the morning. Didn’t run his evening errands. Didn’t even wave when he passed your dad’s house, just stared ahead, jaw tight, truck window up.

You knew why.
You knew he saw you that night.
And now he was avoiding you on purpose.

And that was just the cherry on top of a week made entirely of shit.

Tori, your smug little bleach-blonde manager, had it out for you again. Wrote you up for “attitude” after some Wall Street-looking asshole snapped his fingers in your face and you didn’t pretend to like it. You barely made tips anymore. Elijah was distant, flaking. You asked if he wanted to hang tonight, and he hit you with

“Got plans.”

Simple. Cold. No explanation. No apology.

So, you said screw it.
You grabbed your raggedy fake ID and went to the Rite Aid. The bored kid behind the counter didn’t even glance at it. Just rang you up, bagged the bottle, and told you to “have a good night.” You didn’t respond.

By the time you got home, the sun was low and your mom’s name was glowing on your cracked phone screen. You answered with a sigh and put her on speaker while you opened the bottle.

“just saying,” she droned on, “your stepsister in 3 sports and she’s volunteering. You should really think about doing something with your time, honey.”

You took a long swig. Didn’t even wince.

“And are you still working at that little hostess job? I heard it’s not even a real restaurant, more like a glorified bar"

“Why don’t you love me like you love them?” you asked, slurring a little.

Silence.

“…What are you talking about?”

You hung up.

The back porch creaked beneath you as you stepped out barefoot, bottle dangling from your hand. You sat on the steps. Watched the sun sink behind Joel’s roofline. Felt the alcohol buzz swimming through your blood like heat.

Half the bottle gone.

You didn’t even hear the truck until it cut off.
A door slammed. Boots on gravel.

Joel.

You stood. Rounded the side of the house before you could think better of it. Met him in the driveway. He had grocery bags in hand, jaw clenched like he’d been bracing for this.

“Why’ve you been avoiding me?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave you one of those looks, the kind that burned through skin.

“You drunk?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

He let out a low sigh. “Go inside.”

“You’re not my fucking dad.”

“I’m not tryin’ to be.”

“You saw me, Joel.” You stepped closer, heart pounding. “The other night. I saw you. And now you won’t even look at me.”

His face twitched. He cleared his throat like he was trying to play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Yes, you do.” Your voice was getting louder, sharper. “God, I’m so sick of everyone pretending like shit didn’t happen. Like I’m crazy for saying it out loud. At least I’ve got the balls to admit it.”

He glanced toward the street. “Keep your voice down.”

You took another step. “What? Embarrassed someone might hear?”

“Jesus Christ” He dropped the bag on his porch and reached for your wrist, not rough, but firm. “You’re causin’ a scene. Come inside.”

He pulled you in and shut the door fast behind you.

The air between you sparked like static.
You were breathing hard.
You were close. So close.

He was warm. You could smell him. Laundry and cedar. That faint trace of motor oil. His hands still loose around your wrist.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was desperate, messy, your lips crashing into his like the dam had finally broken. And for one reckless second, he kissed you back.

Then he pulled away.

“No,” he said, voice low. Ragged. “I’m not gonna take advantage of you like this.”

You blinked, face hot. “So, if I was sober, you’d kiss me again?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you like he hated the question and hated that he didn’t have a clean answer.

“I don’t know.”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair. Took a steadying breath.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll get you some water.”

You stood there in the middle of his living room, heart racing, pulse in your ears, and wondered how the hell things got so tangled. And how long until they snapped.

He walked past you and came back with a water and a sandwich—probably left over from lunch—and set them on the table in front of the couch.

“You can sit. Sober up a little.”

You did. Mostly because the room spun when you didn’t.

He sat across from you, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, not looking directly at you.

“Twenty-five’s too young,” he said finally.

You snorted and wondered what he would think if he knew your real age.“God. Not this shit again.”

“I’m twenty-five years older than you.”

“So?”

“So, it’s wrong.”

“Why? Because it’s easier to say that than admit you feel something?”

“You’re almost my daughter’s age.”

“I’m not her, Joel.”

He stared at the carpet. “It’s not right.”

“You’re full of shit,” you snapped. “You feel it. The chemistry. The attraction. It’s wrong to deny it.”

He raised his eyes then. Quiet. Steady. But when he spoke, his voice was cold.

“I don’t feel it,” he said. “It’s just a crush. Somethin’ you’ll grow out of.”

That made your blood boil.

“Bullshit,” you spat, grabbing the sandwich and throwing it down hard. “Go screw yourself, Joel. And next time you’re gonna jerk off with the window open, don’t pretend it wasn’t me you were thinking about.”

He flinched.

And you walked out, slamming the door behind you so hard the wall trembled.

The night air hit your flushed face like a slap, cool, unforgiving. You were halfway across the lawn, chest tight, when you heard his boots behind you.

"Hey," Joel called after you, sharp, low. "Don’t walk away from me like that."

You didn’t stop. Not until he caught up, grabbing your wrist again not rough, just enough to turn you back around. His brows were pinched, mouth tight, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"This is exactly what I’m talkin’ about," he said, voice strained with frustration. "You’re too damn immature sometimes. You get upset and you run off. You never stay and talk. You just"

You ripped your wrist from his grip.

"Yeah? Well maybe I’m tired," you snapped, voice cracking around the words. "Tired of everyone pretending things ain’t what they are."

Joel blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in your tone.

"You’re denying your feelings," you spat, the alcohol loosening the lock on every buried thing. "My dad’s denying he’s got a fucking drinking problem. My boss denies that everyone in that restaurant treats me like shit. And my mom" Your voice shook. "She’s been denying since I was born that she never even loved me."

Your throat burned. The tears were already there, hot and traitorous.

"I’m a mistake," you whispered. "I’m a fuckin’ burden."

Joel stepped forward then, quietly, instinctively. He didn’t say anything just folded you into his chest. His flannel smelled like sawdust and something faintly woodsy, and for a second, you hated how safe it felt. Like he meant it.

"Hey now," he said softly, palm warm and steady on your back. "You’re not any of those things. You hear me? You’re a good person. You’re just drunk and you’re goin’ through it right now. That’s all."

You pushed him away hard enough to make him stumble a step back.

"Don’t act like you’re some hero, Joel."

His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to argue, but you weren’t done.

"If you don’t wanna be with me? Fine," you said, louder now, your voice slicing through the quiet of the street. "But don’t stand there and pretend like I’m crazy. I’m not the one lying to myself about what I feel."

He looked pained. "It ain’t that simple."

"Yes it is!" you shouted, tears now streaming freely down your cheeks. "It is, Joel. You either feel something or you don’t."

Joel let out a breath, long and rough. "I do. I never said I didn’t."

You blinked, startled. "Then why?"

"Because I do care about you," he said, voice ragged. "But that’s exactly why I can’t do this. You think I don’t wanna kiss you? You think I don’t?"

He cut himself off and ran a hand down his face, turning away like the words burned coming out.

"You deserve someone who ain’t twice your damn age. Someone who didn’t grow up learnin’ how to destroy everything they care about."

Your heart thudded in your chest, uneven. The alcohol made the world spin slightly, but you felt every word like a blade.

Joel looked back at you, eyes shadowed with something old and worn.

"I understand you feel somethin'," he said. "I do too. But that don’t mean I’m gonna act on it."

You stared at him, silent, for what felt like a year.

"Then don’t," you whispered. "But don’t ask me to pretend I don’t feel it just because you’re scared to."

And with that, you turned around and walked off into the dark, not looking back this time, not even when you heard his door close behind you.

Chapter Text

You were seventeen.

It was late, somewhere between the silence of midnight and the dread of morning. Your house was dark except for the kitchen light, a flickering strip of yellow that buzzed overhead. You’d crept out of bed in search of a snack,barefoot down the hall with the quiet shuffle of someone who didn’t want to be seen, let alone heard.

But then you heard her.

Your mother’s voice, muffled but sharp, slithered down the hallway from her bedroom like smoke through a cracked door. You paused just outside, one hand still resting on the fridge handle, the other curling at your side as if bracing for a blow you couldn’t see coming.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, low and bitter. “She has no purpose, no direction. No future. I don’t know how I failed her so bad.”

Your stomach turned. You didn’t move.

“She didn’t even try to apply to college,” your mother went on. “She has no dreams, no ambition. Just wants to stay home all day and smoke weed. Be a bum like her father.”

There it was.

Your breath caught. You stood frozen, eyes fixed on the humming refrigerator, the sound of her words bleeding into your ears like acid through cotton.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it was there.

She was right, wasn’t she?

You didn’t know what you wanted. Not really. You’d told yourself you were doing her a favor, why waste her money on college applications if you had no idea what you wanted to be? Why pretend like you had it figured out just because some high school counselor handed you a deadline?

You always thought it was bullshit that impossible pressure they put on kids to decide their future before they were even old enough to legally drink. But still it hurt. God, it fucking hurt.

Because that wasn’t what she said to your face. Not even close. She smiled with tight lips at parent-teacher conferences, nodded along when people asked if you were going off to school, told you it was fine to “take your time” and “figure it out.”

But behind closed doors? You were a failure.

A burden.

A disappointment she couldn’t scrub clean no matter how many wine bottles she emptied into her cup.

Your hand dropped from the fridge. Appetite gone. Chest tight.

You didn’t cry like a child. You didn’t throw anything or scream. You just turned and walked back down the hallway, quieter this time. Not because you didn’t want her to hear you.

Because you didn’t want her to stop.

Because for once you wanted to know how she really felt.

And now you did.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, laptop propped up on a pillow, the glow of the screen casting a pale light over your face. Your eyes scanned yet another community college website, cursor hovering over tuition tabs and degree requirements. Business administration. General studies. Liberal arts. None of it jumped out at you. None of it felt like you.

But what was you?

You always pictured yourself as a mom someday. A wife. Someone who made pancakes on Sundays and folded little socks out of the dryer. But the career question? That one never had an answer. Not in school. Not now.

You tried to click through the financial aid page, something about FAFSA, Pell Grants, application fees. Everything blurred together like a bad dream. Your chest tightened. The language felt foreign, like you’d missed the one class where they explained how to become someone.

With a frustrated groan, you slammed the laptop shut.

The sound echoed too loud in the quiet room. You rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, still feeling the dull, crawling ache from yesterday’s hangover. Shame stuck to your skin like sweat, warm, sour, and impossible to wash off. Your memory was patchy. Disjointed. Joel’s hands on your wrists. Your voice raised. A kiss. You couldn’t piece it all together, and that almost made it worse.

You grabbed your hoodie and stepped out front, the late afternoon light already beginning to soften into gold. The air was warm and still. The porch creaked as you dropped onto the steps and pulled out your weed pen. A few hits, deep and slow, like maybe they could loosen the knots in your gut.

You stared across the yard at his house.

Curtains still drawn. Lights off. No sign of him.

You didn’t blame him.

Not entirely.

You let your head fall back against the rail and exhaled, letting the smoke curl upward. Maybe he’d moved on. Maybe he hated you. Or maybe—just maybe—he was pretending nothing had happened, same as everyone else in your life.

But then you heard it.

A door opening.

Boots on gravel.

Your heart froze in your chest as Joel stepped out, closing his front door behind him. He hesitated for half a second before walking toward you, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You sat up straighter. “Hey.”

“Can we talk?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just brought the pen to your lips again and took one last hit, holding it in a moment longer than you needed to. Then you stood, brushing off your jeans with sweaty palms.

“Sure,” you said. “Let’s go.”

And you followed him across the street.

Back into his house.

Again.

Joel didn’t say anything right away. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked around like he hadn’t seen his own living room before. Like the couch and the coffee table might offer up the words he couldn’t find.

You stayed standing. Arms crossed. Weed pen still warm in your hoodie pocket.

Finally, he spoke.

“Look,” he said, voice gravelly but not unkind. “I know last night was a mess. You were drunk. Hurt. I ain’t mad about that.”

You blinked hard. “I remember some of it. Not all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, then softened a little. “It’s not about what you said. It’s about how you said it. The way you looked at me like I’d already given up on you.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“I haven’t,” he added. “I just, I don’t know how to do this.”

You sank onto the edge of the couch, the weight of everything still pressing down. “You don’t know how to do what, Joel? Care about someone younger? Someone messy?”

He sat across from you. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“No,” he said plainly. “I don’t know how to pretend like I don’t care about you when I do.”

The words hit like a cold plunge. You looked up at him fast, but he wasn’t looking at you , he was staring at the rug like it might start burning.

“You’re right about what you said last night,” he went on. “We’re different. You’re young. I’m not. You got time to figure things out, I already lived a lotta mine. You’re still learning who you are, and hell, maybe I don’t want to watch you do that and wish it was with someone else.”

That stung.

But then he looked at you. Really looked. Like he always did when you were about to break and he didn’t want you to.

“But maybe that’s not fair,” he added. “Maybe I’ve been pushing you away so I don’t have to feel how badly I want this.”

You swallowed.

“So what now?” you asked. “You suddenly want to be with me?”

He shook his head slowly, but not in a no. “I want to try. That’s what I came out to say. You want me to give you a chance? I will. Not because I think it’ll fix everything, not because I’m promising anything permanent. But because you deserve to know.”

You held your breath.

“To know what?”

He sighed through his nose. “If this thing we keep dancing around is something real or if it’s gonna break us both wide open.”

You sat there stunned. Then you laughed, not because it was funny, but because your body didn’t know what else to do.

“And what?” you said. “You’re gonna give it, what, a trial run? Like I’m a test drive?”

Joel raised his eyebrows. “That what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is,” you snapped, and then softer “I just know I’m tired of feeling like I’m too much and never enough all at the same time.”

He got up. Crossed the space between you and crouched so you were eye-level.

“You’re not too much,” he said. “You’re just not used to someone stayin’.”

Your throat closed.

He reached for your hand. Didn’t grab it. Just let it hang there like an open offer.

“I’m not promising this’ll work,” he said. “But I am promising I’ll try. If you want me to.”

You hesitated. Then slowly, fingers trembling, you laced yours through his.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But if we do this, you can’t ghost me when it gets hard. You can’t pretend I imagined it.”

“I won’t.”

“And I’m not changing who I am,” you added. “I cry when I’m mad, I overshare when I’m high, and I will always need more reassurance than I let on.”

He gave a faint, crooked smile. “Good. I’d rather have that than someone who lies through their teeth.”

Silence fell between you. Not the awkward kind, but the settling kind. Like dust after a storm.

You weren’t sure what this would be. Or how long it would last. But for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe — just maybe — you weren’t a mistake.

And Joel?

He was still holding your hand.

Chapter Text

Joel had said he wanted to do things right. That’s why he didn’t kiss you last night.

Said if this was going to happen—whatever this was—he wanted it to start proper. With a date. Not a kiss on his couch with your voice still shaking from heartbreak and weed.

You were confused when he texted you the next morning

Be ready at 5. Wear something you don’t mind getting dirty. And tennis shoes.

No other clues. No hints.

You’d half-expected dinner, maybe a drink, something you could get dolled up for. But now you stood in front of his truck in cutoff shorts and an old tank top, laces double-knotted on your beat-up sneakers, heart thudding like you were sixteen again sneaking out past curfew.

Joel stepped out onto the porch right at 5, punctual as hell. You could see the moment his eyes landed on you, dark gaze sweeping slowly from your bare legs up to your mouth before he caught himself and cleared his throat.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice low, like the words tasted strange coming out.

You smirked. “You sure you don’t mind me gettin’ all dirty lookin’ like this?”

His eyes crinkled just slightly at the corners. “Nah. I got a feelin’ you’d still look good covered in mud.”

You raised an eyebrow. He blinked, as if realizing what he’d said, and opened the truck door for you instead of elaborating. You climbed in, heart pounding.

He turned the key in the ignition and old country music spilled through the speakers, steel guitar, slow and dusty. It suited him, in that rugged, sun-worn way. You didn’t hate it.

The first ten minutes were awkward. You fiddled with the hem of your shorts, chewing your cheek, trying not to stare at his forearms on the wheel or the way the sun lit the side of his face just right.

But Joel talked. About anything. About everything. He was easy to listen to, warm and low like a southern storm rolling in. You found yourself opening up too. Talking about work, how your manager Tori was making your life hell. Joel grunted at that.

“Maybe you oughta quit,” he said. “Find somethin’ better.”

You laughed bitterly. “Not that easy. Never went to college. Don’t even know what I wanna do with my life.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded, like he got it. Like he’d been there.

You almost slipped and said you were nineteen. Almost. But caught yourself in time.

After nearly an hour, he turned off the main road and started down a dusty trail swallowed by trees. You sat up straighter.

“Uhm. Joel? You takin’ me out here to kill me?”

He chuckled, one hand still on the wheel. “Thought you liked the outdoors?”

You winced. Damn it. You had said that. In passing. While trying to impress him.

He pulled off beside an overgrown trailhead. You looked out the window, at the barely visible path.

“A hike?” you asked.

He was already getting out. “It’s a long trail. But it’ll lead us to a lookout point right around sunset.”

“Great,” you muttered. “So we’re hiking back in the dark?”

He popped the glove box, pulling out a flashlight. “Got a light. And a gun. Ain’t nothin’ out here I can’t handle.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Protect me from what? Bears?”

“Probably nothin’,” he said with a laugh. “But I got you. C’mon now.”

You followed him reluctantly, swatting bugs and cursing under your breath. Joel was in front, walking steady, looking completely in his element.

He talked more, about how he used to bring Sarah here before she got too cool to go hiking with her old man. How she used to pick flowers and ask if deer could understand English. It was sweet. Sad, too.

Then he said, “Been a long time since I’ve done this. A date, I mean.”

You perked up. “Yeah? Long time since you’ve been on a date or long time since you’ve had sex?”

He stopped mid-stride and looked over his shoulder at you, jaw clenched.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You shrugged, trying to hide your grin. “Well?”

He sighed. “Yeah. It’s been a while.”

You smirked. “If you’re worried about keepin’ up, I don’t mind if you take one of those honey packets. Or Viagra.”

Joel full-on choked at that. “What the hell is a honey packet?”

You explained it with far too much enthusiasm, giggling the whole time. Joel kept walking, muttering something about “damn kids” and how he didn’t need that crap, thank you very much.

Still, the tension lingered. Electric.

You watched the way his back moved beneath his shirt. The way the muscles flexed in his arms. Your mind drifted, no matter how many trees you tried to count.

He reached back for your hand at some point, just casually. But the touch was so intentional, your breath hitched. His fingers were big, rough, warm. They swallowed yours whole.

You blushed. Looked down.

“Just a little further,” he said.

You could see the clearing ahead now. That soft burn of golden light through the trees. The sky stretching wide and endless above it.

But in that moment, all you could think about was how close his body was. How good he looked sweaty and flushed. How badly you wanted him to drop the act and pull you into those woods, push you up against a tree, kiss you like he meant it.

He looked back and caught your expression. Held it a moment too long.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded slowly.

Just not for the reasons he thought.

You were enjoying Joel, his warmth, his voice, the way he looked at you like there was nobody else in the world, but God, you hated the woods. The bugs, the sweat, the scratch of branches against your legs. The fear of bears lurking in the brush. You kept swatting at leaves like they were trying to attack you, stumbling over roots with every other step, your thighs burning from the incline.

Joel, of course, was barely winded. Grinning like he was watching a damn comedy show.

"Shut up," you huffed, rolling your eyes as he stifled another laugh behind you.

But he didn’t. He chuckled low and deep, the sound curling under your skin.

You saw the clearing just ahead, sunlight starting to pour through the trees in molten gold, but then your foot hit a patch of slick mud and your body pitched forward. Your hand was still clasped in Joel’s, and you nearly yanked him down with you.

"Are you fucking serious?" you snapped, sprawled in the dirt, absolutely covered. You groaned, blinking up at him.

Joel tried—tried—to hold back, but he burst out laughing, shoulders shaking as he leaned down to offer his hand.

“Relax,” he said through a smirk. “Ain’t that bad.”

“Bite me.”

He helped you up, but the smugness on his face was unbearable, so you scooped up a fistful of the same damn mud and flung it at him. It landed square on his shirt.

“Hey now!” He raised his hands in surrender, but you hurled another. He stepped back too late, catching it across the chest.

“Smartass,” you said.

“That’s how it’s gonna be?”

Before you could dart away, Joel grabbed you by the waist, lifted you clean off your feet, and slung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You shrieked, then laughed, holding onto him as he carried you the rest of the way like a sack of potatoes.

“Put me down!”

“Nope.”

You could barely breathe from laughter. “I swear to God, Joel!”

He finally set you down at the edge of the overlook, both of you out of breath. You blinked in the golden light.

It was stunning.

The trees below opened into a wide expanse of soft green hills and rust-red rock. The sun was dipping low, casting streaks of orange and violet across the sky. It looked like something out of a painting, too perfect to be real.

Joel didn’t look at the view. He was looking at you.

“What a view,” he murmured.

You turned to look out again. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.”

He reached out, tilted your chin up until your eyes met his.

“I wasn’t talkin’ about the mountain.”

Your breath caught.

You giggled, half-embarrassed. “I’m covered in mud.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh like that,” he said softly. “Authentic. Free. You look good happy.”

Your heart fluttered. Not from nerves, something deeper. Something safe.

You rose onto your tiptoes and kissed him.

This time, he didn’t pull away. He kissed you back with a quiet hunger, hands cradling your face, lips warm and sure against yours. The kiss deepened fast, tongues brushing, mouths parting wider. One of his hands slid down your back, gripping your waist. Yours traced up his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt like you needed him to keep breathing.

It was messy. Breathless. A little dirty.

God, it felt good.

When you finally broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against yours. His chest rose and fell fast, lips damp and flushed.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said hoarsely.

You smirked, arms still looped around his neck. “Make sure to write me in your will, old man.”

He chuckled, rough and real. “Ain’t got nothin’ to leave you.”

“Then you better stay alive.”

The teasing softened into quiet. You stayed like that, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arms wrapping around you like a promise. The sun kept dipping, lower and lower, casting the whole world in rich amber and soft purple shadows. Below you, Texas sprawled out wide and wild and untamed. You could see every stretch of the land from here, every broken fence and winding road, the bones of old barns and the shimmer of distant rivers.

Joel was right. It was worth the hike.

And maybe—just maybe—he was worth the fall.

The walk back to Joel’s truck felt longer in the dark. The trail twisted and narrowed, roots reaching up like fingers to catch your ankles, but you didn’t let go of his hand once. His palm was calloused, sure. Grounding. Every so often, he gave your fingers a squeeze, just enough to say I’m here. And with him beside you, the dark didn’t feel quite so threatening.

Starlight filtered down through the trees like silver lace. Fireflies floated lazily in the hush between cicada songs, blinking yellow like the flick of a match. You glanced up at the night sky, deep and velvet-blue, stars dusted across it like salt over a black tablecloth. Beautiful. Peaceful.

When you finally made it to the truck, you paused at the passenger side and looked down at yourself.

“Joel,” you said, appalled. “I’m gonna ruin the inside of your truck.”

He shrugged, already unlocking the door. “I don’t mind.”

“Seriously?”

“Truck’s seen worse.”

You raised a brow. “Have you?”

He just gave you a knowing look.

The engine grumbled to life. Joel pulled out onto the winding road, windows down, music drifting through the speakers like a warm breeze. Some old southern song came on again, fiddle and slide guitar, the kind of tune that begged to be sung at full volume with the night rushing past.

Joel’s hand settled on your thigh, rough thumb tracing slow, lazy circles over your skin. You both sang along, off-key but loud, laughing through the lyrics. He glanced sideways at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Didn’t think you knew this music.”

You shrugged, grinning. “I’m full of surprises.”

He snorted. “That’s the truth.”

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the lot of a dusty old diner on the side of the road, its neon sign buzzing in faded pink and turquoise. Open 24 Hours. The place looked like a postcard from the past, chrome accents, red vinyl booths, checkered floor, the smell of fryer oil and burnt coffee wafting out the moment the door opened.

You walked in hand in hand, still caked in dried mud and twigs, looking like you’d crawled out of the earth itself. The few patrons barely blinked.

You plopped into a booth by the window. Your stomach growled as you scanned the menu. “God, I’m starving.”

You ordered a double cheeseburger, cheese fries, and a chocolate milkshake that promised to be obnoxiously over the top. Joel, to your complete disbelief, ordered the spaghetti and a black coffee.

You stared at him, blinking. “Spaghetti? At a diner?”

He shrugged, smug. “You won’t be judgin’ when you taste how good it is.”

“Oh yeah?” You smirked, nudging his shin with your foot. “You gonna feed it to me?”

His ears went pink. “If that’s what it takes.”

You smiled sweetly, then let your foot slide higher up his leg, slow and teasing. His body stiffened. You slipped your shoe off and pressed your toes between his thighs, light as a whisper.

He looked at you, startled. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently, sipping your water. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “You’re wild, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

Just then, the waitress arrived with your milkshake, a monstrous thing in a mason jar, piled high with whipped cream, sprinkles, two lollipops sticking out like antennae, a brownie jammed into the top, and a straw so long it curved.

Joel stared at it like it might explode.

“You’re like a child,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll learn to love my silliness.”

You inched your foot further up between his thighs, feeling the warmth of him there. He shifted away slightly, but only for a second, then leaned in closer to you across the table.

“I know a gas station down the road,” you whispered with a playful gleam. “Could grab one of those honey packets. Really make the night interesting.”

Joel let out a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. “I told you I don’t need that stuff.”

You gave him a sly smile. “Then let’s test that theory.”

He leaned back, ran a hand down his face, and said, “We’re not sleepin’ together tonight.”

You blinked, feigning shock. “We’re not?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I told you. I wanna do this right.”

You sighed and dropped your foot, slumping dramatically into the booth. “What a shame.”

He smirked, but there was a flash of something deeper in his eyes. Hunger, held back by restraint.

The food arrived, the waitress setting down steaming plates. You didn’t even hesitate, grabbed a bite of Joel’s spaghetti with your fork and popped it into your mouth.

You moaned dramatically. “Okay, fine. This is obnoxiously good.”

He raised a brow. “Told you.”

“You should still be arrested for ordering spaghetti at a diner.”

“You should be arrested for what you were doin’ under that table.”

You giggled, leaning forward as he wiped the corner of your mouth with a napkin. You batted your eyes at him, ridiculous and saccharine.

He just smiled, low and warm, like he was already in deeper than he meant to be.

And maybe…...maybe you were too.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed like a dream you weren’t allowed to wake up from. Sweet good morning texts. Stolen glances through curtained windows. Passing one another in driveways like it was nothing, like your mouth hadn’t been on his just nights ago. You were playing it cool. Acting mature. Patient. Determined to make him ache for it. For you.

Because now he’d tasted your lips. Now he knew.
Let him starve. Let him sweat.

But god, you were starving too.

By the third night, you cracked.

After another brutal shift at the resturant, booked up, stiff tips, your dad already half-drunk by the time you parked, you didn’t even bother pulling into your own driveway. Joel’s porch light was on. His truck was in its usual spot. So you crossed the gravel and knocked.

Three times. Sharp. Certain.

He opened the door in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair damp from a shower, holding a cold beer. His smile was slow and amused when he saw you.

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed. “Can I come in or what?”

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

You stepped inside, still in your hostess uniform, tight black shirt, apron balled in your fist, hair up, eyeliner smeared just enough to betray the day you’d had. You tossed your apron on the nearest chair and kicked off your sneakers with a frustrated sigh.

“Rough night?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Rough everything,” you muttered, slumping into the kitchen stool. “People are assholes, and I smell like fry oil.”

He chuckled and leaned against the counter. “I was just about to order pizza.”

“Pass. Not hungry.”

“You gotta eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry, Joel.”

“Alright, alright. Something else then? Chinese? Spaghetti?”

You groaned. “I ate fries at work. I’m fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Fries aren’t dinner.”

“And pizza is?”

He smirked. “Pizza has all the major food groups.”

You laughed—tired and a little delirious—and stood up. “God, you’re such a dad.”

Before he could respond, you walked straight up to him, curled your fingers in the hem of his shirt, and kissed him.

Not shy. Not gentle.

It was like striking a match. His mouth opened to you, hands instantly in your hair, tugging you closer like he’d been waiting, suffering. You moaned into him as he backed you against the counter, lifting you up like you weighed nothing and planting you there with a quiet grunt.

Your hands were everywhere, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. He was so firm under your fingertips. So warm. You slipped one hand beneath his shirt, the other teasing the worn leather loop of his belt. Just a little more. Just a little further

He broke the kiss, chest heaving. “Not yet.”

You let your head fall back with a groan. “You’re torturing me.”

His eyes were dark, lips swollen. “I already saw your dick Joel,” he laughed, running a hand over his face, “thanks for reminding me to close my goddamn curtain.”

“Baby, nooo,” you whined, dragging him back toward you. “Come on"

He shook his head, his voice low but steady. “We just started dating. I wanna do this right. It’s not proper.”

“No one does things proper anymore.”

“Well, I do. I’m old,” he said with a teasing smirk. “I’m not into casual.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. Guess it’s just me, my vibrator, and my filthy imagination.”

He turned to grab his phone. “Let me at least order something. You’re gonna pass out if all you’ve had is fries.”

As he put the phone to his ear, you slid off the counter, bare feet silent on the floor. “I’ve been letting it grow out, y’know.”

He glanced at you, confused. “Hi, yeah, I'd like to make an order for”

You took his hand and slipped it down the front of your pants, guiding him to the soft hair between your thighs.

He froze.

“Jesus Christ” His voice cracked mid-sentence. “Uhh, yeah, sorry ma’am, I’ll have to call you back.” He hung up in a rush, eyes wide.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he rasped, dragging his hand away like it burned. “I just told you no. How do you even know I like that?"

You gave a shrug, completely unbothered. “How do I know? Maybe ‘cause I’ve seen enough from that window.”

His jaw clenched. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pouted, arms folding across your chest. “Fine. I’ll go home.”

“No” He caught your wrist and pulled you back in, kissed you hard like punishment, like reward. “Don’t be like that.”

God, it was hard. Being near him. Not begging.

You melted in his arms again, every cell in your body screaming for friction, for heat, for more. But you were trying to be good. Trying to wait. Trying to make him crack first.

He finally let go and stepped back, hands on his hips, breath shaky. “Want a beer?”

You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah. Fuck it.”

He handed you a cold one from the fridge, and you took a long sip as you sat at his kitchen table, legs crossed and hair coming loose.

He was pacing the kitchen now, pretending to look for takeout menus.

You knew he wasn’t hungry either.

He ended up ordering from a different pizza place, somewhere further, probably out of sheer embarrassment. You didn’t say anything, but the switch didn’t go unnoticed.

You filled the time with chatter, rambling about work and school and how your dad still hadn’t fixed the busted porch light. Joel listened, nodding occasionally, but his eyes kept drifting, your legs, your mouth, your smudged eyeliner, like he was trying hard not to think about how much he wanted to strip you bare and take you right there at the table.

The pizza came faster than expected.

You flopped onto the couch as he flipped on the game, some late-season football thing you didn’t care about. You kept talking through the kickoff. He muted the TV without complaint, giving you his full attention like the game didn’t even exist.

You ate a slice. Drank another beer. Laughed when he told you about Tommy slipping off a roof that week“he landed in the grass, he’s fine” and then you finished the last crust and leaned into him, tucking yourself beneath his arm.

His fingers found your hair immediately, slow and absentminded.

After a few quiet moments, he sighed. “Y’know, sex ain’t everything.”

You tilted your head to look at him.

“If you really want this,” he said softly, “I’m gonna need you to slow down with that kinda stuff. I get it, you’re young, and probably horny, or whatever you kids say these days…”

You grinned.

“…but I’m not lookin’ for anything casual. I might not even wanna have sex at all.”

You blinked. “Oh, bull.”

He looked down at you, serious. “It’s not bull.”

You raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing in amusement. “I think you’re just scared.”

“Scared?”

“Scared you’ll like it too much. Or that you can’t handle me.”

That made him sit up straighter, jaw tight. He gave you a look, low and dangerous and just a little amused.

“Oh, I can handle you, darlin’,” he said. “I’m just not sure you’re ready for a real man.”

That lit something hot in your stomach.

You locked eyes with him, unwavering. “Trust me, I saw how big it is, Joel. I promise I can handle it.”

He laughed. A full-bodied, shoulders-shaking kind of laugh. Then his voice dropped again, low and serious.

“It’s not the size I’m worried about,” he said. “It’s the ride I’m gonna take you on.”

God.

The way he said it—in that drawl, rough and low—you swore your knees went weak and you weren’t even standing. It was the dirtiest thing he’d ever said to you, and it hit like a lightning bolt.

You bit your lip, smiling slow. “That so?”

Without waiting for a reply, you shifted.

One leg over. Then the other. Settling onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs.

His hands immediately went to your hips. “Hey now”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Fine,” you whispered. “If you don’t wanna have sex, that’s okay with me.”

He exhaled through his nose, skeptical.

“But I am gonna make sure you regret that choice,” you murmured, hips slowly rocking against him, slow and taunting. “Every second of it.”

You felt him tense beneath you. Every inch of him waking up beneath denim. Your lips trailed down to the base of his throat, tasting salt and soap and the heat of his skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.

His fingers dug into your ass, holding you tighter now. Possessive.

“You’re gonna make this hard, huh?”

You threw your head back and laughed, hips still grinding. “Oh, Joel,” you breathed. “You have no idea.”

Joel’s breath was hot against your collarbone, his lips grazing your skin in a way that felt accidental but wasn’t. Not with the way his hands clutched at your waist now, like he was barely keeping himself tethered.

You rolled your hips again, slow, measured, savoring the way he twitched beneath you. You could feel him—hard as stone under his jeans—and it only made you press closer.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” you whispered, lips at his jaw. “You said no sex. You never said I couldn’t touch you.”

He groaned, low and guttural.

Your teeth grazed his neck and his grip tightened on your hips.

“This ain’t fair,” he rasped.

“Life’s not fair,” you replied, voice sweet and innocent, even as you slid one hand down his chest, beneath the hem of his shirt. His stomach flexed beneath your touch. He was solid heat and tension, like a bow pulled back to the breaking point.

You rocked harder now, teasing the friction between your bodies, your breath hitching when his hand finally slid beneath your shirt.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, like a prayer or a warning.

You smiled against his mouth. “Not Jesus.”

“Don’t tempt me, baby.”

“I am tempting you.”

His mouth crashed against yours again. This time, there was no hesitation. Just teeth and tongue and the kind of kiss that stole every rational thought from your skull. His hand gripped your ass again, yanking you tighter against the thick line of him. Your shirt was bunched up your waist now, and you were damn near grinding on him through two thin layers of clothing.

Your hands moved faster, unbuckling his belt, your fingers clumsy but determined. You got it undone, started tugging the zipper down when

He grabbed your wrist. Firm. Unshakable.

“Stop.”

You blinked, breathless. “Joel”

“I said stop.”

You pulled back, confused, dazed.

“I meant what I said,” he panted, voice rough with restraint. “We ain’t doin’ this. Not yet.”

You sat still for a second, straddling him, flushed and aching and a little stunned.

“You’re serious?”

He nodded, still breathing hard. “I want this. I do. But not like this. Not yet. You need to go.”

The words cut deep, but not because he didn’t want you.

Because he did. Desperately.

You nodded once. No argument. No drama. You slid off his lap without another word, straightened your outfit, grabbed your purse and shoes.

He didn’t walk you out. Couldn’t. He just stayed there, on the couch, hands gripping his knees like he was trying to keep from chasing after you.

But you weren’t done.

Not by a long shot.

You dropped your purse and shoes on the floor, stepped over your jacket, and walked straight into your bedroom. Your window faced his. You knew that. You’d always known that.

And the lights were still on in his living room.

You turned on your lamp, just enough glow to catch his attention, if he was looking.

And you were betting he was.

You stood in front of the window, centered perfectly in the frame, your silhouette crystal-clear against the soft yellow glow.

You peeled your pants down first. Slow. Taunting. Let it fall to your ankles.

Then your top. Over your head and tossed aside.

You paused in nothing but your panties and bra, pretending to glance casually out the window.

His light was still on.

You reached behind your back, unhooked your bra. Let it fall.

Then your panties.

You were fully, unashamedly nude, your chin lifted, your body glowing in the light.

And there he was.

Joel. In his room. Frozen in place, staring like a man who’d just found religion and wanted to worship at your altar.

You smiled.

Lifted a hand.

And winked.

Then, slowly, with purpose, you closed the curtain.

Let him suffer.

Let him burn.

He said he wanted to wait. Fine.

Let’s see how long he lasts.

Chapter Text

You tossed your keys into the bowl by the door and kicked your shoes off like they were personally responsible for ruining your night.

Joel still hadn’t texted back.

You’d messaged him after your shift ended, just a little “you up?” followed by a tired selfie from the drive home. Not even spicy, just real. Soft. The kind of thing you only sent to someone who mattered.

But hours passed. Nothing.

At first, you figured he was asleep. He never was much of a texter anyway, right? You’d told yourself that a hundred times.

But then you looked out your window.

His light was on.

Curtains cracked just enough to see him.

Joel. Sitting on his bed. Shirt off. On the phone.

And smiling.

Not just a smirk. A real smile. Like whoever was on the other end had said something funny. Something warm. Something that made him lean back on one arm, laugh low and slow and soft.

And your stomach dropped.

You froze where you stood, half undressed, the towel still twisted around your body from the shower, damp hair dripping down your back.

You texted again. Just his name this time.

No response.

You watched him look at his phone. Saw it light up in his hand.

And he ignored it.

He kept talking. Kept smiling.

You blinked hard, looked away, then looked back.

Still him. Still smiling. Still not you.

What the fuck?

You sat down on your bed, towel still wrapped around you, arms folded tight like they could hold your ribcage together. Your mind ran wild, like it always did when silence felt like punishment.

Was he mad at you?

Was this about the other night? About how far you pushed it?

Had he finally decided you weren’t worth the mess?

Or was he already moving on?

The worst part was, he could. No strings, no promises. You weren’t his girlfriend. There were no rules. Just that thing between you. That spark. That tension. That almost.

But now?

You watched as he ended the call. Watched him toss the phone onto the bed like it didn’t matter.

No text.

No reply.

Just Joel, quiet and content, climbing under the covers without a single glance back at the window.

Like you weren’t even there.

You stood slowly, walked to your window. Pulled the curtain open just enough to watch him lie down, the glow from his bedside lamp casting golden shadows across his chest.

And still, he didn’t look.

You wondered who she was.

You wondered how long they’d been talking.

And for the first time in weeks, you wondered if maybe you’d imagined all of it.

The flirting. The teasing. The restraint.

The ride he promised to take you on.

Maybe the ride was over before it even started.

You woke up groggy, hair a mess, eyes still burning from the night before. The phone on your nightstand buzzed softly, and for a second, you didn’t even want to look.

But you did.

Joel: Sorry. Long night. Breakfast?

Your stomach flipped, uncertain if it was from nerves or the faint smell of bacon you swore was already drifting through your cracked window. You dressed slower than usual, still stewing over last night, still playing it over in your head like a movie you couldn’t pause.

He’d seen your name on the screen. He didn’t answer.

And he smiled for someone else.

You didn’t knock hard when you got there. Just a soft, almost cautious tap, like you weren’t sure what version of him would open the door.

But when it swung open, there he was. Same Joel. Coffee in one hand, soft scruff along his jaw, t-shirt hugging his shoulders like sin. He smiled.

“Hey, hey,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in. Coffee’s hot. Breakfast’s almost done.”

You eyed the mug in his hand. “You cooking again?” you asked, eyebrow raised.

“Eggs, bacon, toast. About the only thing I can make,” he replied with a sheepish grin.

You followed the smell into the kitchen, damn it, it really did smell good. He poured you a coffee exactly the way you liked it, extra cream, too much honey, a little sugar. His own cup got a double dose of honey, just like always. The small gesture softened you, but only a little.

You took a long sip and leaned against the counter.

“So…” you said, too casual, “what were you up to all night?”

Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He caught the edge in your tone and gave a small shrug.

“Kinda figured you saw me through the window,” he said, voice steady. “Didn’t see the point in lying.”

You nodded slowly, letting him continue.

“I was on the phone with a client,” he said. “Big one. Could bring in a shit ton of revenue. But she’s tough, got a lot of offers. I gotta charm her.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Right. Of course.”

He cleared his throat, stepped closer, and reached for your hand. Brought it up to his lips and kissed it gently.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “You know I’m not much of a texter. Doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

You looked at him then, really looked.

No shifting eyes. No dropped shoulders. Just calm, practiced Joel, looking at you like he meant it.

Still, something about it made your chest tighten.

You nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah. I guess.”

You told yourself to let it go. To believe him. To give him the benefit of the doubt while quietly deciding to keep both eyes wide open.

He moved on like nothing was wrong. “You working next weekend?”

“Off Sunday. Work Saturday morning.”

“What time you off Saturday?” he asked.

“Three.”

“Perfect.” He grinned. “I’m takin’ you out.”

You narrowed your eyes, intrigued. “Oh? Are you now?”

“Yup,” he said, finishing his toast. “Me. You. The woods. Camping.”

You snorted. “Oh, uh, romantic, I guess?”

“Mmhmm. Thought we’d fish if we got there early enough. Tommy and his girl are coming, too.”

Your brows rose. “Interesting. Does he, uh....know about us?”

Joel took a long sip of coffee, buying time.

“Not exactly,” he said. “He’s not gonna love it. But I figured, if you two spend some time together, maybe he’ll warm up to it.”

You tilted your head. “And that’s assuming I behave?”

Joel gave you a look. “Just sayin’. Don’t poke the bear.”

“I’m not a child, Joel. Don’t talk to me like one,” you said sweetly. “Unless you want me to call you daddy.”

He coughed, nearly choking on his coffee. “Jesus. Can we have one conversation without it turnin’ sexual?”

You laughed. “I never said anything about sex.”

“You implied it.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “Whatever. If we’re going on another one of your rustic adventures, I want a real date first. Movies, dinner. Normal shit.”

Joel leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “That sounds fair. How about tomorrow night?”

“Can’t. I work,” you said. “What about the day after?”

“Can’t that day either. What about Thursday?”

You groaned. “Shit. I work then too.”

Joel thought for a second. “What’re you doing tonight?”

You blinked. “Nothing. I’m off.”

He nodded. “Perfect. I’ll be home by six. Quick shower. We’ll leave by 6:45. Sound good?”

You checked your phone. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

You finished breakfast, the two of you settling into an easier rhythm, your foot brushing his under the table, a small smile tugging at your lips when he refilled your cup without asking. It wasn’t perfect. But it felt real.

You kissed him soft at the door before heading out, still unsure about last night, but not ready to walk away.

Not yet.

You started getting ready at 4:30 sharp. Showered, fluffed your hair just the way he liked, and painted your face to perfection. You picked the tightest, most indecent little dress you owned, deep red, high hem, and a neckline that practically dared someone to look down. Heels to match. Lip gloss like candy. You were ready by six.

You peeked out the window. No truck. You perched on your windowsill, window cracked open, drawing in slow pulls from your pen, waiting for the rumble of that engine down his gravel drive.

Nothing.

By 7, you were calling him.

No answer.

By 8:50, you were pissed.

You were already waiting on the porch when Joel finally pulled in, headlights slicing through the dark like a knife. You stood beneath the busted lightbulb, arms crossed, heart pounding.

He barely had the engine off before you snapped, “What the hell, Joel?”

He stepped out slowly, looking tired. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I totally forgot. Got caught up at work, started talking with”

“Some bitch?” you interrupted, sharp as broken glass.

He frowned. “It was a client. Not a bitch.”

“Oh, right, that’s so much better,” you spat. “So first you ignore me all night, now you forget we had plans? You stood me up, Joel.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

You scoffed. “You’re old, Joel. Even if we did go out, you’d fall asleep before the previews were over.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Watch your mouth.”

You took a step into him, toe-to-toe in your heels. “Make me.”

And just like that, he grabbed your waist and kissed you, hot, hard, punishing. You jumped, legs locking around his hips like instinct, arms hooked around his shoulders, devouring each other in the thick summer air.

He carried you inside, lips never leaving yours, the front door forgotten. He dropped to the couch with you still wrapped around him, your dress already bunched up around your hips. His hand slid up your thigh as his mouth found your breast, tugging your bra aside with a growl. His tongue was hot, messy, relentless, and when you moaned out, “Joel, please,” he paused just long enough to switch sides.

“No, baby,” he murmured, licking a stripe up your chest. “Not yet.”

“Ugh,” you cried, arching against him. “Please, Daddy.”

Everything stopped.

Joel froze, mouth still on your skin. Slowly, he pulled back and looked up at you.

“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly, voice hoarse.

You pouted, rocked your hips just enough to feel him throb beneath you. “But Joel,” you cooed, pushing your breasts together, “I’ve been so good. Just a little bit? Please?”

His jaw flexed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s not time. I told you. I’m not doing this halfway.”

You stood, yanking the dress over your head with a single motion, leaving only your heels, your lacy panties and your defiance.

“Not even if I do this?” you asked, letting your hands run slowly down your sides. “You’re really gonna sit there and deny yourself this?”

He swallowed hard.

You sauntered over, straddled his lap, and kissed his neck, whispering filth in his ear. “You’re not even gonna let me take care of you? Not even a taste?”

Joel ran a hand down his face like he was in pain.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Come here.”

He pulled you close, practically yanking your panties down as he moved to the floor in front of you. He kissed up your thighs, rough and reverent all at once, his hands firm on your waist as your back arched against the couch.

"You sure about this?" he murmured, voice rough as gravel, eyes flicking up from between your legs like a man teetering on the edge of restraint.

You spread your legs wider in answer, your breath catching when his lips brushed the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate. His scruff scraped just enough to make you squirm, but his tongue? God, that was soft. Expert. Hungry. He took his time, savoring every reaction, like he was learning you by heart.

You gasped and arched when he found your rhythm, teasing circles, pressure that built like a storm rolling in. His grip tightened as your hips began to roll, chasing what he gave you, chasing more. And he let you. Let you grind on his face like he was starving and you were the only thing that could feed him.

“Joel” you whispered, breath hitching, your hands threading into his hair. His lips locked tight on your clit.

He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, lips slick, chin glistening. “Not so fast, sugar,” he rasped. “I’m takin’ my time with this.”

Then he dove back in, deeper, wetter, slower but rougher, until your thighs trembled against his shoulders and your body jerked with every flick of his tongue.

When it hit, it hit hard. You gasped, legs locking tight around his head, one hand clawing at the couch, the other clutching the back of his neck like he was your anchor. He held you through it, letting you ride every wave until you were limp and spent, your chest heaving.

When you finally looked down at him, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I still ain’t gonna sleep with you tonight,” he said, voice hoarse.

You gave him a wicked smile. “That’s fine,” you said, breathless. “I didn’t say anything about sleeping.”

He laughed — low and dangerous — and stood up, towering over you. His shirt was damp from sweat, his jaw shadowed in your glow. But he didn’t kiss you again. Didn’t touch you.

He sat beside you, cool now. Collected.

“You should go home,” he said, almost gently.

You blinked. “You serious?”

“Yeah.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I meant what I said. When it happens, I want it to be real. Not just heat.”

You didn’t fight him. You pulled your dress back on, slowly, making sure he watched the way it slid over your skin. and you left your panties on his floor.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t seen Joel in days.

Just a few texts here and there, mostly from you. Some short replies. The occasional thumbs-up or one-word answer. Nothing cold, not exactly. Just bare. He’d always said he wasn’t much of a texter, but still. You caught glimpses of him through his window now and then,usually too late. His back already turned as he peeled off his shirt before bed, or the curtains drawn just enough to block you out. You knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just busy. Tired. Distracted. But it didn’t stop the small hollow from forming in your chest, echoing louder with each day of distance.

You’d taken the day off. The whole house was quiet, just the old tick of the hallway clock and the hum of the fridge downstairs. Your bag lay open across your bed, and you'd been packing for the trip slowly, methodically. A few essentials. A couple outfits. Extra socks. A cheap flashlight. Toothbrush.

And Joel’s flannel.

It had lived under your bed for a few weeks now, tucked deep behind a box of old notebooks and a half-deflated air mattress. Stolen by accident, or maybe on purpose. It still smelled like him. Like cedar and salt and a little sweat.

You slipped it on. The sleeves hung past your fingertips, the hem brushing high on your thighs. You wore it over a pair of black shorts and nothing else, not for anyone but yourself. You just wanted to feel safe. Wanted to feel like someone out there might miss you if you didn’t come back.

Bag zipped. Boots by the door. You headed downstairs with your heart light for the first time all week, already picturing the trees, the quiet, the look on Joel’s face when he saw you.

Your dad was at the kitchen table, chain-smoking again. Ashtray full. A beer already cracked, even though he just got home.

“I’m heading out after work tomorrow,” you said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Going camping. I’ll be back late Sunday.”

He didn’t look up from the paper. Just grunted.

Then: “No, you’re not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said no.” He glanced up. “You’re not going.”

You laughed softly, incredulously. “I’m not a kid, Dad.”

“No,” he said, voice sharper now, eyes narrowing. “But you still live under my goddamn roof, don’t you?”

The air shifted. Tightened.

“I work,” you said slowly. “I pay rent. I buy my own food.”

“You don’t pay shit. You give me what? A hundred bucks a month? You think that makes you grown?”

You folded your arms, heart starting to pound. “I’m going.”

“No, you’re not.” He stood now, the chair legs scraping hard against the tile. “You think you can just run around, dressed like that?” He gestured to your flannel, your legs. “Parading your ass around for him?”

Your throat dried. “its not like that.”

“Joel’s a fucking man. He wants one thing. And you? You’re just like your goddamn mother.”

You felt the words like a slap.

“She ran around too,” he spat. “Wearing too much makeup, not enough clothes, always some man sniffing around. She thought she was hot shit. Thought she was untouchable. Look where it got her.”

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He stepped closer. You didn’t move.

“You don’t think I see it? The way you’ve been acting? Lip gloss and short shorts and that look in your eye. You’re not special. You’re a dime a dozen. You’re not going anywhere this weekend except to your room. And if I catch you sneaking out I swear to God I’ll call the cops on your sorry ass.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just felt everything drain out of you all at once.

Then he added, voice low and bitter, “You’re nothing but a whore, just like your mother. Good for nothing but spreading your legs.”

That broke you.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t argue. Just turned and walked upstairs on numb feet, every step heavier than the last. You locked your bedroom door and collapsed onto the bed still wearing Joel’s flannel. You curled into yourself, arms tight around your chest, the fabric swallowing you whole.

And then you cried.

Not pretty, not quiet. Loud, shaking sobs into the pillow, smearing your mascara into the cotton. You hated how much it hurt. How familiar it felt. How even now, even after all this time, he could make you feel like you were nothing.

You hated that Joel wasn’t here.

You hated how much you needed him to be.

You cried until your head ached and your throat burned, until you’d soaked the pillow through and stained the flannel with salt and grief.

And when it finally stopped — when the sobs became soft, shallow hiccups — you didn’t take the shirt off.

You just laid there.

Wrapped in borrowed safety.

And promised yourself ,I’m still going.
No matter what he says. I’m still going.

You didn’t slam the window shut, just nudged it closed enough that your father wouldn’t hear it creak. The wood beneath your bare feet was hot from the sun, the soft hum of the air conditioner beneath you filling the silence with its rhythmic buzz. You sat on the edge of the unit, legs swinging, Joel’s flannel too big on your shoulders, hanging past your thighs like a memory you didn’t want to forget.

Your eyes stung from crying, but you couldn’t go back inside. Not after what he said.

That’s when you heard his truck.

The rumble of it was familiar. Like thunder that meant rain but not fear. You didn’t move. Just watched through blurry eyes as it slowed to a stop in front of his house. He sat in the driver’s seat for a second before stepping out, pausing just long enough to catch you in his peripheral.

You could feel the moment he saw you.

His eyes locked on yours. His brows knit together in concern.

“Hey” Joel’s voice cut across the yard, low and sharp. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

You sniffed and wiped your face with the sleeve of the flannel. “Oh. Just…needed some air.”

He glanced toward your house, then back at the window behind you. “Sneaking out again?" he asked gently.

You shrugged, weak. “I…..uh…”

Then he squinted a little, something dawning in his face. “Wait a second,” he said, stepping closer. “Is that my flannel?”

You stiffened. “What?”

“That’s mine,” he said, almost laughing. “I’ve been lookin’ for that for a month. How’d you get it?”

Your mouth opened but no words came. Joel stopped asking. He stepped closer, hands going soft at his sides when he saw your eyes.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice was gentle now. “C’mere.”

You didn’t mean to go to him ,your body just did. He pulled you in close, hand warm on the back of your head, the flannel trapped between you. He held you like something precious.

“Let’s get you inside.”

You nodded, letting him guide you down the side steps and across the lawn. Inside, the house smelled like coffee and sawdust. Safe.

He set the kettle on and reached for the tea, the peppermint kind you once said you liked. You sat on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, flannel sleeves over your hands.

Joel came back a few minutes later with the mug. He handed it to you, then sat beside you, hand resting lightly on your thigh.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You stared into the steam for a long moment. Then you told him.

Everything.

Joel didn’t interrupt. But you felt the change in him, the slow heat under his skin, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled tighter on your leg.

“That guy’s a fuckin’ piece of shit,” Joel muttered when you were done. “I know he’s your father. I’m sorry. But you’re a grown woman. He can’t talk to you like that.”

You shook your head, heart pounding. “Please don’t. Just don’t make a thing of it.”

Joel’s voice was low. Angry. “I oughta go over there and give him a piece of my goddamn mind.”

“No!” You set the mug down. “Please. Joel, just let it go. It’s not worth it.”

He studied you, eyes narrowing. Then he sighed, slow and controlled. “Fine. But next time? It’s gonna be my fist.”

You blinked. You’d never seen Joel like this. Angry on your behalf. Protective. Yours.

“I just want you safe,” he said, softer now. “You can stay here tonight. Sarah’s room’s made up.”

You shook your head. “He’ll be passed out soon. I’ll just go back through the window.”

Joel hesitated. Then nodded. “Alright. But if you need me anytime…”

You reached for him, without thinking. Your arms wrapped around his chest, and suddenly you were crying again. Quiet sobs into his shirt.

“No one’s ever cared about me like you do,” you whispered.

He held you tighter. One hand on the back of your head. The other pulling you in like gravity.

“I know, baby,” he murmured against your hair. “I’m here. I care. And I’m gonna love you how you deserve. I promise.”

You didn’t say anything when he pulled you into his lap, you just climbed onto him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you’d done it a thousand times before.

Joel shifted slightly to make room, letting you settle in sideways across his lap, your legs curled against him, your head pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around you gently, one broad hand stroking slow circles along your back, the other steady around your waist. And then he started rocking you.

It was subtle. Soft. Like something instinctual.

He didn’t say much. Just murmured little things here and there “It’s alright, I got you,” and “You’re safe now, baby.” His voice was gravel and honey, low in his chest where your cheek rested. You could feel it vibrate under your skin like thunder in the distance.

You cried harder.

Not because of your father anymore, but because this, this was what you had needed your whole life. Someone to hold you. Really hold you. Without pulling away. Without shaming you. Someone who stayed.

Joel stayed.

He didn’t flinch when your breath hitched. He didn’t let go when your shoulders shook. He just held you tighter, letting you fall apart in the warm space of his chest.

Eventually, your tears slowed. Your breathing leveled out. You stayed there for a long time after, cradled against him, tucked beneath his jaw, your hand curled into the collar of his shirt. The air was thick with silence and the scent of cedar, peppermint, and Joel.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to lose the way his arms felt around you.

But eventually, you sighed and leaned back just enough to look up at him.

“I should go,” you whispered. “He’s probably passed out by now. I just, I’ll see you tomorrow. After work.”

Joel looked down at you. His eyes searched yours, slow and soft and something else, something unreadable. His hand brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t deep, just a kiss to your temple. But his mouth lingered a little too long. His breath was warm against your skin when he whispered

“You look good in my flannel.”

Your face flushed hot. Your lips parted to respond, but nothing came out. He smiled, the corner of his mouth barely twitching, and gave your waist one last gentle squeeze before letting you go.

You stepped off his lap slowly, already missing the weight of his arms.

“I’ll bring it back soon,” you said, glancing down at the oversized flannel swallowing your frame.

Joel shook his head. “Don’t you dare. Looks better on you anyway.”

Your heart skipped. You nodded, silent, and slipped out the door into the night, your skin still humming, your chest still aching from the sweetness of it all.

Chapter Text

You’d been at work for a few hours now. Kept your head down. Tried to stay busy. But your stomach wouldn’t settle and your mind kept wandering, to the sleeping bag you bought last week, the new hiking boots by the door, the way Joel had looked at you last night when you told him you couldn’t wait to get out of town. Even just for a day.

You were counting the minutes ‘til shift ended. And not just because of the camping.

You needed air. Bad.

Out behind the restaurant, the brick wall was still warm from the sun. You leaned into it and hit your pen with shaky fingers. That first drag didn’t even hit right.

A girl was already out there. One of the new ones. Dark roots showing through bottle-blonde hair, arms folded tight, shoulders hunched up to her ears.

She was crying.

You glanced at her, unsure if she wanted space. But when she didn’t move away, you asked quietly, “You alright?”

She laughed, but it was bitter. “Nope,” she said, sniffling. “Fucking Elijah.”

You blinked. “What about him?”

She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie. “He gave me something,” she whispered, barely audible over the traffic behind the alley. “Like a...like a curable thing. It’s gross. I’m on meds for it but...I thought he was clean.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your pen fell from your fingers.

“What?” you said.

The girl nodded, eyes glassy and red. “He said he didn’t know. Whatever.”

But you weren’t listening anymore.

You were there again. On that night. That drunken, messy night. His hands on your hips, the way the room spun, your body moving without memory. You couldn’t even remember if you used anything. You thought you had. But thinking wasn’t knowing.

Your skin felt clammy.

“You okay?” the girl asked, voice small now, guilt creeping in.

You nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. I just, yeah.”

But your hands were shaking. You needed to get tested. You needed proof. Because your body felt fine, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? Some of this shit didn’t show symptoms at all.

And what if you’d passed it to Joel? Could be get it just by giving you head? You didn't even know.

Oh god.

You fumbled for your phone. Hit his contact. It rang once, twice, three times.

“Hey,” he answered. That voice. That soft rasp you’d memorized. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied instantly. Then cleared your throat. “Uh, something came up. After work.”

There was a pause.

You could picture his face already.

You scrambled. “I can still come camping, I want to,I just...I need to do something first. I’ll drive up after.”

“Alright,” he said, like he believed you. Like he didn’t hear the panic behind your words. “We’ll be at that same spot I showed you. Right off the trail near that broken bridge. I’ll leave a light out. Text me when you leave, alright?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Drive safe, alright?”

“Always,” you whispered, and hung up.

You stood there for another minute, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. The girl had gone back inside. The alley was empty. Just you, and your thoughts, and the ghost of a night you could barely remember.

This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go.

You couldn’t breathe right.

Your leg bounced wildly as you sat in that stupid sterile waiting room, eyes locked on the faded poster about “Safer Sex Saves Lives.” Everything smelled like bleach and band-aids and bad news. You shouldn’t even be here.

The nurse at the desk had been nice, too nice. Made it worse.

You could still hear the new girl’s voice in the alley, shaking and crying, mascara running down her cheeks as she whispered, “Elijah. He didn’t tell me. I went to the clinic. It’s curable, but still...God. How could he not tell me?”

That had sent your brain into overdrive. You’d slept with him. Way back before you knew better. Way back when you were drunk and stupid and clinging to anything that felt like control.

And now, here you were.

You couldn’t remember if you used protection. Couldn’t remember much from that night at all. You hadn’t had symptoms. But that didn’t mean anything. Some things stayed quiet until they ruined everything.

The walls felt like they were closing in. Your fingers trembled as you stared down at your phone.

A text lit up the screen.
Joel: Hittin' the road now. See you soon, sweetheart.

There was a selfie attached.
He was outside the truck, the sun slanting through the trees behind him. His flannel shirt was half unbuttoned, his hair a little messy, his smile easy and warm.

Your stomach twisted.
What if you had to tell him?
What if he got sick just from going down on you?

You gritted your teeth and forced your hands still. You couldn’t cry in here. Couldn’t fall apart. You just had to wait. Get the test. Pray.

When they finally called your name, you stood too fast and nearly tripped over your own feet.

The room was cold.
You sat on the crinkly exam table, wrapped in paper, your palms sweating.

The nurse didn’t ask many questions. Just took your blood. A swab. A urine sample. Told you it’d be a few minutes.

A few minutes felt like a goddamn lifetime.

You sat in silence. Stared at the floor. Thought about Joel’s hands. His mouth. His kindness. Thought about the way he looked at you like you were already his, like this little camping trip was just the beginning of something real.

And you had to go and ruin it.

The knock at the door made you jump.

“Good news,” the nurse said with a smile. “Everything came back clean.”

Your throat closed. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yep. Negative across the board. But I do want to talk to you a bit about safe sex. Even if you’re only with one partner now, it’s important to”

“I know,” you said quickly, breath leaving your lungs in a shaky exhale. “I know. I’m sorry. I just,I didn’t know if”

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice kind. “You’re doing the right thing coming in. Just make sure whoever you’re with is honest with you. One partner at a time, protected sex. That’s how you stay safe.”

You nodded. Eyes burning.

You walked out into the golden late-afternoon light, the relief hitting you like a freight train.

You were clean. Joel would be safe. And you hadn’t destroyed everything.

You pulled out your phone and texted him.
You: All good. On my way. See you soon.

Your fingers hovered over the screen a moment longer before you added:
You: I really wanna see you.

And hit send.

You drive with the windows down, music blaring from the stereo, belting out like you're on stage. Sunglasses on, heart light, head full of Joel.

You think about how badly you want this ,how much you want him. How maybe, just maybe, you can tiptoe around your age forever or at least until he’s too in love to walk away.

It’s just under an hour. The road unwinds like ribbon.

And then you pull in.

Your stomach flips.

Is that…..Mrs. Delaney? From your old school two hours away?

And oh fuck, her arms are around Tommy’s.

No. No.

You freeze in the driver’s seat, sunglasses sliding down your nose.

Then you spot him.

Joel.

Waving at you.

Smiling.

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

You stepped out of the car just as the last smear of sunlight disappeared behind the treeline, the sky still painted in streaks of peach and violet. The air smelled like pine and woodsmoke, with the faintest trace of citronella floating lazily from a nearby lantern.

Joel was already walking toward you.

He gave you that half-smile that always made your stomach flip, hands tucked into his jeans like he hadn’t been pacing around waiting for you all day. “Glad y’made it before dark,” he said. His voice was soft in that gravelly way he reserved just for you.

You smiled back and he leaned in, pressing a quick, familiar kiss to your lips, just enough to make your knees go weak, just enough for you to forget about the long drive. You kissed him back, your fingers brushing his shirt where it was damp from the humidity and the effort of setting up camp.

He slid an arm around your waist and started walking you toward the cluster of tents and low folding chairs around the firepit. “You already met my brother Tommy,” he said, guiding you closer, “and this is his girlfriend”

“Maria,” she interrupted, turning toward you with a grin. “But I guess you knew that already.”

Your heart jumped. Her smile hadn’t changed. Neither had the way she tilted her head when she looked at you, warm, perceptive, a little too knowing.

Your face went red. “She was my teacher,” you said quickly, glancing between Joel and Tommy. “High school English. Eleventh grade. Good to see you Mrs.Delaney."

Joel’s eyebrows raised. “That right?”

Maria smiled wider, crossing the dirt between you and pulling you into a hug that smelled like sunscreen and campfire. “You don’t have to call me Mrs. Delaney anymore, honey,” she said with a laugh. “God, that makes me feel old.”

“It’s good to see you again,” you murmured, hugging her back, surprised by how familiar it felt. You remembered the way she used to slip you extra books when the school library had nothing new. The way she once drove you home after volleyball practice when your mom had forgotten—again—because she was too busy playing stepmother to her boyfriend’s kids. Maria had waited in the parking lot with you for nearly an hour, then bought you a Frosty on the way home. She never mentioned it again. Just gave you The Age of Innocence the next week and told you to mark your favorite lines.

“Small world,” she said now, pulling back with a smile. “One of the biggest damn states in the country, and here we are, two hours from home, bumpin’ into each other in the woods.”

You laughed, your voice catching a little. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Maria gave Joel a look you couldn’t quite read. You wondered if she was already adding up the years between you and him. You hoped she wouldn’t say anything. Not here. Not yet.

“Well,” Joel said, his voice a little louder, a little too casual, “glad we don’t gotta worry about you two gettin’ along, then.”

Tommy snorted. “Kinda crazy my girl used to teach your girl. Told you she’s too young, man.”

You rolled your eyes, already flipping him off. “Suck it, Tommy.”

“See?” he grinned. “Immature.”

You stuck your tongue out just as Maria elbowed him. “Don’t be an ass.”

Tommy laughed, unbothered, and passed you a beer from the cooler. Joel reached for your bag before you could stop him, carrying it like it weighed nothing as he motioned you toward the tents. “C’mon. I saved us a good one. Close to the fire but far enough from my brother you don’t gotta hear him snore.”

The clearing had already been transformed two tents set up near the edge, chairs pulled around a flickering fire, lanterns hanging from branches above like lazy fireflies. A little speaker played old blues, low and warm. Someone had already skewered hot dogs, and you could smell baked beans warming on the grate.

Joel ducked into the tent and tossed your bag inside, then turned back to you. His hand found the small of your back like it always did. Like it belonged there. “Y’okay?” he asked under his breath, watching you close.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just wasn’t expecting to see my English teacher again.”

He chuckled. “Could be worse. Coulda been your math teacher.”

You gave him a look. “You sayin’ I was bad at math?”

He raised both eyebrows. “Didn’t say that.”

You stared at each other a moment too long before Tommy hollered from across the fire, “Y’all gonna flirt all night or come eat?”

Maria rolled her eyes but smiled, patting the seat beside her. “Come sit. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to.”

You took a breath, glanced at Joel, then walked toward the fire.

The night was just beginning.

Tommy cracked open the cooler after everyone finished eating, poked around inside, then let out a low whistle. “Shit. Only one beer left.”

He looked over at Joel, who was leaning back in his chair with one arm resting behind you. “Wanna run up to the gas station with me? It’s only ten minutes up the road.”

Joel glanced down at you, hand giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You okay if I go?”

You nodded easily. “Yeah, of course. Can you grab me a wine cooler or somethin’?”

He smirked. “You got it,” he said, kissing your forehead before standing and tossing his empty bottle into the bin. You watched him walk off with Tommy, the crunch of gravel under their boots fading until it was just you and Maria left by the fire.

She waited a second before moving. Then she shifted, walked around the pit, and sank into the camp chair across from you. Her expression was casual, but there was a sharpness behind her eyes now, something you hadn’t seen when she hugged you.

“Sooo…” she started, drawing out the word with a little half-smile. “Dating an older man. And drinking, too? What are you, what, nineteen?”

You sighed, poking at the fire with a stick. Sparks floated up like fireflies.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Are you gonna narc on me?”

Maria raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so he doesn’t know?”

You kept your eyes on the flame, the heat licking your cheeks. “No. He doesn’t.”

“How old does he think you are?”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. “...25....”

Maria let out a soft whistle. “Shoo. You’re lucky you look a little older for your age, but that’s not good, sweetie. That’s real bad.”

“I know,” you said quietly.

“You do know the truth’s gonna come out, right?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Yeah. Just kinda been hopin’ it doesn’t.”

Maria tilted her head. “You serious about him?”

You hadn’t let yourself think too deep about that question until now. At first it had just been tension, desire, heat. But then came the little things, the way Joel always noticed when you were quiet, the way he replaced your porch light without asking, or left your favorite Redbull on the stoop like a secret. The way he held you that night after your dad yelled at you again, when you didn’t say a word and he didn’t ask you to. You were falling. Fast.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

Maria nodded slowly. “Then he deserves honesty, doesn’t he?”

You looked up at her, finally, and locked eyes.

“Yeah. He does.”

She sighed and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Look. I understand. I was with an older guy once when I was around your age. Twenty-one. Thought I knew everything. Like every young person does. But the truth is? You’re still a kid. Your brain isn’t even fully developed yet. I don’t mean that as an insult, it’s just fact.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Well, we love each other. And I’m legal. That’s all that matters.”

Maria shook her head slowly. “Honey...legality doesn’t always equal morality. It’s wrong. He’s too old. I’m not saying it won’t work, maybe it will,but you’re already starting the whole thing out on a lie. Tommy’s told me about Joel. He’s been through a lot. You’re the first person he’s even looked at in years. He will be crushed when he finds out.”

You stared into the fire. Its warmth didn’t reach your hands anymore.

Maria softened, just a little. “Remember how I used to leave those books on your desk?” she asked. “I didn’t just do that ‘cause you liked to read. I did it because I saw you. You were a smart, lonely kid, and I could tell your home life wasn’t steady. I saw you carrying too much, too soon. I know that kind of girl when I see her.”

Your throat tightened.

She leaned back. “Maybe you’ve grown a lot. Maybe you are mature for your age. But if you can’t be honest with him about something as basic as your age, then maybe you’re not ready for a relationship like this. Maybe it’s kinder to break it off before it gets even deeper.”

You stood, suddenly, the chair scraping gravel behind you. “That’s enough.”

Maria’s eyebrows rose.

“I’m an adult now, Maria. I can make my own choices. You’re not my mom.”

Maria stood, too, her tone calm. “Okay. Relax. I get it. I’m just saying, the truth always comes out. Eventually.”

You opened your mouth to say something else, but just then, headlights crept down the road, dust kicking up behind the old pickup. Joel’s silhouette sat behind the wheel, Tommy leaning out the passenger window with a fresh bag of ice in his lap and a twelve-pack between his boots.

Maria’s words still echoed in your ears, louder than the sound of gravel under tires:

"Legality doesn't always equal morality."

You turned toward the fire, face warm and expression blank, just as Joel parked the truck and hopped out.

“Got your wine cooler,” he said with a smile, holding up the six-pack like a prize.

You smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You sit on Joel’s lap, curled into his chest, the warmth of the fire brushing your cheeks. His arms are draped around your waist like it’s second nature, fingers lazily tracing the hem of your hoodie. But your body’s stiff. You’re quiet. Too quiet.

Joel notices.

"You alright, darlin’?" he asks, voice low near your ear.

You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. Just, in my head.”

He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. Joel always knows.

His lips brush your shoulder as he speaks. “I know when you're lyin’.”

You pause, your eyes on the flicker of flames dancing across the logs. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.”

Joel tightens his arms around you gently, like he could anchor you in place with just that. “Don’t live up there too long,” he murmurs. “World’s already hard enough without makin’ your own mind a battlefield.”

You can’t help it, you smile, soft and sad. “That was kinda wise.”

He grunts. “Don’t get used to it.”

You lean back, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He smells like pine and sun-dried sweat, and something warm flutters in your chest despite everything twisting inside it.

Then your eyes land on something across the fire. His guitar case. The same one that’s always propped up in the corner of his living room back home.

"You gonna finally play me a song?” you ask, nudging his arm with a teasing smile.

He raises a brow, looks over at Tommy. “You up for it?”

Tommy perks up from where he’s tossing another log into the fire. “Hell yeah, brother.”

You climb off Joel’s lap with a laugh and settle onto the ground beside Maria. She hands you a blanket, and you drape it over your legs as the boys tune their instruments in quiet rhythm.

Joel starts soft. Something bluesy, slow and rich, and your chest tightens as his fingers move like second nature. You sip your third wine cooler, gaze locked on him. Every strum feels like something sacred. Something heavy. You feel it in your ribs.

Tommy joins in on the next song, an old country one about leaving towns and girls behind. Maria hums along. You catch her smiling at him like a secret, and you wonder how long they’ve been together, what they had to survive to make it here.

But your eyes always find Joel again. The way his brow furrows when he plays. The veins in his hands. The way his voice wraps around a melody like it was written for him and no one else.

You wonder how long you can keep this going, this lie. You’re falling for him, more every day. And somewhere in your gut, Maria’s words from earlier echo like a warning bell.

He deserves honesty, doesn’t he?

But you push the thought down. Deeper.

Tommy breaks out the whiskey. “Alright,” he says, grinning, “time to get serious.”

Maria groans and reaches for a shot glass. “You and your damn whiskey.”

You take one too, wincing as it burns your throat. Joel laughs and knocks his back with ease. You feel it hit your bloodstream fast, the night spinning a little looser.

The music fades. The fire crackles low.

Joel brushes his hand against yours. “C’mon, let’s call it.”

You nod, letting him pull you up. Your legs are wobbly, your heart even worse.

You unzip the tent flap and duck inside, the night air thick behind you.

But it’s not the stars or the whiskey or the music that haunts you as you crawl into sleeping bags and Joel pulls you close, it’s the weight of the truth between you.

And the sinking fear that it won’t stay buried much longer.

Chapter Text

You woke up to the smell of firewood, eggs, and sausage, thick and buttery in the air, like something out of a childhood dream. The air was cool where it met your skin, your blanket kicked off in the night. You could hear muffled voices and the occasional clatter of silverware, but no footsteps outside. You were the last one up.

When you finally headed your way out the tent, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, everyone looked up at once.

Joel handed you a steaming mug.
"How you like it," he said, matter-of-fact.
You blinked at him, surprised. “Damn, you got this all figured out, don’t you?”
He smirked. “Yeah. Been doing it for years.”

Tommy gave you a lazy wave from where he sat near the fire, already halfway through a plate stacked with eggs. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

You turned toward Maria, who was wearing a sweatshirt and leggings, hair braided down her back. “Good morning, Mrs. Delaney, uh. Maria,” you corrected, grinning sheepishly. “That’s gonna take some getting used to.”

Maria laughed softly, flipping another pancake onto the growing stack. “Don’t worry. Still getting used to it myself.”

You slid into the seat beside Joel and started building your plate while the smalltalk buzzed around you. It was cozy in a way you weren’t used to, comfortable. Familiar. Dangerous.

“So, what’s the plan for the day?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

“Maria and I are gonna hike a few miles up the ridge,” Tommy said, stabbing a sausage link with his fork. “Trail’s got a good view of the valley. Thought we’d get in a little workout before lunch.”

Joel gestured with his thumb toward the lake. “Thought you and I might take the boat out. Do a little fishin’.”

You blinked. “The boat?”

He nodded toward a small, weathered rowboat bobbing at the edge of the dock, paint chipped and faded, oars leaning against a stump like forgotten crutches. It looked like it had one good wave left in it before it gave up for good.

“Seems kinda scary,” you said, eyebrows raised.

Joel didn’t miss a beat. He slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you in closer. “Trust me. You’ll be fine.”

You sipped your coffee again, mostly to avoid reacting. That was the thing about Joel,he could say something simple like that and mean a hundred things. And you were starting to wonder how many of them were true.

As breakfast stretched into the mid-morning lull, talk shifted to Thanksgiving. Maria asked if anyone was bringing sweet potatoes to the family dinner. Tommy rolled his eyes and said not if she was cooking them.

Then he turned to you. “You got any plans for the holiday?”

You hesitated just a second too long. “I...was just gonna work a double. Didn’t really feel like going back home. Figured I’d pretend it wasn’t happening.”

Joel didn’t even flinch. “Nonsense. You can come over to Tommy’s after work.”

You glanced at him, smile creeping up slow. “That does sound nice.”

It did. Too nice. Your heart skipped at the idea of holiday mornings with him, matching coffee mugs and lazy afternoons. But your stomach twisted almost immediately after. You hadn’t told him the truth. Not your age. Not the lie of omission that hung between you like humidity.

You didn't want to tell him. You didn’t want to leave. But you knew he wouldn’t forgive you. And even if he did, he’d never look at you the same.

Maybe you’d talk to him out on the lake. Maybe it was time to break it off, before it got harder. Before he made you fall even deeper

The sun was barely above the tree line by the time you and Joel pushed off from the mossy wooden dock. The small boat rocked gently beneath your feet as he steadied it with one hand and passed you a beer, the other gripping a weathered paddle that had probably seen better decades. There wasn’t much to it—two old seats, a small cooler, a tackle box—but Joel had packed it up that morning with quiet excitement, like it meant something. And out here, in the middle of nowhere, it kind of did.

You sat near the front, tucking your legs up under you as he paddled you both out, his broad shoulders flexing with every stroke. The water glimmered gold where the light broke through the trees, disturbed only by dragonflies and the occasional ripple of a fish beneath the surface. Everything smelled like pine and silt and wet wood. Peaceful. No cars, no cell towers, no voices except for the birds calling out above your heads and the soft clunk of the paddle against the boat’s edge.

Joel didn’t speak much as he rowed. He looked calm, eyes soft, a little line between his brows like he was concentrating too hard for something as simple as floating. You wondered if he was nervous. You were. The pit in your stomach had only grown since last night, curled tight now like a fist of guilt just below your ribs. You watched the sunlight catch on the silver in his hair and felt like the world was playing some kind of cruel joke.

You’re nineteen. He thinks you’re twenty-five.

“You alright?” Joel asked over his shoulder as he slowed the boat, glancing back at you with that crooked, lopsided grin.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just soaking it all in.”

“Good,” he said, anchoring the oar in a tangle of fallen branches. “Don’t get days like this too often.”

You both drifted into a little pocket between a ring of trees, their trunks rising straight from the water like sentries. It was quiet—almost eerily so—but beautiful. Like something out of a dream. Joel started unpacking the rods, checking the lines and muttering about knots and bait. You leaned over the side of the boat to dip your fingers in the water, still watching him from the corner of your eye.

He handed you a hook, some bait, and gave you a look that made your stomach flip.

“Think you can handle this or you need me to bait it for you, princess?”

You grinned. “You calling me delicate?”

“I’m callin’ you squeamish.”

“Oh please,” you said, squinting down at the squirming earthworm between your fingers. “I’ve gutted a deer before.”

“Uh-huh,” he chuckled. “You looked like you were gonna pass out yesterday when I cleaned that trout.”

You laughed but still struggled with the bait, trying not to flinch as it wriggled in your hand. Joel shook his head, took it from you, and gently threaded it onto the hook with practiced ease.

“There,” he said. “Now you don’t gotta pretend you’re tougher than you are.”

“I am tough,” you shot back.

He didn’t argue. Just gave you that low, lazy smile and leaned in slightly, his voice warm when he said, “I know.”

Your cheeks burned as you cast your line, heart thumping louder than it had any right to. You sat in silence for a while, the two of you side by side, the occasional splash of a fish breaking the surface or a heron flapping through the sky overhead. You liked how quiet he could be. It made you feel like he wasn’t trying to impress you, just be with you.

Which made what you had to say even harder.

You fidgeted with the reel in your lap, opened your mouth, and said, “Hey. I, uh, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Joel sat up straighter. “Yeah? Funny. I got somethin’ I wanted to talk to you about too.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little shy. “You first.”

“No, go ahead,” you said quickly. “You already started.”

He let out a breath and looked out at the trees for a moment like he was gathering courage.

“Listen, I know I ain’t been real clear with things. I’m not the best with words, never have been. But I’ve been thinkin’ about you. About…..us.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded, still not quite meeting your eye.

“I know we been takin’ things slow, and I appreciate that. I really do. You’ve been patient with me. More than most people ever are. And I’ve just been thinkin’, if you were open to it, I was hopin’ maybe we could, you know.....make it official.”

Your eyebrows rose. “You, joel Miller, wanna be my boyfriend?”

He chuckled, finally looking at you. “Feels a little strange callin’ myself that, but yeah. I do.”

You didn’t even think, you just leaned across the narrow space and kissed him hard, his beard scraping your face, his hands catching your waist before you could tip the boat. When you pulled back, he was smiling at you like you were the only thing that made sense in this whole damn world.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend,” you whispered.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “That so?”

“That’s so.”

There was a long beat where you just held each other’s gaze. His thumb stroked a small circle over the top of your thigh. It made you ache a little, in a good way. In a this could be real kind of way.

“So what was it you wanted to tell me?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

“Oh. Uh…” You laughed nervously, looking away. “Just that I’ve really been enjoying my time with you. That I want to take things to the next level, too.”

He smiled. “Guess we’re on the same page then.”

You nodded. You didn’t correct him.

He leaned back and cast his line into the water, still grinning. You stayed quiet, watching the line bob on the surface, the trees reflecting back like a painting. Guilt gnawed at you, but so did hope. He liked you. Really liked you. Maybe that meant something.

A while later, you caught the first fish—big and fat and wriggling on your line—and squealed in triumph. Joel turned with wide eyes as you reeled it in, triumphant.

“Would you look at that?” he said, grinning. “That thing’s twice the size of mine.”

You smirked. “Guess I am tougher than you thought.”

“Oh, it’s on now,” he laughed, resetting his line. “Next one’s mine.”

You sat back, beaming. Sun on your skin. Joel by your side. A secret in your chest that wasn’t ready to come out just yet.

But for now, you let yourself enjoy it.

Even if you didn’t deserve to.

Chapter Text

By the time you and Joel return from the lake, the air’s warming up again. Afternoon sun glints off the surface of the water as you both haul your gear up toward camp. He’s carrying the small cooler with the fish you caught, yours much bigger than his, and you’ve made sure he hasn’t forgotten it.

You’re giggling as he mutters, “Still think you cheated somehow.”

You bat your lashes. “What can I say? Some girls are just naturals.”

Joel shakes his head, but there’s pride all over his face. He likes seeing you happy. Even if you’re gloating.

That’s when you hear it, Tommy’s voice, low and frustrated, and Maria’s wince as she sits awkwardly in one of the folding chairs by the fire pit.

“Oh shit,” Joel mutters.

You hurry over. “What happened?”

Maria’s boot is off, sock rolled down, and her ankle’s swollen already, pink and tender.

“Hiking trail gave out beneath her,” Tommy explains, crouched beside her, rubbing his hand over his face. “I told her not to go up that ridge, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Maria glares at him. “It’s a sprain. I’ll be fine.”

“Still gonna get it looked at,” Joel says firmly.

You’re already fetching her water bottle and a cold pack from the cooler. Joel helps Tommy break down their tent while you re-roll the sleeping bags. It’s a flurry of motion—zip ties, cinched canvas, buckles snapping closed—everyone moving fast and silent like a little emergency unit. Joel’s hand brushes yours at one point as you both reach for the same strap and for a moment, you just look at each other.

It hits you, how comfortable this is. How easy. Like a little family.

Before they load up the car, you give Maria a careful hug.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask.

She nods, then gives you a look, one of those deep, measuring stares that makes you straighten. “You two behave.”

Tommy smirks as he starts the engine. Joel raises his eyebrows. “We’re always on our best behavior.”

Maria snorts, then winces again. “That’s what worries me.”

Once the car pulls away, gravel crunching beneath the tires, you feel it. The shift. The quiet. Just the wind in the trees, the soft rush of the river behind you.

Joel stretches, cracks his neck. “Well.... looks like it’s just us tonight.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and press your body against his. “I guess I can’t complain about that….boyfriend.”

He laughs, low and warm, as he turns in your arms. “Still sounds so wrong.”

You shrug, teasing. “I love it.”

He kisses your forehead, hands settling on your waist. His touch is gentle, grounding.

Later, after gutting and grilling your fish over the fire, you both sit side-by-side on the picnic bench. You rest your head on his shoulder as the last of your fish disappears, your belly warm and full.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “You wanna ride down to that gas station near the road? Figured we could grab some ice before it gets dark. Maybe some more beer?”

You perk up immediately. “Hell yeah.”

The gas station is just a mile down the dirt road, a tired old place with a crooked sign and one humming vending machine out front. Joel parks the truck out back and tells you to wait, but you hop out and follow him in.

While he’s busy talking to the clerk about propane canisters, you browse the shelves. Cheap candy. Fly traps. Magazines from three years ago.

And then…you see it.

That little gold-and-black packet.

Honey.
Not just any honey, honey for him.
You grin like the devil himself kissed your cheek.

With a quick glance toward Joel, you swipe two of them, one for him, one for you, just for fun. You tuck them into your hoodie pocket like a raccoon hiding treasure.

Joel finds you near the front. “You ready?”

You flash an innocent smile. “Yup.”

He narrows his eyes. “What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” you say way too quickly.

He grunts. “That’s what you said before you tried to skinny dip in the river and nearly froze your ass off.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”

Joel huffs a breath through his nose, amused. “Get in the truck, trouble.”

You walk ahead, smirking to yourself the whole way.

The drive back from the gas station was warm and golden, the sun beginning its lazy descent behind the ridge. Joel carried most of the supplies. You stayed quiet most of the way, heart fluttering with nerves and thrill.

Back at camp, you took charge of the kettle, already bubbling over the little propane flame, and steeped the two cups. You added a dash of cinnamon to his, a little splash of the camp creamer to yours, then slipped the honey into both mugs without a word. You stirred slowly, watching the golden liquid swirl and disappear.

You handed him his coffee with a small smile.
Joel took it with a grateful grunt, sipping it slow. “You’re spoilin’ me.”
“Good,” you said, watching his throat move as he drank. “I like spoiling you.”

You sat across from him for a while, just sipping in silence, the sound of the fire crackling between you. He started fiddling with his guitar, plucking lazy little tunes that melted with the sunset. There was no urgency, no pressure, just the slow unraveling of warmth inside you both, like sugar dissolving in hot tea.

Dinner was simple. Tinned soup, bread warmed on the fire, and some gas station candy. You didn’t even pretend to be hungry, you couldn’t stop looking at his hands, the way his thumb brushed his lip after every sip, the slight pinkness starting to rise in his cheeks.

By the time the fire started to fade into embers, you were curled in his lap, your arms around his neck. His shirt was warm from the sun and from him, and his skin was beginning to flush, the kind of flush that made your stomach flutter. You shifted slightly in his lap and felt it.

He groaned softly under his breath. Not from pain. Not from surprise. Just that deep, masculine sound of restrained need.

You tilted your head and brushed your lips to his jaw, featherlight. Then lower, near the pulse point of his neck.
“Joel,” you whispered, “now that we’re official...do I finally get to take it to the next level?”
He let out a breath like you’d knocked it out of him. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure.”

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to let you know he’d been holding back for too long.

Then, without another word, he stood—lifting you like you weighed nothing—and carried you toward the tent.

The tent zipped shut behind him, and suddenly everything felt smaller, more intimate. The air inside was already thick with heat and tension, your bodies humming like struck strings.

Joel laid you down gently on the thick blanket, his hands braced on either side of your head, just looking at you for a moment. His pupils were blown wide, chest rising and falling.

He kissed you first, slow and deliberate, his tongue just brushing yours before he pulled back and whispered, “You stop me anytime, alright?”
You nodded. “Don’t stop unless I say.”

He kissed you again. Then your throat. Then lower.

It wasn’t rushed.

Joel took his time, peeling your clothes off layer by layer like he was unwrapping something precious. He kissed every new inch of exposed skin. Your collarbones. The soft underside of your breast. Your stomach. The inside of your thigh. His beard scratched just enough to make you whimper.

His mouth between your legs was slow, teasing, addictive. He knew what he was doing, what your body needed before you could even ask. You gasped his name, bucked your hips, but he just held you down firmer and murmured, “You got nowhere to be, baby.”

He built you up. Let you fall. Then built you again, until you were gripping the edge of your own mind.

When you came undone, he stayed with you through it, holding your thighs apart, licking and kissing and whispering, “That’s it...that’s my girl...just like that…”

Then he climbed back up, kissing your belly, your chest, your mouth. His lips were sticky-sweet with honey and you could taste yourself on him. He held your gaze, breath ragged.
“You sure?”
“Yes, Joel,” you whispered, tugging him closer. “I want you.”

He was already hard, already leaking when he pulled his boxers down, but he didn’t slam into you.

He slid in slow. Agonizingly slow. Letting you feel every inch.
You gasped, and he shushed you with a kiss.
“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he rasped into your mouth. “Feelin’ so fuckin’ good, sweetheart...just hold on...I got you.”

He moved in deep, rolling thrusts, grinding against you instead of slamming, like he wanted you to feel him stay. Like he was making a home inside you.

You clawed at his back. Bit his shoulder. Moaned so loud he had to press his palm over your mouth and say, “You’re gonna get us caught, baby...”

But your eyes rolled when he hit that spot again, and again. He shifted your leg up over his shoulder and drove deeper. You swore the stars outside dimmed.

You clenched around him as he whispered things in your ear, some sweet, some filthy.
“You’re mine now.”
“Nobody’s ever gonna touch you again.”
“Look at me while I fuck you, darlin’. That’s it.”

You came again like the world ended.

And Joel? He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep and groaned your name like a prayer, spilling into you with a final thrust so powerful it left you shaking.
He didn’t move right away.

He stayed half on top of you, chest to chest, both of you covered in sweat. His hand ran slow up and down your thigh.

“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, dizzy, flushed. “More than okay.”

He pulled out carefully, kissing your cheek as you winced. “Sorry, baby. Lemme grab somethin’.”

He found a cloth in his bag and wet it with warm water from the thermos. He cleaned you gently, so gentle it made tears prick behind your eyes. He kissed the inside of your knee when he finished. Then your hipbone.

“C’mere,” he said, laying back and pulling you into his arms.

You curled into him, legs tangled, your hand resting over his heart.

His voice was hoarse when he whispered, “That was somethin’ else.”

You smiled sleepily. “It was everything.”

He held you until your heartbeat slowed. Then kissed your forehead and tucked the blanket tighter around you both.

And before you drifted off, you heard him murmur into your hair

“Mine now. All mine.”

Chapter Text

He was already close. So fucking close.

Joel was laying back, flushed, panting, cock in your hand, thick, veiny, dripping at the tip. His hand was tangled in your hair, holding you steady while you looked up at him like a goddamn goddess.

On your knees. In front of him. Bare. Powerful.

Smirking. You had woken up with him pressed hard against you and couldn't deny yourself your favorite breakfast.

“You gonna cum for me?” you asked, voice all velvet and filth.

Joel grunted, your strokes getting sloppy. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close.”

“Where do you want it?”

He whined.

That’s right, whined.

You tilted your head, tongue peeking out, breath warm on the head of his cock.

“Say it, Miller.”

He looked like he was dying.

“On your face,” he gasped. “Please. Let me, fuck, let me finish on that pretty face, baby.”

You leaned in just enough. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna make a mess?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That did it.

You locked eyes, stuck your tongue out, and whispered, “Then give it to me, daddy.”

Joel lost it.

His head dropped back, hips jerking as thick, hot ropes painted your mouth, your chin, your cheeks, everywhere. Groaning your name, cursing like a man being exorcised.

You stayed perfectly still. Let him cover your face.

When he finally blinked down at you, wrecked, trembling, cock twitching in your fist, you ran your fingers through the mess on your face, sucked one clean, and smiled.

“Good Daddy.”

Joel fucking whimpered.

The rag was cold and damp. He'd wet it outside in the lake while you were still catching your breath, eyes half-lidded with that smug little smile that only came out when youd thoroughly ruined a man. Joel moved slow, careful, attentive. Like you were something fragile in his hands again.

He dragged the cloth over your jaw first, then gently swept beneath your chin, letting the water soften what was left on your skin.

"Y’know," he muttered low, voice rough with sleep and gravel and the last lingering notes of pleasure, "you really don’t gotta say shit like that."

Your eyes flicked open, drowsy and amused. “What shit?”

Joel gave you a look. A little narrowed. A little sheepish. He leaned closer, cleaning the last spot near the corner of your mouth, thumb brushing your cheek with more tenderness than the moment probably deserved.

“You know exactly what I mean. That thing you called me.”

You grinned. Wicked. “What, sir?”

He let out a breath through his nose — almost a laugh, almost a groan — and tossed the cloth toward the tent door.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he said, settling beside you on the ground, one arm curling around your shoulder as you tucked yourself into him like you always did. “But sayin’ that word like that? It creeps me the hell out.”

You snorted. “Creeps you out, huh?” your fingers danced over his chest, teasing. “Seemed like you liked it.”

Joel shut his eyes. “Christ.”

“I’m just saying,” you mumbled into his skin. “You didn’t stop me.”

He swatted your ass. Not hard, just enough to make you squirm and giggle. “Try it again and see what happens.”

You nipped his collarbone in response. “Promise?”

Before he could fire back with something equally shameless, the phone buzzed. Then again. Then again. Joel groaned and reached for it off the ground, expecting some town-wide alert or one of Tommy’s too-early check-ins.

Instead
10 missed calls.
All from Tommy.

His brows lifted. The haze of the morning dropped quick, a rock to the gut.

“Shit,” he muttered. He sat up, phone pressed to his ear before you even had the chance to ask what was wrong.

Tommy picked up on the first ring.

“Where the hell have you been?” came the voice, sharp with a kind of stress Joel hadn’t heard in years. “I’ve been tryin’ to get ahold of you all night.”

Joel stood, already reaching for his jeans. “We are still out of town. What happened?”

“It’s Sarah.”

Joel froze. The breath caught in his throat like a splinter.

“She’s alright,” Tommy rushed to say. “But she got picked up last night. Some damn house party, at your place.”

Joel closed his eyes. His hand clenched around the phone.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Tommy sighed. “Neighbors called it in. Said it was loud, too many people comin’ in and out. Cops showed up, found open bottles everywhere. She’s not in jail, but they held her overnight ‘cause she wouldn’t give ‘em a straight answer. I went down and signed her out.”

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. The tension cracked through his shoulders like a whip.

“Jesus Christ.”

“She’s waitin’ at my place now. Probably hungover as hell. But Joel, there was a lot of people there. Music so loud the whole block heard it. It’s a damn miracle the place ain’t trashed.”

Joel swore under his breath, glancing back at the open tent, where you now sat up, the blanket slipping off one bare shoulder. Your brows lifted in question, concern cutting through your earlier amusement.

He mouthed, Sarah.

Then turned back to the call. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Good. Because if you don’t say somethin’ to that girl, I will.”

The line went dead.

Joel lowered the phone slowly. His jaw tightened, pulse still racing from a whole different kind of adrenaline now.

You tilted your head. “She okay?”

Joel nodded. But it was clipped. “Yeah. But she threw a damn party while we were gone.”

Your lips parted. “At your house?”

He gave you a look that said exactly that.

“Well...shit,” you muttered.

He pulled on his shirt in a rush, fingers fumbling with the buttons.

“I gotta go talk to her,” he said. “Handle this before it turns into somethin’ worse.”

You walked up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, cheek against his back.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

He softened. Just a little. His hand reached down and held yours against his stomach.

“I know.”

The truck peeled off down the road, dust kicking up behind his tires as Joel gunned it toward Tommy’s. You watched it disappear, the warm pressure of his hand still lingering on your thigh, a ghost of his touch woven in with the low thrum of adrenaline still running through your body.

The kiss had been quick. Firm. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek before he pulled away with a muttered, “Be good, alright?” like he knew you were already thinking about trouble.

You slipped your key into the lock and pushed the door open.

The house was quiet.

You exhaled slowly, relief.

No car in the driveway meant your dad was still at work, probably clueless about the chain of events he’d set in motion with that phone call to the cops. But the second he stepped through that door tonight? You were done for.

You kicked off your shoes and padded into the kitchen, flicking on the light. Same peeling linoleum floors. Same fridge humming low and stubborn in the corner. Same glass sitting in the sink from the night before you left. It all looked so..normal. Like the last twelve hours hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t woken up wrapped around Joel, naked and flushed, whispering things that still made your face warm if you thought about them too long.

Your fingers drifted to your lips.

You could still taste him there.

Still hear the rasp in his voice when he said your name.

Still feel the tremble in his hands when he touched you like he didn’t know where to startor where to stop.

You shook your head. Focus.

You poured yourself some water and leaned against the counter, staring out the kitchen window. From here, you could just make out the curve of the road he’d taken, the same way he’d driven everyday back when everything still felt separate, his world and yours. But now? It was all tangled.

The front door creeked and all the warmth drained from your chest.

He was home.

You heard the familiar jingle of his keys, the groan of his work boots against the wood floor. You straightened up fast, hiding the smile, hiding the memory, hiding everything.

Chapter Text

The door creaked open downstairs just as you dropped a folded shirt into the drawer. You froze. Keys hit the entryway bowl, boots thudded against the hardwood like punctuation marks, one, two, then a pause. You knew that pause. He was listening. Probably waiting to see if you'd come down, or maybe hoping you wouldn’t.

You held your breath for another second, then let it go. No use pretending you weren’t home. Joel had dropped you off not ten minutes ago, his truck tires still fresh in the gravel, his kiss still burning faint on your lips. You hadn’t even finished unpacking. Your duffel lay half-zipped across the bed like it too had braced for the fight you were sure was coming.

But the silence downstairs dragged on.

You headed to the top of the stairs, every creak of the floorboard beneath you another warning bell. Then, steeling yourself, you descended. Your hand hovered on the banister, but you didn’t grip it. Didn’t need to show nerves.

He was in the kitchen, back to you, grabbing a beer from the fridge. No belt in sight. No heat behind his shoulders. He didn’t turn around until the fridge clicked shut.

“Hey,” he said. Voice casual. Too casual. “How was the trip?”

You blinked. “Uh…it was okay.”

He nodded and leaned against the counter like this was any normal evening. “Good.”

A silence bloomed between you, awkward and off-center. You stepped further into the room, waiting for the explosion. For the guilt trip. For the rules you’d broken to be flung back in your face like they had been your whole life. But none of it came.

“You’re not mad?” you asked quietly.

He took a sip. Shrugged. “You’re right. You’re grown. I shouldn’t have gotten upset.”

“Right…” Your voice was a little thinner now, the confusion starting to seep in. You tried to catch his eye, but he was staring into the rim of the bottle like it held something interesting.

More silence. More of that heavy, hollow kind.

You crossed your arms. “You were the one who called the cops, weren’t you.”

He exhaled, sharp through the nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, nodding slowly. That old mix of anger and ache stirred in your chest, the kind only he could pull from you. You glanced away before your eyes could betray you.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “I’m gonna go back to unpacking.”

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t say another word.

You turned, climbed the stairs slower this time. Not from fear, but because something about the whole thing felt wrong. Empty, even. You used to hate the yelling, but this? This quiet indifference? It settled under your skin like a splinter.

And when your bedroom door clicked shut behind you, you found yourself leaning back against it, chest tight. Because in some strange, sour way you almost wished he had yelled.

You heard the crunch of gravel before you saw the headlights. Joel’s truck pulled into the driveway slow, but the slam of the door had more force behind it. You glanced through the window and caught a glimpse of him, shoulders squared, jaw tight. You didn’t even bother grabbing shoes before heading outside.

The night air hit you cool and damp, a breeze carrying the faint scent of leftover smoke and beer. When you reached him, Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just looked past you at the house.

“She’s not allowed to housesit anymore,” he said flatly.

Your heart dropped. “Sarah?”

He gave a slow, sharp nod, his eyes dark and unreadable. "There’s not a whole lot I can do, she’s an adult now. But Jesus…”

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say. “Joel, I”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just brushed past you and climbed the steps to the porch. You followed in silence.

The front door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing the wreckage inside. It smelled like stale booze and smoke. Red Solo cups littered the floor, some crushed under careless footsteps. Beer bottles were knocked over on the counter, dark rings staining the wood. There was ash on the windowsill, a few cigarette butts on the floor. You bent down and picked up a joint half-burned, tucking it into your pocket on instinct. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did and didn’t care.

You moved around him quietly, helping him clean. Neither of you spoke much. The silence between you felt thicker than the smoke still hanging in the air. You gathered cups, dumped ashtrays, picked up discarded wrappers and crushed chips under your boots. Joel rinsed out bottles in the sink, his movements sharp, robotic.

Finally, he spoke, voice low, like he didn’t want to hear himself say it. “She said she’s been throwing parties here for a while. I don’t know how the hell I didn’t know.”

You paused with your hands full of empty cans. The words came out before you could stop them.

“Yeah. I went to one.”

Joel turned, slow and deliberate. “What?”

You stood there, suddenly frozen in place. “I..I went to one of the parties. A while back. Before we really knew each other.”

His brows furrowed. “You came over here and went to one of her parties?” His voice was rising now, disbelief quickly catching fire. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t know you that well yet,” you said, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry, Joel. I just, I didn’t want to get on Sarah’s bad side. I wasn’t thinking.”

Joel stared at you like he didn’t recognize you. “So you enabled her bullshit? You knew this was going on, and you just let it happen?”

“It was one time!” you snapped, voice breaking. “I didn’t know it was going to turn into this.”

He shook his head, eyes sharp and cutting. “Jesus. I knew you were immature, but I didn’t think you’d hide something like this from me.”

That hurt. The words landed like a slap. Your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, the tears came.

“I thought” you started, then looked away, blinking rapidly. “I thought if I got into it with someone’s dad tonight, it’d be my own. Not you.”

Joel didn’t soften. Didn’t flinch. He just looked away, jaw clenched tight, then said the words that finished it.

“Just go. I can clean up the rest myself.”

You stood there, unable to move for a moment. “Joel” you whispered, but he didn’t look at you.

“I said go.”

You swallowed hard. The lump in your throat tasted like shame.

“I’m sorry,” you said one last time, voice trembling.

He turned his back to you.

You left without another word.

The front door slammed hard behind you, the sound echoing up the stairwell like a warning shot. You stormed straight through the kitchen, up the narrow staircase, and into your bedroom with all the force of a tornado you didn’t have the words to contain.

Your bag hit the wall first. Then your phone. Then, for no good reason, a candle on your desk that shattered in a muted crunch of glass and wax. You stood there heaving, arms stiff at your sides, staring at the mess like it might scream back at you. Your cheeks burned, your throat closed, and your whole body itched with frustration.

He’d told you to go.
Turned his back.
Didn’t even look at you.

You could still feel the weight of Joel’s disappointment pressing into your ribs like a bruise. Could still see his face, that distant, quiet anger that always cut deeper than yelling ever could. Youd expected a fight with your dad. You hadn’t been prepared for that.

You yanked your drawer open and changed into your sports bra, old black leggings, and a gray hoodie. You grabbed your headphones. No water. No warmup. Just the primal need to run.

The streets of Austin blurred by in smeared tones of gray and green. Rain had started to fall, light at first, but picking up fast. Your hoodie clung to your arms, and every footstep hit the pavement like a heartbeat too loud. The music in your ears was bassy and distorted, drowning out the sound of your breathing and the aching sobs lodged behind your tongue.

You didn’t wipe your face. Didn’t slow down.
Didn’t think.
That was the whole point.

By the time you reached the edge of town, your throat was raw, your legs burned, and your vision was fogged with rain and tears. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. You turned down a road you didn’t recognize, a slight incline, a curve you couldn’t see around. The world narrowed to the thudding in your chest, the water in your eyes, the music pounding in your ears

And then

SCREECH.

Brakes. Rubber. Horn.
A shout.
A flash of headlights far too close.

You stumbled back just as the car jerked to a halt. It missed you by inches. The wind off its grill slapped your soaked clothes flat against your skin. For a second, you couldn’t hear anything but your own pulse.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

The driver—a man in his 30s maybe, soaking wet with fury—was already halfway out of the car. “You trying to die out here?! You didn’t even fucking look! You,Jesus Christ, get off the road!”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came. Just a choked breath. Your knees nearly gave out.

“I” you tried, swallowing hard, “I didn’t see"

“No shit, you didn’t!” he snapped. But then he looked at you. Really looked at you ,shaking, drenched, wide-eyed like a deer at the end of the world. His expression softened, only slightly. “You okay?”

You nodded.
Then shook your head.

He muttered something under his breath, climbed back in, and drove off, the tires throwing up twin ribbons of dirty rainwater behind him.

You stood there in the middle of the road, breathing like youd just outrun something that had claws. The music still played in one earbud, something soft now, something slow. You yanked the headphones out and stood silent.

The road was empty again. Just you. Just the rain.
And all the rage you didn’t know what to do with.

Chapter Text

The rain was still coming down in sheets by the time you reached Joel’s porch. Your clothes clung to your skin, sneakers heavy with water, hair plastered to your forehead. But none of it mattered. Your chest burned from running, from crying, from the weight of everything you’d been carrying since last night.

You balled your fist and pounded on the door.

At first, silence. Just the steady hum of rain and the sound of your own ragged breath. Then footsteps, slow and heavy, crossing the floor. The door swung open and there he was, joel, in a soft gray t-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, eyes widening when he saw you dripping on his porch.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pulling the door wider. “What the hell are you doin’ out here like this? You’ll catch your death”

You cut him off. “We need to talk.”

He froze, hand still on the doorframe. His jaw flexed. For a second you thought he’d tell you to go home again, brush you off like a kid. But instead, he let out a long breath through his nose and stepped back.

“Come in,” he said quietly.

You did. Water dripped from your clothes onto his hardwood, little puddles forming by your feet. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a towel, holding it out. You took it, muttered thanks, and rubbed at your hair. He just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

Finally, you spoke.

“I shouldn’t have lied.” The words spilled out, raw and shaking. “I should’ve told you about that party. I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning, I was scared you’d look at get mad at me, that you’d decide I was just a dumb party kid. But lying was worse. I know that. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s shoulders tightened. His face softened a little, but he didn’t interrupt.

You went on, voice cracking, “But you” you swallowed, “you shouldn’t have pushed me away like that either. Just told me to leave. Like I didn’t matter. That’s not fair. We both messed up, Joel. Both of us. And if we’re gonna, if we’re gonna do this, really do this, then we can’t just shut each other out every time we get scared or angry.”

The silence after was brutal. Rain pelted the roof, thunder grumbled low in the distance. You hugged the towel tighter around your body, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Joel rubbed his hand over his face, then let out a rough sigh. He stepped closer, looking down at you with those steady, unreadable eyes.

“You’re right,” he admitted at last, his voice low. “You’re right. I handled it wrong. I let my temper get the best of me. Shouldn’t’ve said what I said. Shouldn’t’ve turned my back on you.” He shook his head. “I’ve been alone a long time, darlin’. My first instinct is always to push people away before they can leave me. Don’t make it right, but…..that’s the truth.”

Your throat tightened. “So where does that leave us?”

He stared at you, jaw working, before reaching out to gently take the towel from your hands. He lifted it, wiped the rain from your cheeks like he was brushing away tears. “Leaves us both with some work to do,” he said simply. “But if you still want this if you’re still willin’ to try, then so am I.”

Something in your chest cracked open. You blinked back fresh tears and nodded. “I do. I want this. I want you. I don’t care how hard it is, Joel. I just” your voice broke, “I just don’t wanna lose you.”

His hand slid from the towel to your jaw, rough thumb stroking your cheek. “You won’t,” he murmured. “Not unless you decide you’re done with me. ‘Cause I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Your breath hitched. “Promise?”

He leaned down, pressed his forehead against yours. “Promise.”

You stood there like that for a long moment, the storm raging outside but the world feeling strangely still. Finally, you let out a shaky laugh and said, “Guess that makes us official-official, huh?”

Joel chuckled softly, kissed your temple. “Guess it does.”

He pulled you into his arms then, holding you tight, the towel slipping to the floor. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you, steadying you. For the first time since you’d met him, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you two could actually make this work.

The words had barely left his mouth before you pulled him down into a kiss. It wasn’t careful or cautious anymore, it was hot, desperate, the kind of kiss that burned away every fight, every doubt. Joel’s hand cupped the back of your head, his tongue sliding against yours, pulling you closer until your chest pressed tight to his.

You tugged at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, but Joel broke the kiss long enough to murmur against your lips, “Easy, darlin’not tonight.”

You groaned, frustrated, and tried to chase his mouth again. “Joel”

He silenced you with another kiss, softer this time, his thumb tracing circles against your cheek. “I just wanna hold you,” he said quietly, as if confessing a secret. “That’s all I need tonight.”

And for once, you didn’t argue.

He led you upstairs, fingers twined with yours, and into his bedroom. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar and detergent, the air still warm from his body. He slipped off his shirt and tossed it aside, but nothing more. You curled into his side as he slid beneath the blanket, his arm strong around you, keeping you there like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

You fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart.

When you woke, sunlight spilled across the room, soft and golden, and Joel wasn’t beside you. For one dizzy second, panic licked at your ribs until you smelled coffee and bacon.

You headed into the kitchen in one of his shirts, you found him at the stove, spatula in hand, hair mussed, coffee steaming in two mugs. He turned when he heard you, his lips tugging into that slow, crooked smile.

“Mornin’, trouble,” he said, sliding a plate of eggs and toast onto the counter. “Figured I’d better feed you before you burn a hole in my roof with that stare.”

You laughed and leaned against the doorway, heart swelling. “So this is what I get for staying over, huh? Breakfast in bed or close enough.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Joel teased, but he set the mug of coffee down in front of you exactly how you liked it. Extra cream, extra sugar, drizzle of honey.

For a while you just ate, comfortable silence stretching between you. Then Joel cleared his throat, his gaze softer now. “So, Thanksgiving next week. Might be a little awkward, huh?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“You and your mom, y’all don’t talk much?”

The fork slipped in your hand. You stared at the eggs, throat tightening. “We don’t talk at all. Not really.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t leave you. “How come?”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I was never good enough for her. Once she got remarried, once she had those stepkids that was it. She didn’t need me anymore. I was just, a mistake she had too young. I could never do anything right. She made sure I knew it.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, but his hand reached across the table, covering yours. His palm was warm, rough, steady.

“Hey,” he said softly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Don’t you ever let yourself believe that. You hear me? You’re not a mistake. You’re not worthless. You’re” his thumb rubbed against your knuckles, “ you’re somethin’ damn special. And if she couldn’t see that, that’s on her. Not you.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, clutching his hand tighter. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Joel said firmly.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just let him hold your hand, the world narrowed down to the steady weight of his touch and the rough sincerity in his voice. For the first time in years, you felt lighte, like maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought.

Chapter Text

Thanksgiving at the restaurant was a bloodbath. From the moment you slipped into your hostess heels and tied the little silk scarf around your neck, you knew it was going to be hell. The waiting area filled before noon, the soft piano music drowned out by chatter and clinking glasses, the scent of turkey and rosemary so thick it coated your tongue.

You leaned against the podium with your fellow hostess, watching another wave of overdressed families file in. “Aren’t these people supposed to be starving themselves like good Americans?” you muttered.

She snorted. “Guess they’d rather spend two hundred bucks on dry turkey and lukewarm wine.”

“Dry turkey,” you echoed, sighing. “God bless capitalism.”

The phone rang, another reservation request you didn’t have time for. The list was already double-booked. People tried walking in under fake names—Oh, I’m on the Johnson reservation—and you had to paste on your politest hostess smile while flipping through the ledger like you didn’t want to throat-punch them.

By the time you stepped out for your break, your cheeks ached from fake smiling. The alley behind the restaurant smelled of cigarette smoke and wet pavement. You sat on the stoop, head tipped back against the brick, wishing you had your weed pen instead of a half-warm soda from the break room.

That’s when your phone buzzed. Mom.

You answered. “Hey, Happy Thanksgiving.”

She didn’t even pause. “So anyway, your stepbrother won his soccer tournament! Five years old and already scoring goals like a champ. And little Bailey drew me the sweetest picture of our family, she even put me in the middle. She’s only eight, can you believe it?”

You closed your eyes, pressing your forehead to your knee. She hadn’t even asked how you were. No “how’s your day,” no “how’s work.” Nothing. Just straight into her new step kids.

“That’s great, Mom,” you said flatly.

There was a pause. “What about you? What are you doing tonight?”

You fiddled with the strap of your heel. “Going to my boyfriend’s family thing. Dad’s working tonight, so”

Her voice sharpened. “Boyfriend? I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.”

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah, well you didn’t ask.”

That shut her up for a second. Then you heard her sigh, that long, disappointed exhale you’d grown up with. Before she could say anything else, you hung up.

Your stomach twisted, part guilt, part anger.

The phone buzzed again. Not her this time.

Joel : Hope your shift’s goin’ alright, darlin’. Don’t let those rich folks give you too much grief. Save your smiles for me.

You stared at the message until your eyes blurred. And just like that, the sting of your mother’s voice faded a little. You smiled—really smiled, not the plastic hostess one—and your chest warmed.

You texted back, Can’t wait to see you later.

The kitchen door swung open, and the other hostess called you back inside. But for the first time that day, you didn’t dread it. Joel’s words were still humming in your chest, steady as a heartbeat.

You barely had time to breathe after your shift. The second you got home you stripped off your hostess uniform, tossed it in the corner, and stood in front of the mirror fixing your hair with shaking hands. A dab of concealer under your eyes, fresh lipstick, a dress that made you feel a little older, like you belonged at Joel’s side instead of trailing behind him.

By the time you walked over to his house, your heart was already racing. You knocked once, but the door opened almost immediately. Joel stood there in a flannel and jeans, warm light spilling over him from the hallway behind. You threw yourself into his chest before he could say a word.

He caught you, big arms wrapping around your shoulders, holding you like he knew you needed it. “Hey,” he murmured into your hair.

You let out a long sigh, muffled against his chest. “Uhh, longest shift ever.”

He kissed your forehead. “Tell me about it on the way.”

The old Ford rumbled as he opened the passenger door for you, steady and gentleman-like as always. You slid in, grateful for the leather warmth under your thighs. Joel started the engine, his hand immediately finding its place on your leg like it belonged there. The road stretched out for miles, soft country songs humming through the speakers, and you told him about the disaster of a day, customers lying about reservations, bitching about the fixed menu, how someone literally tried to bribe you with a twenty to skip the wait. Joel just shook his head and rubbed his thumb over your thigh. “People got no damn manners anymore.”

Forty-five minutes later, headlights swung across a little farmhouse surrounded by trucks and SUVs. Joel parked and helped you down, his hand warm on your back as you walked up the steps together.

The door swung open before you could knock. Sarah was already there with her boyfriend, laughing at something. She pulled you into a hug that smelled faintly of smoke and perfume. Her boyfriend gave you a polite nod before Joel tugged you toward the kitchen, where Tommy and Maria were.

Maria’s smile was warm. “Well, if it isn’t the hard worker. Welcome, sweetheart.”

You hugged Tommy and murmured hellos to a few cousins you didn’t recognize. Maria’s family buzzed around the kitchen, hands busy with bowls and steaming dishes. You asked softly, “Need any help?”

Maria waved you off with her easy grace. “No, sweetie, I’ve got it. Thank you though.”

So you drifted back into the living room, mingling awkwardly, until the faint smell of weed tugged you toward the back porch.

There they were—Sarah, her boyfriend, and Tommy—passing a blunt in the cool night air. Sarah smirked when she saw you. “You wanna hit?”

You laughed, a little nervous but eager to fit in. “Yeah, why not.”

The smoke burned your throat on the first inhale, but you managed not to cough. You leaned against the railing, exhaling into the night. “So, Sarah,” you said with a grin, “how deep in shit are you for that party?”

Sarah shrugged, casual as anything. “Dad was mad, sure. But oh well. I’m an adult. Guess I’ll just have to find somewhere else to party now.” She passed the blunt and added slyly, “Heard you and my dad made it official.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Yeah.”

That’s when Tommy cut in, his voice deceptively light. “So we know how old you actually are.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Uh…what?”

Sarah’s eyes were sharp in the dim porch light. “Yeah. Maria’s got yearbooks. Didn’t take long to find you. So you’re what? 19? 20?”

Your stomach dropped. The smoke turned sour in your mouth. “I...uh…I’m nineteen,” you admitted, voice tight. “About to be twenty in January.”

“Fuck,” Sarah muttered, passing the blunt without looking at you. “He’s gonna be pissed when he finds out.”

Your shoulders curled in, like you could fold yourself away. “Are you gonna tell him?”

Tommy laughed, sharp and humorless. “Hell no. You have to. He won’t accept it from anyone else. And the longer you wait, the worse it’s gonna get.”

You picked at your lip, nails worrying the skin until it stung. “I don’t want him to leave me.”

Sarah finally looked at you, her expression softer, almost sympathetic. “He seems to really like you. He might be mad at first, but, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Just don’t let him find out from someone else.”

The blunt came back around, but you waved it off, your stomach twisting too hard to even think about it. They were right. Maria was right. You should’ve told him days ago.

Now? Now it felt like a countdown.

You’d barely made it back inside when Joel caught your wrist. His fingers brushed against the inside of your palm, gentle but commanding. His eyes scanned the hall, then flicked back to you, dark and mischievous.

“What are you” you started, but his hand pressed lightly to your lower back, steering you away from the noise of the dining room.

“Shh,” he murmured. “C’mere.”

The hallway was narrow, lined with framed photos of Tommy and Maria’s family. Joel pressed you against the wall between two of them, caging you in with his body. You could hear laughter and clinking glasses only a room away, but his breath was hot at your ear, his knee sliding between your thighs.

“Joel,” you whispered, nervous and giddy all at once. “Someone’s gonna see.”

“Then we better be quiet.” His voice was low, teasing, the kind of drawl that made your knees weak.

His mouth claimed yours before you could argue. The kiss was hungry, unrestrained, his tongue sliding past your lips like he’d been starving all day. His hands roamed, up under your dress, tracing the line of your spine, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every inch of his arousal straining against his jeans.

You gasped into his mouth, the heat of it drowning your better judgment. God, he was strong, grounding, the kind of man who made the world feel far away when his hands were on you.

But beneath the rush, guilt gnawed at you. If he knew the truth, if he knew you were only nineteen, would he still look at you this way? Still risk this?

Joel kissed down your jaw, scraping his teeth gently against your throat. You bit your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, one hand fisting in his shirt.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “Got me sneakin’ off like some teenager.”

That stung. You almost flinched. If only you knew

His hand slid lower, gripping your ass, lifting you slightly against the wall so you could grind against the hard length in his jeans. The friction made you moan softly, and his palm clamped over your mouth, eyes burning into yours.

“You want us caught?” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek. “Better keep that pretty mouth quiet.”

Heat pooled low in your belly as you nodded. He pulled your panties aside under your dress, thick fingers teasing along your slick folds, circling just enough to make you whimper against his hand. Every brush, every deliberate press felt like torture.

You bucked your hips, desperate, but he only smirked. “Knew you’d be this wet for me.” His fingers sank into you slowly, curling just right. “Christ, baby”

Your eyes fluttered shut, forehead resting against his shoulder. The guilt sharpened, piercing through the haze of pleasure. You should tell him. You should. But not now. Not when his hand is inside you and you’re falling apart against him. Not when it feels this good.

Joel’s lips brushed your ear, his breath hot. “Bet your little boyfriend never made you feel like this.”

“I don’t” you gasped as his fingers thrust harder, angling deep. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Good,” he growled. “’Cause you’re mine now.”

The words wrecked you. You came around his hand with a strangled moan, muffled by his chest, trembling as he kept you pinned to the wall until the last wave shuddered through you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, flushed and swollen-mouthed, his fingers glistening as he brought them to his lips and sucked them clean. The sight made you weak all over again.

Joel smirked, boyish in a way that almost broke your heart. “Guess I do still got it.”

You laughed breathlessly, trying to hide the ache in your chest. Yes, you do. But if you knew how young I really am, you’d hate me for letting this go so far.

“Come on,” he said, fixing your dress, smoothing your hair like nothing happened. “Let’s get back before someone notices.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, and followed him down the hall, your legs still shaky, your secret heavier than ever.

The dining room was loud with laughter and clinking glasses, the long table covered in half-empty wine bottles, platters of turkey bones, bowls scraped clean of mashed potatoes. Joel sat beside you, his palm resting heavy and possessive on your thigh beneath the tablecloth. Every now and then, he gave the faintest squeeze, a little reminder that he was right there.

When Joel cracked a story about Tommy falling off a hay bale as a kid, you laughed so hard you almost spit wine. Joel leaned over, stole a bite of stuffing from your plate with his fork, and when you swatted at him, he just smirked and fed it right back to you. The whole table caught the moment, teasing, and your cheeks burned, but you laughed, too.

You’d never had a Thanksgiving like this. Not once. Usually it was either tense silence at your mom’s table, her fussing over her husband’s kids while ignoring you, or a quick microwaved dinner with your dad in front of the TV, the game blaring louder than any conversation. But this? Family stories, food cooked with love, people who hugged and teased and smiled like they wanted you there? It made something inside you ache.

After dessert, you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Maria at the sink, passing her dishes as she rinsed. Joel moved behind you now and then, his hand brushing your back as he carried leftovers to the fridge. You were laughing at Tommy trying to balance too many plates at once when he suddenly cleared his throat, grabbed Maria’s hand, and announced, “So, uh, figured it’s a good time to let y’all know, we’re gettin’ married.”

The whole room erupted. Hugs, cheers, whistles. Maria’s cheeks were pink, Tommy’s ears red, but they looked so damn happy. You hugged them both tight, and to your surprise, tears welled up and spilled over before you could stop them.

Joel noticed. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the damp track from your cheek, his eyes soft, steady. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, just for you.

Later, you hugged everyone goodbye, your chest still warm from all of it, and Joel led you out to the truck. The night air was crisp, the stars sharp above the trees. He opened your door like always, kissed you once before you climbed in, then laced his fingers with yours on the drive home.

For a while you were quiet, watching the lights of houses blur past the window. Finally, you spoke. “That was my first real Thanksgiving.”

Joel glanced at you, brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean…” you sighed, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “When my mom and dad were together, it was always…tense. When they split, it was just one or the other, and it never felt right. Never felt…whole. But tonight, it did. I felt at home. Like I belonged.”

Joel’s hand tightened gently around yours, and he lifted it, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without looking away from the road. “You do belong. You fit right in with everybody, didn’t you see? That’s what family is, darlin’. Nothin’ fancy. Just people who want you there.”

Your throat tightened, but you smiled through it. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said simply. Then, softer: “You deserve this kind of happiness.”

The words warmed you so deeply it almost hurt. You leaned your head back against the seat, watching his strong profile lit by the passing streetlights.

“Yeah,” you whispered, a little smile tugging at your lips. “I think I could get used to it.”

Joel just squeezed your hand again, and the truck rumbled steady beneath you, carrying you both back through the dark.

Chapter Text

The days after Thanksgiving blurred into something soft and golden. Every free moment was spent in Joel’s orbit, like the two of you had slipped into a rhythm without even meaning to. His bed had become your bed, his flannel draped over your shoulders in the mornings, his kitchen carried the smell of the dinners you cooked for him after late shifts.

When your feet ached from standing, he massaged them without complaint, grumbling only when you kicked from being ticklish. When your period cramps had you curled tight, he’d appeared with a heating pad, chocolates, and that gruff tenderness that was quickly undoing you.

Tonight, a “so-bad-it’s-good” action flick played across the TV, and the two of you had laughed until your stomach hurt at the wooden one-liners. After it ended, you stayed sprawled across the couch, your feet in his lap. Joel muted the TV, his thumb tracing slow circles on your calf.

For a long moment he just looked at you, the firelight playing across his face. Then he leaned forward, switched off the TV, and cleared his throat.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, voice low. “I was worried. Thought this wasn’t gonna work. Figured I was too old, too slow that you’d be too much for me. Too loud. Too young. Too...everything.” His thumb stilled against your leg. “But these past few weeks? They’ve been natural. Easy. Hell, better than I deserve.”

Your chest ached. Guilt swelled, but so did love.

He gave a dry little laugh, shaking his head. “Twenty-five is still so damn young. But you, you’ve lived more than most. You’re wise beyond your years. And if this is what you really want? Then I’m the lucky one.”

The words cracked something open in you. You slid up from your end of the couch and climbed into his lap, pressing your forehead against his, kissing him like you couldn’t bear not to.

“You are everything I’ve ever wished for,” you whispered, tears threatening. “And I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Joel swallowed hard. His eyes fluttered closed, nose brushing yours. When he spoke, it was a whisper. “Think I’m fallin’ too. Just scares the hell outta me.”

You kissed his forehead, softer this time. “I know. But you don’t need to be scared.”

Something in his chest gave way. He gathered you up and carried you down the hall, settling you both beneath his blankets. His arms wrapped tight around you as he drifted toward sleep. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, you heard his rough voice murmur against your hair

“Forgot how good it feels to be in love.”

You pressed closer, lacing your fingers with his against his chest. “This is my first real taste of it. Any of it.”

His breathing slowed. You held on tighter.

The next morning, you rose before him. Barefoot, wearing only his flannel, you headed to his kitchen, humming as you packed a lunch for him, sandwich, chips, a chocolate bar, and a note folded neat on top. Then you whisked eggs, cinnamon, and sugar together, frying french toast until the whole house smelled sweet.

When you went to wake him, he reached for you instantly, pulling you into his chest, kissing the crown of your head before he’d even opened his eyes.

“This,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, “this is what dreams are made of.”

And for a moment, you let yourself believe it could last.

You lingered at Joel’s house long after he left for work. His lunch bag sat forgotten on the counter, and you smiled to yourself, typical. He could remember every detail about fixing a roof beam, but taking his damn sandwich? Not a chance.

So you slipped into your car and drove out to the worksite.

The sound hit you first, hammers clanging, saws buzzing, men yelling instructions across scaffolding. Dust clouded the air, warm and heavy. Joel was standing off to the side, clipboard in hand, hat shading his eyes. He looked every bit the foreman, steady and commanding.

“Hey,” you called out.

His head snapped up, and the sight of you crossing the gravel lot made his mouth twitch into a smile. You held up the bag. “Somebody forgot his lunch.”

The guys on the crew hooted and whistled, which only made you walk faster. Joel met you halfway, scratching the back of his neck. “Darlin’, you didn’t have to”

You rose on your toes and kissed him, right there in front of everyone. A bold, lingering kiss that had the crew erupting in more hollers. Joel chuckled against your lips, embarrassed, but his hand settled firm on your waist and he kissed you back, soft and sure.

When you pulled away, his face was redder than the clay dust, but his eyes were warm. “Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the bag.

“Don’t forget it again,” you teased.

You turned to head back to your car, but Tommy was leaning against your driver’s side door, arms crossed, watching you. The grin on his face didn’t reach his eyes.

“When you gonna tell him?” he asked, voice low.

Your throat went dry. “I, I promise. Soon.”

“Soon?” He pushed off the car, coming closer. “It’s been weeks. He’s fallin’ hard, and I know my brother. The longer you wait, the worse it’s gonna hurt.”

You swallowed, looking anywhere but at him. “Maybe he doesn’t need to know.”

Tommy’s laugh was sharp. “So what? you’re just gonna pretend your whole life you’re older than you are? What happens if you two get married someday? You gonna forge documents? Or if it slips from someone else’s mouth? You really think you can keep that secret forever?”

Your chest tightened, nails digging into your palms. “I don’t know, alright? I don’t know.”

Tommy studied you, his jaw tight.

“But I do know,” you said, voice breaking a little, “I’m not about to lose the only person who’s ever made me feel…..appreciated. Loved. Like I actually matter.”

The words hung between you, raw and aching.

Tommy sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re playin’ with fire, kid. Just remember, lies got a way of burning everything down.”

And with that, he walked back toward the site, leaving you against your car with your heart pounding, torn between guilt and the desperate need to hold onto Joel for as long as you could.

That night, you made sure you were waiting on Joel when he came through the door. The sound of his keys hitting the counter barely landed before you were in his arms, pressing your lips to his cheek, his jaw, anywhere you could reach.

“Missed you today,” you murmured, tugging at his work shirt like you couldn’t get close enough.

Joel blinked, surprised at the sudden flood of attention. His hands were still rough from the job, knuckles stained with dust, but they came up automatically to steady you. “Missed me? I just saw you at the site a few hours ago.”

“I know,” you said quickly, kissing him again, harder this time. “But it felt like forever.”

He chuckled, low and confused, but he didn’t push you away. You guided him toward the couch, tugging him down until he was sitting and you were climbing into his lap, straddling him. His eyes softened as he looked up at you, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Well ain’t you sweet tonight.”

“Maybe I just realized how lucky I am,” you whispered. You kissed him again, slow this time, pouring every ounce of guilt and fear into the way your mouth lingered on his. If you couldn’t tell him the truth, you could at least show him this, how much you wanted him, how much you were terrified of losing him.

Joel let out a breath, the kind that came when his guard dropped. His hands slid up your back, fingertips pressing into the thin fabric of your shirt. “Darlin’, what’s got into you?”

You forced a laugh, burying your face in the curve of his neck. “Nothing. Just…..you. Just us.”

He held you there, his chin resting on your hair, his heartbeat steady against your chest. You clung tighter, hoping he couldn’t feel how your own pulse raced.

Later, while you were curled against him under a blanket, Joel rubbed lazy circles on your arm and murmured, “You don’t gotta try so hard, you know. You’re already all I want.”

The words cut through you like glass. Your throat burned, but you only smiled and kissed his knuckles, pretending nothing was wrong.

Because if he knew the truth, you weren’t sure he’d say the same thing tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The restaurant buzzed with low voices and clinking glasses when Joel finally walked in, shoulders still stiff from work, his boots heavy against the polished floor. You’d already been seated for ten minutes, sipping nervously at your water and checking your phone every two. But when his eyes found yours, some of the tension melted. He kissed your cheek as he slid into the seat across from you, smelling faintly of cedar and sweat.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Ran over on the site. Tommy had a crew dragging their feet.”

You smiled, letting him off the hook too easily, and opened your menu like it didn’t matter. But the little sting was there. You’d been waiting.

When the waiter came by, Joel ordered his steak rare, a glass of red wine, and—without missing a beat—he said, “And she’ll have a whiskey sour.”

Your stomach clenched. The waiter’s pen hovered.

You gave a quick smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m good. Just water.”

Joel frowned. “You like whiskey sours.”

“I…..didn’t bring my ID.” You shrugged like it was no big deal.

The waiter gave you both an apologetic smile and slipped away.

Joel leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “You drove here without your license?”

Heat rushed to your face. “It’s not like I got pulled over.”

“That’s not the damn point.” His eyes darkened, jaw tight. “You can’t just, Christ, you can’t be that careless.”

Embarrassment burned, the heat crawling down your neck. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” he snapped back.

You stabbed your straw into the water glass harder than necessary. The rest of the meal had that simmering edge, you teasing too much, trying to make him laugh, him softening but never quite losing the crease between his brows.

The theater was quiet, nearly empty, and you leaned into him in the dark, his arm draped over your shoulders. By the time the previews ended, the earlier tension had dulled into something heavier, warmer. You tilted your face up to kiss him, slow at first, then deeper, tongues brushing, his hand cupping your jaw.

You shifted, heat curling in your belly, and let your hand drift lower, sliding across his thigh. Joel stiffened.

“Don’t,” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled against his lips, whispering, “No one’s even here.” Your hand pressed firmer, cupping him through his jeans.

His breath hitched, but he caught your wrist, grip firm. “I said stop.”

You pouted, leaning closer, kissing his throat. “You don’t want me?”

“Not like this,” he growled, shoving his jaw into his palm like he needed to anchor himself. “I ain’t some goddamn teenager in the back row.”

The shame hit hot and fast. You recoiled slightly, pulling your hand back to your lap. For the rest of the film, Joel’s arm stayed around you, steady and warm, but his body was taut, his jaw tight. You felt small, chastised, but under it all, the ache between your legs grew sharper.

The truck ride home was heavy with silence. Joel’s hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking once, twice, almost absent. But the weight of it was different, harder, hotter.

The second the door shut behind you at his house, restraint shattered.

Joel pressed you back against the wall, mouth crashing onto yours, his body pinning you with a hunger that was all the fiercer for being restrained so long. You gasped as his hands gripped your hips, dragging you up against him.

“Think I didn’t want you?” His voice was rough, dark, vibrating through your chest. He kissed you hard enough to bruise. “Sat there the whole damn time achin’ for you.”

Your laugh broke into a moan as his hand slipped under your shirt. “Then why stop me?”

“‘Cause you’re not some backseat fling,” he rasped, teeth grazing your neck. “You’re mine. I get to take my time with you.”

And he did.

He carried you to his bedroom, laid you down like something precious, and stripped you slow. His hands traced every inch of bare skin, kissing your ribs, your stomach, the inside of your thighs until you were trembling. He teased you until your pleas turned breathless, desperate, your nails raking his back.

When he finally pushed into you, it was deep, steady, claiming. He didn’t rush. He made you feel every inch, his voice rough in your ear. “Look at me while I fuck you, that’s it, baby, good girl.”

You cried out, clenching around him, and he groaned into your neck, hips snapping harder, chasing you into oblivion. When he came, it was with a low, guttural sound that made you shudder all over.

After, he cleaned you gently, kissing your knees, your forehead, tucking you beneath the blanket. He held you close, chest to chest, your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t test me like that again,” he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek.

The words stung, but his arms around you were steady, warm, safe.

And when you finally drifted off, the last thing you felt was the soft press of his lips to your hair.

Chapter Text

Joel had been dragging all week, and by Friday it was carved into every line of his body. His shoulders sagged when he came through the door, boots caked in mud, shirt clinging damp to his back. He cracked a beer before he even took his toolbelt off, the hiss of the tab louder than the muted TV he collapsed in front of.

You’d spent the week trying to soften the edges for him. Cooking meals you knew he liked, kneading his back until your fingers cramped, slipping into his bed each night and pressing yourself close until he let go of some of that tension. But nothing seemed to stick. Tonight, he looked past even comfort.

You perched on the arm of his chair, trying for lightness. “Careful with that beer, old man. Don’t wanna throw out your back poppin’ the tab.”

Joel grunted without looking away from the screen. “Cute.”

“You’re gettin’ all cranky in your old age,” you teased, nudging his shoulder. “Maybe I should trade you in for a younger model. Somebody who can stay awake past nine.”

That got his attention. He turned, slow, his brows knitting. “You done?”

You blinked, the heat in his voice catching you off guard. “I was just kidding.”

“Well, I ain’t laughin’.” His jaw ticked as he leaned back in the chair, lifting the beer to his lips. “Been workin’ myself into the ground all week, and the first thing I get when I sit down is you runnin’ your mouth.”

The words stung sharper than they should’ve. You shifted, tried to soften it. “Want me to make somethin’ else for dinner? Or I could”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, eyes snapping back to the screen.

Fine. Just fine. Like all the ways you’d tried to keep him afloat hadn’t meant a damn thing.

Your chest tightened. “Maybe we could”

“Sweetheart,” he cut in, low and tired, “I just wanna sit a while. Alright?”

It should’ve been nothing. Just a man asking for peace. But the way it landed — cold, dismissive — it scraped over every raw nerve. It was too much like the way your dad drowned you out with a six-pack and silence. The burn rose hot in your chest before you could stop it.

“Right,” you snapped. “Just like my dad. Crack a beer when you don’t wanna deal with me.”

Joel’s head jerked toward you, eyes flashing. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m tryin’,” you shot back, voice rising. “I’m tryin’ to be here, to make you happy, and all you do is shut me out.”

He dragged a rough hand over his jaw, exhaling hard through his nose. “I never asked you to bend yourself backwards for me. I didn’t ask for any of that. I just need quiet.”

“Quiet? Or space from me?” Your throat was tight, hot. “Because it feels like I’m too much for you. Too loud, too immature, too”

“Maybe you are.” The words were out before he could reel them back. His eyes softened like he regretted them instantly, but they were already hanging in the air, bitter and raw.

Your mouth fell open. “Wow. Thanks.”

Joel shook his head, his hands dragging down his face. “You joke about me bein’ old, tired, slow. Hell, sometimes you make me feel it. And when I’m strung out, when I got nothin’ left, you pile on more. Clingin’, pushin’, needin’ me to be somethin’ I ain’t sure I can be every second.”

Tears blurred your vision. “So what ..i’m suffocating you now?”

“I’m sayin’ I need to breathe,” Joel said, voice low, worn out. “I can’t do that if every damn thing I do is measured against whether it’s enough for you.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the muted TV flickering shadows across his face.

Finally, Joel set the beer down with a dull thunk. His gaze locked on you, weary to the bone. “Why don’t you go on home tonight. Get some rest. We’ll talk when I ain’t so raw.”

Home. Not here. Not with him. The words hollowed you out.

You shot to your feet, blinking fast to keep the tears from spilling. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll go.”

You grabbed your bag, the room tilting around you, humiliation burning under your skin. Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t chase you. He just sat there, shoulders slumped, beer forgotten on the table as you opened the door and left him behind.

The cold air slapped your face when you stormed across the yard. You slammed your own door hard enough to rattle the frames and marched upstairs. In your room, you hurled your bag against the wall. It hit with a dull thud, spilling its contents across the floor.

“Fuck!” you shouted, pacing like a cornered animal, swiping at your wet cheeks. You hated this, hated lying, hated feeling small, hated Joel for making you feel like a kid all over again.

You yanked your curtains open, ready to flood the room with moonlight, and froze.

Joel was standing in his yard, beer still in hand, looking straight up at your window. His face was unreadable in the dark, but you knew that look. Watching. Waiting.

Your chest seized. And then, reckless, furious, you pressed your middle finger hard against the glass.

His expression didn’t change. Maybe it hardened. Maybe you just couldn’t see. But you didn’t wait to find out.

You yanked the curtains closed so hard the rod rattled. The room went dark, your breath ragged in the silence.

For the first time since you’d started sleeping in his bed, you were alone.

The glow of your phone was the only light in your room. You scrolled aimlessly, thumb flicking without thought, until a post froze you in place, a blurry selfie from some girl you vaguely knew, red solo cup in her hand, the caption tagged at an address you recognized. A house party. The background was all laughing mouths, neon lights, bodies pressed close.

Your chest ached. Joel’s face lingered behind your eyes, the way he hadn’t stopped you tonight, the way his silence had cut deeper than any words. You shut off your phone and stared at your reflection in the black screen.

“Fuck it.”

You grabbed your keys, stuffed your phone into your pocket, and slipped out. The night air was sharp on your skin as you slid behind the wheel and peeled out of the driveway.

The bass hit you before you even found parking. By the time you shoved your way through the front door, the air was thick with beer, sweat, and perfume. People crowded the living room, shouting over each other, laughter booming off the walls. Someone handed you a shot glass without asking, and you threw it back before you could think.

Another.

And another.

Warmth bloomed through your body, loosening every tight coil of guilt and shame until you were laughing, until you didn’t feel so hollow. You ended up at the beer pong table, a ball in your hand, a ring of strangers cheering like you’d been friends for years. You sank the ball and screamed in triumph, nearly spilling what was left of your drink.

By the time the game ended, your head was spinning. The room blurred around the edges, and you swayed into the hallway for air.

That’s when you saw him.

“Elijah.”

He smirked like he’d been waiting for you. “Didn’t know you still came to parties like this.”

You rolled your eyes. “Didn’t know you were still alive.”

He leaned closer, breath sharp with liquor. “Bet you missed me though.”

Your stomach turned. You pushed at his chest. “Back off.”

But his hand slid brazenly down, squeezing your ass. “Don’t act like you don’t like it, slut.”

The word stung. Before you could think, your palm cracked across his face. The slap echoed in the hallway.

“Fuck you,” you spat, stumbling back as he clutched his cheek, his grin feral.

You shoved past him and stumbled through the crowd until you burst onto the lawn. The cold night air hit your cheeks, already wet with hot tears you didn’t even remember starting.

You dropped onto the grass, head in your hands, body shaking with booze and regret.

Everything ached, your chest, your throat, your heart. The laughter spilling from the house behind you made you feel smaller, invisible. You pulled out your phone, the screen nearly blinding in the dark.

3:02 a.m.

You hovered over Joel’s name.

He didn’t want you tonight. He’d told you to go home. He hadn’t chased you.

But you were too drunk, too raw to care.

Your thumb pressed down. The phone rang, loud in your ear, as you sat on the curb in the wet grass, crying and waiting for him to pick up.

joel’s voice cut through the static and your drunken tears.

“What the hell are you doin’ callin’ me at three in the mornin’?” His tone was sharp, clipped,the same edge he’d had when he told you to leave earlier.

You hiccuped, words tumbling out broken. “I’m sorry, Joel. I just, I didn’t know who else”

He heard the slur in your voice, the way you were half-sobbing, half-gasping for breath. His anger shifted in an instant. That protective current in him snapped awake.

“Where are you?” His voice dropped low, steady.

“The yard… I’m on the yard. Some house. I don’t” You fumbled, looking around at the porch lights, the blur of strangers still spilling in and out of the house. “I don’t know the address.”

“Stay put,” Joel said firmly, the sound of him moving around, keys jangling in the background. “Don’t you move, you hear me? I’m comin’.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, curling up on the wet grass, clutching the phone like it was the only tether you had left.

The headlights swept over you fifteen minutes later. Joel’s truck screeched against the curb, his door flying open before the engine even shut off.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered when he saw you swaying on the lawn, mascara streaked down your cheeks, your arms wrapped tight around yourself. He crossed the yard in long strides, crouched down, and tipped your chin up to meet his eyes. “You’re drunk outta your damn mind.”

You sniffled. “Don’t be mad.”

“I am mad,” he said, but softer now. “But not at you. Not like this.”

When you tried to stand, your legs buckled, and he caught you easily, scooping you into his arms like you weighed nothing. You pressed your face into his chest, breathing in sawdust, sweat, and the lingering scent of his soap.

“I love you,” you whispered against him. “I really do, Joel.”

He tightened his hold, jaw working as he carried you to the truck. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

He settled you into the passenger seat, buckling you in while you fought to keep your eyes open. He stopped at the gas station on the way back, grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of crackers. You barely registered it, your head lolling against the glass, until he pressed the bottle into your hand.

“Drink. Now.” His voice was stern but gentle, like a father coaxing a child. You obeyed, dribbling half of it down your chin. He sighed, wiping it with the edge of his flannel sleeve.

By the time he carried you into your dad’s house, the world was a hazy blur. Your room smelled faintly of candles and perfume, safety compared to the chaos you’d left behind. He laid you down, tugged your shoes off, and pulled the blanket up around your shoulders.

You caught his hand before he could stand. “Don’t leave.”

“I ain’t,” he promised, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “But listen to me, I still need space. We can’t keep goin’ like this. You gotta”

But your eyes had already fluttered shut, your breathing evening out.

Joel sat there a long moment, his hand still tangled with yours, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your temple.

“God help me,” he whispered, “I’m gonna let you ruin me.”

Chapter Text

You woke up to the sour taste of liquor still clinging to your tongue, your head pounding like someone had set up a drumline inside your skull. The light streaming through the curtains was too much. You groaned, rolled over, and pressed your face into the pillow, but the nausea caught up with you fast. You barely made it to the bathroom in time, knees on the cold tile as you emptied whatever was left in your stomach.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, flushing and leaning your head against the side of the tub.

The shower was your next salvation. Scalding hot water pounding down on your back, steam curling up around your face. You stayed there until your skin turned pink, scrubbing hard like you could wash the night off you, wash the guilt out of your pores. You wrapped yourself in an oversized towel after, still shaky, and thumbed your phone.

DoorDash saved you. Greasy fries, a bacon cheeseburger, and a soda so sweet it made your teeth ache. You sat cross-legged on your bed with the bag spread out in front of you, chomping down like the salt and grease might patch up your insides. Tylenol followed, two little white pills that you prayed would dull the edges of your headache.

When the haze started to lift, you sat back, chewing slowly, and Joel’s words from the fight came back to you. Immature. Clingin’. Too much. You’d snapped at him like a child, stormed off like one too. And maybe he was right. Maybe you needed to change if you wanted him to see you as more than a pretty distraction.

With greasy fingers, you tugged your laptop onto your lap. You scrolled through community college websites again, eyes skimming courses and majors. Business. Nursing. General studies. You didn’t know what you wanted yet, but at least it was a start. Something forward. Something adult. The applications looked like another language, but you stared at them anyway, clicking between tabs, forcing yourself to imagine a life outside of just wanting someone to love you.

After a while, you shut the laptop and stood. Your room looked like a storm had blown through. Clothes in piles, empty cans on your dresser, curtains drawn tight. You opened them wide, letting sunlight flood in, dust swirling golden in the beams. It was blinding at first, but you breathed easier with the room lit up.

You picked up trash. Folded clothes. Wiped down your dresser until the wood gleamed. By the time you finished, your bed was made crisp, your shelves organized, your floor visible again. It felt good, like shedding a layer of yourself you’d been carrying too long.

Out of habit, your eyes drifted toward the window. Joel’s curtains were partially open, his yard empty. No truck in the drive. No trace of him.

Still, you couldn’t help leaning closer, as if maybe he’d be there, catching you peeking like he always did. But the glass reflected only your own face back.

You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over his name. That’s when you saw it, one outgoing call at 3:00 a.m. Your stomach twisted. You didn’t remember making it.

Biting your lip, you typed out a text

Sorry I called so late. Hopefully I didn’t bother you.

You stared at it for a long time before hitting send.

The three dots never came.
The screen stayed empty.

No response.

You tossed your phone onto the bed beside you, face down, like maybe if you didn’t look at it, the silence wouldn’t sting so much. You stretched out, head sinking into the pillow, and closed your eyes. The sunlight slanted across your freshly cleaned room, warm against your skin, but your mind wouldn’t settle. It drifted, backward, to all the little moments you’d been tucking away like treasures.

The first memory that surfaced was Joel standing in your doorway with a sheepish look on his face, holding up a brand-new phone like it was a puzzle box he couldn’t crack.

“Think I bit off more’n I can chew here,” he’d said, handing it over to you like it was dangerous.

You’d perched next to him on the couch, laughing when you saw the screen. “Joel, why’s your font the size of billboards?”

“So I can see it,” he’d grumbled, but the tips of his ears turned red.

You’d teased him mercilessly, clicking through settings, showing him how to swipe and tap. “Careful, old man. Blink wrong and you might send a heart emoji to your boss.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. “Good thing I got you to keep me outta trouble, and that I'm my own boss."

The memory faded into another, his kitchen, late one night after a long shift. You’d cooked, something simple but hearty, and he’d stood back in the doorway watching you move around like you belonged there. The stove light was the only glow in the room, soft and golden. You’d pulled him in by the wrist, told him dinner could wait, and set his big, calloused hands on your waist.

“Dance with me,” you’d whispered, barefoot on the tile, your cheek pressed against his chest.

There hadn’t even been music. Just the hum of the fridge, the faint sizzle of the pan, and the steady beat of his heart under your ear. Joel had swayed you slow, his breath ruffling your hair, and for a moment you’d thought, this is it. This is what home feels like.

Your chest ached at the memory.

Then there was the afternoon you thought you might break from the weight of everything. Work had been hell, customers mean and endless, and you’d barely kept it together long enough to make it home. You’d collapsed on your bed, face pressed to the pillow, fighting back hot tears.

The doorbell had rung.

On the porch sat a small bouquet of wildflowers in a mason jar. No note, no explanation, but you knew. The delivery guy had mumbled something about Miller, and your heart had cracked wide open.

Joel never even mentioned it later, never asked if you’d gotten them. Like he didn’t need credit. Like it was enough just knowing he’d lifted your day, even a little.

You opened your eyes, staring at the ceiling, blinking hard. Each memory left your throat tighter than the last. All those small pieces of him, the quiet ways he’d let you in. They stacked up in your chest, heavy and bright, until you didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

Your phone stayed quiet. No buzz, no reply.

Still, you reached for it, thumb brushing over his name in your messages like maybe you could summon him just by remembering.

The shrill buzz of your phone cut through the quiet. Your heart leapt, you snatched it off the bed so fast your stomach flipped, breath held tight in your chest.

Joel, you thought. Please.

But it wasn’t.

Unknown Number.

Your shoulders sank, but you swiped to answer anyway, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

A chipper voice greeted you. “Hi there, i’m a college advisor, you filled out a form online this morning?"

You sat up, blinking, trying to clear the fog. “Uh yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”

“Great! I was just calling to follow up, see where you’re at with your goals. Are you still interested in exploring community college options?”

You hesitated, glancing at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. Joel’s silence still sat heavy in your chest, but something inside you shifted, sharp and stubborn. You remembered what he’d said—immature, suffocating, too much—and you hated that he might be right.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Yeah, I am.”

The advisor’s voice carried on, warm and practiced. You scribbled notes, asked questions, even managed a laugh or two when they cracked a cheesy joke about “fresh starts.” Before you knew it, you’d scheduled an appointment for next week. A real step. A grown-up step.

When the call ended, you sat there for a moment staring at the notepad in your lap. Your handwriting was messy, the ink smudged where your fingers were still damp from your shower. But it was proof. You were trying.

You opened your texts.

You: Got a call from a college advisor. I set up an appointment for next week. Trying to figure things out.

You added a heart at the end. Deleted it. Added it again. Deleted it. Finally sent it plain, raw, simple.

The screen stayed still. No bubbles. No reply.

You let the phone fall onto the bed beside you and leaned back against the headboard, chewing the inside of your cheek. A flicker of pride warmed your chest, you’d done something for yourself, something Joel couldn’t take away. But under it, the silence stretched. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Your eyes drifted toward his window across the way, curtains drawn. For the first time since you’d met him, you felt like you were peering into a stranger’s house.

The house was too quiet, your own heartbeat filling the silence. You shoved the notepad aside and pushed yourself off the bed, padding down the hall in bare feet. The stairs creaked under your weight, a reminder of how old and stubborn this place was, how it held onto every secret.

The kitchen was cool and shadowed, a faint smell of coffee lingering from your dad’s morning rush. You tugged open the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and leaned against the counter while you twisted the cap. The plastic crackled in your hand.

That’s when you heard it, the familiar rumble of his truck.

Your chest tightened.

You froze, straining to listen. Tires crunching gravel. The low idle of the engine. The slam of a door.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine it:, Joel knocking at your back door, stepping into the kitchen, his eyes tired but softer, ready to talk. Ready to hold you.

Your throat worked as you swallowed a long gulp of water, setting the bottle down harder than you meant to. You pressed your palms flat against the counter, heart hammering, waiting for his footsteps.

But none came.

Instead, the engine turned over again. The sound faded, swallowed by the night.

You rushed up the stairs two at a time, water bottle clutched against your chest. At your window, you tugged the curtain aside with shaky fingers.

Joel’s truck sat where it always did. Parked. Silent.

And his curtains were already closed.

The light in his room glowed faint through the fabric, but that was it. No shadow moving inside. No glimpse of him leaning against the glass the way he used to, watching for you.

Your stomach sank.

You let the curtain slip from your fingers, the fabric falling shut like the end of a scene. The water in your bottle sloshed as you climbed back into bed, but you didn’t drink it. Didn’t touch it again.

You curled up tight under the blanket, your phone by your side, screen dark.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt the distance between his house and yours, not just the stretch of lawn and siding, but something wider, colder.

Something that scared you more than silence ever had.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t slept, maybe dozed for an hour with the lamp still on, cheek pressed to the textbook you couldn’t focus on. Space, Joel had said. That’s what he wanted. So you gave it to him. No window shows, no texts, no half-hearted dinners waiting in the oven. Just silence. The quiet stretched long and thin until it felt like it might snap.

But you noticed the shifts anyway. The truck pulling out earlier, the sound of his boots on the porch steps long before your alarm should’ve gone off. Coming home later too, curtains shut before you even had the chance to glance his way. He was avoiding you.

The phone on your nightstand blinked out sometime in the night, battery dead. You woke late, heart pounding, sheets tangled around your legs. Shit. Work. You were already on thin ice with Tori breathing down your neck, and now you were an hour behind.

The shower was quick, scalding, not enough to chase away the fog in your head. You dressed with shaking hands, barely brushing your hair, snatching your bag as you stumbled out the door. The morning air was damp, sky heavy with clouds that hadn’t decided whether to rain or not. You drove like the world was conspiring against you, and maybe it was. Every red light. Every school bus dragging its blinking stop sign down. Even an old woman hunched and slow across the crosswalk, her cane tapping a rhythm of delay.

By the time you pulled into the lot, your chest was tight, stomach sour. You could already picture Tori at the host stand, arms crossed, lips pressed into that smug little line.

You weren’t wrong. Tori’s eyes sliced across the room the second you walked in. “You’re lucky we need you today,” she said, voice like ice, “but we’ll talk after your shift.”

Lucky. Right. You shoved your bag in the back and tied your apron with fingers that wouldn’t stay steady. The air smelled of fryer oil and bleach, too hot, too loud with the clatter of dishes and the screech of the ticket printer. You kept your head down, but the shame burned. Maybe you were a crappy employee. Maybe Tori was right.

Your mind ran laps while your body worked on autopilot. Joel hadn’t texted. He hadn’t looked at you in two days. And you were failing here too, failing everywhere. By the time your break rolled around, you felt the snap coming, thin glass cracking under pressure.

You didn’t know yet what would finally spill it. Only that Joel was at the center of it, the silence and the space and all the ways you’d folded yourself smaller just to keep him close.

Your first few customers were….challenging, to say the least. A double-booking right out of the gate, two families glaring at you like you personally ruined their morning. Then the whispers from the waitresses, sharp, accusatory.

“Why are you skipping my section?”
“Why didn’t you double-seat me?”

It all bled together into one long, endless drone of complaints. You nodded, apologized, pretended to scribble on your clipboard like you had a plan. But you didn’t. You were scrambling, and they knew it.

Even Troy from the kitchen had barked, “Get your head in the game,” when you dropped the wrong ticket. But your head wasn’t in the game. Your head was somewhere else entirely. Not even in your head, really, more like up your ass, a mess of Joel-shaped silence and the kind of ache that made it hard to breathe.

By the time your break came around, your hands were trembling too hard to even untie your apron properly. Mascara smudged in gray streaks under your eyes. Your heart thudded in your chest, raw and sore like a pulled muscle.

You wanted to text him. God, you wanted to. Just a simple hey. Or maybe are we okay? But you couldn’t. Not after he’d asked for space, not after two days of staring at your phone like it might come alive in your palm.

So instead you slipped outside, dug your pen from your bag, and hit it deep until the burn hit your lungs. You held it, exhaled into the heavy morning air, and told yourself it was enough. It wasn’t, but you went back in anyway.

Tori was leaning on the host stand when you returned, a glossy smile stretched across her lips. “Covered your break,” she said lightly, like she was doing you a favor. “Sat a table in Julian’s section.”

You nodded, barely listening, tying your apron back up. But then curiosity made you glance over, just a peek, just to see who she’d seated.

And your stomach dropped.

Because there he was. Joel. Sitting in Julian’s section, his shoulders broad and familiar even in the dim light of the dining room. And across from him, her. A woman. Older, polished in a way that made your chest constrict.

You froze, throat closing, heart clawing against your ribs. You hadn’t even officially broken up, hadn’t even said the words. And he was already…..already with someone else?

Your pulse rang in your ears, hot and mean. It felt like the whole place tilted sideways, like the universe had been waiting to kick you right when you were down.

Joel’s back was to you. He didn’t see you frozen there, didn’t see your pulse hammering in your throat so hard it felt like you might choke on it. But you saw her.

She was beautiful, in that older, untouchable way, smooth hair pinned back, pearl earrings glinting under the dim restaurant light. Her smile was easy, practiced, the kind that came from years of knowing she was wanted. She laughed at something Joel said, light and confident, and reached for her wine glass with manicured fingers.

Red heat flooded your face. Your hands curled into fists at your sides. No texts, no calls, no window shows for days, and this? This was where he’d been? With her?

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Marching over, you grabbed a glass of water from the table, cold condensation slicking your palm. Joel started to turn at the sound of your footsteps, his mouth already opening, voice warm and casual.

“Oh hey, hone”

The water hit him square in the face.

The older woman gasped, hand flying to her chest. Joel jerked back, sputtering, dark curls plastered wet to his forehead as the ice dripped down his shirt.

“You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve,” you spat, your voice shaking with rage. “We’re not even broken up, Joel, not even a single goddamn word, and you’re already out here moving on with this, this old ass bitch?”

The words tore out of you like glass. You couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop yourself from standing there in front of everyone, hands trembling, heart roaring in your chest.

“You asked me for space, and I gave it to you. Two days of silence. And this is what you do? You hide behind your curtains and then sneak out with her? You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I’m stupid?”

You went on and on, the words tumbling faster, louder, until the room was nothing but ringing in your ears and your own voice echoing back. Joel sat there dripping, face flushed red, eyes darting helplessly between you and the woman.

“Honey?”

A man’s voice cut through, low and confused. You turned just in time to see him step up beside the woman, hand settling gently on her shoulder. Wedding ring flashing. His. Hers. Both.

The blood drained from your face.

“What’s going on?” the man asked, looking from his wife to Joel to you with sharp suspicion.

Joel’s lips parted, his face burning scarlet as he scrambled for words. “I, uh,sorry, this ain’t, this ain’t what it looks like”

But Tori was already there, nails biting into your wrist as she tugged you backward. “Enough,” she hissed. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly to the couple, “but your behavior has been unacceptable. I’m going to have to let you go.”

Your chest heaved, vision blurred with angry tears as you twisted out of her grip. You looked back at Joel, dripping wet, muttering apologies to the bewildered couple. Then back at Tori.

“No. Fuck you. I quit.”

Your middle finger snapped up before you could stop yourself. Gasps rippled through the dining room.

And then you turned, pushing through the swinging door, apron already half-untied, walking out into the thick air of the afternoon like the whole place was on fire behind you.

You didn’t remember the ride home. Just the wheel in your hands, knuckles white, the engine screaming as you floored it through every yellow light. Music blared loud enough to hurt, loud enough to bury the sound of your own screaming until your throat was raw. The windows were down, night air whipping your hair across your face, stinging your skin, but you didn’t care. You wanted the world to hear you coming apart.

The house looked the same as always, that was the worst part. Porch light humming, paint peeling, the screen door that never quite shut right. You slammed it open anyway, stormed past your dad slumped in his recliner, mouth hanging open, beer balanced precariously on his stomach. He didn’t stir, didn’t blink, didn’t notice.

Fine. Good. You didn’t want him to.

Your boots pounded the stairs. Two at a time. Door slamming behind you so hard the frame rattled. You threw yourself onto the bed, chest heaving, mascara streaks burning down your face. You yanked the pillow over your head, muffling a scream that felt like it might split you in two.

Joel’s face was still there when you closed your eyes, wet curls, red cheeks, the way he’d scrambled to apologize while she sat there, perfect, laughing, married. You’d made a fool of yourself. In front of everyone.

The shame settled heavy, pressing down on you until you could hardly breathe. But beneath it, the anger still pulsed, hot and mean. He did this. He made you this. Or have you always been this fucked up?

Chapter Text

The text came long after midnight. Just a set of coordinates, no words, no explanation You stared at the screen until your eyes blurred, thumb hovering over the keyboard but not typing a single thing. No response. No questions.

You just shoved the phone into your hoodie pocket, pulled the hood up over your tangled hair, and slipped out of the house. The door creaked, but your dad was still snoring downstairs, dead to the world. Good. You didn’t want to explain where you were going. You weren’t sure you could.

The night was cool and sharp, the kind that clung to your skin as you climbed into the car. For once, you didn’t turn the radio up to drown your thoughts. Silence filled the cab, broken only by the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under your tires. Every bend in the road stretched long and lonely, headlights catching empty mailboxes and the occasional flash of a deer darting back into the trees.

It was a winding climb, switchbacks curling up into the hills outside of town. The higher you drove, the more the air thinned into quiet, and the more your chest seemed to tighten. You gripped the wheel hard, chewing at the inside of your cheek until it bled copper on your tongue.

Your thoughts crowded in where the music should’ve been. Over and over, the same reel, the sound of water splashing across his face, the gasp of the woman, the murmurs from the dining room. The look in Joel’s eyes, shocked, angry, humiliated. You’d let your anger run wild, burned every bridge in the span of two minutes.

Now he was definitely going to leave you. Why wouldn’t he? Who in their right mind would stay with someone who threw scenes in public like that? Who embarrassed him, spat venom until there was nothing left but silence and shame?

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. The road narrowed, trees leaning in close on both sides, and your headlights finally washed over a shape at the crest of the hill.

Joel.

He was there, exactly where the pin had dropped, leaning against the hood of his truck like he’d been waiting all night. The front of it caught in the glow of your headlights, paint glimmering silver. But it wasn’t the truck that made your stomach lurch.

It was him.

Arms folded, shoulders hunched, head tipped slightly down. And between his fingers, glowing orange in the dark, was a cigarette. Smoke curled in a thin line above his head, tugged away by the breeze. Joel Miller. Smoking.

He’d never smoked before.

The sight of it stole the air right out of your lungs.

You eased your car to a stop a few feet away, headlights pinning him in their beams, dust swirling in the light. Joel didn’t move, didn’t wave you over, didn’t even flinch at the brightness. He just dragged slow from the cigarette, ember burning hotter, and exhaled into the night like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

Your hands stayed locked around the steering wheel. Heart in your throat. Hood pulled tight around your face.

And you sat there, staring at him through the glass, before you could even think about opening the door.

You killed the engine, and the world rushed in, crickets, the low whistle of wind through the trees, the hum of your own heartbeat in your ears. For a second you just sat there, gripping the wheel, watching Joel through the windshield. He still hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked at you. Just another long drag from the cigarette, ember flaring, smoke ghosting from his mouth.

Finally, you pushed the door open. Gravel crunched under your boots as you walked toward him, each step heavier than the last. You stopped at the front of the truck, close enough to smell the smoke, sharp and foreign, clinging to him like something he’d borrowed from another life.

You crossed your arms, mirrored him, leaned back against the metal. The hood was still warm under your spine. Neither of you spoke. The quiet was thick, almost unbearable, until you finally looked out past the edge of the hill.

The whole city stretched below, lights scattered like fallen stars across the valley. Tiny cars crawled along roads, their headlights blinking like fireflies.

“It’s a beautiful view,” you said softly, voice almost lost to the wind.

Joel shifted just enough to glance at you, then back at the horizon. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Come up here sometimes. Clears my head.”

You turned then, stepped in front of him, arms still crossed tight over your chest like they might keep you from shaking apart. His eyes finally met yours, dark and unreadable, smoke curling up between you.

“I know I fucked up,” you whispered.

Joel held your stare for a long moment, then dragged deep from the cigarette, cheeks hollowing. He flicked the ash to the gravel at his boots, exhaled slow.

“You cost me the biggest client I’ve had in three years.”

The words hit like a blow. Your throat went tight, eyes burning before you could stop them. You blinked, fighting it back, but the tears still threatened.

“Don’t,” Joel said sharply, his voice cutting through the night. His jaw clenched, eyes hard. “Don’t do that. Don’t use your tears against me.”

You sniffed, swiped quick at your eyes with the heel of your hand. “You’re right,” you managed, voice breaking. “I’m sorry. It was fucked up.”

Joel sighed heavy, dragging his hand down his face, rubbing his jaw like he could scrub the frustration out of himself. The cigarette dangled forgotten between his fingers, ash growing long.

“It’s immature,” he muttered. “It’s stupid. It’s” His eyes cut back to yours, the anger softening into something raw. “It’s everything I was afraid of bein’ with you.”

The words lodged in your chest. Shame, heat, want, all tangled together. The smoke curled around him, the night wrapping the both of you tight, and beneath his scolding, there was something else in his stare. Something that made your stomach flip, made your breath catch, something that promised the conversation wasn’t the only thing that was about to snap.

Your arms tightened across your chest. “And what about you?” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “You asked for space, Joel, but you didn’t say a word. Not one. You shut me out. Is that supposed to be mature? ‘Cause last I checked, adults are supposed to communicate.”

His head jerked toward you, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you turn this back on me.”

“It’s true!” you fired back, heat rising in your voice. “You don’t talk, you just disappear. You leave me guessing. You wanted me to be calm and patient while you slammed the door and vanished, and when I lose it, suddenly I’m the problem? That’s not fair.”

Joel straightened off the truck, looming closer, the cigarette crushed dead under his boot. “Not fair?” His voice went low, dangerous. “You humiliated me in front of half the damn town, cost me a client I been workin’ three years to land, and now you’re standin’ here tellin’ me what’s fair?”

Your chin tipped up, defiant even as your pulse jumped. “Maybe if you’d just told me what was goin’ on, I wouldn’t have had to wonder if you were moving on with someone else.”

His jaw clenched hard, muscle ticking, chest rising and falling heavy. He stepped closer, boots crunching gravel, until you were nearly toe-to-toe. His eyes burned into yours, dark and furious, your breath mingling in the narrow space between you.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” he growled.

You held his gaze, arms crossed, heart pounding. “Maybe I don’t.”

Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his head shaking slow like he couldn’t believe you. Then his hand came up, rough fingers catching your chin, tilting your face up to his. His voice dropped, gravel and heat.
His grip on your chin tightened just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes burned into yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, the smoke still clinging to his shirt.

“You wanna act like a brat,” he growled, “then you’ll be treated like one.”

Before you could fire back, his mouth crashed down on yours. Rough, hot, a kiss that wasn’t about tenderness but about claiming every inch of the fight you’d thrown at him. Your back hit the truck with a metallic thud, his hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise.

You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip until you whimpered. His other hand caught your wrist, pinning it above your head against the hood.

“Needy little thing,” he muttered into your mouth, his breath hot, his words harsher than they’d ever been. “You think tears and tantrums get you what you want? Hm?”

“I" Your voice cracked, but he cut you off with another bruising kiss.

Joel’s palm slid down your thigh, hiking your hoodie up rough, fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass. Then the sharp smack of his hand cracked through the night, stinging, making you gasp.

“That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “To be put in your place. To be reminded you’re my girl, even when you’re actin’ like a spoiled brat.”

The sting lit fire low in your belly, your hips arching before you could stop yourself. You loved it. God, you loved it.

Joel’s grip tightened, pinning you harder to the truck, his voice a low snarl. “Say it. Say you love it.”

Joel’s hand came down on you again, sharp against your ass, the sound ringing in the night. You gasped, your body jolting, but the ache melted instantly into want.

“Yeah,” he rasped, dragging his teeth along your throat, “you love it. My needy little thing. Can’t go two days without me before you’re throwin’ scenes in public like a spoiled child.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked, hips grinding against him despite the words.

“Sorry don’t fix it,” Joel muttered. He caught your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. His eyes were dark, dangerous, but there was fire in them, not ice. “You’re gonna take your punishment. Every bit of it.”

Before you could answer, his mouth crashed down on yours again. His hand tore at your hoodie, yanking it up, baring skin to the cool air. His palms were rough, greedy, sliding over you like he needed to map every inch, like you belonged to him.

You whimpered when he pinned you harder against the truck, his thigh shoving between yours. The friction made your knees weak, your head fall back against the hood.

“That’s it,” he growled, grinding you down on his thigh, one big hand at your hip controlling your movement. “Get yourself off like the desperate little brat you are. Make a mess on me. Do it.”

The shame burned through you, mixing with want until you were trembling, riding the muscle of his thigh, every drag pushing you closer to the edge. He kissed you hard, swallowing your moans, his hand smacking your ass again when you faltered.

“Don’t stop now,” he warned. “You wanted my attention, you got it. Take it.”

You shattered with a cry, body spasming against him, clutching at his shoulders as heat flooded through you. Joel held you through it, hand steady at your back, murmuring low curses into your hair.

When you finally stilled, limp and shaking, he eased back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushed at your damp cheek, gentler now, the edge fading from his eyes.

“You drive me goddamn crazy,” he muttered, forehead pressing to yours. “But you’re mine. You hear me?”

You nodded weakly, breath still ragged. “Yours.”

He sighed, pulling you in against his chest, his arms wrapping tight around you. The smoke, the leather, the salt of sweat,all of it surrounded you. He held you there, strong and steady, rocking slightly like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Shouldn’t’ve let it get this far,” Joel said quietly, voice rough. “Ain’t good for either of us. But I ain’t lettin’ you walk away thinkin’ I don’t want you. Or that I’m movin’ on.”

Your eyes stung again, but this time you didn’t fight the tears. You buried your face against his neck, breathing him in, letting his warmth ground you.

“I just…want to be enough for you,” you whispered.

He kissed your hair, lingering, his hands rubbing slow circles down your back. “You are. Even when you’re a damn brat. You are.”

Joel steadied you with both hands, murmuring something low as he helped tug your hoodie back down, smoothing it over your hips. He kept fussing longer than he needed to, making sure your clothes sat right, brushing dust off your knees, tucking your hair out of your face.

“C’mere,” he said finally, hoisting you gently by the waist onto the hood of the truck. The metal cool now beneath you. He leaned against the fender beside your legs, arms crossed, the cigarette lay dead at his boots.

For a while, you just breathed. Your chest still rose and fell too fast, but the night air cooled the sweat on your skin, soothed the sting where his hand had left its mark. You felt wrung out, but steadier.

Joel’s voice broke the quiet. “Saw that text about college.” He kept his eyes on the city spread below, lights blinking like scattered stars. “That’s good.”

You fiddled with the hem of your hoodie, the fabric damp against your fingertips. “Yeah.” Your voice came out flat, thin.

He glanced at you sidelong. “What job you thinkin’ about?”

You let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know. Honestly I’ve never wanted to work.”

Joel snorted softly, but not unkind. “World don’t give you that option, darlin’.”

“I know,” you muttered. Then you lifted your eyes to him, searching his face. “But you asked what I want.”

His brow furrowed, waiting.

“I want to be a wife,” you said quietly. “A mother. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, eyes dropping back to the valley. He rubbed a hand down his face, slow, like the words carved something heavy into him. “I’m too old to be a dad again.” His voice was rough, low. “If that’s really your dream, maybe we should break this off before it goes any further. Find you a young man."

The words made your stomach lurch, cold and sharp. You shook your head fast, leaning forward, hands curling into fists on your knees. “No. No, we can figure something out.”

Joel turned to look at you then, really look at you, his eyes dark and searching. “And what if I can’t give you what you need? What if all I do is hold you back?”

“You don’t hold me back.” Your voice broke, but you pushed on. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that made sense. Maybe it won’t look perfect, maybe it won’t look how I thought it would, but, Joel, I’d rather figure it out with you than with anyone else.”

His shoulders sagged, like the fight went out of him. He rubbed at the back of his neck, sighing. “You make it sound so damn simple.”

You reached out, your hand finding his, fingers curling through his rough ones. “Maybe it is.”

Joel’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, absent, thoughtful. His eyes softened in a way that scared you almost more than the anger earlier. Vulnerable. “You don’t know what you’re askin’.”

“Yes, I do.” Your grip tightened. “I’m askin’ for you. That’s all.”

Joel let out a long breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it in all night. His hand stayed tangled with yours, rough thumb still moving over your knuckles, but his eyes were far away, fixed on the city below.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said finally, voice low and strained. “At talkin’. At lettin’ people in. Every time I try, it goes wrong. Always has.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the look on his face held you still. His eyes were tired, lined deeper than usual, his mouth drawn tight.

“I’m used to bein’ alone,” he went on. “It’s easier that way. No one to disappoint. No one to lose.” His throat bobbed, and for a moment he couldn’t speak. “And I’ve lost enough.”

Your chest ached. You squeezed his hand, leaned closer, but he shook his head like he didn’t deserve it.

“You want a family. You deserve it. But I…” His jaw clenched. “What if I don’t live long enough to give you that? What if I leave you with nothin’ but hurt? What if all I know how to do is ruin good things?”

The words cracked something inside you. You slid off the hood, standing infornt of him now, forcing him to look at you. His eyes met yours, dark and raw, a man standing on the edge of every fear he’d buried.

“You won’t ruin this,” you whispered. “Not unless you keep pushing me away. I don’t care about your age, or the years you think you don’t have left. I care about you. That’s it. That’s enough.”

Joel’s hand came up, cupping your cheek, his palm still smelling faintly of smoke. His thumb brushed under your eye where a tear had slipped free.

“You scare the hell outta me,” he admitted, voice rough. “’Cause you make me want more than I should. You make me think maybe I could have somethin’ again. But I don’t know how to hold onto it without breakin’ it.”

“You won’t break me,” you said firmly.

His lips parted, eyes searching yours like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know how. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, the weight of him heavy and grounding.

For a long time, you just breathed together, the night wrapped close around you, the city lights blinking far below. His thumb stroked over your cheek again, softer this time.

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “But maybe that’s what I need.”

You smiled through the tears, your voice steady now. “Then stop trying to scare me off. I’m not going anywhere.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell against yours, the fight finally leaving his body. He kissed your forehead, lingering, his arms pulling you tight against him. For once, there was no heat, no anger, just a quiet promise in the way he held you

You leaned into him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, letting the steady weight of his arm around you settle the storm in your chest. The night was cooler now, the breeze stronger, carrying the faint hum of the highway below.

After a while, you sighed. “I’ve gotta find a new job. If I don’t, my dad’s gonna kick me out.”

Joel grunted, low and thoughtful. “He said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” you muttered. “I know him. He’ll get tired of me sittin’ around real quick. Especially after what happened today.”

Joel shifted, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were softer now, the hard lines around them eased. “You’ll find somethin’ soon. I’m sure of it.”

You gave him a doubtful look. “You sound real confident.”

A small huff of air left his nose, almost a laugh. “’Cause I know you. You ain’t the type to stay down for long.”

Your throat tightened, but you nodded, soaking in the certainty in his voice.

Neither of you spoke again right away. Instead, you both turned toward the view, the city sprawled out below like a blanket of stars scattered across the dark. The glow painted both your faces in shifting shades of gold and silver, catching in Joel’s eyes, making him look younger, softer, like the weight of the world had loosened its grip on him for just a moment.

And there, with the city lights flickering against your skin, you let yourself believe him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee already brewing and the low scrape of Joel moving around downstairs. For once, there was no tension in your chest. Just warmth. The way the night had ended—your head on his shoulder, his voice steady in the dark—it had been enough to steady you. At least for now.

When you headed into the kitchen, hair messy and one of his shirts hanging halfway down your thighs, Joel was fiddling with a set of keys on the counter. He looked up, eyes softening when he saw you.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he drawled. “Sleep good?”

“Like a baby,” you said, stealing his mug and taking a long sip before handing it back. “What’s the plan today?”

He tipped his head toward the window where his truck sat waiting. “Gotta run a few errands. Hardware store, bank, post office. Figured you could tag along. Keep me company.”

“Company?” You smirked. “Joel Miller, are you asking me out on a date to the bank?”

He gave you a look, dry as ever, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Guess so. Better get dressed nice.”

By late morning, you were in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, music low, the sun cutting through the glass. Joel kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching over to rest on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles. Every time he did it, your chest swelled.

At the hardware store, Joel loaded up on lumber and nails, stopping in the aisle to inspect drill bits. You leaned against the cart, twirling a pack of sandpaper.

“What even is this stuff?” you asked, flipping it over.

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Good lord, girl. You really never picked up a tool in your life, did you?”

“Nope.” You popped the p. “That’s what you’re for.”

He gave you a mock-stern look. “That’s what I’m for, huh?”

“Yep.” You grinned, batting your lashes. “Big strong man to fix things while I just look cute.”

Joel muttered something under his breath about spoiled brat, but the way he brushed his hand against your hip as he passed told you he didn’t mind one bit.

At the post office, you stayed in the truck, scribbling quickly on the card you’d picked out that morning. The flowers would be delivered by afternoon, but the note had to be perfect. Handwritten. Apologetic. You folded it carefully, sealed the envelope, and addressed it to the client’s home. Maybe—just maybe—you could undo the damage.

By the time Joel climbed back in, you tucked the envelope into your bag, a secret little victory you weren’t ready to share yet.

The grocery store was the last stop. You pushed the cart while Joel trailed behind, occasionally grabbing things you hadn’t thought ofpices, onions, the kind of stuff a real cook knew to use.

“Why do you walk so damn slow?” you teased, swerving the cart to bump into his hip.

“’Cause I’m thinkin’,” he said, steadying the cart with one hand. “Takes me longer than you.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, and Joel just shook his head, muttering immature with a ghost of a smile.

You picked out fresh pasta, basil, tomatoes, already planning dinner in your head. Joel watched you compare sauce jars like it was the most serious decision of your life. He reached over your shoulder and grabbed one.

“This one,” he said.

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s cheaper,”

You gasped. “Joel Miller, are you cheaping out on our romantic pasta night?”

“Hell yes I am,” he said, tossing the jar into the cart. “You’ll doctor it up anyway.”

You laughed so hard people in the aisle turned to look, and Joel smirked like he’d planned it.

Halfway through, you handed him the cart and said, “Be right back. Bathroom.” He nodded, already distracted with a stack of coupons he claimed weren’t worth the paper they were printed on.

On your way back, rounding the corner toward the produce section, you nearly bumped straight into someone. One of the servers from the restaurant you’d just been fired from.

She blinked, then grinned, mean and sharp. “Well, if it isn’t little miss meltdown.”

Your stomach clenched. “Hey,” you said tightly.

“Sorry about your job,” she said, but there was no sympathy in her voice. Only smugness. “Guess screaming at customers isn’t a good look.”

You bit down on your tongue, kept walking. But she fell into step with you.

“Though honestly,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “I didn’t realize your boyfriend was an old ass man.” She laughed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s hot, like weirdly hot for being practically elderly, but girl…...he’s like, what? Needs a nursing home?”

The words scorched your skin. Your face went hot, your chest burning. Every insecurity Joel had ever voiced about his age, every joke you’d ever made, they all slammed into you at once.

And then you saw him.

Joel. Coming around the corner with the cart. He froze mid-step, his eyes flicking from the girl’s smirk to your stricken face.

Your first instinct was to slap her, scream, make a scene right there in the aisle. But something inside you stopped. Maybe the guilt, maybe the memory of last night’s tears. Instead, you straightened your shoulders, forced your voice to steady.

“It’s not your business,” you said, clear and sharp. “Joel’s a good man. Better than any of the assholes you waste your time on. At least he doesn’t sleep around like your boyfriend.”

Her smirk faltered. For once, she didn’t have a quick comeback.

You didn’t give her the chance to find one. You turned on your heel, walked straight over to Joel, and took his hand where it rested on the cart. His eyes searched yours, unreadable, but you held tight anyway.

“Ready to go?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt.

Joel gave a slow nod, and the two of you pushed the cart toward checkout together.

The drive back was quiet. Joel’s hand rested heavy on your thigh, thumb rubbing absent circles into your jeans, but neither of you said much. You stared out the passenger window, blinking hard against the tears threatening to slip free. The world blurred past in streaks of streetlight and dark trees.

Joel reached forward, turned the radio down until the faint hum of static filled the cab. His voice came low, careful. “Don’t let it get to you. It ain’t that big a deal.”

Your throat tightened. You swiped quickly at your cheek, even though he’d already seen. “It is, Joel. She just” You broke off, struggling for words. “She just thinks she can talk to me however she wants. Say whatever she wants. Like…”

Your mouth snapped shut. You couldn’t quite finish it.

Joel’s voice filled the gap, steady and resigned. “Like you’re too young for me?”

You gave a tiny shrug, eyes dropping to your lap. “I guess.”

He let out a long sigh, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh. “Darlin’ this is just somethin’ we’re gonna have to face. People are always gonna have opinions. I understand if you don’t want to"

That flared something hot in you. You snapped your head toward him. “Stop. Why is it that anytime something inconvenient happens, you just wanna give up on us?”

His jaw flexed, his eyes still on the road. “I’m not” he exhaled heavily, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not givin’ up, sweetheart. I just don’t want you to feel trapped is all.”

“Well, I don’t.” The words came sharp, louder than you meant, but you didn’t take them back.

Joel’s hand squeezed your thigh once, then stilled. Another silence stretched between you, tense but fragile. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Look. At some point, we are gonna have to talk. About this whole kid thing. Without you gettin’ all upset.”

You rolled your eyes, leaned your head against the window. “I can have a mature conversation, Joel.”

“I know you can,” he said softly. “But it’s a passionate, sensitive thing. And the longer we wait, the harder it’s gonna be.”

“Not tonight,” you muttered, voice thick. “I just wanna go home. Cook for you. Enjoy our time.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you briefly, then back to the dark stretch of road ahead. He didn’t press. His thumb still moved again, slow, tracing small circles against your thigh, like he was trying to rub away the tension.

The truck filled with quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t hollow, it was fragile, heavy with everything unsaid, everything still hanging between you like storm clouds waiting to break.

The house smelled like garlic and butter by the time Joel came up behind you. You were stirring at the pan, lips pressed together in concentration, when his hands slid slow around your waist. His chest pressed to your back, solid and steady, his breath warm at your temple.

For a long moment, he didn’t say a thing. Just swayed with you there in the kitchen, side to side, like there was music only he could hear. His chin brushed the top of your head. “Smells good,” he muttered.

You smiled, soft. “Hope it tastes good, too.”

“’Course it will. You made it.”

You felt the warmth creep up your cheeks, busying yourself with the spoon so you wouldn’t have to admit how much his words melted you.

After another minute, he kissed your hair and stepped back. “Gonna go work in my hobby room till dinner’s done.”

When dinner was finally ready, Joel came back carrying something behind his back. He waited until you set the plates down before he revealed it, a little carved rabbit, sanded smooth, with floppy ears and a rounded belly.

Your mouth dropped. “Joel.” You took it from his hands gently, cradling it like it might break. “This is adorable.”

“Reminded me of you.” His eyes softened as he scratched the back of his neck. “Little thing. Bouncin’ around, gettin’ into trouble.”

You laughed, clutching it to your chest. “I love it. Really.”

Dinner was simple, quiet, the two of you sharing bites and leaning elbows on the table. At one point you sighed and admitted, “Tomorrow I’m gonna be out filling out job applications.”

Joel leaned back, beer in hand, and nodded. “That’s good. You’ll find somethin’ better. I believe in you.”

You shrugged, eyes dropping to your plate. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Afterward, you helped him clean up, trading little nudges at the sink, bumping hips until he finally swatted at your towel. When the dishes were stacked and the counters wiped, Joel dried his hands and gave you a look.

“You stayin’ tonight?”

You hesitated. Then shook your head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll go home.”

His mouth tightened like he wanted to protest, but he just nodded. Walked you to the door, pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Across the yard, you glanced back once, gave him a smile and a little wave through the window. He was still at his, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable Joel look.

You giggled to yourself as you kicked off your shoes, headed upstairs and waited for Joel to go to his room. In your room, you picked up your phone and typed quick

“Just for fun.”

When you glanced out the window, Joel was standing there. You watched the glow of his screen as he read the text. His head tilted slightly, curious.

You grinned. Then, slow, deliberate, you slid your hoodie over your head. Let it fall. One by one, you peeled the layers off ,your shirt, your jeans, each tossed careless onto the chair by the window. You felt his eyes on you even from across the way.

By the time your last piece of clothing hit the floor, you stood bare in the soft wash of your bedroom lamp, curtain half-drawn. You raised your phone again, snapped a cheeky little close-up of just your smile, just your lips. Sent it with no caption.

When you glanced back, Joel’s mouth twitched as he admired you.

And for once, the distance between your two windows felt thin as glass.

Chapter Text

You didn’t know what had gotten into Joel.

Maybe it was the way you’d been showing up to his place with your hair still warm from the blow-dryer, smelling like vanilla and victory, even after another soul-sucking interview. Maybe it was pride, or stubbornness, or just that particular brand of Texas male who refuses to be told he’s too old for anything.

Whatever it was, it lived in the way his kisses lingered too long on your pulse, in the way his palms cupped your hips like he owned the deed to the land. It lived in the small hours of the morning, when you woke to his mouth at your shoulder, his voice gravel-soft, saying your name like a promise he meant to keep.

It started small. You came in with a grocery bag and a frown. He took one look—at the interview blouse you hated, at the tired in your eyes—and set the bag on the counter.

“Bad one?” he asked.

“Worse than bad.”

He made an interested sound and crowded you against the edge of the counter, big hands bracketing your waist. His mouth found yours—slow at first, catching, testing—and then deeper, hotter, until you forgot your own name. He kissed like a man with time, but the kind of time that still burned, no rush, just a steady climb that left your knees a little reckless.

“Gonna make you forget about it,” he murmured against your lips, the words roughened by heat. “Let me do that for you, darlin’.”

You breathed yes into his mouth and he smiled against it, that small, crooked thing that meant he’d heard you, that he would.

He didn’t hurry. Thumbs dragging under the hem of your shirt, a slow sweep over skin that made your back arch, his mouth slipping to your jaw, to your throat, to the hollow at the base of your neck where your heartbeat thudded like a trapped bird. You felt his breath there when he laughed, a low, pleased rumble at the way you tipped your head for him without asking.

“See?” he said, voice soft. “Already better.”

By the time he let you go, your blouse was wrinkled beyond salvation, and you were smiling like a secret.

Another day, another refusal email. You were in his bathroom before the water ran hot, pulling your hair up, swallowing whatever sting the rejection still carried.

Joel came in quiet. He always did. You felt him before you saw him, the heat of his body in the steam, the rustle of shirt fabric as he peeled it off.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, already stepping in.

You didn’t. He knew you didn’t.

The shower fogged to a pearly hush. Water traced the slope of his chest, beaded in the hollow of his throat, ran in silver lines over the ridges of his stomach. He caged you to the tile with his forearms, not trapping, just closing the distance until the only thing to look at was him.

“Turn around,” he said, gentler than the words sounded.

You did. He lathered his hands, then smoothed them up and down your arms, your shoulders, across the ache in your neck. His thumbs pressed slow, patient circles at the base of your skull until the worst of the world poured off you and down the drain. When he worked lower, you swayed back into him on instinct, and he made a sound you felt in your own ribs.

“Easy,” he whispered, mouth at your ear. “I’m right here.”

He washed you like devotion, like ritual—every curve, every hollow, the tender places he’d learned by heart—until your legs felt warm and heavy and your breath came in pocketed sighs. When you turned to face him, slick and glowing and smiling without thinking, he kissed you, salt and heat and soap and something that tasted unmistakably like want.

“Better?” he asked, forehead pressed to yours.

“Mm,” you said, dizzy. “Getting there.”

“Then we’ll keep going.”

He did.

Sometimes it was fast. Sometimes his eyes went coal-dark the second you walked through the door and he was on you before your bag hit the floor, hands sure, heart steady, mouth hungry. Shirt up, back pressed to drywall, his breath hot against your throat as he told you, in that ruined voice, exactly how pretty you looked when you asked for more.

Sometimes he didn’t talk at all. Just a kiss that stole your oxygen and gave it back in sparks. A palm cupping the hinge of your jaw, tilting your face up, a slow grind that made your pulse trip over itself, the quiet, ragged curse he breathed when you gave him what he wanted, your hips meeting his, your fingers nested at the back of his neck like you planned to keep him there.

After, he would tuck you in against his chest for a long minute, both of you catching your breath, one hand stroking your hair, the other splayed over your ribs like a pledge.

“Atta girl,” he’d murmur, half praise and half relief. “Now was that better?”

“Yes,” you’d say, smiling into his throat. “More.”

And he would laugh, helpless, and say, “I know.”

Then there were the nights he took his time.

You’d be stretched across his couch while some old movie whispered on the TV, your feet in his lap. He’d rub his thumb lazily over your ankle bone, the inside of your calf, the back of your knee. You’d feel him watching you more than the movie, feel the question gather like weather between your ribs.

“C’mere,” he’d say finally, voice gone low.

You climbed into his lap and the whole world clicked into place. He kissed you like a long conversation, no hurry, just the deep unravel, the patient exchange of breath and little sounds, his hands mapping you in slow trails that grew more intent with every pass. He murmured into your mouth, praising the small things, the way you shivered when his knuckles brushed beneath your shirt, the way your fingers clutched at him when he teased, the soft, helpless noise you made when he finally stopped teasing.

“That one,” he’d say, smug and fond. “Do that again.”

And you would. Happily.

He spoke more on those nights, a stripe of filth threaded through the sweetness, words he probably never would’ve said if the lights were on. He told you what he liked, what he wanted, he told you what he was going to do to you and then he did it—slow, thorough, reverent—until you were boneless and smiling and saying please like a prayer.

When you came apart, he held you together. When he followed, you felt the tremor run through him like a fault line, felt his breath stutter where it broke against your skin. He always said your name when he went, like he needed you to hear it and know it and keep it safe for him.

One evening, you came in with your interview portfolio clenched so tight your knuckles went white. He took one look, plucked it from your hand, set it deliberately on the table, and pulled you into the circle of his arms.

“Whatever they said to you,” he murmured into your hair, “forget it.”

He kissed you like this was the cure. He said tell me where it hurts and you guided his mouth there, his hands there, his patience there, until the sharp edges inside you dulled to warmth. He made it slow, then slower, made you breathe with him, count with him, fall with him—again, then again—until all you remembered was the sound of your own voice and the solid grace of his body holding you steady while you came back to yourself.

When you were quiet again, he pressed his mouth to your temple and breathed you in like a man lucky enough to know it.

Maybe he was trying to keep up. Maybe he was proving something to himself. Maybe he was just in love with the way you asked for him—with your voice, with your hands, with your whole body—and the way you came back for more as if you were starving and this was all that ever filled you.

Whatever it was, it made him playful. It made him reckless. It made him lay you out across his bed and kiss his way down like a pilgrim with a map, made him open you with patience and pride, made him say things against your skin that turned your bones to liquid.

“You feel that?” his mouth hot at your ear.
“That’s right” when you arched into his hand. “Good girl” when you shattered for him, and then again when you reached for him and tugged him down with a please that wasn’t a question.

He wasn’t always gentle. Sometimes he was careful in a way that felt like possession, hand at your throat, never squeezing, just there, reminding you who had you and who you belonged to. Sometimes he fucked you like a storm rolling in across the plains, slow thunder first, then the crack and the rain and the bright, bright relief.

But after? Always after, he was soft. He kissed your damp hairline, thumbed the sweat from your temple, pressed his forehead to yours like a vow. He brought you water, folded you into clean sheets, rubbed your calves until the tremors eased, cupped your cheek and made you meet his eyes.

“That’s my girl,” he’d say, voice frayed and sweet. “You okay?”

You always were. More than okay. Ruined and remade, and hungry already for whatever tomorrow would bring.

You still teased him on the days you went home. Of course you did. You’d go to your window in his flannel and nothing else, lift the curtain with two fingers, and pretend to be deeply fascinated by the moon. He’d appear in his window a minute later on instinct, one sleeve shoved to the elbow, a tired smile curving as if to say I know what you’re doing.

You’d sway your hips on the way back to bed and he’d drag a palm down his face like you were going to be the end of him. Then he’d text, two words, Stay put.

You always did.

And when his knock came—quiet, familiar, inevitable—you let him in with that little smile that meant you planned to misbehave. He would close your door with his foot, catch your wrists, and pin them above your head on your own pillow, laughing under his breath as you wriggled like you weren’t already exactly where you wanted to be.

“Thought you were tired,” you’d tease.

“Shut up,” he’d say, fond and wrecked, and kiss you like a man who’d decided bedtime was a myth.

In the mornings, he made coffee and you made toast and the whole kitchen felt hazy and golden. He’d tip your chin up and kiss you good morning as if good were something you both got to decide, and he’d decide it for you, every time.

Sometimes he caught your waist and swayed with you to a song that wasn’t playing. Sometimes you ended up with crumbs in your hair because he backed you into the counter and told you, very calmly, to drop the damn butter knife.

But mostly, he looked at you like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like he’d been handed a thing meant to be used up and somehow he’d figured out how to keep it alive.

“Still keepin’ up?” you asked one day, leaning into his chest.

“Darlin’,” he said, dropping a kiss to your forehead, “I’m settin’ the pace.”

You laughed and believed him, because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t chasing anything. You were right where you wanted to be, warm and wanted and wrecked in the best possible way.

And whatever had gotten into Joel?
You hoped it never left.

After a week and a half of dead-end interviews, he kissed you in the kitchen like a starving man, slow at first, savoring, then deeper, hungrier, until your back met the counter with a soft thud. His hands were warm and solid at your waist, thumbs stroking in little reassuring circles that made your pulse trip. You slid your palms up his chest, over the familiar spread of muscle and flannel and heat, feeling the breath leave him when you tugged him closer.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day,” he murmured against your lips, the words gravel-low, the kind of confession that landed on your tongue like honey. “Every time I tried to focus, there you were.”

“Good,” you breathed, already dizzy. “Think louder.”

He huffed a laugh that didn’t sound amused so much as aroused, then bent to your neck. The first drag of his mouth there—open, slow, a little bit of teeth—turned your knees to water. He mapped you with patience that felt like possession, kissing the softest parts of you like he had all night and then some. Your head tipped back, hands sliding into his hair, his breath went ragged when you tugged.

“Bedroom,” you whispered.

“Mm-mm,” he said, smiling against your throat. “Not yet.”

He lifted you, easy as anything, and set you on the counter, stepping between your knees like that spot was made for him. His palms smoothed up your thighs, urging them wider, and when you rocked forward to meet him he made a sound that lived somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

“Look at you,” he said, thumb stroking the crease where thigh met hip. “So antsy for me, darlin’. You want it slow, or you want it the way you’ve been askin’ for in those little texts?”

“Both,” you said, shameless. “All of it. Please.”

That was the switch. The please.

Something in him softened and sharpened at once. “Then we take our time.”

He peeled you out of your clothes like he was unwrapping something he’d earnedno rush, just deliberate hands and a steady gaze that had you flushing everywhere his eyes landed. When he finally got you bare beneath the kitchen light, he stepped back half a pace like he had to get a full view or he’d regret it forever.

“Jesus,” he said softly. “Pretty thing.”

Your own hands were moving too, finding buttons and belt loops, tugging his shirt free so you could touch skin. The heat of him. The strength. The way his stomach jumped when your fingers trailed lower. You kissed along the scar at his side, he went very still and then exhaled like you’d stolen the air right out of him.

“Bed,” he said then, voice roughened into that tone that always undid you. “Now.”

He carried you this time. No pretense of gentleness, just sure and certain, like you weighed nothing at all to a man who’d spent his life lifting and hauling and surviving. The bedroom was dim, the bedside lamp turning his shoulders to bronze, his eyes to amber. He set you down and stood at the edge of the mattress, looking at you like he was memorizing the moment so hard it would carve a groove in his mind.

“Hands up,” he said.

You obeyed, wrists above your head, heat spreading through you at the ease of it. He didn’t tie you. He didn’t need to. The command in his voice was its own kind of rope. He climbed over you, a slow, deliberate prowl, and kissed you again, the kind of kiss that makes a person confess. When you arched, he smiled into your mouth like you’d given him exactly what he wanted.

He started with your mouth and then refused to leave anything else unattended. The slope of your collarbone. The center of your chest. The soft underside that always made you gasp. He dragged his tongue down your stomach, pausing whenever a twitch or a whimper told him where to linger. You were already shaking when he slid lower, when he looked up at you from beneath those lashes with a question he didn’t need to ask.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Joel.”

He took his time.

Slow, savoring strokes that made your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Gentle suction that built and built until you were a live wire in his hands. When you started to climb too fast, he eased, kissed the insides of your knees, pressed his cheek to your thigh like he needed a second to breathe you in. When you begged, he gave. When you pleaded, he punished—in the sweetest way—backing off just long enough to make you whine before rewarding you with exactly the pressure you needed.

He leaned in, slow, and kissed your clit, gentle at first. Just lips. Then again. And again. Until you were squirming, whining, your fingers buried in his hair.

He opened his mouth and sucked. Just a little. Right over that perfect soft bump, lips wrapped around it like it was the sweetest fucking thing he’d ever tasted.

Your back arched off the bed. “Oh my God”

“Mmm,” he hummed against you, keeping you right there, one hand firm on your hip to hold you still. “You feel that, sweetheart?”

“Joel,” you gasped, fingers knotting in the sheets. “Oh my, don’t stop, don’t!”

“You taste so good, baby,” he whispered between licks. “So sweet. So fuckin’ perfect. I could eat this pussy ‘til the sun goes down. Look at me,” he said, voice like smoke.

You did, and the eye contact lit you up. You shattered. He held you through it, mouth never leaving you, one big hand anchoring your hip as the tremors rolled through and through until you were boneless and breathless and laughing helplessly into your own arm.

He came up on his forearms and kissed you while you were still pulsing, letting you taste what he’d done to you. You made a needy sound into his mouth and he swallowed it, smiling, then braced himself over you and dragged the head of himself through the slick he’d coaxed.

You gripped his shoulders. “I want you.”

“You got me,” he said.

He eased into you slowly, letting you feel every inch until he was seated deep, forehead bumping yours when the stretch tipped into perfect. Both of you breathed through it—little shakey exhales, quiet curses—until he rolled his hips and the two of you made the same noise at once.

“You’re so tight, so fuckin’ warm, feel even better when you’re all the way down. You love me deep, don’t you?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

“I know baby, I love when you let your pussy open up for me.”

He grunted. “Jesus Christ. You feel like heaven.”

You whimpered again, trembling.

"Fuck, you’re takin’ me so good. You’re squeezin’ me so tight, like your body knows I’m the one it wants.”

“God, you feel” He cut himself off with a groan, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back to the hilt with a controlled, devastating thrust that had your toes curling. “You alright?”

“More,” you whispered. “Harder.”

He obliged. Not fast—Joel never rushed the good part—but deep, deliberate strokes that ground you into the mattress and made pleasure pool low and heavy. He changed angles like he was testing you, mapping your responses, the moment he found the one that knocked the air from your lungs, his mouth went slack in a grin that felt wicked and proud.

“There,” he said roughly, punctuating it with another slow, perfect drive. “Right there. You take me so well.”

You clutched at him, nails grazing his back. He hissed and chased the sting with his own, scraping his teeth down your throat just enough to make you arch into him.

“You want it sweet?” he asked, voice burning. “Or you want me to ruin you?”

“Ruin me,” you said, shameless, and he didjust enough to brand the night into memory.

He flipped you to your side, tugged your knee up, and worked you open on him, your hand flew back to hold his hip and he caught your palm, lacing your fingers with his, pressing both to the pillow above your head. The other arm hooked under you, tugging you flush to his chest so every roll of his hips rubbed you where you were already aching. You could feel him everywher the brace of his thigh under yours, the press of his chest at your back, the rough rasp of his breath against your ear.

“Listen to you,” he groaned, chasing your little broken sounds. “That’s it, let it out. Let me hear how good I’m treatin’ you.”

Your answer was a cry that wasn’t a word at all. You clenched around him, his rhythm stuttered, then steadied, deeper, stronger. He slid the hand he’d pinned with yours and slipped it lower, giving you the last push over that fine, trembling edge. You came hard, clutching at him, every muscle stringing tight as a bow and then loosening all at once. He followed, burying his face against your shoulder, breath turning to a rough, helpless groan as he drove deep and shuddered.

After, he stayed tucked against you, body heavy and protective, his hand smoothing down your ribs like he was soothing an animal. You lay tangled, breathing each other in, the room spinning slow and golden.

“Too much?” he asked finally, voice hoarse.

You laughed, soft and spent. “Not even close.”

He kissed your shoulder, then your jaw, then rolled you onto your back again like he couldn’t stand to be far from your mouth. He kissed you until you smiled into it, until your hands came back to life and you were petting his hair and tracing the curve of his ear the way you knew made him melt.

“Again?” he asked, teasing and not.

Your eyes widened. “You’ve got more?”

His grin was downright sinful. “Thought you said, all of it.”

He gave you water first. Wiped you gently with a warm cloth he’d brought from the bathroom. Tucked a pillow under your hips with a murmured, “Humor me.” Then he stretched out beside you, arm under your head, nose brushing yours. The next round was slower, lazier, slick and unhurried, both of you smiling into the kisses that turned to sighs, the sighs that turned to little gasps. He coaxed what he wanted with his hands and mouth and words, patient as tide, until your body trembled for him again. And again.

By the time he pulled you into his lap and settled you down on him—face to face, foreheads touching, both of you shaky and grinning—you were wrecked in the best way, messy hair framing your flushed cheeks, eyes glassy with pleasure and fondness. You set your hands on his shoulders, rolled your hips, and he bit off a swear, hands clamping to your waist.

“Easy,” he rasped, eyes dark and soft at once. “You’ll kill me.”

“Die happy,” you murmured, and rode him slow, sweet, greedy, until he tipped his head back and you chased his throat with your mouth, tasting salt and heat and a satisfied sound that went straight to your core.

Your hands found his thighs once the need grew hotter, your back arched just enough, and you started moving, faster, deep rolls of your hips, each one making him twitch beneath you.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes glued to where they were joined. “Ridin’ me like you were made for it.”

“Maybe I was,” you said, voice all sugar and filth.

And then you picked up the pace even more.

Bouncing now. Bracing yourself against his thighs. Your ass slapping softly against him. Your breath coming out in gasps and little moans, your hair swinging with every move.

When the last quake shivered through you both, he held you there—chests pressed, hearts thundering into the same rhythm—and breathed you in like oxygen.

Aftercare was second nature, water pressed to your mouth, his shirt tugged over your head, fresh sheets pulled up around your shoulders. He rubbed slow circles into your calves, then your feet, then your lower back, relearning where you got sore and how to fix it. You dozed, smiling, and he lay on his side facing you, eyes heavy, knuckles skimming your cheek.

“What’s gotten into you?” you asked drowsily, teasing. “Trying to keep up with me?”

He smirked, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Ain’t keepin’ up. Settin’ the pace.”

You laughed, tucked under his chin, and let the steady beat of him lull you. Right before sleep caught you, he bent to your ear, voice low and certain.

“Mine,” he said softly. “And I’m yours.”

You smiled into the dark. “Good.”

You slept like you’d been claimed by something holy, Joel’s hand heavy and warm over your heart.

Chapter Text

The holidays had crept up before you even noticed. Your last check from the restaurant had come in just in time, enough to peel a few bills off for your dad so he’d quit barking about rent and responsibility. That kept him off your back for now, and with him none the wiser, you spent nearly every free second at Joel’s. Job applications filled your mornings, but afternoons turned into flour-dusted kitchens, Joel’s steady hands brushing against yours more often than coincidence. Nights meant his bed, his warmth, his quiet presence that felt more like home than the house you’d grown up in.

The kitchen smelled like butter and sugar, trays of cookies cooling on the counter while Joel leaned against the island, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted white. You licked frosting from your fingertip, smirk tugging at your mouth.

“You missed a spot,” you teased, stepping closer. Before he could react, you smeared a streak of flour across his cheekbone.

Joel froze, blinking down at you. “Did you just?”

You doubled over laughing, clutching the counter, but it didn’t last. In two strides, he had you pinned, one hand braced beside your head on the cupboard, the other dragging along your waist. “Think you’re real funny, don’t you?”

“Mmhm.” You grinned, eyes bright.

Joel’s fingers scooped flour from the bowl and streaked it across your jaw. You gasped, swatted at him, but his grin broke through the lines of his beard and you couldn’t stay mad. He kissed the smudge away a second later, soft, sweet, lingering far longer than necessary.

You sighed against him. “You know, next year maybe we’ll be doing this with a baby in the house. Teaching them how to bake.”

It slipped out before you could stop it. A little half-joke, half-dream. You watched the words land on him, the flicker in his eyes. He kissed your temple once, then pulled back, wiping his hands on a rag.

“No,” he said simply. “It’s too soon.”

You let out a soft laugh, nodding, trying to wave it off like you hadn’t meant it. “Right, yeah. I know.”

But something in your chest pinched tight. You swallowed it down, brushed a crumb from the counter, and forced a smile back onto your face.

Later, when the cookies were packed into tins and the kitchen finally cleaned, Joel coaxed you into the truck with promises of lights. You tucked into the passenger seat, heat blasting, watching the streets of town roll by dressed in strings of gold and red.

The last stop was a park strung with hundreds of twinkling bulbs, every tree dressed like it was in its Sunday best. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, kids darted around with candy canes, and music drifted low from speakers hidden in the trees. Joel paid for parking, then steered you along the path with his hand warm against your back.

Halfway through, he stopped at a booth and bought you a cup of hot chocolate. The paper cup warmed your hands, the sweetness thick on your tongue as you wandered toward a cluster of glowing arches. You paused, sipping slow, watching the reflections of colored lights ripple across the frozen pond.

“Hey.”

You turned at the voice. A guy stepped out from the crowd, his grin loose, his posture easy. Recognition clicked, you’d seen him before at a party, one of those nights you half-remembered, red solo cups stacked high.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His eyes flicked over you, lingering a beat too long. “Lookin’ good, though.”

You rolled your shoulders, shifting your weight, but didn’t say much. Just a small nod, sipping your drink.

He leaned in closer, smirk widening. “So you got plans after this? We could”

You didn’t flirt back. Didn’t even really respond. Just held your cup tighter, the warmth bleeding into your palms, stomach knotting with discomfort.

And then Joel’s boots crunched across the gravel behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know he’d heard.

The ride home was nothing like the way there.

Joel’s hand stayed glued to the wheel, knuckles pale where they gripped the leather. No easy warmth resting on your thigh, no quiet hum of approval when you laughed at something silly out the window. Just silence. Heavy, brittle. The kind that settled in your bones and made every passing mile feel longer than it was.

You shifted in your seat, fingers fussing with the seam of your jeans, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. His jaw was locked tight, his profile cut hard in the glow of the dashboard.

“Joel?” you tried softly.

Nothing but the low rumble of the engine.

“Are you mad?” you pressed, though the answer was written all over him.

Joel’s chest rose sharp as he exhaled through his nose. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” he muttered.

You winced, turned toward him fully. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

His head snapped, eyes flashing toward you before swinging back to the road. “You really wanna know?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

Joel let out a bitter laugh, short and humorless. “I can’t get the picture outta my head. Standin’ there holdin’ your cocoa while some punk your age’s lookin’ you over like you’re his for the takin’. And you just…..stood there.”

“I wasn’t”

“You weren’t what?” His voice cut sharp through the cab. “Weren’t flirtin’? ’Cause maybe not. But you sure as hell weren’t stoppin’ him either. And don’t tell me you didn’t notice, ‘cause I know you.”

You bit down on your lip hard enough to taste blood. “Joel, I wasn’t interested. I didn’t”

He slammed his palm against the wheel, making you flinch. “Damn it, that don’t matter! You let him talk to you like that, right in front of me. I’ve been losin’ sleep thinkin’ about you splashin’ water in my face over a client dinner—over nothin’—but now? Now you’re out here lettin’ boys make a move on you like I don’t even exist?”

Your chest caved. The heat of his anger stung more than the cold air sneaking through the cracked window.

Joel shook his head, jaw tight, his voice lower now, rough around the edges. “And maybe that’s the thing, huh? Maybe it don’t bother you ‘cause he’s young. ‘Cause he could give you what I can’t. He could give you a baby, a whole damn future I ain’t got left in me.”

The words landed like a punch. You opened your mouth, closed it, tried again, but nothing came out. Not a defense, not a reassurance, not even a breath. Just silence.

Joel sighed, long and ragged, like he’d run himself out of fight. The truck filled with nothing but the hiss of the heater and the tires humming against blacktop.

When he finally pulled into his driveway, he didn’t cut the engine. Just sat there, hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of your house.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, fingers tight around the strap of your bag. “I’ll…..see you tomorrow,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer.

You climbed out, shut the door carefully so it didn’t slam, and stood in the cold for a moment, watching him walking into his house alone.

For the first time in days, you went to bed in your own room instead of his. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent instead of him. And you lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word until sleep finally dragged you under.

The knock came early, too early. It wasn’t Joel’s knock, steady and deliberate, and it wasn’t your dad’s boots clomping back up the porch because he forgot something. This was lighter, almost nervous.

You headed down the stairs in your robe, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, hair a mess. You swung the door open and froze.

“Mom?”

There she was, smiling like she belonged there, suitcase handle in her hand. A whole suitcase.

“Fucking Christ,” you muttered under your breath, then forced your mouth into something that resembled a smile. “Uh, hi.”

“Don’t be silly, honey,” she said breezily, brushing past the awkwardness as easily as she stepped onto the porch. “Christmas is next week. You know I had to come spend some time with my girly.”

You scratched the back of your head, staring at the suitcase like it was about to sprout teeth. “Mom…really? You’re gonna, uh….stay here?”

She gave a quick laugh. “Lord, no. I wouldn’t trust leaving my suitcase in this neighborhood. I’ve got a hotel in town.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oh. For how long?”

“Three days.” She said it like it was nothing, like three days wasn’t an eternity of bracing yourself.

“Jeez. Okay wow. You sure you can be away from the kids for that long?”

Her smile widened. “Oh, they’re in Aspen with their dad. Ski trip. You know how I feel about snow.” She gave an exaggerated shiver, then waved a hand. “So yes, I figured I’d use this time to spend with you.”

You stepped aside and let her in, heart thumping. She wheeled the suitcase across the threshold and immediately gave the living room a once-over. Her eyes caught on the beer cans scattered on the table, the ashtray near the armchair. She sighed, heavy and theatrical.

“Some things never change, huh?”

“Yeah, well it’s Dad,” you said flatly. “Look, Mom, I…...I’m glad you came. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

She clasped her hands together, bright. “I know you have to work, honey. I figured I’d come visit you at the restaurant.”

Panic shot through you. “Oh, uh, no. Mom, please don’t do that. I actually I’m off the next few days. You know.”

Her brows furrowed, just for a second, but then she smoothed it over with another smile. “Oh, well, that’s a shame. Maybe we can go to the movies. Or have dinner with your boyfriend. I’d love to meet him.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh, Mom, he’s um very busy.”

Her lips pursed. “Too busy to meet your mother? That’s a shame. Young boys aren’t the same as they used to be, huh?”

You let out a sharp sigh, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Look, Mom, it’s early. Why don’t you go back to your hotel, settle in. Let me get ready and we can meet for lunch later, okay?”

She leaned in and kissed your cheek, perfume sharp and cloying. “Okay, angel. I’ll text you when I make a reservation.”

You shut the door behind her, pressed your forehead against the wood, and let out a long, muffled groan.

The restaurant she chose was nicer than you expected. White tablecloths, candles in little glass holders, the kind of place where the forks actually matched. You kept tugging at the sleeve of your sweater, suddenly self-conscious that you’d just thrown it on without ironing.

Your mom looked perfect, of course, hair blown out, earrings catching the light, nails painted a festive red. She’d always been that way, polished without seeming to try, though you knew better. You knew the hours she spent in front of a mirror, the dozens of shopping bags she’d smuggled home before your stepdad could see the receipts.

“So,” she said after the waiter took your orders, leaning forward on her elbows. “Tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”

You hesitated, twisting your napkin in your lap. “He’s older.”

Her brows lifted. “Older?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

“How much older?”

You poked at the water glass in front of you, condensation dripping down your fingertip. “Just older.”

Your mom sighed, grabbed her napkin, and dabbed at the corner of her mouth like you’d just told her the saddest thing in the world. “Oh, honey. I’ve been down that road. You don’t want to go there.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She folded her napkin neatly back in her lap, looked you dead in the eye. “You know your father is a lot older than me.”

Of course you knew that. Everyone knew that. But you’d never stopped to do the math, not really. Not until she said it now, and suddenly you were counting on your fingers, realizing just how wide the gap was, at least twenty years. Maybe more.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Well, I never really thought of it that way.”

“Exactly.” She nodded like she’d just won the argument. “I didn’t either, at first. He didn’t want to start a family right away, but I was young. Immature. I thought I was destined to be a housewife, a mother, like most girls. And he was too old. Too tired of life already.” She lifted her water glass, sipped delicately. “It just didn’t work, honey.”

Your fork scraped hard against your plate as you stabbed at your salad. “Well, look at you now. You’re the perfect mom.” The words came out sharp, sarcastic, barbed in a way you didn’t plan.

She flinched, just barely, before smoothing her expression. “Honey, I know I didn’t do the best with you. But that’s because twenty was too young for me to be a mother. Especially with someone so much more experienced and” she paused, searching for the word, “tired.”

You shook your head, cutting into your chicken like it was the problem. “So what, you’re saying I should just give up now? That because he’s older, it’s doomed?”

“I’m saying,” she leaned forward, lowering her voice like she was sharing the secret to life itself, “you need to be with someone you can grow old with. Not someone you’ll end up taking care of. Trust me, age does matter.”

Her words lodged in your chest. You thought of Joel’s hand covering yours when you cried, the way he carried you to bed when you couldn’t walk straight, the way he held you like he might lose you if he let go. You thought of the warmth you felt in his kitchen, laughter spilling out as the flour dusted the counters.

And yet here was your mother, shaking her head like she’d seen it all before, like she could already tell you how it would end.

You shoved a bite of chicken into your mouth, chewed too hard. “So because you screwed it up, I have to assume I will too?”

“Honey”

“No, really.” You set your fork down with a clatter, staring her down. “You want me to believe you? You, who couldn’t bother to show up to my recitals? Who forgot my birthdays half the time because you were too busy with your new husband and his kids? You wanna sit here and tell me what works and what doesn’t?”

Her mouth tightened, the perfect gloss on her lips catching the light. For once, she didn’t have an immediate comeback.

You leaned back in your chair, crossed your arms. “Don’t talk to me about who I should or shouldn’t be with. You forfeited that right a long time ago.”

She sighed again, softer this time, almost sad. “I only don’t want to see you make the same mistakes I did.”

“Too late,” you muttered, stabbing at your plate again. “I already love him.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. They hung heavy between you, undeniable, shimmering in the candlelight.

Your mom blinked, her face shifting, surprise, then pity, then something almost like resignation. She dabbed at her mouth again with the napkin, buying herself time. “Then I hope,” she said carefully, “that he’s worth what it’s going to cost you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because in your chest, between the anger and the shame and the heat of her judgment, you already knew the truth.

Joel was worth everything.

And you weren’t about to let her take that from you.

Chapter Text

You’d been on edge all damn day. Your mom fluttering around, making little comments that stung more than they should, Joel keeping his silence like it was his weapon of choice. The combination was gasoline on raw nerves. You couldn’t sit still in the house, couldn’t focus on anything without hearing her voice in your head, without seeing Joel’s face when he looked away instead of looking at you.

So when your phone buzzed and you saw Tabby’s name light up the screen, your first instinct was to ignore it. But then you saw the message.

in town for christmas 💕 big party tonight, come!! miss ur ass.

You stared at it, thumb hovering. You should say no. You should curl up in Joel’s bed, wait for him to come around, try again to break through the wall he’d built between you. But he wasn’t letting you in. And you were pissed. Lonely. Maybe reckless.

fuck it.

You texted back a quick send me the address before you could change your mind.

You stood in front of the mirror longer than you should’ve, curling your hair, swiping on lipstick, pulling a dress out from the back of the closet , one you hadn’t worn since that humid August night when you and Tabby downed vodka shots on some stranger’s porch. The fabric hugged tight, shorter than you’d normally dare with Joel. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, grabbed your jacket, and told yourself you didn’t care.

The party was already in full swing when you pulled up. A warm spill of light from the windows, bass vibrating through the walls, laughter carrying into the cold night air. You hesitated on the porch, the sound of it washing over you, then forced yourself to knock.

Tabby flung the door open with a squeal, already pink-cheeked and grinning. “Oh my god, look at you! You came!”

She dragged you inside before you could answer, straight into a swirl of people and music and cheap cologne. Everywhere you looked were faces your age, flushed, carefree, cups in hand, shouting over each other about finals, dorm drama, Christmas break hookups.

Tabby pressed a drink into your hand and started talking a mile a minute. “Babe, this semester was insane. Homecoming, rush week, like five frat formals, oh my god, and this guy? Hottest upperclassman, like seriously, I thought I was gonna die when he noticed me. You’d love him.” She giggled, leaning in. “And you don’t even wanna know how many guys I’ve hooked up with since August.”

You forced a laugh, sipping the drink too fast.

Everywhere, conversations buzzed. Girls comparing sorority mixers, boys bragging about road trips, someone in the corner planning spring break in Florida. Normal college shit. The milestones you were supposed to be hitting. The life you were supposed to be living.

But you had nothing to add. No finals, no classes, no dorm. Just a string of failed job interviews and a relationship with a man who could be their dad. Your dad.

Your chest ached. You smiled when Tabby nudged you, but it didn’t reach your eyes.
The kitchen was too hot, the bodies too close. Laughter ricocheted off the walls, red cups clattered, and the bass thrummed through your bones until you weren’t sure if it was the music or your pulse. You let someone refill your drink without asking what it was. You tossed it back like water. You let Tabby drag you into a game of beer pong, your aim sloppy, your cheers louder than you meant them to be. Every swallow blurred the edges a little more, muffled the tight ache in your chest that had been there all week.

But the blur only went so far.

You laughed too loud at jokes you didn’t get. Nodded along as some guy in a letterman jacket tried to tell you about his stats for the semester. When Tabby squealed about her sorority’s winter formal and showed off a string of blurry pictures, you leaned in like you cared, like you could pretend you knew what it felt like to get ready with girlfriends in a dorm room, to pose under cheap fairy lights with a boy your own age who smelled like Axe and freedom.

But the truth was, you didn’t know. You’d skipped right past all that. And the gulf between you and everyone else in that crowded kitchen stretched wider with every sip.

By the time you stumbled out the back door, the night air was a shock, crisp and sharp in your lungs. You sank down onto the wooden steps, the chill biting through your tights, your cup sloshing dangerously in your hand. The bass was duller out here, just a distant thud under the chatter.

You pressed your palms into your thighs and stared at the yard. Dead grass. Cigarette butts. A couple making out against the fence like they didn’t care who saw.

You tipped your head back, eyes closing against the spin of the sky.

And it hit you.

How out of place you were.

All around you, kids your age were living the life you were supposed to be living bad beer, worse decisions, stories they’d laugh about in the morning. Meanwhile you’d been waking up in a 50-year-old man’s bed, cooking him breakfast, folding yourself into his world like it was the only place you fit. You’d spent the past week making job applications you weren’t sure you wanted, writing your name over and over on forms that felt like they belonged to someone older, someone who had their shit together.

Your lips trembled around the rim of the cup. You hated how heavy the thought was, how it settled in your chest like a stone.

Tabby had leaned in earlier, all pink lips and perfume, and whispered about the guys she’d hooked up with this semester. She’d rattled off names and dorms and little stories that made the whole thing sound glamorous, messy, alive. And you had nothing to add. Nothing. Just a half-truth smile and the weight of a secret that would get you laughed out of the room if you ever let it slip.

You were nineteen. About to be twenty. And you were dating a man old enough to be the father of half the boys inside.

You clenched your eyes shut, breath fogging out in uneven bursts.

Was it love, what you and Joel had? Or was it something else? Need. Safety. The way he held you when your chest felt like it was caving in. The way his voice went low and steady when he called you sweetheart, when he told you he had you.

It felt like love. God, it did. But sitting there, knees pressed together, music thumping through the walls, you couldn’t stop thinking about what Tabby had said. All the milestones she’d ticked off. All the little markers of a life you’d skipped past.

You weren’t a college girl. You weren’t building sorority memories or grinding through finals or laughing in dorm rooms at three in the morning. You were sneaking around, hiding your boyfriend from your parents, hiding your age from him. You were lying every day, and it was catching up to you.

The alcohol made the thoughts loop. Around and around, tighter each time. Joel’s face when he got quiet. Joel’s hand heavy on your thigh in the truck. The way he sighed when you brought up babies, like you’d asked for something he couldn’t even give you. The words you’d thrown at him. The words he’d thrown back.

Your throat burned. You set the cup down too hard, liquid sloshing over the rim, seeping into the wood.

You buried your face in your hands.

You didn’t belong in that house with those kids. You didn’t belong in Joel’s house either, not really. You were in-between, floating, lying to everyone, lying to yourself. And you were so goddamn tired of it.

The door creaked open behind you, laughter spilling out, a wave of heat and perfume with it. Someone stumbled down the steps, muttered into their phone, wandered off into the yard. You didn’t even look up.

You sat there, knuckles pressed to your forehead, breath hitching in the cold.

You’d told Joel you were mature. That you could handle this. But if you were really as grown as you claimed, why did you feel so small? Why did you feel like a kid playing dress-up, pretending you belonged anywhere at all?

The music swelled, another round of cheers echoing inside. You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, smudging your makeup, dragging in a shuddering breath.

The night was still spinning. But for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the alcohol making you dizzy.

It was the truth.

You didn’t even know why you dialed her number. Maybe because Joel wasn’t answering, maybe because you couldn’t stand sitting on those icy back steps with strangers laughing just inside the door. The phone rang three times, and you almost hung up. Then

“Sweetheart?”

Her voice was thick with sleep, but it didn’t sound sharp or annoyed. Just…soft. You swallowed, clutching the phone too tight.

“Mom,” you croaked. Your throat ached from the shots, the shouting, the crying you’d been holding in. “I…..I don’t feel good. Can you, could you maybe”

“Where are you?” she cut in, already wide awake now.

You gave her the address, the shaky details. She told you to sit tight, she was coming.

By the time her car pulled up, your legs were numb from the cold. You stumbled toward her headlights, eyes burning. She got out, threw her arms around you without a word, and tucked your head under her chin.

“Oh, honey,” she murmured, stroking your hair. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The ride back to her hotel was quiet. You leaned against the passenger door, fighting nausea, fighting tears. Every time you glanced sideways, she was watching the road but her hand kept reaching over, rubbing your knee like she used to when you were little.

Inside her room, she guided you to the bed, pressed a cold bottle of water into your hand. You drank, hiccupping, and then collapsed against her when she sat beside you. For a moment, it felt like the kind of comfort you used to dream about when you were younger.

“Talk to me,” she said gently. “What’s got you like this?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. “Joel.”

Her hand stilled. “Joel?”

You nodded, face hot. “He’s fifty.”

Her breath caught. “Sweetheart…..no. That’s” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “That’s too much of a gap. That’s not fair to you.”

“He doesn’t know,” you whispered, curling into her lap like you were ten years old again. “He doesn’t know I’m only nineteen.”

Her hand tightened in your hair, then she sighed, long and heavy. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby girl. Honesty is the only way forward. If he really cares, he deserves to know. But Joel at fifty?” She brushed her thumb along your temple. “That man is too old for you, no matter how it feels right now.”

You couldn’t fight her. Not tonight. Not with everything crumbling. You just buried your face deeper in her lap and cried until your chest hurt.

She stroked your hair, murmuring over and over, “I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t the mother you needed. I wanted you to be strong, independent. I didn’t want you to settle for less, or repeat my mistakes.” Her voice broke, just once. “I just want better for you.”

Her hand was warm, steady, and for the first time in years, you let yourself believe her.

Chapter Text

You woke to light cutting across the curtains, a headache pulsing right behind your eyes. The sheets didn’t smell like Joel’s house. They smelled like hotel bleach. You blinked, rolled over, and realized you weren’t alone.

Your mom was already up, dressed, standing by the window as she tugged the curtains wide open. “Up and at it, girly. It’s nine.” Her voice was too chipper for how dry your mouth felt.

You groaned, dragging the covers over your head. “Nine feels like six.”

“Uh-huh.” She smoothed her skirt, then nodded toward the bathroom. “I bought you a few new things yesterday, figured you could use them. Take a shower, get dressed. You’ll feel better.”

Your body felt like lead, but you nodded, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay.”

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath your feet. You sat on the closed lid of the toilet for a moment before the shower, head hanging in your hands, before finally fishing your phone from the pocket of your pants.

Three missed calls. One unread text.

Joel: You never came home last night. Are you okay?

Your stomach dropped. You hit call before you could talk yourself out of it.

He answered on the second ring, voice rough with sleep or worry, it was hard to tell. “Where the hell are you?”

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I stayed in a hotel with my mom.”

Silence stretched a moment too long. Then, cautious: “Your mom?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. You could almost see him rubbing a hand down his face, jaw tight. “Okay. Just…..be careful.”

“I will,” you said, clutching the phone tighter. “I love you.”

A quiet breath on the other end, “Love you too.” His voice was softer now, but strained. “We’ll talk when you get back home.”

The line went dead.

You stared at the black screen, your reflection warped in the glass. Talk. That was Joel’s word for storms.

The steam from your shower still clung to your skin when you pulled on the outfit your mom had bought you. Something silky, cut too straight, too polished. A blouse the color of cream and a skirt that hugged you in all the wrong ways, the kind of outfit that screamed interview-ready instead of you. It was stiff and unfamiliar, the fabric whispering every time you moved, reminding you it wasn’t yours. You hated it. But you tugged it on anyway, smoothing the hem with palms that smelled faintly of your citrus shampoo, because it wasn’t worth fighting her this early.

When you emerged from the bathroom, your mom was perched on the end of the bed in her hotel room, flipping through a glossy magazine she’d picked up in the lobby. She looked you over once, eyes sweeping from head to toe, and gave a little nod. “Better,” she said simply, as though your comfort didn’t factor into the verdict.

You bit back the urge to roll your eyes. “Thanks, I guess.”

She snapped the magazine shut, tucked it neatly onto the nightstand, and stood. “We’ve got a big day. Let’s go.”

The mall was decked out in twinkling lights, fake snow piled high along the edges of storefronts, a giant Santa set up near the fountain surrounded by children in puffy coats. You carried most of the bags as your mom flitted from store to store, her heels clicking sharp against the tile. She shopped with a practiced ruthlessness, buying sweaters for your younger siblings, cologne for her husband, sparkly ornaments and trinkets for her coworkers. With each purchase she pressed the bag into your arms until your fingers were digging into thin rope handles, your shoulders aching under the weight.

She bought you things too, but not things you would’ve picked. Blouses with delicate buttons, trousers in muted shades, shoes with pointed toes. Each one made you feel less like yourself and more like someone she wanted you to become, someone polished, respectable, employable.

By the time she paused at a jewelry counter, you were flushed and tired, adjusting the stack of bags in your hands. “I should look for something for Joel,” you muttered without thinking.

Your mom’s head jerked toward you, one manicured brow arching. “Joel,” she repeated slowly. “That boyfriend you mentioned?”

You nodded, trying to keep your tone casual. “Yeah. Thought maybe I’d get him something small. A gift.”

She pursed her lips, tapping a finger against her chin. “Oh, honey, you’re not going to leave him?”

The question hit like a slap. “What? No.”

Her sigh was sharp, heavy with judgment. “Then let me at least say this, you’re making a mistake.”

Your grip tightened around the shopping bags, the plastic handles biting into your skin. “Can you just mind your business?"

She stopped in the middle of the walkway, forcing you to stop too, and turned toward you. “First of all, don’t talk to me like that,” she said, her voice low but cutting. “Second of all, I’ll mind my business when you don’t come running drunk to me at three in the morning.”

Heat flushed your cheeks, embarrassment prickling under your skin. “Let’s just not talk about it.”

She gave you a long, pointed look, the kind that saw more than you wanted her to, but finally she nodded. “Fine.”

The rest of the shopping trip was quiet, the tension between you as palpable as the static crackle in the air. She still bought you things—slacks, blouses, a pair of shoes that pinched even in the box—but neither of you spoke much beyond polite thank-yous and half-hearted comments about the crowds.

By the time she suggested ice skating, your arms ached from the bags and your head buzzed from exhaustion. But you went. You couldn’t say no when she was looking at you with that strange, almost soft expression.

The rink was smaller than you figured, tucked under strings of white lights, music playing faintly from a set of old speakers. You laced up the skates she rented for you both and stepped gingerly onto the ice, wobbling until your legs remembered the rhythm.

Your mom laughed when you caught her elbow, nearly toppling both of you. “You know,” she said between laughs, “I used to bring you here when you were little.”

You blinked at her, surprised. “You remember that?”

Her face softened, lines crinkling around her eyes. “Of course I do.”

The words tugged something in your chest, a mix of warmth and ache. You skated in silence for a while, circling the rink together. She stumbled once, clutching your arm, and you both burst into laughter so loud the kids next to you stared. For a moment, it almost felt easy.

But later, at the too-fancy restaurant she dragged you to, the warmth soured.

The place was all white tablecloths and flickering candles, waiters gliding past with plates that smelled like things you couldn’t pronounce. You pushed the food around your plate, not really hungry. Your mom sipped her wine, watching you with an expression that made you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“Honey,” she said finally, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “On a serious note. This whole Joel thing, it’s just too much. This man is taking advantage of you.”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. “He’s not”

“How old does he think you are?” she pressed.

You didn’t meet her eyes. “Twenty-five.”

Her gasp was loud enough to draw stares from the next table. “Twenty-five? Jesus. What is he, an idiot? I mean, you look older, sure, but does your attitude not give it away?”

You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your face.

She jabbed her fork toward you, eyes sharp. “That right there. Exactly what I’m talking about.”

You clenched your jaw. “You don’t know him.”

“I don’t have to,” she shot back. “I know how this ends. Your father was older than me, remember?”

The reminder made your stomach twist. You’d always known it, of course, but you’d never really thought about it in numbers. Not until now.

She sighed, softening just a little. “He didn’t want to start a family at first. I was young. Immature. Decided I was destined to be a housewife and a mother, like so many girls my age. But I was too young, and he was too old. It just didn’t work, honey. You need to be with someone you can grow old with. Not someone you’ll end up taking care of.”

You shook your head, anger bubbling hot under your ribs. “You told me that already."

“I’m trying to tell you the truth,” she said, leaning forward. “You’re setting yourself up for the same mistakes I made. It was hot and intense and forbidden at first, but that doesn’t last. I got pregnant with you, and suddenly everything was different. We got married because it was the right thing to do. My dad disowned me. Your grandmother cried for weeks. And I thought I knew better than everyone.” She shook her head, eyes distant. “But they were all right. And I was the wrong one.”

You pushed your plate away, appetite gone. “That’s what I want, Mom. To be a wife. To be a mother.”

“No, honey,” she said quickly, voice almost pleading. “No, you don’t. It’s the worst mistake of your life.”

Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “Trust me, Mom, I already know I was the worst mistake of your life. I’m just glad you’re finally admitting it.”

“Honey, that’s not what I”

But you were already shoving back your chair, the scrape loud against the tile. You stormed through the restaurant, past the flickering candles and the couples staring at you, past the tree dripping with ornaments in the corner. The cold city air slapped your face as you burst outside, tears burning your eyes.

Your phone felt heavy in your hand as you pulled it from your bag, thumb fumbling over the screen. You didn’t even think, didn’t stop, just hit Joel’s name and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Pick up,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please.”

The line clicked, and Joel’s voice came through rough with sleep. “Hello?”

Your breath hitched. “Joel.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping hot down your cheeks. “I’m sorry. Can you come get me?"

You could almost hear him rubbing a hand over his face. “Stay put,” he muttered. “I’m comin’.”

The ride back was quiet. Too quiet. His hands were steady on the wheel, but not once did his palm stray to your thigh the way it usually did, the way you’d grown used to. The silence pressed on you heavier than any words could have. You kept your gaze fixed out the window, watching the Christmas lights blur past in streaks of color until you pulled into his driveway.

Joel was out of the truck before you could reach for the handle. He opened your door, offered a hand you hesitated before taking. His touch was warm, grounding, but still distant somehow. He walked you up to his porch, let you slip inside ahead of him.

The house smelled like cedar and faintly of sawdust, like him. You kicked off your shoes, tugged your coat tighter. Joel disappeared into the kitchen without a word, the sound of the kettle filling breaking the silence.

When he came back, he set your favorite mug down in front of you—chamomile tea steeping, steam curling into the air—and draped a blanket over your lap. The gesture cracked something open in your chest.

“Talk to me,” he said quietly, settling into the chair across from you.

You stared down at the mug, throat thick. “It was my mom. We argued.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “’Bout what?”

You swallowed hard. Lying was second nature by now, but it still stung. “My age. She keeps sayin’ I’m too young to know what I want. That I should be makin’ other choices. But I’m an adult, Joel. I can do what I want.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. “You’re right. You can.”

The weight of his listening, his not pushing, made your chest ache. You shifted under the blanket, pulling it tighter around you.

Joel stood, crossed the room, and flicked the TV on. The screen glowed soft in the dark room, a Christmas movie you both knew by heart flickering to life. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, then pulled you into his chest.

You melted against him, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a while, his voice low, rumbling against your cheek. “For goin’ quiet. For shuttin’ you out. I know I do that. I’m gonna, I’m gonna work on it.”

You tipped your head up, looking at him through damp lashes. “And I’m sorry. For the other night. For not…..stopping that guy.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Just don’t let it happen again. That’s all I ask.”

You nodded too, tucking yourself deeper into his side. The movie played on, forgotten. His hand traced slow, steady circles over your arm, grounding you, forgiving you, promising—without words—that for tonight at least, you were okay.
You drained the last of your tea, the blanket slipping down your lap as you stood. Joel looked up, sleepy-eyed, but didn’t move from the couch.

“I’m gonna run home real quick,” you said, forcing brightness into your voice. “Change into my Christmas pajamas.”

Joel’s brow arched. “You could just wear one of my shirts.” His mouth tugged into a lazy half-smile. “Ain’t like I mind.”

You laughed softly, leaning down to brush your lips over his cheek. “Tempting, but I really want my Christmas fuzzy pajamas.”

“Alright, alright,” he teased, shaking his head. “Can’t argue with that. Don’t take too long.”

The cold slapped your cheeks the second you stepped outside, your breath puffing white in the night air. But it wasn’t the cold that froze you in place. It was the car parked in your driveway.

Your mom’s.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

Heart racing, you tiptoed over, coasted the last few feet, and walked crooked on the driveway, out of view. No way you were walking through that front door. You circled around the side of the house, the grass crunching under your boots, and hauled yourself up the trellis toward your bedroom window like you were fourteen again.

The window clicked open easy enough, and you slipped inside, careful not to knock over the clutter stacked near the sill. You’d barely pulled the window shut when the voices hit you.

Downstairs. Loud.

“…he’s fifty, Harry! Fifty! He’s too old!”

Your stomach dropped. Mom’s voice, sharp and slicing.

Dad answered, equally raw. “You don’t think I know that? You think I’m blind?”

“I don’t care if you know. We can stop it. March right over there and tell him how old she is.”

You froze, the blood roaring in your ears.

Dad groaned, exasperated. “Christ, Danielle. She’s nineteen. Legal. There ain’t a damn thing we can do.”

“She’s still a child.”

“She’s our daughter,” Dad snapped. “And you’ve already driven her away once. You don’t think you’ve done enough damage?”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Mom shot back. “Mr. Father of the Year, huh? You’re never here, Harry. You don’t get to preach.”

Their voices climbed higher, breaking into full-blown shouting. You pressed a hand to your stomach, sick, bile crawling up your throat.

“She’ll learn her lesson,” Dad bit out finally. “Hopefully she won’t get pregnant like you did, but you know damn well she’s always wanted to be a mom. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

A long silence. Then your mom’s voice, sharp and brittle. “Fine. But if she does, I’m not cleaning up her mess. You are. I’m done. I’ll drive back early. Just, just give this to her for me.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Just stood there, frozen in the dark of your room, every word sinking like stones into your chest.

Then footsteps. A door slammed. Silence.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, pressing your forehead to the cold glass of your window. It hurt—every word, every accusation—but you weren’t going to stay and soak in it. Not tonight.

You shoved the window open again, climbed back out into the night. The cold felt different now, sharper, but at least it wasn’t heavy with voices.

Joel’s truck was still idling when you returned, a faint glow spilling through the living room curtains. You pushed the door open quietly, slipping inside.

Joel was sprawled across the couch, head tipped back, mouth parted in sleep. The TV flickered softly, painting him in shifting colors, his chest rising steady under the flannel shirt he hadn’t bothered to change out of.

Something in you cracked wide open.

You eased down beside him, careful not to wake him. He shifted instinctively, one strong arm curling around you even in sleep, pulling you against the steady warmth of his chest.

You buried your face against his shirt, inhaling cedar and smoke, the steady thud of his heartbeat grounding you. Your fingers curled in the fabric, clinging, like if you just held on tight enough the whole world outside these four walls couldn’t touch you.

And for the first time that day, you felt safe.

Chapter Text

The morning came in slow and thin, a pale strip of light slipping under your curtains and cutting across the floorboards. Austin winters didn’t bother with theatrics—no snow, no frost icicles chewing at the eaves—just a cooler air that smelled faintly of cedar and wet leaves, the sky a flat, washed-out blue. You lay there a minute listening to the neighborhood breathe, a dog two houses over, the low whir of an AC unit that never quite got the memo it was December, a truck turning over somewhere down the block.

When you finally sat up, the room looked different in the winter light, less cluttered somehow, though your bedroom never earned the word neat. The outfit you’d ironed the night before waited draped over the back of a chair, and beside it, on your dresser, sat the paper bag your mom had left with your dad. You hadn’t touched it last night, you didn’t have the energy to be mad at cardboard and ribbon.

You headed over, bare feet catching on a soft thread of rug, and pulled the bag open. Tissue paper whispered under your fingers. Inside a frame wrapped in brown paper and taped at the corners the way your mom always did, like she was afraid the present might try to escape.

You peeled the tape back carefully. The paper fell away and there it was.

A portrait.

Your mother, chin tilted, hair smoothed and glossy, her husband beside her in a crisp button-down, and between them, two kids in matching sweaters making those polite, practiced smiles people wear when they’ve been told to say “cheese.” It was one of those studio jobs with a soft gray backdrop and perfect lighting. They looked coordinated. Composed. Happy.

For a second you just stared at it, breath stuck under your ribs. Not because you wanted to be in the picture—God, maybe some part of you did—but because of the way your mom’s hand rested on the little girl’s shoulder. The casual, thoughtless tenderness of it. The kind you could never remember fitting under.

You set the frame down facedown on the bed. The mattress dipped and wobbled under the weight, the glass giving a tiny, muffled tap against the comforter. You stared at the paper bag like it might say something back if you waited long enough.

In the living room, the front door hinges squeaked. Keys clinked. Your dad muttered something to himself that you didn’t catch, the fridge door thumped, and then silence again, he’d be back out by lunch, if not sooner. You went to the bathroom, brushed your teeth, ran warm water over your face until your skin felt like your own again.

When you came back, you tugged the green sweater over your head, the one that made your eyes look less tired, and wriggled into a skirt that was just dressy enough to look like you tried. You left your hair down, let it fall soft over your shoulders. You were fastening an earring when you heard it, Joel’s truck idling out front.

Not a knock on the door. Not a text. Just the sound of him waiting.

You slipped your feet into your boots, grabbed your bag, and headed downstairs. The living room smelled faintly of stale beer and that ever-present tangle of male shampoo and air freshener, but the morning had washed the worst of last night out of it. You paused at the hallway table, lifted the portrait up by the frame, and put it back in the bag. You didn’t know why you brought it. Maybe to show someone how heavy a simple photograph could be.

Outside, the light was clean and bright, the kind that made everything feel newer than it deserved. Joel leaned against the side of his truck, arms folded, sunglasses on. He looked like three different versions of home braided into one man, familiar as thumbprints, steady as an oak fence post, and still somehow capable of knocking the breath out of you.

“Hey,” he said, pushing off the truck when he saw you. His eyes traced you top to bottom, not greedy, just taking you in. “You look real nice.”

“Thanks.” You exhaled a smile. “You too.”

He’d cleaned up. Fresh shirt, clean jeans, boots buffed. Joel never got fancy, but he could make simple look like intention. He opened your door like it was a habit in his bones, and you slid into the passenger seat, the cab already warm from the heater. The air smelled like coffee and cedar shavings and the faintest ghost of his cologne.

He walked around, climbed in, and glanced at the brown bag in your lap. “You wanna bring that?”

You looked down, surprised you were still holding it. “I…might show Maria,” you said, unsure. “Or maybe I’ll just leave it in here.”

“Up to you,” he said easily, starting the truck. “No hurry on any of it.”

He pulled away from the curb, and the neighborhood unspooled slow, live oaks arching over the street, a tangle of Christmas decorations that ran the gamut from tasteful to feral. Someone had wrapped their sagging sago palm in multicolored lights and stuck a plastic reindeer next to it that glowed from the inside like an alien artifact. A block later, a bungalow with a fresh coat of paint had lined its front path with paper luminarias, candles flickering steady inside like tiny beating hearts.

Joel drove with one hand on the wheel. The other drifted to your thigh, weight warm and familiar, thumb moving in absent circles through the denim. The radio was turned low, some Willie Nelson cut warbled soft from the speaker like a memory refusing to quit.

“You ever do big Christmases?” he asked after a few minutes, eyes still on the road.

You watched the way sunlight slid over his knuckles. “Not really,” you said. “Mom tried sometimes, I guess, but…” You shrugged, groping for a way to make it sound less bleak than it was. “We didn’t have a whole lot. And she was always kind of…preoccupied with herself. New diets. New men. New rules about what I was doing wrong.” You tried on a small smile so it wouldn’t land too heavy. “Dad was either working or drunk. You know how that goes.”

Joel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His thumb pressed firmer into your thigh. “Yeah,” he said, a rough thread in his voice. “I know.”

“So most years it was just me and whatever she picked at the store last minute. Or me and Dad, and his idea of cooking which is, like, ‘I bought you a rotisserie chicken don’t say I never did nothing for you.’” You laughed a little, because the alternative was something else. “I got good at pretending it was enough.”

Joel glanced over, quick and careful, like he was checking you hadn’t said the last part by accident. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I know.” You reached down, slid your fingers over his. “That’s the best part.”

He squeezed, not letting go.

Austin rolled out around you, familiar in its winter palette, pecans bare-limbed against the sky, crepe myrtles showing off their cinnamon bark, lawns a scruffy mix of winter rye and stubborn Bermuda. A food truck park you loved flashed by with a string of mismatched ornaments draped from its fence, somebody’s playlist thumping faintly even this early. Joel turned south, then west, the houses shifting from tight little knots to bigger plots with swing sets and half-built garden beds.

When the light turned red at a four-way, you looked down at the bag again and tugged the frame out halfway. The family stared back at you, your mother’s lipstick a soft rose that made her teeth look pearl, the kids’ sweaters embroidered with tiny silver snowflakes. Your throat tightened. You slid the frame back in and rolled the top of the bag shut.

Joel saw. He didn’t pry. He just drifted his hand from your thigh to lace your fingers with his instead, and the silence between you felt like a blanket instead of a wall.

“Maria’s been cooking since sunup,” he said after a while, easing the weight in the truck with a change of subject. “Said she’s got tamales, enchiladas, the whole nine. Tommy smoked a brisket yesterday.” He cut you a grin, quick and boyish. “So if you were plannin’ on bein’ polite, don’t. I need an accomplice.”

You snorted. “Like I’m ever polite around good food.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, satisfied.

You watched his mouth when he said it. The words fell into you like they’d been looking for a place to land. My girl. It would be easy to build a whole life on just that, on the way he said it like it wasn’t a favor or a risk or a borrowed thing, but a fact as simple as the sky.

He turned down the long street that led toward Tommy and Maria’s subdivision. Lights draped from porches, a handful of kids on scooters in T-shirts despite the chill, a neighbor’s inflatable Santa toppled over asleep on the lawn like he’d had a rough night. When Joel slowed in front of the house—brick, one story, windows blazing warm—you could hear laughter even with the windows up. Somebody hollered in the backyard, then cackled in reply.

He parked under the live oak. Killed the engine. The sudden quiet was its own kind of music.

“Ready?” he asked, turning toward you.

You looked at him, at the soft lines at the corners of his eyes, at the way his hair had a stubborn wave at his temple, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He didn’t go around to open your door this time, you didn’t need him to. You climbed down, boots hitting the curb, and the air smelled like grilled meat and cinnamon and the faint bite of mesquite smoke. Joel came around the front of the truck, reached for your hand like it was a reflex, and you gave it to him.

“Hey,” you said, soft enough it almost got lost in the noise spilling from the house. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He squeezed your fingers. “Ain’t a Christmas without you now.”

The porch light threw a golden circle across the steps. Joel’s knuckles rapped twice on the door out of habit, but he didn’t have to wait, it swung open almost immediately. Warmth rushed out, along with the clatter of a crowded kitchen and the bright, layered sound of people talking over one another.

Maria stood there, cheeks flushed from the stove, hoop earrings catching the light. “There you are!” she said, and before you could say hello, she’d pulled you both inside. “Get in here, it’s too pretty to be standing out on the porch.”

The smell hit first, cumin and chiles and onions browning in a pan, something sweet tucked in the oven, fresh limes. The living room was draped with garland and twinkle lights, a tree full of mismatched ornaments holding court by the window. Tommy boomed a greeting from across the room, waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton. Cousins and friends and a neighbor or two turned to look, faces open and curious, then smiling when Maria announced, with a little flourish, “Joel and his girl!”

Joel’s hand slid to the small of your back, warm and sure. He didn’t move you like he was steering, just a touch to say I’m here, follow me if you want. You followed him into the kitchen, where Maria pressed a glass into your palm before you even found somewhere to set your bag.

“You hungry?” she asked, eyes bright. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” you laughed, helpless.

“Good,” she said, delighted. “’Cause I made too much.”

Joel watched you take a sip—something tart and fizzy that tasted like limes and holidays—and the wrinkle between his brows softened. He looked more himself in rooms like this, loved ones within arm’s reach, a job or two left to do, a woman he cared about breathing easy beside him.

He leaned in, breath warm against the top of your ear. “You’re okay, yeah?”

You tilted your head to bump his shoulder with your temple. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” he murmured, and the word settled between you like another kind of promise.

Somebody in the living room turned up a song you half-knew from the radio, and Tommy whooped like he’d been waiting for exactly that track. The whole house seemed to tilt a few degrees toward joy. Maria swatted Joel with a dish towel, told him to grab the bowl by the stove, and he moved without thinking, sliding right into the rhythm of her kitchen like he’d been doing it for years.

For a moment you stood there, glass sweating in your hand, watching him lift a pot lid to check on something that smelled like heaven, listening to the scrape of utensils and the bright clatter of plates. You could feel the shape of a life in it, warmth and work and somebody to steal tastes with before the food hit the table.

You reached into your tote and found the brown paper bag without thinking. Pulled the frame out, the glass cool under your fingers. You set it face down on the counter and slid your palm over the back of it, as if pressure could press it into something else.

“Hey,” Maria said gently, noticing your quiet. “You want me to put that somewhere safe?”

You looked up, startled, and then nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.” You hesitated. “It’s from my mom.”

Maria’s eyes flicked from your face to the bag and back again. She didn’t ask. She just understood, the way good teachers always do. “I’ll put it in the bedroom.” She took the bag, squeezed your forearm, and disappeared down the hall.

Joel turned, caught your eye, and lifted a brow, question without words. You gave him a small nod, a little I’ll tell you later, and he dipped his chin once in return. Then his mouth tugged at the corner like he couldn’t help himself.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low, the sound of it just for you.

You stepped into him and he bent to brush his lips over yours, fast and soft. Not claiming, not careful, something in between. You tasted lime and him and something like relief.

“Let’s eat,” he said, then grinned. “And try not to get bullied by my brother about portion sizes.”

You laughed. “No promises.”

“Good,” he said, satisfied. “Wouldn’t want you any other way.”

The room swelled around you, Maria bustling back in with a tray, Tommy shouting over the music that dinner was five minutes out, a cousin asking who brought the good salsa this year. Joel’s hand found yours again like a compass settling on north, and together you stepped into the swirl, bright and noisy and warm, like you’d been walking toward this door for a very long time without knowing it.

The dining room smells like rosemary and butter and something sweet that’s just starting to caramelize. Maria’s gone way overboard, platters and bowls lined like a parade down the middle of the table, napkins folded into neat little triangles, candles in cut-glass holders flickering like they’re breathing. A scratched vinyl spins in the living room, some old soul record Tommy swears is “the only thing that makes the roast cooperate” and the whole house feels like it’s been marinating in warmth all afternoon.

You slide into your chair beside Joel. He’s clean-shaven for once, hair still damp at the edges from a late shower, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He squeezes your knee under the table without looking, a quiet "in here" that grounds you even as the bustle of hands and plates and voices rises around you.

“Alright,” Tommy says, tapping his glass with a butter knife. “Headcount says we’re all here except two, and she texted that we shouldn’ keep the food hostage on her account.” He lifts a brow at you. “Meaning eat, for the love of God.”

You laugh. Maria swats at him on her way to the end of the table. “Don’t turn my hospitality into a hostage situation, Thomas.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You lean toward Joel. “Where’s Sarah?”

He tips his chin toward the door. “With her boyfriend’s folks. Said not to wait to eat, but she’ll swing through after.”

You nod, try not to overthink the quick little pinch of…something. Nerves? Curiosity? An odd, soft pride in him when he talks about his daughter like that easy, warm, threaded with love.

Halfway through your first bite, Maria aims her fork at you. “Job hunt. Gimme an update. And don’t give me a polite lie, I’ll smell it.”

You dab at your mouth with your napkin, uncontrollably honest under that gaze. “Not great,” you admit. “Apparently Tori likes to talk. She knows people. A lot of people.”

An uncomfortable silence flutters its wings. You pick at your roll, trying for a smile. “I’m applying every day, but yeah. It’s slow.”

Tommy clears his throat, lifts his glass. “That thing at the restaurant…ain’t the end of your story. You’ll land probably better.”

You meet his eyes. Guilt stings your chest. “I’m really sorry. For the client. I shouldn’t have”

Tommy waves a hand. “Hey. It’s done. And…not to steal Joel’s thunder, but we got her back.”

You blink. “You did?”

Joel’s jaw works like he’s chewing a thought he didn’t want to swallow. He keeps his gaze on his plate. Tommy shrugs. “She just doesn’t wanna talk to him directly anymore.”

Your relief pops like a bubble, bright and brief. “That’s…actually great,” you say, softer.

“Mm.” Joel finally glances at you, gives one short nod that you feel more than see. It’s not smug, not even satisfied, just relief wrapped in caution. He nudges the rice your way like a peace offering. “Eat,” he murmurs.

Conversation drifts. Maria complains that someone keeps placing the candles too close to the eucalyptus garland and “we are not burning down my dining room for ambiance.” Tommy swears he’s blameless. Joel tells a story about Sarah being five and insisting cranberries were grapes until she spit one across the table and nearly choked because “grapes don’t fight back, Daddy.” You laugh until your stomach aches, and the aching feels clean.

It’s that feeling—clean—that sneaks up on you as the meal folds into laughter and seconds and quiet sighs. You didn’t grow up with nights like this. Not with the ease that makes small talk feel like a blanket instead of a performance. You take another enchilada because Maria insists, and because somewhere in your chest something loosens, like a knot coming undone.

After the dishes are stacked in the sink and Maria’s shooed everyone away with a towel flick and a “don’t worry about it, I cook, Tommy scrubs,” you wander down the hall toward the bathroom. The house is dimmer back here, the hallway runner soft under your feet, the smell of roast giving way to pine cleaner and faint laundry. You’re almost past the little den when you hear it, Joel’s voice, low.

“Tommy, I don’t know.”

You stop without thinking, feet going quiet. Not close enough to lurk, just near enough that the words carry.

“She’d be good at it. Secretary work’s not rocket science. Organized, quick, friendly. She checks all the boxes.”

“It ain’t about boxes.”

Tommy huffs. “She needs a job. We need that desk filled. You’re barely in the office. It’s not like you’d be hoverin’ over her shoulder.”

A moment of quiet. Then Joel, softer, like it costs him to say it “I don’t think she’s” He exhales, a ragged seam of sound. “I don’t know if she’s mature enough. And it feels like a handout. She deserves to earn something that’s hers, not because she’s with me.”

Mature enough lodges like a fishbone in your throat. It’s not untrue, not entirely. You have been trying. You have. But the words sting anyway, prickling hot behind your eyes. You press your palm to the cool wall, breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth like your high school coach used to bark when you ran too fast at the start and burned out on the last lap.

Tommy again, gentler. “Just…think on it.”

You push off the wall, swallow the lump, and slide into the bathroom. The mirror throws your face back at you, dewy with candle-heat, mascara just barely smudged. You fan your eyes. You repeat, like a mantra. Not the time. Not tonight.

When you step back into the living room, the mood wraps around you again like a shawl. Someone’s put on a cheesy Christmas playlist. The tree in the corner twinkles without trying too hard. Joel’s leaned against the archway, beer bottle dangling from two fingers, eyes finding yours like he’d been tracking you by heartbeat. He studies your face—careful, quiet—and you smile enough to make the worry in his eyes thin out.

“Present time!” Maria announces, hands on hips like a general marshaling troops. “No rules except you gotta act surprised.”

You are surprised. Even when you know something small is coming, even when you helped pick out half the things under the tree earlier this week. You’re surprised by how easy it all is, the handoff of taped paper and curling ribbon, the way Joel’s mouth tugs when Tommy pretends the new socket set is a book of poems, the way Maria squeals over the earrings you picked and puts them on immediately, turning her head to catch the light.

You give Sarah a potted plant—a little trailing ivy in a ceramic pot with a painted sun—and when she arrives breathless and glowing fifteen minutes later, she cradles it like it’s a puppy. “It’s perfect,” she says, hugging you with one arm while the other keeps the plant safe. She smells like cold air and shampoo and something sweeter. “You’re perfect.”

You laugh. “You’re late.”

“Story of my life.” She kisses Joel’s cheek, squeezes Tommy’s shoulder, lets Maria fuss over her. Her boyfriend trails in her wake, good-humored, eyes soft. It’s a quick swirl of greetings and coats and someone yelling from the kitchen about where the extra forks disappeared to.

Presents pile dwindles. Mugs of cider trade for coffee. You find yourself comfortable on the floor, back against the couch between Joel’s knees, his hand absently playing with the ends of your hair, a warm anchor you could live on. Your mind drifts, catches, drifts again, on the shape of an ordinary life that doesn’t feel ordinary at all.

Sarah clears her throat. “One more,” she says, and her voice has that brave, trembly edge that makes everything in the room go still.

She sets a small box in Joel’s lap. Wrapped simple, tidy bow. “For you,” she says. “Open it last.”

Everyone goes quiet like they’ve been practicing. Joel’s brows sketch up as he tugs at the tape, opens the lid.

It’s a onesie. White. Soft. Words printed bold and crooked

Best Pawpaw Ever.

Joel’s breath catches. The room holds its own.

Sarah’s hands are shaking as she lays the ultrasound photo on top.

Maria’s scream startles a laugh out of everyone. Then she claps both hands to her mouth as her eyes flood. “No, are you? You are? Oh, honey!” She’s up before anyone else, arms around Sarah, both of them crying and laughing. Tommy shouts something wordless, scoops the boyfriend into a back-slapping hug. The world tilts to joy.

Joel doesn’t move at first. He’s stiff as a post, knuckles white around the edges of the box. Then the breath comes back into him all at once, and he stands, and he pulls Sarah to him like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of her, the exact weight. His voice is wrecked. “Oh, baby girl.”

She’s crying. “I was scared to tell you.”

He huffs a laugh through a sob and kisses her hair. “You’re gonna be a wonderful mom.”

You step in when there’s room, wrap your arms around both of them for a heartbeat, whisper congrats against Sarah’s shoulder. You mean it. You do. It just…hits strange. Like a bell rung inside your ribs. A future fracturing into two versions, one where you’re learning to be a step-grandma before you’ve ever gotten to be a mom, and one you won’t let yourself look at yet, the one where you’re not in this room at all.

The rest of the gifts feel smaller after that. Laughter loosens, then returns. Someone puts on a louder song. Maria brings out a pie and insists Joel cut it because “you’re the only one who respects a clean slice,” and he grumbles but does it, and everyone cheers like he’s performing a trick.

You’re quieter. Joel notices. He’s mid-conversation with Maria when his gaze flicks to you, checks your face like a pulse. You smile back the way you’ve learned to, soft, not giving anything away. He doesn’t press. Not here.

You help stack plates, rinse a few, ignore Maria’s scolding (“Get out of my kitchen, baby, you’re a guest”) by drying them anyway. Sarah pulls you aside, shows you the ultrasound, points with a trembling finger. “That’s a foot. Can you believe that’s a foot?”

“It’s perfect,” you say, and it is, tiny and grainy and perfect.

Joel finds you by the door as coats appear like magic and the playlist slips back into low, pleasant hum. He takes your hand. There’s grease under one of his thumbnail edges he missed when he washed, and it makes your chest ache for no good reason at all.

“You alright?” he murmurs, eyes searching.

You nod. “I’m happy for her,” you say, which is true. “I am.”

He squeezes your hand. “Me too.”

The drive home is soft around the edges. Austin hums with the kind of December that doesn’t need snow to feel like December, porch lights and blow-up reindeer on sun-browned lawns, someone grilling in a sweatshirt, palm fronds rattling like a set of cheap tambourines in the breeze. Joel keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting empty on his thigh. The radio lands on a station playing a song you half-know, half-forget. You watch the city slip by, all that glow dimming as you pull into the neighborhood.

He doesn’t ask again, not when he kills the engine, not when he rounds the truck to open your door like he always does. You slide down. He kisses your forehead on the porch, a good-night that says not yet instead of no.

Inside, you peel off your shoes by his couch, exhale the evening out of your shoulders. He sets your clutch on the side table, flicks on the lamp with the crooked shade, and the living room looks like it always does comfortably imperfect. Wood dust still clings to one corner of the rug from where he oiled a carving earlier. A mug sits on a coaster, a ring of dried tea haloed around the lip. Your flannel—his flannel—lies folded on the armrest because he folded it even if you didn’t ask.

“Tea?” he asks.

“Please.”

He moves in the kitchen like he belongs to it—because he does—measured and patient. Kettle on. Mugs out. Honey. He tilts the jar, adds exactly the amount you like without looking. The smallness of it unravels something low in your chest. You sit on the edge of the couch and let the unraveling happen. The house is so quiet you can hear the tiny hiss of the kettle before it clicks off.

He brings you your mug, sits close, knee knocking yours like he can tether you that way. You blow across the surface and then just hold it, palms warming, as he scrolls through the TV menu and lands on a holiday classic you’ve already watched twice. It doesn’t matter. You tuck your feet under you and lean into him, and he fits his arm around your shoulders like that was decided long ago.

Halfway through the movie, he murmurs, “Thank you for comin’ tonight.”

You tilt your head up. “There anywhere else you think I’d be?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t know. You keep surprising me.”

You set your mug down, turn so you can see him better. Low lamp light turns the lines at his eyes into something handsome and soft. “Hey,” you say. “Earlier, what Tommy said about the client. I’m glad it worked out.”

Joel shifts, his thumb skimming absently over the slope of your shoulder. “Me too.”

“And…what you said. In the hallway.” You watch his pupils kick at that; you keep your voice steady. “We can talk about it later. Not tonight.”

He nods once, relief shading his face. “Later,” he agrees.

You rest your head on his shoulder again and stare at the TV without seeing it, aware of the slow, steady stretch of his breath. The ache that’s been sitting under your ribs all night thrums, then dulls. You don’t touch it. Not yet.

When he flicks off the lamp, you both climb the stairs in the dark, his palm at the small of your back like habit, like promise. You borrow a T-shirt. You both brush your teeth. You wash your face. The ordinary of it sits bright and precious in your throat.

In bed, he pulls you in close and kisses your hair. “Night, sweetheart.”

“Night,” you whisper. You listen to his breathing even out, the quiet creaks of the house settling. You should be exhausted. Instead you lie awake a little too long, the shape of the evening replaying itself in soft loops, the onesie, Joel’s face going still, Sarah’s laugh, Maria’s tears, Tommy’s grin, Joel’s hand steady on the wheel and then empty on your thigh.

You’ve learned how to tuck things away, this ache, this want, this terror of a truth you’re running out of places to hide. You tuck it one more time, smooth the sheet over it, and slide closer until Joel’s chest is warm against your spine. He murmurs something unintelligible in sleep. You smile into the pillow, let your eyes fall shut.

For now, there is this, a room that smells like cedar and soap, a man who makes your tea the way you like it without asking, a family that lifted you into its circle and said stay. For now, there is the soft weight of his arm banded around your middle and the faint hum of distant traffic and the little click in the hallway when the A/C kicks on.

For now, there is enough.

Chapter Text

You woke to the faint smell of peppermint and chocolate before your eyes even opened. For a second you thought you were dreaming, the air sweet, warm, almost too cozy for the gray December morning in Austin. But then you heard the low hum of Joel’s voice from the kitchen, half a tune, half a mutter, and the clink of a spatula against a pan.

You rolled over, burying your face in the pillow. Not your pillow. His. Joel’s.

When you finally pushed yourself upright, hair tangled and eyes gritty from too little sleep, you noticed the mug waiting on the nightstand. Steam curled up, carrying the scent of espresso and cocoa, a candy cane perched on the rim like something out of a magazine photo. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and headed into the kitchen.

Joel was at the stove, broad back turned, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows. A stack of pancakes grew on a plate beside him, golden and steaming. He looked over his shoulder when your arms slipped around his waist, your cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said, voice gravelly but soft.

You pressed a kiss to his back through the fabric of his shirt. “Smells so good in here.”

“Better taste good,” he grumbled lightly, flipping another pancake onto the stack.

The moment felt achingly normal, like you’d lived here for years instead of just sneaking over whenever you could. Like this was your kitchen, your man, your life.

Breakfast was simple but perfect, pancakes drenched in syrup, bacon crispy the way you liked, your peppermint-laced hot chocolate warming you from the inside out. Joel didn’t say much while you ate, but his eyes lingered, soft and satisfied, every time he looked at you across the table.

When the dishes were stacked in the sink, he reached for your hand. “C’mon.”

He tugged you into the living room where a small tree sat in the corner, lit with twinkling white lights. A few presents rested beneath it, wrapped unevenly in paper that clearly wasn’t Joel’s strong suit. He sat on the couch and pulled you down beside him, nudging one of the packages toward you.

“Ladies first.”

Your fingers shook slightly as you slid the ribbon free and peeled back the paper. Inside was a small jewelry box, and nestled inside that, a delicate necklace, a silver pendant that caught the light when you tilted it. Your throat tightened, words caught somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.

“There’s more,” Joel said gruffly, handing you another small box.

This one wasn’t jewelry. It was a single silver key.

You blinked down at it, breath catching. “Joel…”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away like he was embarrassed. “I know you already spend most of your time here. Just thought, now you know. You always got a key. You can stay whenever you want. It’s your home too.”

The weight of it in your palm made your chest swell and ache at the same time. You leaned over, kissed him hard, whispering against his lips, “I love it.”

He smiled, a little crooked. “Good. Might feel too soon, but I ain’t been this happy in a long time. Feels like…everything’s finally comin’ together. I got someone special in my life. And now…” His smile widened, his voice lighter. “I’m gonna be a grandpa.”

Your heart dropped.

The word echoed sharp, brutal. Grandpa. Not dad. Not partner in starting something new. He was moving into a different chapter of life, one that didn’t fit you, not really. Your mother’s words rang in your ears, about being too young, about being with someone too old. Was this what she meant? Was this the gap you’d never bridge, your desire to become a mom colliding with the reality that Joel’s next milestone was grandkids, not newborns?

You tried to hold your smile, nodding like you shared in his joy. Inside, your thoughts spun like a storm.

You’re not ready to be someone’s step-grandma. You haven’t even been someone’s mom yet. You don’t belong in this world Joel’s moving into, this stage of life that feels decades ahead of yours. Maybe your mom was right. Maybe this is the kind of thing that cracks the foundation until the whole house falls.

Joel didn’t notice your silence. He was still talking, his voice warm and sure. “Life feels good, baby. Feels like I ain’t lonely anymore. Like I finally got a reason to look forward instead of back.”

“That’s great,” you said softly. You leaned in, pressed your mouth to his, because you couldn’t say what you really felt, not without tearing everything apart. “I’m happy too.”

He kissed you back, lingering, his hand warm against your cheek. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours like he was working up courage.

“There’s somethin’ I been meanin’ to ask you.”

Your stomach flipped. “What’s that?”

He hesitated, thumb brushing your knuckles where your hands were tangled. “Tommy and me, we’ve had this secretary position open for months. Can’t seem to find anyone who sticks. He seems to think you’d be perfect for it.”

Your brows knit, surprised. “Me?”

Joel nodded, earnest. “Ain’t a handout. We need somebody. And I figure you’d be good at it, organized, quick, know how to handle people when they get all wound up.” His mouth tugged faintly, proud. “Just…think about it. No pressure.”

Your heart twisted. The offer should’ve felt like a lifeline. Stability. Belief in you. But instead it tangled like a net, tying you tighter into his life, into his family, into a world you weren’t sure you had any right to stand in. If he knew your real age, would he even still want you in the office, let alone in his bed?

You smiled weakly, squeezing his hand. “I’ll think about it.”

Joel leaned back, satisfied. “That’s all I ask.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, letting the warmth of the tree lights and the weight of the key in your palm anchor you, even as your thoughts screamed. You loved him. God, you did. But sooner or later, the truth was going to catch up. And when it did, no Christmas morning in the world would be enough to save you.

The silver dress slid down your body like a poured moonbeam, catching on the curve of your hip, pooling soft at your thighs. You smoothed the hem once, twice, palms still a little damp. In the mirror your cheeks were flushed, not from makeup but from nerves that had been pacing the cage of your ribs all afternoon. You tugged at a loose curl, dabbed a thumb under your eye where the liner had smudged, then stood back and tried to see yourself as Joel would, if he’d see the shimmer first or the shake in your hands.

You were done running. That was the promise you’d made yourself when you woke up, New Year, clean slate, no more lying. You couldn’t walk into another calendar full of secrets and half-truths and the constant sting of “not yet.” You loved him. The kind that pressed on your lungs in the quiet moments and made breakfast taste sweeter and the long nights shorter. If you were going to ask for the kind of future you wanted, you had to hand him the whole of you—the truth included—and risk the silence that might follow.

Austin was cool in that way it got after the sun gave up. Not winter-cold, not sharp like ice, but a soft-chilled air that smelled like dry leaves and faint cedar and something smoky traveling from someone else’s backyard. The drive out to Tommy and Maria’s breathed like a sigh, lights strung tight along ranch fences, headlights painting the road in long pale strokes, your playlist low enough that your thoughts could climb over it.

You rehearsed as you drove, lips moving in the dark. I have to tell you something. It’s going to make you mad. I should’ve said it sooner. You turned them over and over like stones in your pocket, trying to find a version that wouldn’t break his face. There wasn’t one. The truth would land where it landed. But you could still hand it to him gently.

The house glowed before you saw it, strings of warm bulbs looped along the eaves, mason jars on the porch rail little stars in their own right. Laughter spilled from the open door, music humming underneath. The kind of light you could feel on your skin.

Joel was on the porch waiting. He always did that—never texted “here,” never honked—just stood there like he’d been leaning against the doorframe for years, like this was what bodies were made to do, look for each other and relax when the finding was done. His eyes hit your dress first, spark catching spark.

“There she is,” he said, and it wasn’t loud or breathless. Just warm. Certain. Like an answer.

You swallowed, smiling despite the lead weight in your gut. “There you are.”

He kissed you soft, just the press of his mouth to yours, his hand settling at your waist where the fabric shone under his palm. “You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, thumb dragging absently over the shimmer.

“Don’t get glitter on your flannel,” you teased, because teasing was easier than trembling.

He huffed a laugh and led you inside.

The warmth took you first, heat of bodies and oven and the fireplace Maria insisted on using even in a Texas winter. The house smelled like butter and sage and the citrus cleaner she favored. Voices bent around you. Tommy’s big laugh from the kitchen, Maria scolding him with a smile in it, a cousin you’d met at Thanksgiving calling out hello, the neighbor from down the road handing over a foil-covered dish like a peace offering.

“Look at you,” Maria said, appearing from the kitchen in a dress that made her look like the party’s center of gravity. She folded you into a hug that smelled like rosemary and perfume. “Silver like a little bell.”

You flushed. “You look beautiful.”

Tommy popped his head around the doorway. “Hey, superstar. You hungry?” He wore a ridiculous paper crown someone had forced on him and didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Always.”

“We did a spread,” he said, ushering you in with the back of his hand. “Don’t judge my cheese board. I fought three ladies at H-E-B for the last wheel.”

Maria smacked his shoulder with a towel. “He’s exaggerating. It was two.”

The kitchen was a riot of abundance deviled eggs dusted with paprika, a ham glazed to shine, bowls of greens and potatoes, a plate of sliced brisket with a ring of smoke pink like a sunset. Someone had made black-eyed peas—because Texas tradition demanded it—and there were bottles sweating on the counter, a punchbowl crowding the corner.

Joel stayed close, his palm at your lower back as you filled a plate you didn’t exactly want but couldn’t refuse. He pointed out the things he knew you liked, nudged more mashed potatoes onto your plate when you hesitated. Normal. Easy. It should have loosened something in you. It didn’t.

“Where’s Sarah?” you asked when you slid onto the couch beside him, balancing your plate carefully on your knees.

“With Thomas’s folks,” Joel said, and there was a softness in his tone when he said it pride, worry, the whole tangle that came with loving someone you couldn’t fix anymore. “Said they’d stop by on their way back if she wasn’t too tired. Told us not to wait on her again.”

“Hmm.” You stabbed at your peas. “She doing okay? With…everything?”

Joel’s eyes flicked to your face. He nodded once. “Best as she can. She’s tough.”

Conversation swelled around you. You caught pieces of it, someone telling a story about a camping trip where the tent had tried to blow into the next county, Maria and her cousin debating whether sequins were festive or tacky (for New Year’s, they decided, tacky became festive by default), Tommy declaring himself King of Charcuterie and then immediately delegating slicing duty to a teenager who took it far more seriously than he did.

Maria toasted. “New year. New starts"

You nodded, even though the words felt like a shirt you couldn’t quite pull over your head. You laughed at Tommy’s next story. You took the drink someone offered you, something bubbly with a rosemary sprig that made you feel like you were sipping a garden.

But you weren’t fully in your body. You noticed it in the small ways, the way your laugh took a second longer to arrive, the way your smile felt like a thing you had to remember to hold, the way your eyes kept finding Joel like a compass trying to lock north.

Tell him, you thought, every time he touched your knee or looked down and found your hand. Tell him before the clock rolls over and turns you both into cowards.

“Come help me with the sparklers,” Maria said at some point, looping an arm through yours and towing you toward the kitchen where a plastic tub waited, crammed with slim sticks and lighters. “I buy too many every year and then I pretend like it wasn’t on purpose.”

You laughed. “You’re gonna set Tommy’s eyebrows on fire.”

“Please,” she sniffed. “Those things are bulletproof.”

You carried the tub through the living room and into the backyard, where someone had already dragged a speaker onto the porch and changed the playlist to all countdown beats and sing-alongs. The air was cooler now, the kind that made bare legs feel fizzy with goosebumps. You handed sparklers to outstretched hands, watched as thin bright lines sketched in the dark.

Joel joined you on the steps, his shoulder brushing yours. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

No. Yes. Maybe. You nodded. “Can we” You tilted your head toward the far edge of the yard, where the fence met the shadows. “Talk?”

“’Course.”

You led and he followed, shoes whispering over dead grass. The music blurred into a single heartbeat of bass. Far off, someone lit a firework too early and it popped like a punctuation mark against the night.

You stopped near the fence, where the lights from the house didn’t quite reach. Joel’s face was all planes and soft dark, the line of his jaw brushed silver by the porch glow. He waited. He always did. Let you go first.

Your mouth went dry. The words you’d practiced—countless times, different angles, different entries—scrambled and fell all over each other. You closed your eyes for one breath, then another.

“Joel,” you said, and your voice came out small, shaking in a way that made you want to apologize for the sound. “I need to tell you something.”

He tipped his head, that little crease forming between his brows. “Okay.”

“It’s…it’s about me.” You swallowed, fingers knotting themselves in the fabric of your dress. “About…..us.”

“Alright,” he said softly.

“It’s going to make you mad,” you blurted, and then hated the sentence for how it already begged. “And it should. I should’ve told you before. I”

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

You flinched like someone had snapped their fingers in your face.

Joel grimaced an apology and pulled it out, already shaking his head. “She’s been ignoring me all night,” he murmured, and thumbed the screen. “Finally.”

He hit answer. “Baby? You good?”

It wasn’t Sarah’s voice that answered. Even from where you stood, you heard the difference, the deeper tone, the edge of nerves scrubbed raw.

“Mr. Miller?”

Joel’s whole posture changed. Straighter. Still. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s okay,” Thomas rushed to say, and your lungs remembered how to move. “She is. But we’re at the hospital. It was…she got scared. Some cramping. They wanted to run tests. She keeps asking for you.”

You were already nodding before Joel looked at you. “I’m coming,” he told Thomas, then hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket like he needed his hands free to keep from doing something else with them. His eyes found yours. “I”

“Go,” you said, and the word broke on the way out.

“I’ll be back,” he started, then shook his head. “No, hell, I don’t know if I will. Depends on what they say. You should stay. Enjoy the party. I’ll text you as soon as I can.”

“Do you want me to come?” The question left you before you could think it through. You’d meant to say it differently, to be easy, un-needy, to offer and not cling.

He hesitated only a second. It held a hundred things. The hospital waiting room and Sarah’s eyes and the way families got small in crisis. The way your heart had already started to root under the ribs of his life. “Maybe, maybe sit this one out. Just this time.” He winced, knowing how it sounded. “She’s….you know how she is. And it might be nothin’. I don’t want you waiting on plastic chairs for five hours for a ‘false alarm.’”

It made sense. It stung anyway. You nodded like it didn’t. “Okay.”

He stepped closer, cupped the side of your face in his palm, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone like he could rub away the crease that had started to live there. He kissed you, quick and sure. “I’ll let you know the second I know anything.”

“Be careful,” you said, because you had to hand him something as he left. “Tell her I love her.”

His mouth twitched. “I will.”

You stood there long after his taillights had burned into the road and disappeared, the cold soft on your bare legs, the sparkler smoke drifting like ghostly handwriting across the yard.

Inside, the party had shifted up a gear without you. Someone had dug out board games, someone else had decided the song currently playing was the best song ever written and needed to be restarted three times in a row to prove it. Tommy announced that the brisket had reached its optimal leftover sandwich era and made a tray of them like an evangelist.

You tried, for a while. You let Maria press another glass into your hand (sparkling cider this time, your head was already buzzing with a different kind of dizzy). You nodded at the neighbor’s story about the raccoon that had learned how to open their trash can. You laughed in the right places.

But there was a Joel-shaped outline beside you that no one else could fill.

Near eleven-thirty, you slipped into the hall and texted him. You okay?

It took longer than it should have for the three dots to bloom. Yeah. With her now. Baby’s okay. Monitoring for the night. You could breathe again. Tell Tommy & Maria it’s all fine. I’ll call in the morning.

Your throat went tight. Proud of you, you wrote, thumb shaking. Give her a hug for me.

Will do, he sent back. Then: You look beautiful tonight.

You stared at the line until the screen dimmed, heat creeping up the back of your neck. The tears came without drama, no sobbing, no gasping, just the simple overflow of a cup that had been full for hours.

You wiped them with the side of your thumb and returned to the living room, where Maria caught your face immediately and pulled you in by the shoulders.

“She okay?”

“She’s okay,” you said, and your voice was steady enough to calm the room. “They’re monitoring her overnight. Joel’s with her.”

Relief moved like a wave through the cousins and crashed soft at Tommy’s feet. He squeezed your hand once, a thank-you for being the one to carry the news.

The countdown sneaked up on you anyway, as countdowns do, someone shouted “Ten!” and the room obeyed and suddenly you were in a circle of people you were learning how to love, everybody tilted toward the future with breath held.

Nine. You thought of the silver dress and the porch and the fingers you had not yet untangled. Eight. Joel’s thumb on your cheek. Seven. The promise you’d made yourself this morning, no more running. Six. The hospital fluorescent lighting painting him tired, eyes soft anyway. Five. The sharp hurt of the word grandpa, and the way it had knocked loose something you hadn’t known was perched. Four. Your mom’s voice legality doesn’t equal morality. You swallowed. Three. Maria’s the truth always comes out. Two. Your own heartbeat, counting down something older than the year. One

“Happy New Year!” The room surged. Confetti popped, cheap and perfect. Someone kissed the top of your head by accident and apologized. You laughed and forgave and looked up toward the ceiling where the balloons had clung all night, then began to fall in slow surrender.

You didn’t make a wish. You made a plan.

When he came home—tomorrow, the next day—you’d say it. Not in a parking lot, not in a kitchen slammed with noise, not as a weapon. In the quiet. In the place where the truth had a chance to land and live.

You texted him anyway, because the night asked for words.

Happy New Year. I love you.

This time the dots arrived fast. Happy New Year, sweetheart. Love you too.

You tucked your phone away and let the room take you, Maria pulling you into a loose waltz to a song that didn’t fit it, Tommy trying to clap on the offbeat and failing, someone handing you a sparkler already lit and hot. You traced your name into the darkness and watched it burn there for a second before the ash made a quiet snow and disappeared.

Chapter Text

The key slid in and turned with that quiet little click you were still getting used to. It should’ve felt good, grounding, but today it felt like trespass.

The door creaked and all at once you wished you’d knocked.

Joel wasn’t alone.

He sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, his flannel sleeves bunched at his forearms. Sarah was curled up on the other end of the sofa, legs tucked under a blanket, her head leaning against Thomas’s shoulder. They all looked up when you stepped inside.

“Oh,” you blurted, cheeks heating. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Joel’s expression softened, a small smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “’Course not, darlin’. C’mon.”

The house smelled like coffee and buttered toast, warm and ordinary, and that only made you feel more out of place. Still, you crossed the room, easing yourself onto the edge of the sofa when Sarah shifted to make space.

“We were just catching up,” Sarah said, her voice bright but tired. “Everything’s okay. Baby’s fine. Just a scare last night.” She squeezed Thomas’s hand, like she still needed the contact to believe it.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. “That’s amazing. I’m so glad.”

Sarah smiled shyly. “While we were at the hospital, Dad and I talked. I’m going to finish school online. And Thomas and I..well, we’re moving in here. At least for now.”

Your chest pinched, but you smiled anyway. “That’s wonderful. And finishing school, that’s huge. I’m proud of you.”

They went on, telling you about professors, classes, due dates. You nodded, chimed in where you could, though your head buzzed like a hive. Joel watched them with that look, the one he got when he was proud but worried at the same time, and you thought, God, I love him. The way he was already planning to make space for her, to make her safe.

Eventually Sarah stood, wrapping her arms around him. “Thanks, Dad. I’m so glad I have you.”

“Always, honey,” Joel murmured, his voice breaking just slightly as he pressed his chin to her hair.

You looked away, throat thick.

When the door shut behind them, Joel lingered there for a beat before turning. “Sorry you had to find out that way.”

You shook your head quickly. “It’s okay. Really. This is your house.”

He came closer, hands sliding into his pockets. “I know. But you’re here a lot. It feels like yours too.” His mouth quirked, a little crooked. “Just means we’ll have to be quieter when we…you know.”

The laugh burst out of you before you could stop it, light and real for half a second. “Guess so.”

He grinned at your reaction, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “So. Yesterday. You had somethin’ you wanted to tell me, before Sarah called.”

Your stomach dropped.

The truth was right there, pressing against your teeth. Tell him. Tell him you’re nineteen. Tell him you’ve been lying since the start, that you’re terrified of losing him but more terrified of what it’ll do if you don’t come clean.

But you saw the way his whole face was softer than it had been in weeks, his shoulders lighter. He was happy. Relieved. Already planning how to set up his daughter’s room again, how to fold her back into his house and his life. You loved him. God, you loved him more than you’d ever thought possible, and you couldn’t be the one to crack that joy. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Oh, nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your voice into something steady. “Just that I’ll take the job. The secretary position.”

Joel blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “That’s what you were wound up about? Honey, that’s great. Why’d you think that’d make me mad?”

Your cheeks flamed. “I just…wanted to make sure you’d pay me fair. Not like…‘dating the boss’ pay.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and pulled you into his chest. “Fair’s fair. I wouldn’t do you wrong like that.” He kissed your temple, lingering there. “I’m proud of you. Gonna be real good havin’ you at the office.”

The guilt hit hot, crawling up your throat. You pressed yourself against him, arms locking around his back, hoping the strength of your hold could hide the cracks.

You should’ve told him. You knew it. But how could you, when he looked at you like that? When his whole face was relief and pride and something dangerously close to love? How could you take that away from him, from yourself?

You told yourself maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe the truth was just another number, another date on a page, and what you had together was bigger than that. Maybe this was for the best.

Joel stroked your hair once, slow, his chest rumbling under your cheek as he murmured, “We’re gonna be just fine, baby. You’ll see.”

And you closed your eyes, let yourself believe it. Because if you didn’t, the lie would crush you. And if loving him meant carrying it, then maybe that was the price.

The next morning the air smelled faintly of cedar and dust, the kind of dry winter scent that clung when windows stayed shut too long. Joel had asked if you wanted to help get Sarah’s old room ready, bigger bed, space for Thomas’s things, all the details of making a place feel like home again. You’d said yes without hesitation, even if part of you still carried the echo of last night’s lie.

The room was already half-empty when you walked in. Joel had dragged the dresser into the hallway, his flannel damp at the shoulders, hair sticking up like he’d shoved his hands through it too many times. A box of Sarah’s old notebooks sat open on the floor, math equations scribbled in fading pencil.

“Thought I’d put her old desk in storage,” Joel said, nodding toward the door. “too small, might get her a new one with school online. Bigger."

You bent to pick up one end, pretending the weight wasn’t much. “Lead the way, old man.”

His eyebrows shot up, that half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Old man, huh?”

“Didn’t realize I signed up for manual labor,” you teased, following him down the hall, the desk awkward in your grip.

Joel snorted. “Darlin’, you’re the one who offered.”

By the time you both wrangled it into the shed behind the house, your arms ached. You leaned against the wall, panting a little. “Okay, maybe you’re not that old. Strong for your age.”

“For my age,” he repeated dryly. Then, before you could move, he bent, slipped his arms around your waist, and hoisted you clean off the ground.

You squealed, hands smacking his shoulders. “Joel!”

“Still think I’m old?” His voice was smug, playful in a way you didn’t get often enough. He spun you once, your laugh breaking free despite yourself, before setting you down again, steady as ever.

“Okay, okay,” you gasped, brushing your hair back. “Point proven.”

“Good,” he said, grinning before wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. “Now help me with those boxes before I prove somethin’ else.”

Inside the shed, he tugged down a plastic bin from the top shelf. Dust puffed into the air, glittering in the strip of light from the door. He carried it inside, set it on the floor of Sarah’s room, and popped the lid.

The first thing you saw was pink. A tiny onesie with faded flowers.

Your throat caught. Joel picked it up carefully, like it might still fall apart if he held it wrong. His expression softened, lines around his mouth easing, eyes going somewhere far away.

“Kept some of her baby things,” he murmured. “Figured one day she might wanna see ‘em.”

There were more, tiny socks, a crocheted blanket, photo albums with sticky plastic pages. You knelt beside him as he flipped one open. Sarah as a newborn, swaddled in Joel’s arms. Sarah with frosting all over her cheeks at her first birthday. Joel crouched behind a tiny tricycle, grin wide and hair dark and thick.

You reached out, touched the corner of the page. “Joel. You were…hot.”

He barked a laugh, the sound rumbling through the quiet room. “Was?”

“Still are,” you corrected quickly, grinning despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “But damn. Look at you.”

He shook his head, chuckling, but his eyes were warm. “Whatever you say, baby.”

The laughter faded as you turned another page. Sarah at six, missing front teeth. Joel holding her hand at some school event, his other hand tucked awkwardly in his pocket like he hadn’t known what to do with it. The images pressed something sharp against your ribs. You blinked hard, throat tight.

Joel noticed. He always did. “Hey.” His hand slid over yours. “I know this is hard.”

You sniffed, tried for a smile. “What is?”

“You shouldn’t miss out on bein’ a mother because of me.” His voice was quiet, careful.

The words landed like stones. You shook your head quickly. “Why can’t we just…talk about it? Try?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking back down to the photo in his lap. “It’s too soon. We’d have to get married first.”

You searched his face. “Okay. Then let’s talk about that.”

“Two years, maybe longer,” he said slowly, as if measuring every syllable. “By then I’ll be 52. Don’t know if I could be a good dad that old.”

“Yes, you could.” The words burst out, fierce. “You’re strong, you’re healthy. You’d be amazing.”

Joel’s smile was faint, sad around the edges. “Darlin’. If I’m bein’ honest, I really thought about it. But now that I’m gonna be a grandpa…” He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t feel right. Bringin’ a sibling into Sarah’s world when she’s about to be a mother herself.”

You bit your lip, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “Right. Okay.”

He reached for your hand again, squeezing. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you happy. Just…gotta think about what makes sense.”

You nodded, but inside your chest everything twisted. The lie you carried, the future you wanted, the man you loved, none of it fit neatly. Not anymore.

Joel kissed your knuckles softly, like an apology. “We’ll figure it out.”

And you leaned into him, because you had to believe that was true.

Chapter Text

You’d been at it for hours hauling boxes, laughing when Joel pretended the old crib weighed a thousand pounds, kissing him in the doorway to shut him up when he said he was “too old for ladders” and then watching him climb anyway like a show-off. Dust settled in his hair, a silver crown that made him look mythic. By the time the sun fell behind the live oaks, Sarah’s room was a clean, echoing shell, fresh sheets folded, baby boxes stacked in the closet, a space waiting to be made soft again.

You were waiting, too.

Joel came up behind you while you were straightening a picture frame—those tiny, curly-haired toddler photos that knocked the breath right out of you—and slid his hands under your shirt like he’d been meaning to touch skin all day. Warm palms, work-rough. He pressed you to the wall, nose in your hair, voice low. “Room looks good, darlin’.”

“So do you,” you murmured, turning into him. Close enough to taste the soap on his throat. Close enough to smell the cedar and sawdust and him.

The first kiss was slow, careful, like he was confirming you were both really done working, like permission. Then it changed. Your hands in his hair, his mouth parting, that low sound he makes when he stops pretending he’s patient. Your back hit the empty wall with a hollow thud and you laughed against his lips, breathless. “We shouldn’t…”

“We should,” he said, already lifting you. “Last night we got the house to ourselves.”

He proved how “too old” he wasn’t by palming under your thighs and picking you up like nothing. You wrapped around him—heat meeting heat—while he walked you out of Sarah’s doorway and into the hall. Halfway down, he turned and set you on the linen cabinet, smile crooked, eyes dark. “Still think I’m old?”

You tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it behind you. “Old. Strong. Mine.”

That pulled a sound from him that went straight through you. “Say it again.”

“Mine,” you breathed, and he was on you—mouth, beard, hands—kissing like he had hours to fill and a lifetime’s worth of hunger to burn through.

He took his time and none at all. The hallway, the guest room, the kitchen, your shoulders against cool tile, your thighs sliding on polished wood when he carried you to the dining table and set you down like a favorite instrument. He dragged a chair out with his boot and sat, pulled you to the edge, and eased your knee over his shoulder. He didn’t rush, he never does. He watched your face while his mouth worked slow circles, a slow-burn rhythm that made your eyes flutter and your fingers curl in his hair. When you tried to push, he pinned your hips, said, “Uh-uh. I set the pace,” and you wanted to cry from how good it felt to be handled and held in the same breath.

You came with your hand over your mouth, shaking, one heel digging into the chair rung. He stayed with you through all of it, the aftershocks, the little broken noises, forehead pressed to your thigh while you came back down.

“Bedroom,” you whispered. “Please.”

He lifted you again—because he could, because he likes to show you—and carried you past doorframes like you were already a memory he was keeping safe. You were giggling.

At first.

Laid back on the bed, legs dangling over the edge, Joel kneeling between your thighs, licking you like he was starving, your hips twitching with every pass of his tongue.

And then

He pulled back, wiped his mouth, and grinned up at you with that look.

“What?” you panted, propped up on your elbows.

“I got an idea.”

“Oh God,” you laughed. “That tone usually leads to very good or very illegal things.”

Joel leaned in, pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “You trust me?”

“Always.”

Next thing you knew, you were upside down.

Literally.

Joel had you hoisted, your thighs on either side of his head, his arms wrapped around your lower back, your mouth now at perfect eye-level with his cock, which was already flushed, heavy, and twitching.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, blinking. “You’re holding me like a goddamn acrobat”

“I am acrobatic,” he growled, nuzzling between your thighs again. “Now open that pretty mouth for me, baby.”

You did. Obedient. Starry-eyed. Still a little shocked.

Joel’s mouth locked onto your clit, sucking deep and messy while you gagged on his cock, your hands braced on his thighs, his length filling your mouth in heavy, wet thrusts. The angle made everything more. More intense. More desperate. His tongue circled and pressed and flicked, his beard scraping soft fire against your inner thighs while you tried not to scream around him.

He grunted against you, hips twitching.

“Goddamn, baby, you taste so fuckin’ good like this, fuck, I could hold you like this forever.”

You moaned around him, hollowing your cheeks, taking him deeper. The weight of him on your tongue, the way he groaned when you swallowed around the tip, made you even wetter.

Joel’s hands adjusted, gripping you tighter, holding you completely steady while he devoured you, like a man unhinged. His nose bumped against your clit. His tongue moved in filthy little circles. Every motion so precise it made you tremble.

“Shit, Joel, oh my god...I’m gonn..gonna cum again.”

“Do it,” he rasped, voice muffled, cock twitching in your throat. “cum while I’m holdin’ you. While you’re takin’ me so deep. Be my good fuckin’ girl”

And you did. Screamed around him. Whole body spasming as you soaked his face and choked on his cock. Joel groaned, shaking, and holding you tight, his legs like steel, his arms keeping you safe through every wave of it.

When he finally—finally—let you down, he laid you flat on the bed, kissed you upside-down, and grinned down at you like a goddamn champion.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “You’re insane.”

He smirked. “Strong as hell, though.”

“Remind me never to bet against you in a fight.”

Joel kissed you again. “Baby, if you ever wanna go another round…I’ll be upside-down, inside-out, whatever you want.”

Clothes went where they went. You dragged your nails across his shoulder blades and felt him shudder. He palmed your hip, nudged your knee, lined himself up and sank—slow, deep—just enough to steal your air. He stopped to watch you take him, to watch your mouth fall open and your hands reach for something to anchor to. “Look at me,” he said, voice wrecked.

You did. And it wasn’t just the heat. It was the way he looked back, like this was home, like you were a thing to be memorized, like the years behind him didn’t matter because this was the first time he’d really breathed in a while. He rocked into you with that rolling, patient rhythm he uses when he’s trying to break you sweetly, one hand braced by your head, the other laced with your fingers and pinned to the pillow.

“I love you,” you said, because the truth came easiest when your guard was gone.

His mouth softened. He kissed your knuckles. “I love you, sweetheart.”

He changed the angle. You gasped, he smiled. “There she is.” He did it again. “My girl.”

You climbed, slowly at first considering it was your third round, then all at once. He felt it, heard it, shifted deeper. When you tried to hide in his neck he took your chin and brought your eyes back to his. “Stay with me.” You were gone with a sob, body tightening, his name on your tongue like it belonged there. You rolled your body to be on top.

He followed—held himself hard, jaw tight—fighting it because he always fights it, because he likes to give you every last second. You felt him swell, felt the tremor start. His voice dropped to gravel. “I’m close. I need to, baby, I need to pull out.”

You nodded, foggy, hips still chasing him because your body’s greedy and his is better than breathing.

“I mean it,” he gritted. He dragged a kiss across your mouth. “Tell me you heard me.”

“I heard you,” you whispered, and you did. You did.

But something ugly and bright flickered up—fear, want, the sound of him saying grandpa like a door closing—and the animal part of you didn’t want to let go. He pulled back to leave you and you locked your legs, tipped your hips, kept him there. Tight. Hot. Yours.

“Baby” he warned, broke on it. His control snagged on the way you held him and the way your body was still fluttering around him and the way your mouth said his name like a prayer. He slammed in once, twice, lost the fight, and spilled with a rough, shocked sound that you felt everywhere. You rode it, you took it. You kissed him through it like that would make it okay.

For three breaths it was perfect. Then the sky changed.

Joel’s body went very still.

He braced under you, breath sawing, eyes searching your face with something that wasn’t sweetness anymore. He slipped out—carefully, jaw set—and sat back up, two fingers on your hip like he was steadying you or himself. The air suddenly felt too cool on your skin.

“I told you to let me out,” he said. Not loud. Worse than loud.

Guilt hit like a fist. “I...I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry. I’m so"

“You heard me.” His gaze cut to yours. “You heard me and decided you knew better.”

“I…wanted you,” you tried, tears already stinging. “It felt”

“Don’t do that,” he snapped, and you flinched because he never snaps. He exhaled immediately, dragged a hand over his face, softer but still iron. “Don’t turn this into romance. I asked for a boundary. You crossed it.”

The room was quiet except for the far-off tick of the hallway clock. You pulled the sheet up, suddenly small. “I’m sorry,” you said again, because it was all you had. And under the sorry, the hard, ugly kernel of truth, you wanted to keep him, to tether him, to win an argument your mouth hadn’t been brave enough to start.

He stood, grabbed his boxers, paced once like he needed to move his blood back into place. When he spoke again, it was calmer, and it cut more for it. “I love you. You know that.” He swallowed. “But don’t ever take my choice away. Not about this.”

You nodded so hard your vision blurred. “I won’t. I won’t. I swear.”

He leaned on the dresser, knuckles white. Looked at you—at the mess you both were, at the warmth you’d just turned to something else—and shut his eyes for a beat. “I need a minute.”

You reached for him without thinking and he stepped back, not cruel, just firm. “No. Not right now.”

The shame burned hot. “Do you…do you want me to go?”

His jaw worked. He looked like he hated the answer he had to give. “Yeah. For tonight. Go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You dressed with shaky hands, every brush of fabric against your skin a reminder of what you’d just forced, how fast love can tilt into something sharp. At the doorway you turned, because you’re you, because you always have one last try in you. “Joel”

He didn’t make you finish it. He came close enough to touch your cheek with two fingers. It was gentle. It made it worse. “I love you. I’m mad. Those things can both be true.”

You nodded, bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, and left.

Outside, the night was quiet, no wind, no crickets, just the hum of the streetlight and your heartbeat in your ears. You crossed the patch of yard you’ve come to think of as a river between two countries and climbed your window the way you’ve been doing since this started. Your room felt smaller than his does. Lonelier. You slid down the inside of the wall and sat on the floor with your knees to your chest and let the tears come the way the truth had refused to.

You’d wanted to show him how much you loved him. To feel him stay. To steal one decision back from all the ones that had been out of your hands.

All you’d shown him was that you didn’t listen.

Across the way, his bedroom light stayed on for a long time. Then it clicked to dark, and the house you loved went still. You pressed your thumbs to your eyes until the fireworks stopped behind them and whispered into your knees, “I’m sorry,” like he could hear you through the glass.

Tomorrow, you’d have to say the rest, the part you keep swallowing. But tonight, you lay down alone and let the empty side of the bed tell you exactly what you’d risked.

Chapter Text

You didn’t sleep.

Not really. Not after the look on Joel’s face last night, the hurt threaded so clean through his anger that you felt it deep in your chest. You’d lain awake in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, tears sliding down your cheeks in slow waves until exhaustion finally stole you somewhere near dawn. Even then, your dreams were scattered, uneasy, all Joel’s voice telling you “I love you, but I’m mad.”

When you finally cracked your eyes open, the sun was high and cruel. Noon. Your phone buzzed against the nightstand, screen bright. One new message.

Joel: Come over.

That was it. No good morning. No sweetheart. Just those two words.

Your stomach knotted as you dressed. You didn’t even bother with makeup, your eyes were swollen, lids sore, and no amount of concealer could hide what the night had done to you. You tugged on a sweater, soft and oversized, like maybe if you looked small enough he’d stop being so angry.

The short walk next door felt longer than it ever had before. The grass crunched under your shoes, the winter air cool against your face, the street quiet except for the hum of a cicada somewhere that hadn’t gotten the memo about the season. Joel’s truck was parked in its usual place, the blinds drawn.

You didn’t use the key he’d given you. Not this time. You knocked, knuckles soft against the doorframe, your head bowed like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office.

The door opened. Joel stood there, flannel thrown over a plain shirt, his hair damp at the temples like he’d showered not long ago. His face was tired, lined deeper than usual, but his eyes—though stern—didn’t burn. Not yet.

“Come in,” he said. Quiet.

You stepped inside, the familiar warmth of his house swallowing you. Usually it felt like home. Today it felt like borrowed space. You moved to the couch and sat, hands clasped in your lap, while Joel disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of cupboard doors, the whistle of the kettle, the scrape of a paper bag against the counter.

When he came back, he carried two things. Your mug—the one he always used for you, white with a little chip near the handle—filled with steaming tea. And a brown paper bag.

He set the mug on the coffee table, then placed the bag beside it. “Here.”

You frowned, reached for it, crinkling the paper as you pulled it open. Inside, a small box. The kind you recognized immediately.

“Plan B?” your voice cracked.

Joel sighed, leaning back into the chair opposite you, his elbows braced on his knees. His eyes stayed steady on yours, heavy with something you couldn’t name. “Yeah.”

Heat climbed your face, shame biting sharper than any argument. “Joel, I”

“Go on,” he said, nodding at the bag. “Take it.”

Your hands shook as you opened the box, tore into the foil, swallowed the pill down with a sip of the tea he’d already sweetened just right. You set the empty wrapper back into the bag with a quiet rustle.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, fingers twisting in your lap. “I shouldn’t have…I don’t know what came over me.”

Joel rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of his calloused palm audible. “Can’t happen again.”

“I know.” Your throat tightened. “I promise it won’t.”

He exhaled through his nose, steady but strained. Then his gaze cut sharper. “You on birth control?”

The question froze you. Your head dropped, shame flooding hot. “Uhm…no. I’m not.”

His mouth pressed into a flat, grim line. “Of course not.” He leaned back, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand like the words gave him a headache. “Alright. Then you’re gonna make an appointment. If you still want to be sleepin’ with me, you’re gonna have to get on it.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. “What? Joel, you can’t tell me what to do with my body.”

“No,” he said evenly, meeting your gaze head-on. “I can’t. But I also don’t trust you after the stunt you pulled. Not with this. You understand?”

His voice wasn’t cruel, but it was unyielding. A wall you couldn’t climb. And deep down, you knew he was right.

You nodded slowly. “Rightfully so. You’re right. I…I get it.”

He leaned forward again, forearms on his thighs, fingers laced together. For a long moment he didn’t speak. Then his voice dropped, softer, pained. “Y’know, sometimes I think you’re so mature for your age. The way you see me. The way you…you take care of me, darlin’. But then sometimes” he broke off, shaking his head. “God, sometimes you act like a teenager. Like a damn kid.”

The words stung worse than a slap. Tears burned hot at the back of your throat. You stared down at your hands, twisting them tighter, as if you could hold yourself together.

Joel sighed, running a hand down his face. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m perfect either. God knows I’ve made my share of mistakes. But I’m tryin’ here. I really am. You make me so damn happy, but…” He hesitated, eyes flicking up to yours, the weight in them unbearable. “Sometimes I just wonder if the age gap’s too much.”

You looked up at him then, your eyes wide and wet, the plea already on your tongue. “Joel, no…please. Don’t say that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He studied you in silence, his expression torn between anger and tenderness, between the man who wanted to scold you and the man who couldn’t stand to see you cry.

“Please,” you whispered again, reaching across the space, your fingers brushing his knee. “I love you. I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

His hand covered yours, warm and heavy, thumb brushing once across your knuckles. “I love you too,” he said quietly. “That’s why this matters. That’s why we can’t keep messin’ around with things we can’t take back.”

The room was quiet again, the only sound the faint tick of the clock on the wall and the whisper of the tea cooling in your mug.

You sat there with Joel’s hand over yours, the Plan B box empty on the table between you like proof of the line you’d crossed, and all you could think was how much you loved him, how much it hurt to know you’d nearly lost the trust that tethered you both together.

Joel’s thumb brushed over your knuckles again, once, twice, the rhythm softening something sharp inside you. He wasn’t pulling away. That meant everything.

You let out a shaky breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t ever want you to doubt me again. Not about how much I love you.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell, heavy. His gaze lingered on your face like he was searching for cracks in the words, but all he found was the raw ache in your eyes. Slowly, he shifted forward, closing the space between you. His hand came up, calloused palm warm against your cheek.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, voice gentler now, “I ain’t ever doubted that. Not once. Just scared sometimes that you don’t know what you want yet. That maybe I’m keepin’ you from figurin’ it out.”

You shook your head, fiercely. “You’re not. You’re the only thing I’m sure about.”

The words broke him open. His brow softened, his mouth tugged in something like surrender. He leaned in, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath warm as it mingled with your own. “God, you’re somethin’ else.”

The kiss started tender, his lips moving slow against yours, as though he was still deciding if he could forgive you. But then you sighed into him, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, and the sound seemed to undo him. His mouth deepened, his hand cupping your jaw firmer, the kiss turning into something that tasted like relief, like I still want you and don’t let go.

By the time he pulled you onto his lap, your sweater pushed up under his rough hands, you were clinging to him like the world outside didn’t exist. He kissed you like he was reminding himself why he loved you, why he kept trying despite the cracks in your foundation. You kissed him back like you’d pour every ounce of apology and devotion you had into him until he believed it.

Between the kisses, he whispered against your skin, low and rough, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nodded, eyes wet but steady. “I won’t. I promise.”

For a while, there weren’t words. Just mouths and hands, the kind of closeness that blurred guilt and forgiveness into the same desperate need. When it slowed, when your head dropped to his shoulder and his arm locked tight around your waist, there was silence. Not heavy. Not empty. Just quiet enough to breathe in.

Joel kissed your hair. “Reckon we’ll be alright,” he muttered, almost like he was reassuring himself.

You smiled faintly against his neck. “We will. We always are.”

You sat like that for a long time, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip, your cheek pressed to the warm crook of his collar. Eventually, he shifted, clearing his throat like he was pulling himself back into the world.

“There’s somethin’ I should tell you,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “Okay.”

“Sarah.” He hesitated, then sighed. “She’s movin’ back in today”

His hand squeezed your knee. “I know, you know. Means the world, havin’ her close again. But don’t want you feelin’ pushed out. You ain’t.”

You nodded, though doubt still prickled. “I get it, Joel. It’s her home too. I don’t mind givin' you guys time to adjust.”

He studied you for a long moment, then kissed your forehead, like he was sealing the promise. “Alright. Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You tucked yourself tighter against him, hoping he couldn’t feel the way your heart raced with the thought of being in his house under Sarah’s watchful eyes.

“Give her a few days to settle in,” Joel added. “And then…thought maybe you could start at the office. Secretary position. Nine sharp. Tomorrow.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “That soon?”

He smirked faintly. “Been waitin’ on someone who could actually handle Tommy’s mess of a desk for months.

For the first time since last night, the tightness in your chest loosened. Maybe you weren’t ready to tell him everything yet. Maybe you were still tangled in lies you couldn’t quite cut free. But in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you let yourself believe what he said. That you’d figure it out. Together.

And if you had to carry the weight of the secret a little longer to protect what you’d built, well, maybe that was the price of loving Joel Miller.

Chapter Text

The alarm cut through the dark at six sharp, shrill and merciless, and you rolled over with a groan. For a moment you thought about hitting snooze, just five more minutes, just one more drift into the safety of sleep. But then you remembered, today wasn’t like other days.

You forced yourself up, headed to the bathroom, the tile cold under your feet. The shower hissed alive, hot water washing away the restless night clinging to your skin. You tilted your face into the spray, eyes closing, trying to convince yourself you could handle this.

When you finished, you stood in front of the mirror, hairbrush in hand. Instead of your usual messy waves, you pulled your hair back tight, sleek, twisted into a bun that made you look older, more polished. A small armor of adulthood. Makeup came next, soft, understated, just enough to smooth the edges, to hide the anxiety swelling beneath your skin.

The clothes your mother had given you at Christmas lay folded neatly on the chair by your bed. You’d resisted them at first, too stiff, too grown-up, not you. But now? They seemed right, even necessary. Professional. You slipped into the blouse, straightened the skirt, let your hands linger on the fabric like maybe it could transform you into someone different. Someone ready.

Still, you couldn’t resist adding yourself back in. A pair of delicate earrings, a necklace that dipped just enough, a bracelet that caught the light. You unbuttoned one more button than your mom would’ve approved of, softening the severity, giving yourself back a sliver of your usual ease.

The clock read 8:20 when you finally grabbed your bag, heavy with the weight of your wallet, your ID, your social security card. Your fingers brushed the envelope inside, and a sick twist rolled in your gut. Joel had told you to bring it. Of course he had. It was a job, a legal hire, not just something to keep you busy.

But the thought of him seeing it—the truth printed black and white on a laminated card—made your breath hitch. What if today was the day the whole house of cards came crashing down? What if this wasn’t a beginning, but the end?

You pushed the thought down, shoved it as far back as it would go, and climbed into your car.

The drive blurred. Austin morning traffic, storefronts yawning open, the gray sky pressing low and cool overhead. You parked at 8:58 on the dot in front of the office Joel had described. It was smaller than you’d imagined, tucked between a cell phone store with flashing neon and a juice bar with chalkboard specials scrawled in looping pastel.

The glass door was locked.

You checked your phone, heart racing. No message. No Joel. No Tommy. You stood there, trying to breathe evenly, adjusting your bag strap again and again like it might anchor you.

At 9:05, a pair of trucks pulled into the lot. Joel climbed out first, boots crunching the gravel, his face softening when he saw you. Behind him, Tommy waved from the driver’s seat of his own truck before climbing down.

Joel didn’t hesitate. He crossed to you in a few long strides, his hand brushing your waist, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Mornin’, baby,” he said low, the kind of voice that made something in you unclench.

Tommy grinned. “Don’t she clean up nice? I told Joel you’d class the place up.”

You flushed under their eyes, murmuring something about it not being a big deal, though the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Joel squeezed your hand, eyes skimming over your blouse, your skirt, your bun. “Beautiful,” he said simply, and kissed the side of your head again.

Tommy fumbled with the keys, muttering about locks that stuck, and finally got the door open. The air inside was cool and faintly dusty, the hum of a coffee pot Joel got brewing as soon as he walked in.

Joel took you by the hand, giving you a tour. The space was modest, practical. Worn desks, stacked files, framed prints of old construction projects lining the walls. Masculine, yes, but lived-in. You smiled when you saw the clutter spilling over Tommy’s desk, coffee cups, crumpled notes, a wrench that looked wildly out of place.

You laughed. “Wow, this is…a lot.”

Tommy scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah, figured you could help me sort it out.”

“No problem,” you said, grinning. “I like a challenge.”

Joel smirked, sipping from a chipped mug he’d snagged on the way. “She’ll have you organized in no time, brother. Just don’t bury her alive in all that junk.”

The warmth of his praise settled deep in you. Maybe you could do this. Maybe this could be a place you belonged.

Joel checked his watch, already restless. “I gotta get to a site,” he said, draining the last of his coffee. He leaned down, brushing another kiss against your hairline. “Tommy’ll get you settled. Give him your info for the system.”

Your heart jolted.

“SS card, ID,” Joel continued easily. “He’ll get you on payroll.”

You nodded quickly, forcing your voice into something steady. “Of course.”

Joel kissed you once more, softer this time, lingering. “See you later, baby.”

Then he was gone, boots echoing, the door shutting behind him.

The office seemed quieter without him, the air settling heavy. You turned to find Tommy already perched at his desk, powering up the computer. He motioned you over with an easy smile.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, glancing up at you. “Ain’t an IRS audit. Just paperwork. You’ll be fine.”

You forced a smile, digging into your bag. Your fingers closed around the envelope like it might bite you. Slowly, you handed it over.

Tommy took it with a casual nod, flipping it open. He scanned the cards, typing something into the computer, clicking through screens like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t your entire secret sitting on his desk, staring up at him in bold black numbers.

You sat there, your palms damp, your chest tight. Every second stretched.

He grinned, sliding your cards back into the envelope, handing them over without so much as a blink.

You tucked the envelope back into your bag, fingers trembling, and smiled like nothing was wrong.

“All right,” Tommy said, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s get you the rundown. Phones, files, who calls and who doesn’t. And” He swept a hand toward the mountain of clutter on his desk. “your first official job? Save me from this disaster.”

You laughed, the sound high and shaky but real enough. “Guess I better earn my paycheck, huh?”

Tommy grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

And just like that, the day began.

But under it all—your smile, your laugh, the neat bun at the back of your head—the truth pressed, heavy and relentless. Joel hadn’t seen yet. But he would. Sooner or later, the lie you were balancing on would tilt. And when it did? You didn’t know if even the strongest man you’d ever loved could hold you steady.

The office smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, the kind of scent that clung to small spaces with too many files and not enough windows. Tommy’s desk sat in the corner like a monument to disorganization, stacks of folders leaning precariously, pens jammed into mugs, Post-its curling at the edges, yesterday’s takeout box shoved half under a stack of invoices.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes wide in mock horror.

“This is…..impressive. I think I’ve seen cleaner dumpsters.”

Tommy shot you a flat look, lips twitching despite himself. “Don’t get smart. My system works fine.”

“System?” You plucked a sticky note off the corner and held it up. The ink had smudged into an unreadable blur. “What part of the system is this?”

He snatched it back, crumpling it in his fist. “That was a phone number. Might’ve been important.”

You grinned, already rolling up your sleeves. “All right, let’s save your ass. Where do we even start?”

“Thankfully,” Tommy muttered, shoving the empty box into the trash, “my desk is tucked back here. Clients don’t have to see this mess.”

“Thank God,” you teased, sweeping a stack of papers onto the floor so you could sort them into piles. “Imagine someone actually walked in and thought this was professional.”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

By the time Joel left for the site, you were knee-deep in organizing with Tommy. The two of you had cleared enough space on his desk to actually see the wood, and he’d walked you through the basics of your new position, phones, invoices, scheduling subcontractors, keeping track of estimates and payments.

“This is you,” Tommy said, patting the desk at the front near the door. A tidy computer waited there, the monitor flickering to life when he tapped the space bar. “Answer phones, book appointments, keep Joel and me from double-booking ourselves, chase down clients when they owe us money. Oh, and make sure Joel eats before he gets cranky.”

You chewed your gum loudly, clicking through the tabs he’d opened for you. “What’s his favorite lunch spot?”

Tommy ticked them off on his fingers. “That taco truck off 12th. The diner three blocks down, he’ll order the same thing every time, watch. And sometimes he’ll go healthy with one of them juice bars, but don’t let him fool you, he’s miserable the whole time.”

You snorted, blowing a small bubble before snapping it back into your mouth.

Tommy pointed a finger at you. “You sound like a kid with that gum.”

You grinned, flipped him off, and went back to typing in the scheduling system.

“Real professional,” he said dryly.

“Hey, I’m making your circus look good,” you shot back. “Show some respect.”

The banter made the morning fly by, the rhythm of it easy, natural. You hadn’t expected to like working with Tommy, but he was good company. Sharp, funny in a dry way, and underneath it all, deeply loyal.

At one point he leaned back in his chair, eyeing you carefully. “You know, I’ve never seen Joel this happy. Not in years.”

You paused, fingers still on the keyboard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Guy’s been through it. We both have. But you? You put some light back in him. He’s different.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest, soft and fragile. You ducked your head. “I love him, Tommy.”

“I know you do.” His voice gentled. “That’s why I gotta ask, how you feel about Sarah’s pregnancy? Really.”

Your throat tightened. The question wasn’t mean, wasn’t loaded. Just honest. And it deserved honesty back.

“I’m happy for her,” you said slowly, each word scraped up from the pit of your stomach. “But…I don’t like it. Not really. It feels wrong. Like, like now Joel and I will never have kids. Like the door shut before it even opened.”

Tommy was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded, eyes steady on yours. “I get that. I do. It’s rough. But don’t count yourself out yet. Things have a way of working out, even when you don’t see how.”

You shrugged, forcing a smile. “It is what it is.”

Before he could press further, the bell over the front door jingled. Joel strode in, sunlight haloing him, the smell of sawdust and sweat trailing behind. His eyes went straight to you.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, and you felt yourself ease just hearing it. “You hungry?”

You nodded, grateful for the change of subject.

Joel glanced at Tommy. “You good holdin’ down the fort?”

Tommy waved him off. “Go on. She’s yours.”

Joel led you out to his truck, the midday sun bright overhead. He took you to a diner you hadn’t been to before, the kind with faded booths and a waitress who seemed to know Joel by name.

Over plates of burgers and fries, Joel talked about the site he’d just come from, concrete delays, subcontractors who didn’t show, the small victories when everything actually lined up. He told you about Sarah, about his worries and hopes, about Tommy driving him half crazy but always having his back.

You listened, quiet but attentive, letting him take up the space, letting the sound of his voice wash over you. His eyes lit when he talked, his hands moving animatedly, his smile coming easier than you’d seen in a while.

By the time the plates were cleared, he was relaxed, content, his arm stretched across the back of your booth.

“You okay?” he asked softly, searching your face.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just listening.”

Back at the office, the place was empty. Tommy had disappeared for his own lunch, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet.

Joel shut the door behind you, eyes glinting with something softer, darker. You hopped up on his desk, swinging your legs, teasing.

“You know,” you said, voice light, “we could do it like in the movies. On the desk. Papers flying, phone ringing, whole dramatic thing.”

Joel chuckled, stepping closer, his hands bracketing your thighs. “That does sound fun,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. “Once you’re on birth control.”

The reminder hit like a stone in your gut. You swallowed, your smile faltering. “Right. Forgot about that.”

Joel kissed your jaw, lingering, like he didn’t notice the way you stiffened. “Ain’t no rush. But I need to know you’re safe.”

You nodded quickly, hopping off the desk before your eyes could give you away. “I’ll call. Make an appointment.”

He brushed a knuckle along your cheek, eyes soft. “Good girl.”

You excused yourself, stepping out into the hallway. Your hands trembled as you dialed the clinic, the phone pressed to your ear. You scheduled the appointment, voice steady even as your insides twisted.

When you hung up, you leaned against the cool wall, eyes closing. You could hear Joel humming faintly in the other room, content, unknowing.

And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe you could keep the lie going forever, because the man you loved, the man who made you laugh and made you safe, was happier than you’d ever seen him. And you couldn’t bear to take that away.

Chapter Text

The mornings had become your favorite part of life.

Not just because of Joel—though it was always because of Joel, if you were honest—but because of the way things had finally settled. You had a rhythm. A ritual. A life that felt stitched together instead of fraying at the seams.

You’d get to the office first. Unlock the door, flick on the lights, listen to the hum of the building waking up. The coffee pot was always your first stop, because you knew by the time Joel came in, hair still damp from his shower and shirt rolled at the sleeves, he’d pretend he didn’t need it but would melt the second you handed him his cup. You always got the balance right, strong, dark, with just enough sweet to make him grumble and drink it faster than he meant to.

He’d drop a kiss on your head, gruff and fond, and you’d tuck yourself onto his lap for a few minutes before the day officially began. Those were the moments you treasured, the quiet hum of the printer, Joel’s hand warm against your thigh, his thumb tracing circles while his other hand rested heavy against your waist.

The office didn’t look like it had when you’d started. You’d made it into something softer, more welcoming. Plants curled green in the windows, bright against the gray walls. A rug softened the echo of footsteps. Pictures lined your desk, some of Sarah’s sonogram printouts, one of Maria’s arm around you, one of Joel you’d snapped when he wasn’t paying attention. Clients noticed. They’d look around and smile, saying things like this place feels different now. Joel would beam quietly, pride hidden but obvious, and tell them you were the reason.

And business had never been better.

You’d started a simple social media page, just before-and-afters, snapshots of Joel’s crew smiling after jobs. It worked. Calls poured in, new faces walked through the door, and Joel would mutter to Tommy when he thought you couldn’t hear, She’s the best damn thing that ever happened to this place.

Your life outside the office had grown just as full.

Sarah’s pregnancy was smooth, her belly rounder with every week. By March she couldn’t hide it if she tried. You’d gone to an ultrasound with her and Joel, Maria tucked beside you, the four of you crammed into a tiny room. You’d gasped when the faint shape of a hand twitched on the screen, and Joel had cried quietly, wiping his eyes like he hoped no one noticed. You had. You’d seen him as a father in that moment, and it broke you open.

The baby shower had been your project. You and Maria had smuggled in balloons, ribbons, and an impossible cake while Joel grumbled about all the fuss. Sarah had glowed, overwhelmed by gifts and laughter, hugging you tight at the end of the night. Thank you for loving my dad, she’d whispered in your ear. You barely made it to the kitchen before your eyes blurred.

Maria had become your anchor. She tutored you at night, helping you study for exams, walking you through the mess of applications. She told you that you were smart, that you could do this, that you belonged in college. Slowly, you began to believe her.

Even your mom had started answering the phone again. Awkward, brittle conversations, but something. Better than silence.

It was all so good. Too good. Like a dream that didn’t belong to you but one you clung to anyway.

The day of the appointment began ordinary.

You made Joel’s coffee, kissed him, tucked yourself onto his lap until Tommy barged in with paperwork. You teased Tommy about his mess, he shot back with some crack about your gum chewing, and you flipped him off as usual. He laughed, shaking his head, muttering you’re trouble.

Lunch with Joel was warm, sunlight spilling across his face as he talked about Sarah’s latest cravings, Tommy’s headaches at a site, how proud he was of the office. You watched him, loved him, felt the weight of how safe it all seemed.

The accountant came after lunch. You saw him through the front window, gray suit too sharp for your cozy office. Joel greeted him with a handshake, ushered him into the back, Tommy following with a folder tucked under his arm.

Time stretched. You watered your plants, reorganized files, answered emails twice over. You told yourself nothing was wrong.

Until Tommys voice cut across the quiet.

“Hey. Can you step in here a minute?”

Your heart jumped. You smoothed your skirt and walked back.

The room felt wrong. Joel sat at his desk, stiff, staring at the wall. Tommy stood behind him, arms crossed. Neither of them looked at you.

The accountant cleared his throat. Papers spread across the desk. “There seems to be…a discrepancy in your paperwork.”

You forced a smile. “What kind of problem?”

He tapped the page. “Your birth year.”

The numbers stared back at you, black ink screaming the truth. Your pulse roared. The room tilted.

“It’s…uh......um...It’s..right.”

The words clawed out of your throat.

Joel’s chair scraped back. He stood. Grabbed his keys. His silence was worse than shouting.

“Joel” You reached for him, desperate.

He pulled away like your hand burned. Didn’t even look at you. Walked past and out the door, the slam echoing like a gunshot.

A tear slid hot down your cheek.

You turned to Tommy, panicked. “I..I”

His mouth tightened. “I thought you told him after Thanksgiving.”

You shook your head, no, no.

Tommy laid a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Give him some space. That’s all you can do.”

And then he left too.

You stood in the office you’d made a home, surrounded by your plants and pictures and soft touches. All of it suddenly foreign. All of it suddenly wrong.

Your chest heaved. The air was too thick. You pressed your hand over your heart and tried to breathe, but the only thing louder than your pulse was the hollow slam of Joel’s silence ringing in your bones.

That night you stayed late. Alone.

The office was too quiet, every shadow heavy. You sat at your desk, staring at the blinking cursor on the computer screen, the plants silhouetted against the window. You thought about the baby shower, about Maria’s kind words, about Sarah hugging you like family. About Joel kissing your head in the mornings, about the future he’d painted for you.

All of it fragile. All of it shattered.

You bent over your desk and sobbed until your throat was raw.

The road to the lookout was slick and black, rain asking the world to blur its edges. You drove slow because the truth buzzed under your skin like a live wire and fast because you could not stand to be anywhere else. Joel’s jacket was the only thing you wanted to bury your face into. You told yourself you were giving him space. You lied to yourself because space had started to feel like abandonment and the silence had become a livid thing you couldn’t breathe around.

When you climbed the gravel path, your hoodie soaked at the shoulders, your sneakers sucking the mud, the horizon was a smear of city light and weather. Joel stood at the lip of the overlook like a figure cut out of storm-silver, broad shoulders drawn tight, head bowed, the cigarette smoke a pale thread in the wet air. He had been out here for hours. You could see the stiffness in the way his arms were crossed, the way his jaw worked every few seconds like someone trying to move a heavy weight through a narrow door.

Rain spattered your face and dissolved the words on your lips. You called to him anyway, voice small and useless in the dark. “Joel.”

He didn’t turn at first. He pulled his hands up and rubbed at his eyes, a tired, animal gesture. When he finally did face you, the rain traced clean lines down his cheek—whiskey on his breath, night damp on his hair—everything about him raw and brutal under the streetlamps. He looked like the man you loved and like a wall you could not pass through.

“Twenty,” he said flat. Just the number, spat like an accusation. The wind took it up and threw it back at you.

Your throat closed. You had rehearsed this a hundred different ways but never that simple, cold fact like a stone thrown into the middle of everything. “Joel” you started, and the word cracked.

“Don’t.” He raised his hand before you could get closer. Rain made his skin shine. “Don’t you dare say sorry.”

Your knees went soft. The world rearranged itself into his face and rain and the low hum of the highway far below. “I…months,” you choked. “I”

“You had months.” His voice cut through the rain like glass. “Months to tell me the truth and you lied. God, you lied.”

The breath you’d held exploded out of you in a sound between a laugh and a sob. You stepped forward anyway, because every muscle in your body demanded it. “I couldn’t,” you said. “I knew you’d leave. I thought ....I was scared.”

He turned on you then, swift and shocked and terrible. The man you had slept beside, who had held you when the world fell apart, who had whispered he would never leave, he was suddenly a foreigner. “You think that’s a reason?” The hurt in his eyes was a blade. “You think fear makes this okay?”

Your hands flapped uselessly at your sides. Rain soaked through your sleeves into the warmth of you. “I love you, Joel. I do. Please, just, please don’t.”

He laughed then, and it was ugly and fractured. “Love? You want to talk about love when you built this—this thing—on a lie? You call it love? You don’t love me.” His words hit like stones, precise and cruel. “You lie to people you say you love. That’s not love. That’s something else. That’s selfish. That’s dangerous.”

He stepped forward, close enough that you could see the minute lines at the corners of his eyes, the rawness that had nothing to do with weather. “twenty,” he said softly, like testing the teeth of a blade. “I thought you were 26. I thought I had met a woman, someone who’d lived more years than you. Not…this. Not a child who still thinks the world is something she can handle by smiles and charm.”

“I am a woman,” you whispered, so small. “I pay bills. I work. I take care of people. I run the office. I went to the clinic, Joel” The memory of the sterile room rushed up, the way your hands had shaken. “I got tested. I don’t sleep around. I’m responsible.”

You felt the blood in your ears, thick and hot. “I’m still me,” you whispered, like proof could be dragged out of air. “I’m still the same woman you loved.”

“You got tested because you were scared you might’ve gotten something from Elijah. You didn’t think about how you might be scaring me, about how your choices affect someone who loves you. You didn’t tell me you were that young because you were trying to keep me? Keep me from leaving?” His voice cracked, and under the anger was something that sounded a lot like grief. “Do you even understand what it’s like to build something with someone and find out the foundation was different than you thought? Different in a way that changes everything?”

You closed your eyes against the sting of your own tears. “I do. I understand now,” you said, and the admission scraped the last bit of pride away. “I see it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen like this with you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would give…anything”

“Anything?” He echoed, voice low. “You want to give me anything now?” He laughed, but it was a broken thing. “You want to give me a future that was built on a lie? What do you want me to do with that? Throw a ring on my finger and pretend? Have kids and build a life and then...then what? What happens the day our kid asks why their mother hid something like this? What happens when someone cruel uses it against you? What happens when you wake up and you feel small and trapped because I’m 30 years older than you and we both hate the mirror?”

The questions were antiseptic and merciless. They sank into you, cool and deep. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “I don’t know the answers. I only know I love you. I thought, God, Joel, please just”

“Love,” he spat the syllable out like a challenge, and you felt it cut you open. “Love doesn’t look like lies. It doesn’t lie to the person it claims to hold the most. If you loved me, you would’ve given me the truth. Whatever else you are,if you love me, that’s how you show it. You don’t hide the most important thing about yourself like it’s a dirty secret.”

You reached for him. For the first time in the night he allowed you somewhere near his chest, and the warmth from his jacket seared cold into your bones. “I did it because I was terrified,” you said. “I thought you’d leave before you even had a chance to fall. I thought maybe if I waited I could keep this,keep you. I’m sorry. I will do anything to fix it.” you explained again.

He regarded you a long moment, like he was trying to find a place for the pain to land. Then he exhaled through his nose and the sound was almost a sob. His voice went flat and bitter. “You know what would have been easier to swallow?” he said, small and cruel. “If you’d cheated. If you had gone behind my back and slept with another man, that would have been simpler in a way. At least then it would have been honest. This, this is worse than cheating. I wish you would have just cheated on me.”

You felt those words like a hand closing around your throat. The rain blurred, and you tasted something metallic—grief, shame—on the back of your tongue.

“That’s the thing,” he said finally, softer now but no kinder. “It’s not about you doing what I want. It’s about being honest. I can’t…I can’t be with someone who thinks it’s okay to hide their past from me. We can’t build a life like that. Not the kind I thought we were building.”

“Did you?” He stepped back as if the words burned him too. “Did you finish high school? All of it? Or just the parts you thought would be fun to tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t notice the way you freeze when someone asks about your childhood? Did you make Tommy lie to me for you? How many things did you keep? How many pieces did you decide I didn’t deserve?”

You clutched at his sleeve as if you could anchor him, but his hand went through yours like smoke. “Tommy didn’t tell you because he thought you had already been told. Maria thought the same. They thought you knew,” you said fast, breath coming raggedly. “It wasn’... it’s not their fault.”

He flung his hands wide as if to push every explanation away. “They’re guilty. They let this happen. They should have told me. How could they not know I’d want to know? You think I would want this? A girl who could be my kid? A woman who still acts like a child in every fight we have?”

“You can’t just judge me by my mistakes,” you pleaded. The rain made your hair cling to your face. The cold was nothing compared to the hollowness quake-spreading in your chest. “I’m trying, Joel. I’ve been trying. I tried to be good. I tried to change.”

He laughed again, softer this time but suddenly weary. “Change? You think there’s a patch for this? A sticker you slap on and everything’s fine? I’ve spent nights thinking about what I can be for you. Teaching you. Helping you. But I didn’t sign up for this.” He spat the last words out like a curse. “I didn’t sign up to be the old man who took advantage of a girl.”

“You think I planned it?” The word plan hung ridiculous and pitiful. “You think I wanted to hurt you? I thought” Your voice shattered. “I thought if I could make you love me first, the age would, it wouldn’t matter. I know now that was wrong. I know now.”

“Wrong doesn’t even start to cover it.” He let the rain wash his face and then wiped it away angrily with the back of his sleeve. “You made us both wrong. You infected everything with this lie. I’ve been waking up next to you thinking I was, I was building something honest. I told myself that. I believed it. You were mine. I’d never seen the sunrise and want to stay for the whole day until I met you. I thought I had someone steady. I thought I had someone who would tell me the hard things.” He swallowed hard, voice breaking. “And then today—the paperwork—God, The paperwork says ‘2005.’”

Time stopped in the way it does when someone steals your breath. You tried to talk and found your mouth full of mud and apology. “I meant to tell you. I kept telling myself I’d tell you. After Thanksgiving. After New Year’s. After” Your words fell and tangled. “Every time I thought about it, fear boxed me in.” No sound left your chest. The world felt turned hollow and the rain filled the hollowness. “Please,” you said once, the single syllable ragged and raw. “Please don’t walk away. I can be better. I will be better.”

He studied you for one more long moment, like searching for some sign that this was a childless lie or a mistake that could be folded up and set aside. The muscles in his face worked like ropes. Then, slowly, he stepped back.

“You made your bed,” he said, voice flat as the wet road below. “You chose this without me. You chose to build something that wasn’t true. That choice has a consequence.”

It felt like theground had dropped out from under you. You reached, stumbling, words spilling“Joel, I love you, I swear I love you, please” but he was already turning away, rain blurring the line of his shoulders until he was just a silhouette against the city lights.

“Don’t follow me,” he said without looking back. “Give me space. Go home. Figure out what you want to be without me wrapped around it.”

The last thing you heard was the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel as he walked away. Each step took a piece of you with him.

You stood in the rain until you were soaked to the bone and numb with the cold that had nothing to do with weather, until your limbs trembled and your teeth chattered and the city below glittered like a life you had been pretending to live. The rain washed the dirt from your shoes and the salt of your makeup down your cheeks, but it couldn’t wash out the shape of his silhouette walking further and further until the light swallowed him whole.

When you finally forced your feet to move, you did not follow. You couldn’t. You walked back down the slope the same way you’d come, slow, clumsy, each step a small, private punishment. The house looked smaller from the road, the windows dark and shut. Joel’s bedroom light would not be on tonight. His curtains would not be pulled aside for you.

You opened the front door to your dads home with hands that were shaking and a voice inside that had been broken clean open. The house greeted you with the stale smell of beer and old cigarettes and the small, reckless loneliness you’d known before him. Your bedroom upstairs was the same, the posters on the wall, the thrift-store lamp, the half-packed boxes from when you thought you might not stay. You collapsed on your bed, mud cooling under your legs, and let out a sound that was not a sob and not a scream but everything in between.

Outside, the rain finally eased, the world rinsed clean in a way that meant nothing and everything at once. You curled into yourself and tried to hold all the pieces together—your love, your shame, your wish to be forgiven—like a child pressing their palms over a broken glass and hoping, impossibly, it would mend.

Chapter Text

You let the room go dark and then you let yourself follow.

Not the romantic kind of dark — not candles, not melancholy with a soundtrack — but true dark, the kind that comes from refusing to open the curtains for days, from pulling the blanket over your head until the air turns stale and warm and thin. The kind that makes time lose its edges. You stop counting hours. You don’t mark mornings. You only measure by the way the light changes behind the fabric, pale to gray to black, and by how often your breath hitches into a sob that you swallow so it doesn’t echo down the hall.

Your phone dies on the second day. You don’t plug it in. It’s easier to pretend the world has paused with you, that no one is calling, that there aren’t messages piling up like snow you’ll have to dig through. You know Sarah would text. Tommy, probably. Maybe even Maria, something simple and steady. You imagine their words—are you okay? we love you. come eat.—and you flinch because the answer is no, you are not, and also because you don’t deserve the softness. Not after what you did.

You sleep badly. When you do wake, it’s to the raw ache behind your eyes and the sour taste of grief on your tongue. Sometimes you cry without sound. Sometimes you wail into the pillow until your throat burns and your voice turns ragged. Once, you shove your fist into the drywall beside the closet because pain needs an outlet and the wall is patient. The punch blooms into a throb across your knuckles, sharp, honest. It feels almost like relief. You cradle your hand against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” to no one, to everyone, to the room, to him.

You try to eat. A cracker goes soft on your tongue and dissolves into paste. Water makes your stomach lurch. At noon on the third day you make it to the bathroom on shaking legs and throw up nothing but bile. When you retch, your whole body seizes like it’s trying to expel the memory of his face in the office, how it closed, how it hardened, how he did not look at you when he left. You rinse your mouth. You watch yourself in the mirror, hair matted, eyes swollen, the rims red like you’ve been in a windstorm. You look like a person someone would cross the street to avoid. You look like a person who broke something precious and is finally admitting it out loud.

The house is too quiet. Your father moves through it in his usual shape—door open, door closed, television murmuring, a bottle clinking on the counter—but he doesn’t knock. You’re grateful and you hate it. Once you hear him pause outside your door and then keep walking. You imagine him thinking, she made her bed. You imagine him thinking nothing at all.

You don’t look at Joel’s house during the day. You can’t. The possibility of seeing him in the yard or catching a slice of his shoulder through the kitchen window feels like staring directly into the sun. You flinch from it. You keep your eyes down when you pass the blinds, like a superstition. But at night, when the moon is high and the street turns gentle and almost forgiving, you lie on your back and stare at the silhouette of his curtains through your own sheer ones. You try to imagine what the room looks like without you in it. You try to picture the bed made straight, the shirt you used to steal folded on the chair instead of on your shoulders. Sometimes, when the wind creeps just right, you think you can smell cedar through the window and your throat closes until you cough.

His truck is hardly home. You notice that without trying to. The absence is loud. Nights pass with the driveway empty, then one night it’s there and then it’s gone before dawn. You picture him at a site with a headlamp on, working because it’s better than thinking. You picture him at the lookout, the one he took you to, standing in the wind and letting the city lights do that glittering, indifferent thing they do. You wonder if he blames you in words or in silence. You wonder which is worse.

On the fourth evening, because you have to leave the bed or you’ll sink permanently, you walk barefoot into the backyard with a sweater zipped to your chin. The grass is cool. The sky is a navy bruise broken by a fingernail of moon. You sit on the step and wrap your arms around your knees and breathe like a person learning how. Somewhere a dog barks. A car door thunks. The night plays on, ordinary and unforgiving.

You say the truth out loud because the night is the only thing that will let you finish the sentence without interrupting. “It’s my fault.” The words are small and absolute. You turn them over and find no other side. “I lied,” you add, because you need to hear it. “I lied and I kept lying and I let him find out from a stranger. I did that.” It feels like pressing your fingers into a bruise, painful, clarifying. There is no defense that doesn’t circle back to the same shame.

You think about the morning rhythm you loved so much, the key in the office door, the hum of the coffee pot, the way his palm would find your thigh like a reflex, and your chest caves. You think about Sarah’s laugh, about Maria shooing Tommy out of the kitchen with a dishtowel, about the plants in the window you remembered to water. You think about the binder he left with his square handwriting and the small Post-it note that said you don’t lose people who build things here. You think about how you built something and then salted the earth under it.

Inside, in the kitchen, you open a cabinet and stare at the bottles that have lived there your whole life. You pick one up and then you put it down. An hour later you pick it up again. The drink burns going down, and for five minutes you feel fuzzed and less aware of where your skin ends. A second drink is a worse idea and you do it anyway. You are not trying to be dramatic. You are trying to quiet the part of your brain that keeps replaying the moment he pulled his arm away when you reached for him. It doesn’t work. You cry harder. You pour the rest down the sink because at least you can control that.

In the bathroom you press a cool washcloth to your eyes until the heat fades. You count your breaths. You count the tiles. You say his name under your breath like it’s a prayer and a confession both. When you crawl back into bed, the sheets are cold and smell like dish soap and the faintest, lingering trace of his laundry. You pull the blanket over your head and float in the small cave you’ve made and try to remember the exact feel of his hand at the back of your neck when he pulled you in. The memory makes you ache in a way that isn’t romantic and isn’t strictly physical. It’s just absence, pure and stubborn.

You try to bargain with the ceiling. If I had told him sooner. If I had said it the first night. If I had written it down. If I had....You exhaust the ifs and they don’t change the ending. There is only the you that did not tell him and the you that must own that. You turn onto your side and press your palms together like you’re praying for a different outcome. Nothing shifts. The truth doesn’t soften just because you want it to.

On the fifth day you plug your phone in because you can’t avoid the world forever. It lights up like a small city coming back after a blackout. The messages pour in. You don’t open most of them. You read the first line of Sarah’s: I love you. I’m here. You read one from Tommy that just says, whenever you want to come in, the office is ready, and something in your chest pulls tight because kindness is worse than anger right now. You stare at Joel’s name and hope for a message even as you hope there isn’t one. There isn’t.

You shower. You brush your teeth. You pull on clean clothes and feel like an imposter in them. You change the sheets because the old ones feel haunted. You open the curtains an inch and then two. The light hurts your eyes and then it doesn’t. You stand there with your hand on the fabric and try to be the kind of person who doesn’t hide from what she did. You fail and you close them again, but you close them gently this time, like maybe tomorrow you’ll keep them open.

You sit on the floor and pull the blanket around your shoulders and talk to yourself like you would talk to a child you cared about. You say you messed up. You say you can be sorry and also brave. You say you might have to live without him. You say that will not kill you even if it feels like it might. You say you have to be better. Not because it’ll win him back. Because being better is the only way to live with yourself.

At night, the sheer curtains go white with moonlight and you stare at the dark square of his window until your eyes blur. You imagine him asleep. You imagine him awake. You imagine him angry and then you imagine him numb and the numb is worse. You whisper “goodnight” even though no one hears you. You press your fingers to your lips and then to the glass like a ritual, like a vow, like an apology.

The days don’t improve, not really, but they start to structure themselves. Grief becomes a routine. wake, cry, breathe, drink water, stand outside for five minutes, cry again, sit quietly until your chest hurts less. You do small, stupid tasks—a load of laundry, a wiped counter, a stack of mail sorted—and each one feels like lifting a stone from your chest and setting it to the side. You don’t call him. You don’t write the message you’re rehearsing. You let the punishment of the waiting do what it does, carve you out so there’s room for something else someday.

Sometimes you sit on the back step and talk to the moon because it’s the only thing that won’t judge you. You say, I loved him, and you say, I still do, and you say, I did this, and you say, I’m sorry, and the moon says nothing back because it’s a rock and not a god, but somehow the saying helps. It keeps you from drowning in the unsaid.

On the seventh night you finally sleep without dreaming. In the morning you wake with your face unpuffed and your throat not raw. The quiet feels different, like a held breath that might be released. You make tea. You sit by the window with it in both hands and watch the street wake up. You don’t look at his house. Not yet. But you sit there and you don’t hide your face with the blanket and you don’t hate yourself for breathing.

It’s still your fault. Every minute of it. Owning that doesn’t lighten it. But it does make the ground under your feet feel a little more solid. If the hurt belongs to you, then so does the work of living past it. You press the warm rim of the cup to your cheek and let the heat soak in. Outside, a bird lands on the wire and flicks its wings twice and then is gone. You think, tomorrow I will open the curtains all the way. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like betrayal. It feels like penance. It feels like beginning.

Chapter Text

It was Tommy who finally pulled you out.

His call came late. So late you almost didn’t answer. The phone had been plugged in for all of two hours, your dad muttering about “wastin’ electricity” before stomping out again. You answered only because the glow of his name in the dark was more comforting than the silence.

“You alive?” Tommy asked, not unkind.

You pressed your knees tighter to your chest. “Unfortunately.”

He chuckled, though it was a tired sound. “You can’t keep hidin’, kid. The office is bleedin’ without you. Clients ask for you by name. Joel’s makin’ do, but he’s off-site half the time now. And when he does come in, it’s after hours. Paperwork only.”

That made you wince. The image was a wound all its own, Joel at his desk, in the quiet dark, working through invoices where your laughter used to fill the air.

“I can’t face him,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” Tommy said, firm. “Not yet. He’s makin’ damn sure of that. But we need you. I need you. Business is already sufferin’, and Maria says routine will do you good.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say you couldn’t step into that office, not with his ghost carved into every inch of it. But the other truth—the harsher one—was that you needed the money. You needed stability, something to hold.

So you said yes.

The first day back stung from the moment you touched the door.

The key was cold in your hand, heavier than it had ever been. You hesitated before sliding it into the lock, as if the building itself might reject you now.

Inside, the office smelled the same, printer ink, coffee grounds, dust and paper. But it felt wrong. Too quiet, too hollow. The rug you’d picked out seemed faded. The plants in the windowsill had wilted slightly from neglect. The framed photo of Sarah at her ultrasound, the one Joel had insisted belonged in the office, stabbed at you like a knife.

You went through the motions anyway. Coffee first, like always. You ground the beans, poured the water, set the pot to brew. You even poured it into Joel’s mug without thinking. His name was smudged along the ceramic, the one Sarah had gotten him years ago.

You dumped it down the sink before you could start crying.

Clients trickled in. You plastered on a smile, kept your voice light, handed out papers like you weren’t unraveling inside. More than one of them said, “It feels different in here, cozier.” And you smiled through the ache because once upon a time, Joel would’ve hidden a proud smile at that too.

But you skipped lunch. The thought of going to your favorite diner alone was unbearable.

When clients weren’t there, the silence pressed in. Joel’s office loomed, the door shut, the blinds pulled. You caught yourself staring at it more than once, like if you willed it open, he might walk through.

He didn’t.

Tommy stopped by mid-afternoon, clapping your shoulder with a gentleness you didn’t expect. He didn’t mention Joel, didn’t ask if you’d seen him. He just said, “Good work today,” and left it at that.

Maria texted as you were shutting down the computers.

Come over after work. I’ll make you a plate.

You typed back thanks with shaky hands. You knew she’d make too much food, press leftovers into containers you’d never finish, but the thought of her kitchen, her warmth, was a lifeline you couldn’t refuse.

Sarah’s text followed not long after.

Sorry I didn’t reach out. Figured it would be too painful. You okay?

I’m fine, you lied. Don’t worry about me.

She wrote back almost instantly. I do worry. Baby’s kicking nonstop today. She says hi.

You smiled despite yourself, thumb brushing over the words like they were a balm.

You locked up the office carefully, too carefully, stalling. You straightened the rug, watered the plants again even though you’d already done it. Anything to keep from leaving.

When you finally stepped into your car, the silence hit you like a punch.

You folded forward against the steering wheel and sobbed, hard, loud, shaking sobs that made your ribs ache.

You missed him. You missed him so much it felt like a hole in your chest.

And the worst part wasn’t that he was gone. It was how easy it seemed for him to stay gone. How easy it was for him to avoid you, to carve you out of his life and carry on.

You pressed your forehead harder against the wheel until the edges of your vision blurred.

You whispered into the empty car “Why doesn’t he hurt like I do?”

The crying came hard and ugly and didn’t stop until your throat burned. When it finally ebbed, it left you hollow in the driver’s seat, cheek stuck to the cool vinyl of the steering wheel, breath snagging in shallow pulls that made your ribs ache. The office lights behind you clicked off one by one on their timer, and the front window reflected you back, red-rimmed eyes, hoodie strings hanging, the shape of a person trying to be brand-new inside an old life.

Maria’s text glowed on your phone again, just a heart this time, and a house emoji. You wiped your face with your sleeve, put the car in gear, and drove.

Austin’s evening traffic moved like a held breath. Taillights smeared into red lines on the wet road, and the air smelled like after-rain and cedar mulch from the median. You rolled the window down an inch to breathe something that wasn’t office dust, counting streetlights like beads on a rosary, one more block, one more light, one more chance to keep from turning around.

Maria’s house had a way of catching you before you hit the ground. Even from the curb the place looked lit from inside, a warm, steady glow at the kitchen window, soft lamplight in the living room, the porch light left on without apology. She had a wreath up that didn’t match the season, something made of twine and dried oranges, and you could smell rosemary before you reached the steps.

She opened the door before you could knock. “There you are,” she said, and it wasn’t relief exactly, more like recognition. She was barefoot, hair up in a loose knot, an apron tied over a faded T-shirt that read EAT THE RICH, TIP YOUR SERVER. The apron was already dusted with flour. “Shoes off. Phone on the counter. Come be a human being.”

You laughed—one hiccup of a sound that surprised both of you—and toed off your shoes on the mat. The kitchen wrapped around you, a big pot simmering low, something garlicky and soothing, a tray of cornbread cooling on the stove, a salad in a wooden bowl dressed glossy and waiting. She had set the table for two without making a ceremony of it, napkins folded, forks at the ready, a little glass jar of flowers cut from her yard.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said, because it was the thing people said when someone had obviously done exactly what they had to.

“Sure did,” she said, kissing your cheek as she passed you a glass of water. “I am pathologically incapable of letting someone I love starve or wallow.” She tilted her head, considering you with the bright, brisk gaze she used when she rearranged a room in her head. “You want to shower first? I’ve got an old sweatshirt with your name on it.”

You looked down at yourself, wrinkled blouse, office dust, salt maps at your sleeves from crying. “I probably smell like printer toner and despair.”

“Mm,” she said, “with base notes of grief. Off you go.”

Her bathroom was a soft, lemon-scented sanctuary, clean towels stacked, a candle already lit , FIG + FERN, the label said, a bath mat shockingly plush under your feet. You undressed like you were shedding a skin and stood under the hot water until the tightness in your shoulders let go. When you emerged, wrapped in her oversized sweatshirt and a pair of soft cotton shorts, your own clothes were already tumbling in the dryer. Your phone sat on the counter where you’d left it, screen dark. You left it there.

Back in the kitchen, Maria set a steaming bowl in front of you and slid into the chair opposite. “Eat,” she said, but her voice was gentle now. You obeyed. The first spoonful tasted like permission, chicken and rice, carrots gone sweet from time, the kind of broth that made your chest feel less like a cave. You ate until heat moved through you.

“How was the office?” she asked when your spoon slowed. She didn’t say Joel’s name, didn’t poke at the wound and call it by its shape. She let you come to it on your own.

“Quiet,” you said. “Wrong.” You took a breath. “The plants looked thirsty.”

She nodded like that was an answer. “You watered them?”

“I watered them twice.” You tried to smile. “Hydrated the hell out of those poor plants.”

“Good,” she said, and something like pride softened her mouth. “What else?”

“I made coffee.” Your throat tightened. “I poured it into his mug without thinking. Then I dumped it out.”

Maria’s eyes flicked to your face and back. “Muscle memory is a cruel bastard,” she said. “We’ll retrain it.”

You stared down at your hands on the table. knuckles nicked, a bruise blooming on one from punching your wall like an idiot. She saw it and reached across, pressing her thumb just to the edge of the bruise. “That one’s not your best coping strategy.”

“It made sense at the time.”

“Mm.” She squeezed your fingers. “You’re here now. That’s the better one.”

Silence for a minute. The house hummed, the dryer, the soft tick of the cooling stove, a playlist low and bright in the living room Al Green, because of course it was. You felt full in a way you hadn’t for days physically, yes, but more than that, contained. Held in a shape that reminded you you still existed.

“He’s not coming in when I’m there,” you said finally. “Tommy says Joel works after I leave. The office is this…relay. We pass it like a baton without seeing each other.”

“That’s not about punishing you,” Maria said. “It’s about what he can manage. He’s got two gears right now. keep the lights on and keep his heart from falling out of his chest. He’s doing both badly, but he’s doing them.”

“It’s so easy for him,” you blurted, hating how childish it sounded. “Avoiding me. Like I’m a room he can walk around.”

She shook her head. “It’s not easy, baby. He’s bleeding in straight lines. Still bleeds.” She tapped the table with two fingers. “He goes quiet because loud would ruin everything in reach. Quiet is the only way he knows how not to break the furniture.”

You closed your eyes. The image rose in spite of you. Joel in his truck on that dark road to the overlook, jaw locked, hands at ten and two so hard his knuckles blanched, Joel in his kitchen, staring at the sink because he couldn’t look at the window that faced your house. Joel at his desk after hours, signing his name carefully so it didn’t look like a man shaking.

“Do you hate me?” you asked the table, because asking the person felt like stepping off a cliff.

Maria made a sound like disbelief. “For what?”

“For making this house I love so much into a minefield. For making you choose. For” your voice broke “ for being the kind of mess that takes a whole neighborhood to sweep up.”

She reached for your chin and lifted your face to her. “Look at me.” When you did, she said, very clearly, “I don’t hate you. Tommy doesn’t hate you. Sarah doesn’t hate you. We are disappointed in the lie. That is not the same thing. We can love you and hold you accountable. Adults do both.”

It shouldn’t have been the balm it was, but the words slid into a place inside you that had been starving.

You nodded, tears pricking again. “He said this was worse than cheating,” you whispered. “That he wished I’d just cheated.”

Maria’s mouth flattened, then softened. “That’s a man naming how deeply he feels betrayed. Cheating is a clean enemy. This is messier. He’ll walk it back in time, not the pain, but the absolutism.” She sat back, fingers drumming the table once. “What else did he say?”

“That he can’t be with someone who hides the most important thing about herself.” You swallowed. “That we can’t build anything on a foundation that isn’t true.”

“That part’s not wrong,” she said gently. “It’s brutal, but it’s not wrong.”

The cornbread steamed when you broke it open. You buttered it with hands that trembled, and Maria pretended not to notice the wobble. When you’d eaten, she stood and started clearing plates. You got up to help, but she hip-checked you back into the chair.

“Uh-uh,” she said. “Tonight you sit while I mother-hen. Tomorrow you can earn your keep folding baby onesies.”

Your laugh startled itself out of your chest. “You have a whole basket, don’t you.”

She grinned. “Two. Sarah’s been dropping stuff off in waves and her has more clothes than God.”

“Is it still my family?” you said, reaching automatically for the language that made you feel like you still belonged. “If Joel and I..” The sentence collapsed. You stared at your hands. “If Joel and I aren’t.”

Maria considered you for a long moment. “Family is how we hold each other, not just how we’re titled. You love Sarah. Sarah loves you. The baby will know you as someone who shows up. That counts.”

You tipped your face into your palm. The bone of your cheek felt sharp against your hand. “I miss him.”

“I know.”

“It’s like every chair has his shape in it. Like my body knows where he should be and my brain keeps looking for him there.”

“I know.”

“I keep wanting to tell him stupid things,” you said, and a little laugh broke on the end of it. “The creamer at the diner tasted weird today. The cat in the alley behind the office has a notch in his ear now, I think someone trapped and released him. Tommy wore two different socks and pretended it was a ‘statement’ but it was absolutely dark dressing.”

“Send those to me,” Maria said. “I’ll be the interim Joel until further notice. I’ll send you back photos of my garden and tell you about the dumb way Tommy organizes screws.”

“Alphabetically.”

“By vibes,” she corrected gravely. “He says he knows which ones go together when he looks into their souls.”

You laughed, honest and ridiculous, and she looked relieved at the sound.

“Okay,” she said, brisk again. “Two more things and then we can collapse on the couch and watch a British baking show until your nervous system remembers how to purr.”

“What two things?”

She held up a finger. “One: routine. You need one. That doesn’t mean performative busyness. It means anchors. Come to dinner here twice a week. Let me send you home with leftovers. Walk with me and the feral neighbor cat in the mornings if you want to glower at the sunrise. Thursdays you come help me stock the blessing box at the church down on Sixth. You need places to put your hands that aren’t your own hair and your phone.”

“And two?”

“Two,” she said, softer now, “is the office. I want you to keep going. Not because you owe us, though God knows you built half that business in the last four months, but because work is a bridge. It lets you be useful while your heart stitches. Joel won’t cross paths with you there. Tommy will shield you until he doesn’t need to. But if you disappear, you’ll make your world smaller at the exact moment you need more world.”

You leaned back and let her words settle. Anchors. Bridge. You pictured the binder Joel had left with the Post-It in his square hand, We don’t lose people who build things here. Your chest pulled tight around the memory.

“Will you be mad if I don’t come tomorrow?” you asked.

“Of course not,” she said. “I’ll just show up with a label-maker and put every contractor in Austin into alphabetical order by astrological sign.”

You snorted. “Tommy would weep.”

“Then come protect him from me.”

You were quiet for a long time. The dryer hummed itself into a new cycle. The house seemed to breathe with you, expanding and contracting at a pace you could match. Finally, you said, “I’ll try.”

“That’s the whole assignment,” she said, and went to the stove to pour you both tea.

She handed you a mug that smelled like chamomile and orange peel and sat again, tucking one leg under her like a girl at a sleepover. You took a sip and felt it coast down your throat, gentling the raw places.

“Can I ask you something that’s going to sound nosy?” she said.

“You’ve already seen me cry into soup. Shoot.”

“What do you want to do with all this?” Her hand flicked to indicate the air around you, the broken thing, the office, the future without a blueprint. “Not ‘what do you think Joel will allow.’ Not ‘what do you think the universe will hand you if you’re good.’ What do you want?”

The first answer on your tongue was shamefully simple. I want him. But you swallowed it, because wanting someone didn’t rebuild a wall or unring a bell. You stared into your tea.

“I want to stop being the person who hides,” you said finally. “I want to be someone who tells the truth even when it rips. I want to go to work and be good at it because I am, not because I’m in love with my boss. I want to be at Sarah’s birth and not feel like a thief. I want to sleep without jolting awake because I dreamed of his truck pulling into the driveway.”

“And school?” she prompted, so lightly you almost missed the weight of it.

The word snagged. “I…yeah. I want that too. I don’t know how. The steps. The money. I don’t even know where to point myself.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You’re not alone in that either. But one grief at a time. Tonight we feed you. Tomorrow we label Tommy’s screws. Next week we Google deadlines. It doesn’t all have to be solved by after-dinner tea Your test results should be in any day now.”

You stared at her and felt, absurdly, a bubble of laughter rise. “Do you practice being this competent, or were you born like this?”

“Both,” she said. “Now help me with the dishes and I’ll show you the dragon-footed baby pajamas Sarah found on Etsy.”

You stood, and when your knees wobbled she didn’t pretend not to see it. She bumped your hip with hers and passed you a towel, and the two of you fell into the easy choreography of people who have done this a thousand times, wash, rinse, dry, stack, tease. When the last bowl was nested into its place, she hooked her arm through yours and towed you into the living room.

There, on the coffee table, waited a laundry basket full to absurdity. Onesies folded into neat bricks, socks no bigger than your thumb, a little hat with bear ears that made your heart turn over. You sank onto the couch. Maria tossed a pair of footed pajamas into your lap, soft as a sigh. “Tell me that’s not the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.”

You pressed your cheek to the tiny cotton feet and inhaled. “It’s criminal,” you said thickly.

“You’ll get to hold her soon,” Maria said, flipping on the TV. “And you’ll cry and I’ll pretend I’m not crying and Tommy will actually cry and try to disguise it as a sneeze. It will be chaos and good.”

“Will Joel let me be there?” The question escaped before you could cage it.

Maria didn’t flinch. “If Sarah says yes, and she will, then yes. He won’t love it at first, because loving anything hurts right now. But he won’t stop you. He’s not a gate.”

You folded a triangle of a receiving blanket and unfolded it again. Maria clicked to a baking show, and two British men began arguing gently about the structure of a sponge cake. The absurd normalcy of it loosened something in you further. You watched a contestant ice a cake so smooth it looked like a pool, and realized your jaw was unclenched for the first time all day.

“Text me when you get home,” Maria said as the credits rolled an episode later. “Or better, crash in the guest room. Clean sheets. Window fan. No ghosts.”

You thought about your dad’s house, its stale beer smell, its quiet that felt pointed, your room, where Joel’s absence had dug a groove into the mattress. You thought about waking up here to the smell of coffee and Maria humming in the kitchen. Your eyes stung again.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Guest room.”

She squeezed your knee and stood. “I’ll grab you a toothbrush,” she said, and headed down the hall.

You sat alone for a breath, the TV’s sound low, the house’s hum steady. The ache didn’t go away, it didn’t transform into something noble just because you were in a nicer room. But it had edges now, and you could touch them without cutting your hand open.

You looked at your hands—at the faint bruise on your knuckle, at the note of soup on your wrist where you’d spilled, at the softness in your fingers from folding tiny clothes—and thought, tomorrow. A small word. A survivable one.

From the hallway, Maria’s voice floated back “Also, I’m bringing you leftovers for lunch at the office tomorrow. If you ignore them, I will storm the building and feed you fork by fork while Tommy narrates.”

“Terrifying,” you called back, and she laughed.

You turned off the lamp and let the room go mostly dark, the TV painting soft, silly light across the walls. Out past the living room window, the city exhaled, cars, night birds, a neighbor laughing on a porch. Somewhere, in a different house with the same sky overhead, Joel was probably sitting at a table and not sleeping, or sleeping and twitching awake with the same ache threading through him. You pressed your palm flat to your stomach until your breath slowed enough to count.

You wont look toward his side of the street tonight. You looked at the door down the hall, where the guest room waited, and decided that was the direction you’d teach your body to turn.

When Maria came back, toothbrush in one hand and a soft throw blanket in the other, you took both and stood. “Thank you,” you said, and the words felt too small for the largeness of being carried.

“Tomorrow,” she said again, like a benediction, and you nodded, and let yourself be shepherded toward a bed that didn’t know your shape yet.

You would lie awake for a while and listen to the house settle. You would picture the office and the plants leaning toward morning sun. You would think of Sarah’s belly, firm under your palm, and the tiny dragon feet in your lap. And then, at last, your body would slip down and down into a sleep without Joel in it, a small mercy. The first in a line of them, if you let them come.

Chapter Text

The house was too quiet when you got home.

Not quiet like peace. Quiet like vacancy, like someone scooped the middle out of your life and set the husk back down in exactly the same place. You drop your bag by the door and stare at the little hill of mail listing across the kitchen table. The air smells like dust and old beer. The fridge hums. A fly taps itself stupid against the window.

Joel’s truck isn’t next door. It hasn’t been. Not much since the breakup.

You pause in the doorway like you always do, the old ritual that keeps trying to become a prayer, maybe his headlights will suddenly wash the fence pale, maybe you’ll hear that familiar engine. Nothing. Just sheer curtains pulled tight and a lamplight you don’t recognize pooling on the carpet of a room that used to feel like yours.

You thumb through the envelopes without thinking. Ads. A red-stamped bill. A church newsletter addressed to “resident.” Then your name in clean type on a crisp white envelope, the kind that makes your stomach fall straight through you.

College Board.

Your chair squeals as you sit. Your fingers shake so hard the flap tears crooked. Paper rasp. Breath held. Numbers blur. You blink them steady.

And then you see them.

High. Higher than you dared say out loud. One section perfect, another damn near. Scores that could carry you into rooms you’ve only ever looked at through glass.

You don’t scream. You don’t even smile at first. You just sit there with the kitchen ticking around you—the fridge, the wall clock, the little click of the AC turning over—and realize you did something no one can take away. Not your dad’s silence. Not your mom’s distance. Not Joel’s absence.

Not even you.

Your phone is dead, of course. You plug it in and pace while the black screen crawls toward life. When it finally springs awake, you don’t open the texts you’ve ignored for days. You call Maria.

She answers on the second ring. “Tell me.”

You’re already crying. “I did it.”

“How good?”

You tell her. She whoops so loud you have to hold the phone away. “Baby, you just bought yourself options. Real ones.”

Your laugh comes out ragged. “Do any schools take late admits like…now? For August?”

“A few,” she says immediately. Maria always has a list. “Regional schools for sure. Some state universities. With your scores? We can make your case. We’ll spend tonight shortlisting. Tomorrow we email advisors. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“And hey,” she adds, voice softening, “I’m proud of you. Not because of the numbers. Because you tried when it would’ve been easier not to. That’s grown-up work.”

Something unclenches under your ribs. “Thank you.”

“Eat something. Charge your phone. I’ll text a list. We’ll make a plan.”

When you hang up, you lean your forehead to the cabinet door and just breathe. The quiet is different now, not softer, exactly, but less like it’s closing in. You drink a glass of water. You find a stale granola bar. You set the score report in the center of the table like a small, private altar and think, Okay. Okay. Maybe a life can start here.

Your phone buzzes again.

911.

Sarah.

The world narrows so fast it’s a tunnel. You call. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice is thin and high, already on the edge. “My water broke.”

Everything in you snaps to attention. “Where are you?”

“Home. Dad’s not here. He’s not answering.”

“Okay. Sit down. Breathe. I’m coming.”

You don’t think about shoes, not really. Hoodie, keys, score report abandoned under the kitchen light. You sprint across the patch of grass between the houses and take the steps two at a time. The door’s unlocked. Of course it is. This house taught you how to walk in without knocking.

The living room is too bright. Sarah’s on the couch, a towel under her, one hand white-knuckled on the armrest, the other clutching her belly like she can hold everything together by will alone.

You’re at her side before your brain catches up. “Hey. I got you.” You kneel. “Any contractions?”

“Yeah. Not...close.” She blows out a breath that shakes. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” You get your voice calm because hers needs somewhere to land. “We’re going to the hospital. I’m calling an ambulance. You don’t argue with me.”

She nods and more tears slide down. You dial 911 with a clarity that shocks you, address, weeks along, water broken, contractions irregular, patient is conscious, breathing, scared, yes there’s someone with her, yes the doors unlocked.

You put the phone on speaker and hold Sarah’s hand through the dispatcher’s questions. You talk in the empty spaces. “Remember how you made me take deep breaths in Target when I almost cried in the bottle aisle? Same thing. In and out.”

She does it. You match her. For a moment it’s just the two of you and the ceiling fan and the complicated sound of a body beginning a job older than language.

Between the dispatcher’s instructions you call Joel on Sarahs phone. Straight to voicemail. You try again. Again. Texts stack up. Sarah calls her ex-boyfriend next. He answers on the third try, voice frantic, says he’s twenty minutes out, says he hit traffic, says he’s sorry, Sarah, I’m sorry. She closes her eyes and nods like she can nod him into being here faster.

The siren arrives before he does. Red light stutters across the front windows, splashing the photos on the mantle, the old one of Joel and Sarah at a fair, a scrap of a moment where they’re both mid-laugh. The EMTs are calm and young and exactly what you need. They take her blood pressure, ask their questions, help her sit, stand, move. You grab the bag she’d prepped weeks ago—she did the lists with Maria and still managed to forget half of it—and sling it over your shoulder.

“Would you like to ride along?” one of the EMTs asks you.

You don’t look to Sarah,you already know her answer. “Yes.”

They wheel her out into the afternoon glare. The world looks wrong, bright and sharp and normal. A neighbor watches over their hedge. A dog barks. You lock the door behind you, for once more careful with someone else’s house than your own.

Inside the ambulance the light turns everything clinical. You grip the bench, knees braced, and keep your eyes on Sarah’s face. She’s trying to joke between breaths. “If she’s dramatic now, what’s she going to be like at sixteen?”

“Menace,” you say immediately. “Terrible. I’ll buy her glitter and make your life hell.” Your voice shakes and you don’t care.

Sarah squeezes your hand. “Deal.”

At the hospital someone meets the gurney at the door and the world collapses into process. Wristbands. Forms. Fluorescent hallway. The smell of sanitizer. The bustle that says you are not the first people to do this and you will not be the last, which in some backwards way is comforting.

They settle her into triage, then a room. You help change her into the gown, threads of your lives weaving in and out of practical motions, tie this, lift that, here is your water, here is a cold cloth. She leans her forehead to your shoulder and breathes while a contraction claws through.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

“I know.” You smooth her hair back. “I’m right here.”

Her ex-boyfriend barrels in a few minutes later, eyes wide, apologies overlapping the nurses’ instructions. He kisses her hair and you step back to let their circle tighten. The nurse asks for a primary contact. Sarah says “My dad,” and says his number, and you know it by heart, and the ache rises fresh,he should be here, he should be here, he should be here.

The nurse calls. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. She leaves a message in her even, professional voice and you hate the polite calm of it, how it can’t carry the urgency you feel. You text Joel again anyway. She’s at St. David’s. Come now. She needs you.

No dots. Nothing.

You stare at the monitor like you can will the little green line to keep dancing. Sarah’s ex hover-sits on the edge of the chair, wringing his hands, saying sorry in different shapes to fill the air. The nurse adjusts a lead, smiles the practiced smile you start to hate, and slips back out.

You pull out your phone and finally, finally think of Tommy.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, kid.”

“It’s Sarah,” you blurt. “Her water broke. St. David’s. Labor and Delivery.”

Silence long enough to scare you, then Tommy’s voice drops a register. “We’re coming.”

“Where’s Joel?” It comes out sharper than you mean.

“With me. We’re goin’ over invoices. His phone died. He’s” Tommy exhales. “He’s on his way. I’m driving.”

“What kind of idiot doesn’t charge his phone when his daughter’s due any second?” The words are out before you can leash them. Your mouth tastes like copper and guilt.

“An idiot who’s been sleepin’ in the shop and forgettin’ he’s human,” Tommy says, not unkind. “Text me the room number.”

You do. You tack on: hurry. Then you pocket your phone and hold Sarah’s hand through another contraction and try to keep your voice steady when she asks if she’s doing it right.

They make it in under half an hour. Tommy, shoulders hunched like he’s been bracing for a hit the whole ride, Maria, efficient, hair pulled back and mouth set for battle. Joel, after them, taller than the doorway and somehow smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

You only look long enough to register him and then your eyes slide away like your body’s saving itself from a burn. He looks rough. Unshaved. Pale. The line between his brows so deep it seems carved. He stops as if his boots hit something invisible. For a heartbeat the corridor is only the two of you looking at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but at the wreckage you share.

Maria breaks the spell. She comes straight to you, palms warm on your shoulders, pulling you into a hug that smells like rosemary and laundry soap. “You did good getting her here,” she says by your ear. “You did really, really good.”

“Yeah,” you manage, and your voice cracks. “She was scared.”

“We’re here now.” Maria squeezes and then stations herself at the foot of the bed like a general taking a hill.

Joel paces the strip of tile under the TV with Tommy, both of them too big for the room, both of them trying not to get in the nurses’ way. He touches the back of a chair and then doesn’t sit. He rubs his jaw. He looks at Sarah, and the pain on his face is so naked you have to look away again or you’ll fall to your knees.

A nurse pops her head in. “Dad? We’re going to check her again.”

Joel goes stiff. “That’s me.” He glances at Sarah’s ex, who shrinks and nods, and then Joel is at her side, taking her hand with the caution of a man approaching a live wire. He kisses her temple. “Hey, baby girl. I’m here.”

Your lungs seize. You slide sideways until the wall catches you and let yourself breathe very, very quietly.

They send Joel back with the nurse a little later. You watch him go and feel both steadied by the sight and gutted by it. He doesn’t look at you on the way out. You don’t blame him. You still feel it like a slap.

Maria sinks into the plastic chair beside you. “Okay,” she says briskly, like she’s daring reality to try her. “Might be a while, want to talk college? Don’t growl at me, I promised to keep your brain busy.”

You huff a laugh that sounds like it came from someone else. “Fine.”

She scrolls through her phone like she’s been preparing for this all day. She probably has. “There’s a state school an hour north that still takes late apps. Business program’s solid, lots of night classes. There’s a community college with a transfer pathway if you want cheaper for the first two years. If you insist on running to the desert, a couple farther schools have August intake with your scores.”

“Closer,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Maria’s eyes flick up, pleased. “Closer is good. Less running, more building.”

“Thanks,” you whisper. “For…all of it.”

She squeezes your knee. “We’re not letting you sink.”

Time crooks its finger again. The clock goes soft as wax. Nurses in, nurses out. You text back and forth with Maria’s link-dump because doing something feels better than sitting in your skin. You fetch ice chips and re-fold blankets and listen to the monitor tick the seconds you can’t count. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cries for the first time and the sound falls through you like rain.

Sarah’s ex wanders into the hall and back with a vending-machine ginger ale. He thanks you, twice, for calling 911, like gratitude can hold back an ocean.

“She’s here,” he says, and the words rearrange the hallway.

Tommy and Maria disappear into the room and you see Joel’s through the swinging doors for a moment, and that hurts in a way you’d planned for but not this much. You feel your knees wobble, take one step toward the nearest chair, and then Thomas’s hand finds your elbow.

“Come on,” he says, gentle. Tommy and Maria exit the room, Joel behind them. “Sarah wants you next.”

The room is smaller now that it’s full of miracle. Sarah looks wrecked and holy and happier than any person has a right to look. In her arms is a bundle that is suddenly the center of the planet.

“She’s beautiful,” you say, and you don’t recognize your own voice.

Sarah laughs, ragged and delighted. “Meet Ellie,” she says, and somehow the name fits instantly, like it had been waiting on her all along.

You look at the little face and see Joel stamped there in miniature, stubborn mouth, calm brow. “She looks like your dad,” you say, and they laughs because it’s true and because the alternative is crying. You do both anyway. The baby smells like skin and newness and something sweet you’ve never had a word for.

“Do you want to hold her?” Sarah asks.

Your heart stops and starts. “Can I?”

“Duh.” Sarah rolls her eyes, the same Sarah as ever even in this new skin. “Give her to Aunt Menace.”

You take Ellie like you’re catching a comet. She is warm and heavy and so small your ribs ache trying to make room for the feeling. Her fingers flex, tiny starfish, and curl around the tip of your pinky with a strength that steals your breath.

You close your eyes. For a single, dangerous second, you see another room. Your body in that bed. Joel at your side, hand on your hair, the two of you looking at a baby who has his mouth, who smells like this, who makes you both stupid with awe. The image is so bright you choke on it.

A tear slips hot down your face and drops onto the blanket. You pass Ellie back before you drip on her. “She’s perfect,” you manage, then, “I..excuse me,” and you’re moving before anyone can stop you.

You make it to the hallway. Then the elevator bank. Then the outside air slams into you and you stumble around the corner of the building and throw up into the bushes. Your body keeps going longer than you think it can. When it’s over, you brace your palms on your knees and pull in the hospital night air, exhaust fumes, wet concrete, the faint plastic smell of the ER doors hissing open and shut.

A click of a lighter behind you. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and turn.

Joel leans against the brick, shoulders sagging, cigarette cupped in his palm to hide the ember from the wind. You didn’t see him at first, or maybe you did and didn’t care. The smoke hangs pale in the humid air, smelling like old habits and bad decisions.

“What kind of idiot doesn’t charge their phone when his daughter’s due any second?” you ask, and your voice is feral, because if you’re not sharp you’ll be nothing.

He flinches. He drags a hand down his face and sighs like it hurts. “Can we not do this here?” He gestures vaguely toward the building. “The day my granddaughter’s born is not”

“Supposed to be our granddaughter,” you say, too quiet to be fair, too loud to be kind.

He stares at you and the tired in him goes mean. “And whose fault is that?” His voice is low, controlled, worse than shouting. “Who the hell wants to be a grandmother at twenty?”

There’s a moment where either of you could set down the weapons. You don’t. “Fuck you, Joel.”

He looks like you slapped him. He takes another drag like he needs the hurt. “You think I ain’t sayin’ that to myself?” His laugh is empty. “You think I don’t know exactly how we got here?”

You push away from the wall because if you stay you’ll say something you can’t take back and the last thing you want in the whole world is to be cruel to him in front of the building where joy just happened. You turn and walk.

“Where’s your car?” he calls, automatically, the part of him that can’t stop caring even when he wants to.

“At home,” you say without turning around.

“How you”

“Feet,” you snap. “I’ll use those.”

You walk.

Across the parking lot, past the security light that hums like a wasp nest, down the sidewalk where the curb is crumbling, across a street you don’t remember looking both ways for. The city wraps you in its damp night and you let it. You are a girl with hot cheeks and sore feet and a body that doesn’t know if it wants to sob or run. You choose forward.

You walk past the gas station where Joel once bought you gummy bears at midnight. Past the church with the cracked bell that always rings a minute late. Past the park where you and Sarah sat on the swings and talked about names while you pretended you weren’t listening for Joel’s truck.

Your phone buzzes twice. You don’t look. If it’s him, you can’t absorb it. If it isn’t, you don’t want to know.

By the time you turn onto your street, your calves ache and your throat is raw from air and whatever you left in the shrubs behind the hospital. Joel’s curtains are closed. They’ll be closed for a while, you think, sleeping on hospital chairs, coffee in a styrofoam cup, one hand always on the bassinet. Good. He should be there.

Your house is exactly what it always is. Too dark, too quiet, the front step a little loose so it clacks when you put your weight on it. You let yourself in and stand at the threshold with your palms on the cool wood of the door. Everything inside is in the same place it was this afternoon, except you’re not. There’s a woman with bloodshot eyes in the hall mirror and she looks like she lost a war that no one else saw.

You make it to your room and fall face-first onto the bed without turning on a light. The mattress gulps you down and the quiet rushes back in all at once, a tide that doesn’t care whether you’re ready.

For a while you let yourself pretend you can still smell her—Ellie—sweet and milk-warm and brand new. You pretend the ache in your chest is just a muscle from carrying her, not the old, familiar crack remade. You pretend you didn’t see Joel’s eyes in that tiny face and want something you don’t get to have.

You breathe until the edges blur. You press your thumb into the tender spot under your ribs until you can feel something that isn’t grief. You stare at the ceiling and say, out loud, to no one “This is my fault.”

The room doesn’t argue.

You set your phone on the pillow beside you, screen down. You don’t plug it in. You curl onto your side and pull the blanket up over your mouth like you can hold the words in if you hide your face.

Outside, somewhere far off, a siren wails and then fades. Somewhere closer, a baby is learning how to breathe. Somewhere in between, a man with tired hands leans over a plastic hospital bassinet and whispers a name.

You close your eyes.

Square one, you think.

Then, quieter, like a promise you don’t yet know how to keep, Not forever.

Chapter Text

The days moved slow.

Not slow like syrup, not sweet. Slow like waiting rooms, like clock hands that stutter forward and then back again, like the stretch of asphalt on a Texas highway when the horizon never changes. You woke, you dressed, you went to the office. You smiled for clients and poured coffee, your body an instrument of routine while your mind dragged its heels through the past. Joel’s office stayed shut, his shadow absent except in the ghostly way you felt him everywhere. His pen on the desk. His jacket hanging on the hook in the corner. His handwriting in the margins of a file. All the ordinary proof of a man who had once filled the air with his presence and now left only reminders sharp enough to cut.

Tommy checked in when he could. Maria called most evenings. Sarah texted photos of the baby, Ellie’s hands balled tight like pennies, Ellie’s lips pursed, Ellie asleep with her cheek smashed against a blanket patterned with yellow ducks. You looked when you could stomach it, when you could hold her digital face without feeling the ache of what you’d lost. Holding her in real life was harder. Ellie smelled like milk and warmth and beginnings, and every time she curled a finger around yours you thought, this is everything I ever wanted. And then immediately after, this is everything I will never have with Joel.

You weren’t the first person to have a broken heart. You wouldn’t be the last. People survived this every day, divorces, betrayals, the ordinary death of ordinary love. The grocery store was full of people pushing carts who had once cried themselves to sleep. Still, the pain inside you felt singular. Like no one could possibly understand the precise shape of the absence you carried.

Sometimes you wanted to scream. Sometimes you wanted to sob until your lungs collapsed. Sometimes you just wanted to be still, to sink into the quiet ache and let it settle like silt at the bottom of a river.

Joel never looked at you. Not once. Not in the street, not in the office when your paths almost crossed, not even at Marias when he showed up unexpected, though you were there the same time every week. He didn’t glare, didn’t sneer, didn’t spit. He simply avoided. And that cut sharper than hate ever could. Hate still tethered two people. This was the severing of rope.

You fought every urge to text him. To call. To remind him that once, not so long ago, you had been the one he reached for in the middle of the night. That you had been his. Your fingers hovered over the phone screen in the dark more times than you’d admit. Some nights you typed out whole paragraphs, aching apologies, pathetic begging, blunt anger. And then you deleted them, one by one, the little drafts disappearing like smoke.

Weeks staggered by. The mailbox filled with envelopes. Most were thin and unremarkable. Ads. Bills. Credit card offers in your father’s name. But a few were yours, fat or thin, glossy university letterhead printed with names you’d almost forgotten you’d applied to.

The first were the easy ones. A small state school three towns over. A branch campus in Houston. A “congratulations” from a regional college whose business program was ranked somewhere in the middle of the middle. You weren’t surprised. Still, the word acceptance did something in you. Even from a school you wouldn’t brag about, it meant someone believed you could belong.

You called Maria first. She cheered like it was Harvard.

You called Sarah next. She squealed so loud the baby startled and began to cry, and then she laughed through her apologies.

Finally, you called your mom.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m so proud of you. I always knew you could do it. But” there was always a but with her“you should’ve aimed higher. Some of these are just…you know. Shitty little schools. But still. You did it.”

It stung, but it also warmed. Even criticism from her, the woman who so rarely found room for praise, still meant she saw you. She believed you capable.

You hung up and stared at the letters stacked neatly on the counter. Small victories. Steps forward. Nothing that would change the trajectory of your life. Not yet.

Then came the big envelope.

You found it one Wednesday afternoon, wedged under a pile of junk mail. Crisp white, your name printed clean across the front. The return address hit you like a stone to the chest. The best university in Arizona, the one you’d applied to in a fit of rage at three in the morning the night Sarah gave birth. You hadn’t even remembered doing it until the confirmation email appeared in your inbox weeks later. It had been an act of desperation, a middle finger to heartbreak, a way of saying if Joel doesn’t want me I’ll put a thousand miles between us and start again.

You sat down hard at the kitchen table, the envelope heavy in your hands.

It was too big. Denials were thin. Big envelopes were usually good. But this, this was that school. The one with a business program ranked high enough to open doors anywhere. The one with real sororities and sprawling quads and lecture halls filled with kids who had never known what it meant to hide themselves from the world. You would be older than most of the other freshman. A late bloomer. But you knew you wouldn’t be alone.

Your hands shook as you slid a finger under the flap. The paper tore jagged. You pulled it out with a wince, braced for the worst, certain they had mailed you a glossy brochure as a cruel consolation.

But the first word was Congratulations.

Your scream startled even you. The sound ripped up your throat and bounced off the empty kitchen walls. You jumped, you spun, you laughed like someone who had forgotten how. Tears ran before you even noticed them. For the first time in weeks—months, maybe—you felt something other than ache.

You called Maria immediately.

“Read it,” she demanded.

Your voice shook as you did.

When you finished she whooped so loud you thought the phone might crackle. “Baby, you did it. You really did it. That’s one of the best. You’re gonna thrive there.”

You sat back down at the table, legs trembling, letter clutched to your chest. “Maria…it’s expensive. I don’t know if I can afford this.”

Her voice softened but stayed firm. “We’ll figure it out. You call their financial office first thing tomorrow morning. Scholarships. Grants. Work-study. We’ll exhaust every option. You got in. That’s the hardest part. The rest we’ll tackle.”

“I don’t…” You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Bullshit,” she said instantly. “You deserve this more than anyone I know. You’ve been through hell and you kept going. That’s grit. That’s character. Schools want that. This is your shot. Don’t waste it.”

You laughed through the tears. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call.”

“Good girl,” Maria said. “And listen, I am proud of you. Not because of the acceptance. Because you had the courage to apply. That’s the kind of grown-up work that gets you places.”

When you hung up, you sat in silence, the letter open on the table. The kitchen still smelled like dust and stale beer. The house was still empty. Joel was still gone. But something had shifted. For the first time since everything shattered, you saw a road ahead that wasn’t just repetition of pain.

A future.

It wasn’t the future you had dreamed. It wasn’t Joel’s hand on your belly, or Joel’s boots by your bed, or Joel’s voice gruff in the morning calling you darlin’. It wasn’t the family you had pictured. But it was something.

And maybe—if you worked hard, if you grew, if you matured—it could still bring you back to him. Maybe if you proved yourself. If you ran his company one day, if you became the kind of woman no man could deny. Maybe then.

You touched the edge of the acceptance letter, your tears drying in a salt shine on your cheeks, and whispered, “I’ll make you proud, Joel. You’ll see.”

And for the first time in weeks, hope didn’t feel like a lie.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived like a film over the world, thin, gray, the kind that makes the coffee taste quieter. You stood at the sink with your phone faceup on the counter and watched the kettle breathe, steam ghosting the window. Across the fence, Joel’s driveway was empty. It always seemed to be empty now. You didn’t mean to look, but habit is a muscle, it twitches even after the limb is gone.

You set the mug down on a stack of envelopes and pulled the financial aid office number up again. You’d tried yesterday, stalled in a phone tree, dropped once, told to call back when “a counselor is available.” Today you called at 8:59, thumb hovering, like the minute itself could steady you.

“Admissions and Financial Aid, this is Lila.”

“Hi,” you said, voice too bright. “I’m an incoming transfer, well, not transfer, first-time freshman, late admit, fall start. I, um, I got my scores” You clicked your laptop lid closed so you wouldn’t look at the page again like it might vanish. “And I wanted to ask about aid. I know I missed the priority deadlines for August. I’m just… seeing what’s possible.”

Lila’s typing sounded like rain. “Can I have your name and student ID?”

You gave it and watched condensation bead along your mug. On the other side of the window, a mockingbird hopped the fencepost and scolded no one. You swallowed with it.

“Okay,” Lila said after a moment. “So you’ve filed your FAFSA, good, and you’re admitted, congratulations.” Something in her tone shifted like she’d found a note she liked. “Your scores are excellent.”

“Thank you,” you said, and the words felt unreal in your mouth, like you were reading them from a script for someone else’s life.

“Here’s the lay of the land,” she continued. “Priority institutional aid is closed for fall. However, there are still pockets. A few departmental scholarships are rolling. Some private scholarships keep spring cycles open. There’s also work-study and campus employment if you’re eligible. And sometimes, if a student with a merit package declines late, funds get reallocated.”

“So…there’s a chance,” you said, because you needed something you could put in your palm.

“There’s a chance,” she echoed. “But you’ll have to hustle.”

Hustle. You could do hustle. Hustle was how you’d made an office feel like home, how you’d stacked clients like nickels on a counter. Hustle was how you’d learned to read Joel’s mood from the angle of his shoulder and make the coffee a hair sweeter when he came in looking thunder-creased. Hustle might save you now.

“What can I do today?” you asked.

“I’m emailing you a list, departmental scholarships still accepting applications, two external scholarships that accept late submissions, and a small emergency grant for students with sudden life changes.” She paused. “If your employer can sign off on flexible hours, there are also work grants that subsidize wages. Those decisions come down fast.”

You almost laughed. Employer. You pictured Joel’s face as it had been in the accountant’s office—stunned into stillness—and then the way it hardened into something you’d never wanted to see on him. “I’ll…ask,” you said, which wasn’t a lie, just a deferred truth.

“Also,” Lila added, kindness the soft thread in her voice, “you can enroll without the whole package in place if you’re comfortable carrying a balance into payment plan status while scholarships are pending. Not ideal. But if it keeps you from sitting out a semester you’ll lose momentum. And the first month is the hardest. Once you’re in the system, more doors open.”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “Okay.”

“Call me back this afternoon. We’ll schedule a thirty-minute counseling session and map the application calendar. I’ll hold some time for you, two o’clock?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Your throat tightened. “Really. Thank you.”

When you hung up, the house hummed into the small silence. The kettle popped as it cooled. You stared at the mug and realized your hand was shaking.

A balcony of feelings moved through you relief first—real, dizzying relief that the door wasn’t slammed—then the old ache, the one that lived in the ribs and flashed like heat lightning when your guard was thin. Joel’s driveway. Joel’s absence. The shape of his name you did not say out loud as if the house might scold you for it.

You poured the coffee and burned your tongue and welcomed the sting. You opened the email Lila sent and began to read. The list looked like work, links, deadlines, short essays with odd prompts, proof of community involvement, a statement from an employer if possible. Not impossible. Just..…a hill. You’d learned this year that hills are climbed in steps you can’t see from the bottom.

Your phone buzzed then, the contact name—Mom—flashing like an alarm.

You hadn’t told her yet. Partly because good news felt fragile in your mouth, partly because you wanted the story of your future to sound like yours when you said it. You answered anyway.

“Hey.”

“It’s early,” she said without hello, without warmth. You could hear dishes, the whir of someone else’s espresso machine on whatever counter she called hers now. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You pressed the mug to your chest and stood at the window because the light made it easier to believe yourself. “I got in.”

“You got in?” She caught the words like a dropped plate, saving them at the last second. “To what?”

You said the name of the school, almost softly, as if loudness might break it. You waited for the clatter of joy.

“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That’s…...fancy.”

You smiled, because any praise from her felt like a rare bird. “There’s…a business program. Good one. And I talked to financial aid this morning. There’s a path.”

“That’s wonderful.” The the compliment turned brittle with speed. “You know, if you’d started this process earlier, when I told you to”

You let your eyes fall to the counter and counted three slow breaths. “Yeah. I know.”

“Anyway,” she continued, brightening, “we should celebrate. We can meet halfway tonight, there’s that Italian place off the highway, your favorite? We’ll bring the kids. Six work for you?”

You checked the imaginary calendar that lived behind your eyes. Two o’clock with Lila. A full afternoon stitching together an application calendar. Anxiety like a dog at your heels. “Six is okay.”

“Great. I’ll make a reservation.” You could hear her smile go on—she liked the logistics, the power of arranging—and then a male voice in the background, muffled and half-joking. Her husband. “We’re proud of you,” she added, almost on a delay, like she’d remembered to put the bow on the box.

You drained your mug after she hung up and stared at the cheap, mottled counter like it could answer the question you hadn’t asked. How much of your joy could you afford to let her hold?

You worked the rest of the morning like a person being chased. You printed the scholarship prompts and taped them in a row on the wall, scribbled deadlines in the margin of a notebook you’d stolen from the office. You made lists of proof you could gather,letters, pay stubs, a screenshot of the business’s social media with the graphs you’d grown with your own hands. It felt good to stack it all, even if your heart flinched each time you wrote the company name.

At one-thirty you drove to the office to use the printer because yours ate paper like a nervous mouse. The place smelled like dust and toner and the lemon cleaner you’d brought in and insisted on ever since you started. The smallness of it felt like a held breath. You paused inside the door because the air in here still knew you and you weren’t sure that was allowed.

On your desk sat the binder Joel had left, the Post-it in his blocky hand still stuck on the cover. We don’t lose people who build things here. You put your palm over the note like a person covers a candle flame when the window opens.

“Okay,” you said to no one, and got to work.

At two, you ducked into the tiny conference room for the counseling call, and Lila met you with a warmth that wore its practical shoes. She had you open three tabs, bookmarked two databases of scholarships that might as well have been written in code six months ago. Now they read like a map you’d started to learn.

“Tonight,” she said, “you apply to the department list. Tomorrow, you write the two personal statements. You’ll need two letters, we’ll use your supervisor and your community reference.”

You made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Supervisor…”

She understood too quickly. “Someone who can speak to your professional work, then. A client? A colleague?”

“Tommy,” you said, before you could think better of it. “Tommy will do it.”

“Good.” Lila’s keyboard clicked. “We’ll aim to have a provisional package by mid-June. You’ll need to decide by July first if you’re coming, pending X, Y, Z. Sound possible?”

Possible wasn’t certainty, but possible was a path, and sometimes that was enough.

By the time you left the office the day had opened into one of those thin Austin afternoons, bright, dry, like someone had turned the saturation down. You went home, showered, put on the one dress that made your shoulders look like a decision, and drove out to the highway Italian place that smelled like basil and old money.

They were late.

You sat at the bar with water because you were trying to teach yourself how to keep your head swimming clear, and watched the tables fill with people whose lives looked like calendars printed in color. You checked your phone twice, and on the third time your mother texted: running behind. Traffic :)

You smiled at the emoji like it could eat the sting of “behind.” You told the host you’d keep the table warm.

They swept in twenty minutes later, noise in the shape of a family. Your mother looked polished in the way that said she might have walked out of a catalog. Her husband’s hand rested proprietary at the small of her back. Your siblings were all elbows and wants. You stood, smoothed the dress, and tried to let the love rush up faster than the ache.

“Look at you,” your mother said, kissing the air near your cheek. “So fancy.”

“You look nice,” you said, and meant it.

Sitting felt like joining a stage play already in progress. The menu was placed, then snatched by a sibling with a complaint about “nothing good.” You watched your mother talk the complaint into a loop and then decide against the restaurant entirely.

“We’re going to that burger place your brother likes,” she said, already standing. “He won’t touch anything here, and you know how he gets.”

You swallowed the balloon of anger that rose in your throat—me, we are celebrating me—because that particular fight had never once ended with both of you intact. “Okay,” you said. “Sure.”

Back in your car, you followed their SUV to a strip mall where the burger place buzzed under blue light. Grease smell, sticky tables, a kid shrieking in a booth like an alarm, none of it conducive to the story you’d wanted to tell, but maybe that was the point. You wanted to practice wanting anyway.

Over fries, your mother talked about piano lessons and a science fair and the neighbor’s new patio, how the HOA was being impossible. You laughed where appropriate, asked questions, let the noise settle you like a blanket that itched.

When the plates were half-empty, you touched your mother’s wrist. “Can we talk for a minute?”

She gave you a look that assessed for drama and then allowed the possibility of it. “Sure.” She stood, smoothed her skirt, and led you outside.

The evening smelled like fryer oil and wet asphalt. Cars drew thyroid-colored streaks along the street. You stood by a pot of dying petunias and tried to think of a non-awkward way to say it. There wasn’t one.

“I need help,” you said. “With tuition. Just the first semester to get me in the door. I’ll apply to everything. I’ll work. I’ll” Your hand cut the air like you could slice the pleading into manageable pieces. “I’m doing it. I just.....need a little help to get started.”

Your mother’s eyes did the thing they did when she didn’t want to be the villain. Softened. Looked away. Came back polished. “Sweetheart,” she said, framing the word in a tone that made it sound like an apology, “we can’t. We have a lot going on right now. The kids’ activities, the new car, and….we’ve got some house stuff coming up. You’re an adult. You’ve got to figure it out like everyone else.”

The words found their mark and bloomed there. You nodded slowly so she didn’t feel like she had to repeat them.

“Of course,” you said. “Of course. I just thought…...since we’re celebrating.”

She smiled in the way that always made you feel like you were standing in a doorway between rooms she’d never invite you into. “We are celebrating. I’m proud of you.” She reached out and squeezed your forearm like she was checking for ripeness. “This will be good for you. You’ll be independent. You’ll grow up.”

You swallowed a laugh that would have come out wrong. “Right.”

Inside, her husband waved to indicate they were ready to go, and she left you by the petunias with the taste of grease at the back of your throat and the neon reflected in your eyes. You waited until their taillights disappeared before you let the air shudder out of you.

Driving home, you rolled the window down and let the noise of the road wash the conversation clean. You didn’t cry. You didn’t even feel angry, not in any way that would have relieved you. You felt hollowed and steady, like someone had scooped out the center and left the edges to hold themselves.

At a red light, you looked at your reflection in the window and rehearsed the story you’d tell Maria. She would say good. Better to know the shape of help you have and the help you don’t. Then she’d start a list. She always did.

At home, the house had cooled, the kind of evening where a quiet sink feels like a friend. You put water on to boil for pasta because you didn’t want to think hard enough to be creative and because stirring felt like proof you could do a thing from start to finish.

You took your bowl to the table and set your score report beside it like a candle. You reread the lines with your name on them and felt it, the small, fierce lift of pride that belongs only to you. No one put those numbers there for you. No one can take them off. In a life that had become a ledger of mistakes and wanting, here was a column that didn’t argue.

Your phone buzzed. Maria: How’d it go?

You typed: She can’t help. But I can.

You watched the dots come and go. Okay. Tomorrow we plan. Tonight you rest. Proud of you.

You put the phone face down and let the cheap pasta be amazing just because you were hungry. Later, you took a walk past the office and glanced at the dark windows. The plants you’d placed in the sill were black shapes against the streetlight. Somewhere on a shelf inside was the binder with your name on a Post-it, the small, stubborn proof that you had built something someone didn’t want to lose.

You went to bed early because you were tired in the deep way—the kind that feels like a full body bruise—and lay there with the window cracked, listening to the city exhale. You did not look for Joel’s headlights. You let the habit go for one night. You stared at the ceiling and whispered the list Lila had given you like a prayer, two essays, three forms, one letter, another letter, a call at two. It soothed you. Concrete things do.

You dreamed a small dream, A campus with trees that looked like ladders, a library that smelled like paper and breath, your name on a door that said Office Manager even if that wasn’t the job, not yet. In the dream, you were running and not out of breath. You woke before dawn with your heart steady.

By the time the sun came up, you knew, you would do the work. You would stack the days like bricks, even if you had to do it with your teeth. You would become someone whose life wasn’t just a reaction to loss. You would call Lila at two, and then at three, and again if you had to.

You would keep your promises.

And the ache—the one with Joel’s shape—would sit where it sits and be what it is. Not a rule. Not a roadblock. Not a god. Just a fact. Maybe someday you’d be able to say his name without feeling like your ribs were a bell. Maybe not. Either way, morning would come, and you had work to do.

Chapter Text

The plan had been simple, almost sweet in its smallness. Walk next door with the big envelope tucked in your tote, tell Sarah—because she’d squeal the loudest and somehow make the future feel less like an empty field and more like a road—and then maybe the two of you would split a cupcake at the island and talk about dorms and majors while the baby kicked like a tiny metronome.

Joel’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. Your shoulders dropped an inch you hadn’t realized you’d hiked. Good. Easier. You could do joy without flinching if he wasn’t here to soak up the edges.

You knocked, then pushed when the door gave under your palm. It was cracked, not open, an invitation that didn’t know how to say itself out loud. The house exhaled that new-baby smell that was half milk and half sleep deprivation, a sweetness packed around a raw center. Somewhere, a white noise machine whispered. Somewhere, a dryer thumped.

“Sarah?” you called gently, stepping over the heel you recognized as one of hers, one sandal abandoned mid-step, a life paused in transit.

A sound answered. Not words. A sob, sharp and childish, like the first time you skin your knee and realize pain has a voice.

She was crumpled on the couch in Joel’s living room, knees up, hair mashed into a topknot that had lost the plot, cheeks blotched the color of a bad sunburn. The muslin blanket draped over her lap was damp where she’d pressed it to her eyes. On the coffee table, three empty glasses, a pacifier, a half-eaten granola bar, and the kind of mess that happens when your body becomes the center of a world you hadn’t finished building.

“Hey,” you said, already crossing to her, already lowering yourself into the cushion her sobs had warmed. “Hey. What happened?”

She looked up and tried to laugh but it broke apart in her throat. “She hates me,” she said, and then pressed the heel of her hand hard to her mouth, like the words were something she’d been holding prisoner. “I think she hates me.”

“Babies don’t hate,” you said softly, but you didn’t argue it like it was logic. You said it like a lullaby. “They only know hungry or sleepy or uncomfortable or scared. That’s it.”

“She screams the second I hold her.” She dragged a breath in like it might save her and it didn’t. “Thomas tries and she quiets down. My dad" her lip wobbled “he’s like some…grandpa whisperer. She stops. For me? I get the demon.”

“She’s only a few weeks old,” you reminded her. “She has no concept of vengeance.”

“I know,” Sarah said miserably. “I know. It just feels like…..I don’t know. Like she can smell I don’t know what I’m doing.” She laughed and it had glass in it. “Thomas keeps asking what he can do and I just want to crawl into the wall and live with the wires. Maria is a saint but she has a job and friends and I feel like every time I text her I’m stealing from her life. And Dad…” She scrubbed at her face. “He’s here, he is, but he’s…he’s a granddad. He’s got the rock and the shush and the soft eyes, but at two in the morning it feels like the ocean is in here and I’m drowning and everyone else is asleep on a boat.”

You listened. You kept your face open and your body turned toward her. The house ticked like it always did—the old AC coughing, the floor settling—but none of it laid right. The gravity had shifted. The house was a planet now, orbiting an eight-pound sun.

“You’re not a failure,” you said. “You’re sleep-deprived and your hormones hate you and you haven’t had an uninterrupted shower in, what, a week?”

“Thirteen days,” she said flatly, and that honest, bleak number pricked your eyes.

“Then we triage,” you said. Your voice found a spine. “Do you have milk pumped?”

She nodded. “Two bottles in the fridge.”

“Diapers, wipes, and a swaddle station?”

“Yeah. In the basket. Maria organized it.” Her mouth wiggled into a tiny, desperate smile. “Of course she did.”

“Okay.” You stood and put your hand out and she took it like a kid, fingers hot and damp. “Go shower. The long one. The one with the good shampoo and the body wash that smells like you live at a spa. Then sleep. In your bed. Door closed. I’ve got her.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered, already swaying a little with the idea of surrender.

“No,” you said honestly, and her laugh came out wet. “I’m terrified. But I’ve got her.”

She nodded hard, quick, as if she had to move before the guilt could catch her. “The bottles”

“I’ll find them.”

“The diapers”

“I’ve seen a diaper before. Go.”

She stood. The blanket slumped off her lap to the couch like a molted skin. She kissed your cheek on the way past, the kiss of someone halfway asleep, and then she was gone down the hall, the bathroom door shutting with the small authority of survival.

You exhaled, once, like cracking your own sternum, and crossed to the bassinet where the baby was beginning to fish-mouth, eyes pinched, that pre-cry that sounds like a match being struck. Her hair was darker than Sarah’s, more like Joel’s, and your heart did a stupid, painful thing in your chest that you didn’t name. Not here. Not in this house that had already held more of you than you ever meant to spill.

“Hey, Ellie,” you said, quietly astonished at your own voice for finding the name correctly, the way it slid into your mouth like you’d been saying it your whole life. “I’m your underqualified babysitter. Please don’t fire me.”

She took a breath that made her whole body bunch, and you scooped her before the siren could start. Tiny. Warm. Heavy in the way living things are heavy, with intention. You rocked, slow as a porch swing. She kept gathering, a little storm in a blanket.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, the syllables just a shape to fill the space between you. “I get loud when I’m hungry too.”

You tucked her into the crook of your arm and found the bottle, cold and perfect in the fridge door. The sterilizer bits on the counter—Maria’s efficiency written in glass and plastic—were a little opera you tried to sing without hitting any wrong notes. The first try leaked. The second try clicked. She fussed at the nipple and then latched, all reflex and desperate economy, and the sound she made—tiny swallows, tiny sighs—was somehow the sweetest sound you’d ever heard.

You cried, a little. Not the heaving kind you’d worn out in your own bed in the dark. Just the soft overflow of a cup you hadn’t realized was already full. You rocked and walked and fed and the house reorganized itself around that small act like the whole point of architecture had always been to create a good path for a hungry baby.

When she went soft and heavy you did the careful, ridiculous dance of getting her onto the changing pad without waking her. You murmured an apology when the wipes startled her awake. You swaddled her too loose, then too tight, then the third try your hands suddenly remembered what your head didn’t know and she looked like a perfect little burrito from a commercial and you wanted to call someone and say, You won’t believe it, I did a basic human thing and it felt like flight.

You paced the living room with her draped against your chest. Her breath warmed the hollow under your collarbone. Your heart beat at her back. You hummed nonsense, she sighed in that old-person way babies have, the one that makes you believe they know something from before.

She did look like Joel. The curve of the brow. The stubborn little mouth. You let yourself feel it for half a second—like pressing on a bruise to be sure it’s still there—and then you tucked the feeling back where it lived now, in a room you closed the door to when it got too loud.

You sang because it kept your own thoughts from chewing you alive. Not a lullaby you knew. Something you made up, the melody looping easy, the words nothing but a promise said different ways.

You’re safe, little star, little lantern, little fern, You’re warm, little bird, breathe slow, it’s your turn.

It wasn’t good. It didn’t matter. She slept.

Time changed texture. Four minutes were a year, and an hour was a glass bead rolling across the floor. You let her sleep on you because putting her down felt like breaking a spell. Your arms went numb. You didn’t dare shift. You tucked the milk-drunk smile into your pocket like a magic charm for later when the dark came back and tried to sit on your chest.

At some point you checked the time and blinked. Four hours. The house had softened into a twilight quiet, the sort that made you want to lower your voice for no reason except that it felt right to respect whatever small ritual had begun breathing here.

The front door opened. You didn’t turn, you were in the middle of the song again, the low part that soothed her most, your cheek against her soft hair. You only realized you were no longer alone when a voice you hadn’t let yourself hear in weeks stroked the room like a hand across the grain of wood.

“I’m back, sweetie,” Joel said.

He sounded tired. And then he sounded wrong, because when he lifted his eyes from his phone he stopped, like tripping, and the word sweetie fell into a silence it hadn’t been meant for.

You turned slowly. You didn’t want to jostle Ellie. You didn’t want to jostle yourself.

Joel looked older. Not in the way of years, but in the way of hard miles. Unshaven. The crease between his brows deeper, carved out by nights pacing a house you used to share. He was still Joel in the way that wrecked you—broad and careful, presence like a gravity well—but some light had shifted off its axis. He swallowed, the line of his throat moving, and his eyes did that quick cataloging thing, counting how many pieces you’d both been broken into.

“She was…” You cleared your throat. “She was having a hard day. I told her to shower. Sleep. I’ve got Ellie.”

He stared another heartbeat and then nodded once, a man accepting a report. “Thank you,” he said quietly. It sounded like a truce offered through a fence.

You eased Ellie toward him and he stepped in because of course he did. His hands came up automatically, the old choreography snapping into place with a tenderness that had always lived in him whether he liked it or not. The baby knew it. She settled like she’d been waiting all afternoon for this set of arms.

You watched him hold her and wanted a thousand things that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with history. You waanted to set a photograph on fire with your mind, wanted to crawl into the soft part under his jaw and stay there, wanted to be 19 again, wanted to un-know and re-choose. You wanted a time machine that only went in one direction, back to a kitchen, to a coffee, to a morning before any paperwork had ever been printed.

“She’s good,” you said instead, the practical covering the holy. “She ate a bottle around three. I changed her. She likes being swaddled tighter than the internet says.”

His mouth tugged the smallest fraction, like a smile that got lost on the way to his face. “Always knew she’d be contrary,” he murmured, eyes on Ellie, and the sound of it was a mercy you didn’t deserve.

You braved a look at him. “Sarah’s trying so hard,” you said. “But I think she’s coming apart a little. She won’t say it out loud. She thinks it makes her a bad mom. Maybe…maybe talk to her doctor? Or just tell her you see it. Sometimes that helps.”

He nodded. “I will.”

“She’s scared to ask,” you said softly. “For anything.”

“I know.” He glanced at you, quick, then back down. “So am I.”

That sat between you like a red pulse. You wanted to take it up, to ask what he meant, to tell him that fear had made you stupid and brave in all the wrong ratios. But Ellie stirred and he adjusted his hold, and the moment passed like a small boat skimming a dark lake.

“I should” You gestured toward the door, a mime of leaving. “I should let you”

“Yeah,” he said, not unkind, just precise, like cutting along a line. “I got it from here.”

“Okay.” You tried to smile and it came out as a polite shape. “Sarah’s asleep. Let her sleep.”

“I will.”

You stepped past him and the scent of him knocked you briefly off your feet, cedar and laundry and the sweetness of newborn that had climbed onto his shirt and claimed it. You kept moving like you’d trained for this, don’t look back, don’t break, don’t ask for anything you can’t be given.

At the door you paused, because the thing would gnaw you if you didn’t set it down somewhere. “She’s beautiful,” you said. “Her. And the way you hold her.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The answer was in the way his whole body had gone loose around the baby, the way the line of his mouth had softened, the way his thumb traced a tiny arc over the swaddle without even thinking.

You walked home and the evening laid its hand on your head, heavy and almost kind. The grass between the houses was damp. The air tasted like rain that might or might not come. You could feel the outline of Ellie’s weight still lingering across your forearms, a ghostly ache that was equal parts love and lack.

Back in your room, you put your tote on the chair and the big envelope on your desk. You stared at it for a long time like it might open by itself and offer you a map for how to live after a life ends.

Then you opened your laptop and did the thing you knew how to do, you worked. You searched the scholarship links Maria had texted you. You copied the prompt into a blank document and rolled your shoulders and began to lay down sentences, one after another, a path made out of words:

Describe a moment you learned you could be more than your circumstances.

You didn’t write about Joel. You didn’t write about a living room that smelled like milk and the way a baby’s yawn can split you open. You wrote about a morning at a small desk in a small office, about coffee that tasted like approval, about a social media page you launched that made a business bloom. You wrote about plants you kept alive in windows that had only ever known dust. You wrote about the first invoice you sent correctly and the way the printer hummed and the way you realized your hands were capable of building something that lasted longer than a bad decision.

Halfway through the first paragraph, you stopped and pressed your fingers to your eyes. The image rose whether you let it or not. Joel, head bent, the baby tucked into the wide square of his chest, a constellation you’d recognized in a thousand small ways long before you knew it by name.

You let yourself feel it. One minute. Two. And then you put it back into its room and closed the door and kept writing, because love can be the reason you start and the thing you don’t put on the page.

At midnight you saved the draft and the house around you was the same house it had been when the day began—scuffed baseboards, a room too small for the future you wanted—and you were not the same person inside it. You washed your face. You lay down. The ceiling was blank and your brain was a museum of what-ifs and you slept anyway.

In the morning you’d polish the essay and submit it and call Maria and circle schools on a list and check on Sarah and the baby and maybe—if you could stand it—leave some groceries on the porch next door and text, Let me know if you want me to hold her while you shower.

You weren’t healed. You weren’t brave. But tonight you’d held something small and loud and new and you hadn’t run, and sometimes that’s where a different life starts, in the quiet, with your back to the door, singing a made-up song to a baby that doesn’t know what you’ve lost and doesn’t care.

Chapter Text

Sunday starts soft, like the city has its palms on either side of your head and is whispering be gentle.

You wake before your alarm, a pale wash of light slipping through the blinds and striping your comforter. For once, your first thought isn’t a memory of Joel or the ache that follows it, it’s the sentence you almost fell asleep wrestling last night, the one that wouldn’t land clean on the page. You slide out of bed, hair in a loose knot, and pad to your desk. Your laptop—its hinge a little loose, a sticker half peeled in the corner—blinks awake to the draft you left open.

You read the essay from the top, lips moving with the rhythm of your own voice. It’s all there, the smallness you came from, the grit you learned, the way a job became a home and then a heartbreak and how you decided not to let that be the end of you. You trim a clause that tries too hard. You change “I want” to “I will.” You swap out a word that sounds like a brochure and find a plainer one that sounds like truth.

Outside, someone’s sprinkler ticks. A mourning dove hoots like it’s remembering something for you. You cut three sentences you loved and hate yourself and love yourself for it, and when you reach the last line, you let it stand.

You hit submit.

The confirmation screen floods your monitor—Thank you for your application—and you let your forehead fall to your forearm, just for a second, breath exhaling in a shaky little laugh you didn’t know you had saved up.

Okay. The week is a cliff you’re ready to climb. Financial aid calls. Scholarship essays. Packing lists in the notes app. Maybe later, a casserole to Sarah’s, an hour holding Ellie while Sarah sleeps without pretending it’s a nap. You’ll run the dishwasher for your dad because it’s easier than fighting about the sink, and you’ll change your sheets just to feel like you’re living in a place that belongs to a person who is leaving on purpose and not because a wave tossed her out.

You reward yourself with the smallest thing, a smoothie that isn’t from the place next to the office. A new spot across town with a mural on the side and a chalkboard sign that says we blend joy. You put on clean shorts and a T-shirt that still smells faintly like Joel’s dryer sheets because it went into the wrong basket months ago and never found its way out.

The drive is easy. Sunday traffic is a hum, not a snarl. The shop is bright and loud in a way that feels young, the blender’s roar, the metal scoop against ice, the barista’s pierced eyebrow arched when you ask what’s good and she says, “Something green if you’re feeling virtuous, something purple if you’re not.”

You pick purple. You taste blueberry and something floral, and for a whole five minutes your body feels like a thing that can be watered back to life.

When you turn onto your street, your dad’s truck is in the driveway. That isn’t unusual—weekends are for being home and making a mess of it—but it’s usually accompanied by the glow of the TV through the living-room curtains or a lawn chair in the backyard and a beer sweating on the armrest. Today the living room is empty, dead quiet but for the fan clacking against its chain. You call out a cautious, “Dad?” and get the answering echo of your own voice.

The air has a different weight on the stairs. You know it the way you’ve always known a storm before the sky bothers to say so. Your bedroom door is open, not wide, but enough to show you a slice you didn’t leave, your dresser drawer gaped, shirts half out like tongues, the corner of your corkboard hanging crooked where something tore it and left thumbtacks on the carpet like teeth.

You push the door the rest of the way with your knuckles. The room is a pause that has snapped. Your laundry baskets are rummaged through. Your desk chair is angled wrong. Your dad sits on your bed like it’s his—like it always has been—elbows on his knees, your acceptance letter unfolded and trembling in his hand.

He looks up. His eyes are glassy. There’s a beer can sweating a ring on your nightstand, a second one crushed flat on the floor like a punctuation mark.

“Oh,” he says, and it’s a word and an accusation at once. “Look who decided to come home.”

“What are you doing in my room?” Your voice is thinner than you want it to be. “Why did you....why are you going through my stuff?”

He flaps the letter like a flag. “Found your big fancy paper. Guess my little girl’s too good for this dump.”

“It was on my desk,” you say, and it sounds stupid even as you say it, etiquette in a house that only remembers the rules it can twist. “You went through my drawers, Dad. You ripped down my stuff.”

“I pay the goddamn mortgage,” he says, pushing himself to his feet, sway barely there but enough for you to catalog. “Every room in this place is my room.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He laughs, an ugly sound, and waves the letter again, as if absolved. “You didn’t answer mine. When were you gonna tell me you were abandoning me in August? Huh? Gonna leave old Harry high and dry? Who’s gonna run to H-E-B when I can’t drive? Who’s gonna keep lights on when the power company calls again? You think those bills paid themselves?”

“I’ve been paying them,” you say. It comes out too fast, too hot. “I’ve been paying them. I’ve been paying them with money from the job I haven’t even been fired from yet, because Tommy won’t let me be, and I’m leaving because I have to or I’ll never leave.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” he says, and his mouth makes a shape that would be a smile if there were anything kind left in it. “Since when do you have to? Since some rich boy told you you were special? Since some old man”

“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp as glass. “Do not bring him into this.”

“Why not?” he says, leaning on the familiar cruelty like it’s a banister. “He the one putting ideas in your head. He the one who"

“No,” you say. The calm that leaves your mouth surprises you both. “He’s not. I am. I did this. I applied. I studied. I took the test. I got in. This is mine.”

He looks down at the letter as if it might be a magic trick. His eyes go mean with something you recognize, fear dressed as anger. “And you didn’t think to tell me.”

“I was going to.” You hear yourself and hate yourself because you always were going to. “I wanted, God, I wanted to tell you when you were sober. When you could hear me. I wanted you to be proud.”

“Proud?” He snorts, takes a step, drops into your desk chair like he’s auditioning for a part. “Proud of what? Spending money you don’t have to go learn how to be better than the people who kept you alive?”

“I don’t want to be better than you,” you say, and your hands are shaking now, not from fear but from the effort of holding yourself upright. “I want to be better than this.”

He swats at the letter, at the air. “What about me?” he says, and there it is, the real thing. He looks like a boy you have never met. “What about me, huh? You think you can just go? You think you can leave me here to rot?”

“I think I can go and still love you,” you say, and your throat is raw. “I think I can go and still send money and still call and still be your daughter. I think I can go and not die here.”

He doesn’t hear it. He hears the word leave and his chest seizes around it like it’s a choke.

He stands too fast. The beer can rocks and falls and sprays foam over the corner of your desk. His arm swings—a sloppy, careless gesture, not a hit that aims, but a strike that knocks—and his forearm clips your open laptop.

The sound it makes is a bone breaking.

The screen slams face-down, one hinge twists with a tidy pop, the charger cord snaps from the socket and whips the edge of your hand. The cursor skitters and dies. A hairline crack spiders from the corner like a storm map.

You don’t hear whatever he says next. You hear the white-noise rush of blood in your ears, the kind you get right before you throw up or pass out. You straighten the laptop with your fingertips like you’re checking a pulse. The screen stays black. Your essay, the one you submitted, the other one you were halfway through, the folder of scanned forms, your list of schools, the notes Maria made you color-code—your whole careful life—flickers once and disappears.

“Oh,” you say. Your voice isn’t your voice. It’s someone through glass. “Okay.”

“It’s just a computer,” he says, dismissive, already defensive. “You got money for college, buy yourself another.”

You look at him then. Not around him. Not through him. At him. The man who taught you every kind of stubborn you have, the man who leaves quiet offerings at your door and thinks that counts as love, the man who is so afraid of empty rooms he’ll burn down the ones you try to build.

“I can’t do this,” you say. Each word is a stone laid in a neat line. “Not today.”

“Where you gonna go?” he asks, triumph and panic wrestling in his mouth. “Huh? You think you got somewhere to be?”

You don’t answer. You reach for the tote under your bed and start packing like it’s a drill, like muscle memory guided by adrenaline. Underwear. Two jeans. Three T-shirts. The sweater that smells like cedar. You pull the shoebox from the back of your closet and dump the envelope of cash into your purse. The acceptance letter you fold once, twice, and slide into the zip pocket like you’re putting a heart back into a body. Your toothbrush. Your charger. (Useless, you think, and take it anyway.) The binder Joel left on your desk that says We don’t lose people who build things here. You tuck it under your arm.

He keeps talking. You let his words move past you like weather you can’t afford to notice. When you heft the tote onto your shoulder, it pulls. You welcome the bite.

Downstairs, you load the car in three trips. The sky is midmorning bright, the kind that makes everything look too exposed. The air tastes like cut grass and oil. Your hands don’t shake now. They just move.

On the second trip, you catch motion next door. Joel’s front door opens a foot and then all the way. He steps onto the porch and then sees you. For a heartbeat, neither of you is a person you recognize. He looks thinner. He looks like a man who hasn’t been sleeping, not the violent kind of insomniac but the hollow kind who stares at ceilings and knows the names of four o’clock and five by their different shades of dark. There’s scruff where there used to be a shave. There’s a cigarette in his fingers, the ember a tiny sun he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold.

He doesn’t move toward you. He doesn’t look away.

You lower the tote into the trunk and close it with more care than you feel. On the porch, Joel’s eyes come to your face like they’re obeying a rule they didn’t get to vote on. For a second, you see it, how badly he wants to say something. For a second, you want to cross the grass and ask him to.

The screen door at your house bangs open and your dad stumbles out, mouth already wide. “You walk out that door, don’t you come back!” he shouts to the whole street, like you’ve made him a show. “You hear me? You’re not welcome. You go be better than us. See how it feels when nobody wants you.”

Joel’s head snaps that way. His shoulders lift. He flicks the cigarette into the dirt without looking at it and comes off his porch with the pacing stride you know from a hundred job sites and a dozen fights he pretended he wasn’t in.

“Harry,” he says, loud enough to cut through your dad’s next sentence, but not loud enough to be a threat. “That’s enough.”

Your dad bristles, pivots. “Don’t tell me how to talk to my kid on my own damn lawn,” he slurs, falling into the comfort of an enemy he recognizes. “Ain’t your business.”

Joel doesn’t look at you. He keeps his gaze on your father like you’re a hot thing he can’t touch. “She is not your punching bag,” he says. Calm, even, each word a stake. “You don’t get to spit on her because you’re scared.”

“You don’t get to tell me”

“Harry,” Joel says again, the warning wrapped in the name, not a threat, not a plea. “Enough.”

They stand there, men who have both loved you badly and well in their different ways, and the neighbor’s wind chime chooses that moment to ping into the charged air like it’s got the joke of the century.

Your dad swears, some tired, ugly thing, and throws up his hands. “Go on then,” he mutters, heading back toward the door. “Go run after your little secretary, see if you can fix what you broke.” He misses the way Joel flinches because he’s already halfway inside.

The screen door bangs again. Silence drops like a curtain.

Joel turns then. Not all the way. Enough. You meet his eyes and it’s like touching a bruise you’ve been ignoring just to prove you can. He starts to speak.

“Don’t.” Your voice comes out rough. You feel exhausted suddenly, like your bones weigh more than the car. “Don’t you dare be my hero.”

He absorbs it without a flinch. You see the hit land anyway, in the tightening of his jaw, the way his hand opens and closes once like he’s unlearning a habit.

He nods, one short dip of his chin, and steps back a fraction. “Alright,” he says. No argument. No rescue. “Alright.”

You slide into the driver’s seat and discover your hands are steady enough to turn the key. The engine catches. The song on the radio is in the middle and feels like it always has been. You put the car in drive and keep your face forward. You don’t look at Joel. You don’t look at the window where your dad has already come back to stand, arms crossed, middle-school smug in a fifty-something body.

You drive.

You don’t head toward Maria’s at first, though it would be easiest, warm light, a couch that makes you forget your name, a plate of food pushed into your hands before you know you’re hungry. You drive without choosing for five blocks, two turns, a red light that forces you to breathe. Your mouth tastes like blueberry and pennies. Once you’re clear of your street, the shaking starts in your knees. You press them into the underside of the wheel and keep going. The city buckles and unbuckles around you, gas stations and pawn shops and a new bar with a patio full of people who have never seen you and never will.

At the next light you realize you’re crying. Not the flood. The quiet kind that sneaks out the corners of your eyes and leaves your throat raw.

You pull into the lot behind the office because the muscle memory of work is the only ritual that has ever steadied you. The closed sign is flipped, the blinds are half-drawn. The key Joel gave you—his key, your key—hangs on your ring like it’s been waiting for a day like this. The lock clicks under your hand.

Inside, it smells like printer ink and the plant soil you watered last week and the coffee you didn’t make this morning. You put your tote behind the desk and sit in your chair and fold forward until your forehead touches the edge of the blotter. Your body makes a small sound you wouldn’t let it make in front of anyone else.

After a minute you sit back up. Your laptop is broken. Your essay is submitted but everything else lives in a dead screen. You pull the binder toward you and open to the tab where you tucked your list of deadlines. You’ve done harder things with less time and more pain.

You pull a blank legal pad from the drawer and uncap a pen. The first line is ugly. The second is better. The third is yours.

You write because you have to. Because the room is empty of ghosts as long as there is work to do. Because the sound of your own pen is a metronome that keeps your breath from stuttering into panic.

The pen scratches steadier. You’re finding the spine of it when your phone buzzes against the blotter, unknown Austin number, campus exchange prefix.

You almost let it go to voicemail. You don’t. You swipe.

“Hello?”

“Hi! Is this…,” a warm voice checks your name, then continues without making you repeat it, “this is Lila from Financial Aid at” she names the Arizona school like she’s saying a spell you asked for. “Do you have a minute?”

Your chair squeaks. “Yes. Yeah, absolutely.”

“I know it’s Sunday, sorry to intrude, but I’m working through some late-cycle files and wanted to flag something time-sensitive. A donor scholarship just opened up. One slot. It’s specifically for nontraditional students entering business who’ve been working while applying. That’s you.” You hear her smile. “The window closes at midnight tonight. If you can submit a short essay, five to seven hundred words, plus a résumé upload, we can put you in the pool. Given your scores…..you’ll be competitive.”

Your heart does that lift-and-drop thing roller coasters charge money for. “Midnight tonight?”

“Midnight,” she says, apologetic, brisk. “I’ve emailed the link. The prompt is in the portal, but it’s essentially, Describe a time you took responsibility for your future. What changed? Be concrete. You’ll also need a PDF résumé. If you don’t have one, a one-page work history in clean text is fine. Call this number if the portal fights you.”

You swallow, nodding to no one. “Thank you. I’ll do it.”

“I’m rooting for you,” Lila says, like she already knows you. “Don’t overthink the voice. Plain is powerful. Midnight central, not mountain.”

“Got it.”

The line clicks off, the silence after rings.

You stare at the phone a beat longer, then grab your keys like you’ve been shot out of something. The door chimes when you leave. Heat slaps your face in the alley behind the office, the sky’s gone that bleached Austin white. At the bodega two blocks over, the fluorescent lights feel like noon in a fishbowl. You snag two tall cans of Red Bull, a pack of almonds, a granola bar you won’t want but will be grateful for, and a another writting pad because the one you at work is already blooming with crossings-out and arrows.

Back at the office, your hands are steadier than your pulse. You crack a can. The first sip is cold and chemical and exactly what you need.

You open the binder for the hundredth time—not to Joel’s notes, not tonight—but to the blank tab you’d labeled “School.” You slide Lila’s voice into your ribs like a splint, plain is powerful.

You date the top of a fresh page. You copy the prompt with deliberate strokes, not because you’ll forget it but because the act of writing makes it real. Describe a time you took responsibility for your future. What changed?

You set a timer for forty minutes and promise yourself you won’t look up until the bell goes. You don’t. The first draft lunges and stumbles, too much apology in the front half, too much throat clearing, a paragraph where you burn three sentences telling a story about someone else because it hurts less than telling your own. You keep going. The timer chirps. You give yourself two minutes to stand, shake out your hands, breathe on the back steps where the alley smells like heat and dust and the ghost of someone’s tacos.

Round two. You cut the flattery. You sand down the excuses. You stop saying “I was given” and write “I chose.” You put the moment on the page you’ve been circling for months, the exact hour you let the lie calcify because you were more in love with a future than with the truth, and how the future cracked anyway. You do not name him. You do not need to. You write what you did after. Got up, kept the job, faced the people you hurt, learned how to make a new morning.

You print it. You mark it up like it belongs to a stranger you care about. You feed it back to yourself sentence by sentence, reading aloud until the language loses its performance and finds its breath.

The office becomes a ship in a dark sea. The hum of the AC is a tide. Streetlight pours through the blinds in slatted lines. Dust drifts like tiny planets in the beam above the copier. The plant on the windowsill has perked up from the water you forgot you gave it. You finish the first can and resist the second. Your hands don’t need to shake more than they already do.

At 8:12 p.m., you realize you need a résumé. You don’t have your laptop. Panic licks at the back of your neck, then recedes. The office desktop hums, old but obedient. You open a blank document and build your life in clean, black lines. Office Manager (Acting), Miller & Miller Contracting. Bullet points you could defend without blushing. Intake and scheduling, invoicing accuracy, social media launch growing inbound leads by X%, client retention improved by Y, not magic, not luck,work. Before that, the diner where you learned to triage twelve voices at once without dropping a plate. Before that, the temp job you hated but showed up to because money buys time for the next thing.

You stare at the name header a long second. You do not type the address you just left behind. You type your PO box instead, the one Maria bullied you into renting last week because a girl needs a safe address for official mail. You save as PDF. You save to cloud. You email it to yourself, to Maria, to the you that will need it when this computer is just a box again.

9:03. You go back to the essay. You trim it down to the muscle. You remove the sentence where you apologize to the reader for taking up space on the page,you don’t notice you’re doing it until the apology has a shadow in every paragraph, begging to be loved for being small. You cross it out everywhere it hides.

You write, plainly, about responsibility with a little r and a big one, getting up when grief would’ve kept you down. Showing up to hold a girl while she labored because you said you would. Walking away from the part of you that wanted saving and learning how to save yourself. Opening a binder with your name on it and building an office from the inside out. Asking for help even when the asking felt like shame, forgiving yourself piecemeal and on purpose, deciding not to be your worst day forever.

You check the portal. It opens cleanly, an empty box waiting like a held breath. You resist it. You print draft three. You mark it in red, honest and undramatic. One metaphor earns its keep. Two get the ax. A paragraph about your mother tries to turn into a dirge. You enroll it back into the essay you’re writing, not the memoir you’re not ready to tell.

At 10:21, your brain hits the wall and then—gently—climbs over it. You eat the almonds without tasting them. You sip water. You let yourself think about Joel just enough to check that the gravity isn’t pulling you off course. It isn’t. It’s there, a fixed star, but you are not navigating by it tonight.

You put the pen down and read the whole thing aloud to the empty room. Your voice sounds steady and older than the last time you heard it move through all these syllables. When you reach the final line, you don’t cry. You nod, once, like a coach telling a kid to take the shot.

You paste the words into the portal box. You upload the PDF. You type your name without flinching at it. You hover over submit and your entire body goes still and bright, the way the air does before summer rain.

You click.

The wheel spins. The screen blinks. Thank you, it says again, in the same cheerful sans serif. Application received. The timestamp stamps: 10:57 p.m. Central.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it leaves you hard enough that your shoulders drop. The quiet that follows is not vacancy. It’s earned.

You forward Lila a quick, clean email. Submission confirmed, thank you for the nudge, here if anything glitches, and click the desk lamp to its lowest setting. The office sighs around you, its own animal settling in for the night. Outside, a train sounds its long, lonely horn somewhere on the far edge of town.

You clean up without letting yourself fuss. Papers squared. Pen capped. Binder closed on the “School” tab like a book that now contains one more page about you. You stack the granola wrapper inside the Red Bull can like a secret and drop it in the bin.

You tell yourself you’ll go home. You stand. You make it halfway to the door.

The couch in the small waiting nook isn’t soft, but it has a dip in the cushion exactly where your spine wants it, molded by workers with early appointments and clients who came in too hot and needed to cool before they did the talking that got the job done. You lie down just to feel the ceiling tilt into one line. Your phone buzzes once in your pocket—an email chime—but the sound floats through the room like weather and then dissolves.

You tug a throw—the ugly, scratchy one you bought at a thrift store because it matched nothing and therefore everything—over your legs. The plant on the sill is a dark geometry against the lighter dark beyond the blinds. The lamp’s pool shrinks to a warm coin. Your breath slows.

You think, briefly, of the girl who couldn’t leave a room without glancing at a window, and of the woman who just wrote three drafts about not being her own saboteur and hit submit anyway. You think of Sarah asleep in a chair, baby on her chest, the lights over her bed dimmed to a good kind of low. You think of Maria at her kitchen table, a stack of articles about scholarships spread under her elbows, texting you in the morning with ten tabs and a plan. You think of Tommy setting a pot of coffee to brew before the sun edges up, like always. You think of Joel somewhere else in the city, asleep or not, a cigarette stubbed out in a saucer because ashtrays never make it to the grocery list even when you mean to buy them.

You let yourself feel it all without trying to fix any of it. For once, that’s enough.

When sleep comes, it comes like a long, slow wave. You don’t fight it. Your last thought is small and clear as a star, you kept a promise to yourself.

The office breathes. The blinds tic faintly in the AC’s tide. You dream nothing you can hold when the morning finds you, just the feeling of running and not being chased anymore, only headed somewhere you chose.

Chapter Text

The office wakes before you do.

Not with an alarm or a voice, but with the low, electric hum of lights flickering alive, the air vents beginning their steady breath. The couch underneath you is scratchy, the kind of upholstery that was never meant for sleeping, and the curve of your neck aches from a night of trying to fold yourself small. You’re still dressed from yesterday—jeans wrinkled, shirt twisted—and your tote bag is wedged under your head as a makeshift pillow.

For a moment, half-dreaming, you let yourself pretend it’s Saturday morning at home, sunlight slanting through your blinds, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen. But then you sit up and the truth comes with you, you are twenty years old, you slept on an office couch, and you don’t know where else to go.

You splash water on your face in the tiny bathroom and wipe it dry with a rough paper towel. You smooth your hair into something presentable. If you can look like a person, maybe you can feel like one.

The key turns in the front door at exactly 7:12, and you freeze with your tote still half-zipped. Tommy steps inside with a paper bag from the bakery and a Styrofoam cup balanced on top. He’s humming off-key, the way he does when the day hasn’t had the chance to ruin him yet.

He stops dead when he sees you.

You straighten too quickly, heart racing, like a kid caught sneaking candy. “Morning,” you say, too bright, too fast.

Tommy’s eyes flick from the tote on the floor to the blanket folded too neatly on the couch. His mouth settles into something between worry and recognition. “You sleep here?”

Your first instinct is denial—you can feel the “no” rise in your throat—but his gaze is too steady, too kind. It makes lying impossible. You glance away. “Yeah. Just…last night. I didn’t want to go home.”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. He sets the bag down on the counter, pulls the coffee cup free, and pushes it toward you like it’s medicine. “Eat,” he says softly. “Then tell me what’s going on.”

You take the cup because it’s easier than refusing, fingers curling around the heat. The steam smells like cinnamon rolls. The silence stretches, heavy. Finally, you sigh. “He found my acceptance letter. We fought. He” you stop, swallow. “I just couldn’t stay there last night.”

Tommy leans his elbows on the counter, studying you the way he studies blueprints, quiet and exact. “You could’ve called me. Or Maria.”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone.”

He huffs a small, incredulous laugh. “Kid, you’re family. Bothering us is your birthright.” His tone softens again. “Don’t make a habit out of this couch, alright?”

You nod, eyes on the cup. Then, almost pleading “Please don’t tell Joel.”

Tommy tilts his head, like he wants to ask why but already knows. He doesn’t push. “Alright,” he says simply. “I won’t.”

Relief loosens your shoulders. “Thank you.”

He straightens, grabs his own kolache from the bag, and heads toward his office. “Eat something. And if you ever feel like you’ve got nowhere else to go, remember, you do.”

The day crawls. You answer phones, shuffle papers, busy your hands so your mind doesn’t spiral. Every time the door opens, your heart stutters, expecting Joel. It isn’t him. Not today.

By late afternoon, the sky outside has gone gold and soft, and you’re gathering your things to leave when your phone buzzes. Maria.

“Sweetheart,” she says the moment you answer, voice warm enough to seep through the line. “Can you come over tonight?”

You hesitate. “Maria”

“Don’t argue with me,” she interrupts gently. “Dinner’s on the table. I want to see your face.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay,” you whisper.

When you pull into her driveway, the backseat of your car is still piled with your hastily packed bags, jeans, books, the shoebox of cash you never wanted your dad to see. It looks like you’re leaving for good, even though you keep telling yourself it’s temporary.

Maria opens the door before you knock. She’s in a soft sweater, hair pulled back, and she pulls you into her arms without asking. You don’t realize how much you need it until you’re pressed against her shoulder, the smell of rosemary and detergent wrapping around you.

“Come in,” she says, tugging you gently inside. The kitchen is warm and alive, roast chicken on the counter, mashed potatoes steaming in a bowl, candles flickering like she planned for company.

You hover in the doorway, suddenly ashamed of the mess you feel like you’ve dragged in. “Maria, I don’t”

She cuts you off with a look. “You do. You’re staying in the guest room until you head off to college. End of discussion.”

“Maria, I can’t”

“Yes, you can,” she says firmly. Then her voice softens, motherly in a way that guts you. “It’s just a couple months. No big deal. We’ve got the space. You need a place where you can breathe.”

You stare down at your hands. “I’ll pay rent. Groceries. Something. I don’t want to just"

She takes your hands in hers, squeezes. “You’ll help with groceries. You’ll leave your shoes by the door. That’s enough. The rest? Let me take care of you. Please.”

The please undoes you. You nod, unable to trust your voice.

Maria smiles, relief and affection all at once. “That’s my girl. Now sit. Eat. Tell me everything.”

Over dinner, she listens—really listens—while you haltingly explain the fight with your dad, the broken laptop, the nights that feel heavier than they should. She doesn’t rush you. She doesn’t dismiss you. She just squeezes your hand and says things you’ve always needed to hear. You’re not a burden. You’re stronger than you know. I’m proud of you.

By the time you curl into the guest bed later, the quilt pulled up to your chin and the room smelling faintly of lavender, the ache in your chest has shifted. It isn’t gone—it may never be—but it’s lighter. Bearable.

You whisper into the dark, not sure if anyone can hear. “Thank you.”

And for the first time in weeks, you sleep like you’re safe.

Morning draped itself over the parking lot like a thin sheet. Slack, a little cold, almost see-through. You sat in your car with the engine cut and your hands wrapped around the steering wheel until the quiet clicked over into something you could move through. The closed sign in the office window threw a faint shadow across your knees. You breathed once, twice, then got out.

The key turned with its familiar, stubborn catch. Lights hummed awake in strips, turning stale air into a soft, workable glow. You did what you always did, opened the blinds halfway, so the sun wouldn’t glare off the counter, hit the coffee maker and measured grounds by feel, checked the inbox on the front desk computer and dragged spam into the trash with small, satisfied flicks. The plants along the windowsill drank like they hadn’t seen you in days. You pinched away two dead leaves and set your mug on a coaster you’d bought with your own money, like proof you knew how to make a place yours.

Joel’s office door, closed. Always closed, now. You dusted the frame with the side of your hand on your way to the file cabinet as if that counted for something.

You told yourself it was just a morning. Another one to stack on top of the others. Keep your hands busy and the hours behave.

The bell over the door made its useless cheerful noise. “Mornin’, superstar,” Tommy said, voice already a little too careful.

“Hey,” you said, chin up, smile practiced. “You’re early.”

“Had to hit the supply house.” He lifted a bag like a trophy and set it down by the copy machine. His eyes did a sweep, your desk tidy, plants bright, rug vacuumed, the small bowl of peppermints you kept filled without ever telling anyone you were the one doing it. He nodded to himself, like that meant things were right enough.

He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Heads-up,” he said, softer now. “He’s got a big one in today. Client insisted on in-office. Said she wanted to ‘see the space’ and ‘look a man in the eyes before she writes a check.’” He tried for a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “You know the type.”

Your smile didn’t slip. You kept it where you’d put it. “What time?”

“Ten.” Tommy tapped the desk twice, an old habit. “He’ll come in right before.” He waited. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were almost proud of how dull and believable it sounded.

Tommy pushed air through his nose, accepting the lie he couldn’t fix. “I’ll be in the back if you need anything.”

He wasn’t really in the back, he hovered. You heard him shuffle in his office, take calls, mutter about a lumber delay like he could bend time with his irritation. You answered three emails, two voicemails, and a walk-in who needed a bid sheet reprinted because his dog had eaten the first one. You took the dog story seriously and the man left looking lighter, which felt like a small, private win.

At 9:47, you wiped the coffee rings from the front counter and straightened the stack of business cards twice. At 9:53, you smoothed your skirt and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear in the reflection of the door’s glass. At 9:58, you told your heart to stay put and it didn’t listen.

She arrived at 9:59 on a click of heels that made the floor sound expensive. The door swung inward with a rush of citrus perfume. She was on the phone, voice high and barely contained, laughter spilling in bright little pieces.

“No, babe, listen,” she said, already waving at you the universal One sec gesture. “He’s gorgeous. I told you. Yes, contractor gorgeous. We’ve had the flirtiest emails, I swear. If he wears a flannel I’m not responsible for my actions, shut up.” She laughed again, a practiced, tinkling sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Your stomach went cool. You hated yourself for it, for the immediate heat under the cool, for the reflex of inventory your brain did without your permission, dress, hair, the kind of manicure that meant she scheduled time to be tended to.

“Hi,” you said, even, professional, like the shape of your life wasn’t rearranging. “Welcome. Can I get you a coffee? Water?”

She put a finger over her speaker and dipped her chin, finally looking at you. “Coffee would be amazing. Cream, no sugar. You’re a lifesaver, I’ve been going since six.” Back into the phone “I’m at the office now. He better be as cute as the social media pictures. I’ll text you later if I have to marry him.”

You turned to the machine because you needed your hands to do something. Mug, pour, cream, exact. You set it in front of her and she rewarded you with a wattage that had probably bought her all kinds of leeway in life.

“What a sweet space,” she said, glancing around like a buyer. “Very…homey for a contracting firm.”

“Thank you,” you said. You had chosen the rug and the plants and the little framed photo of a finished kitchen under pretty light. You swallowed the impulse to claim it. “We try to make people comfortable.”

She checked her phone, then tucked it away. “He in?”

“Any minute.” You kept your eyes on the front door so you wouldn’t be looking at hers.

Her smile turned conspiratorial. “Tell me the truth… is he as handsome in person?”

You blinked once, slow. “He’s very good at what he does.”

She laughed like that was the right answer. “Good save.”

The door opened like a cue he never took, ever, but somehow always hit anyway. He stepped in on a wash of warm air and cooler light and you felt it in your bones like a weather change.

He looked like he’d slept badly and decided to dress against it. Clean shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, work boots like always, that careful shave that missed on purpose, like he couldn’t be bothered to pretend at a softness he didn’t feel. He glanced at the counter and then away, an orbit with a gap where you used to be.

“Morning,” he said, to the room, to Tommy in the back, to you, not to you.

“Mr. Miller,” the woman said, standing as if for applause. “Finally.”

“Ms. Carroway,” Joel returned, voice warm the way he turned it for people who paid him to keep their houses standing. He shook her hand, not too long. “Thanks for coming in.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, biting the end of the sentence like it tasted good. “I was just telling” she flicked her eyes to your nameplate “her that I don’t sign anything on a job this big until I look a person in the eyes.”

“Fair enough,” Joel said. He did not look at you. “Let’s talk where we can spread drawings out.”

You stood, already moving to open his office door. The smell hit you first, cedar from the sample boards, paper, a faint undertone of his soap from a shirt hung on the back of his chair. You set her coffee on the small side table, lined up a pen with a legal pad like ritual, and stepped away. Joel passed behind you, close enough that you felt the heat of him without the touch. He said, “Thank you,” in the direction of the doorway. To the air. To the idea of a person doing a job well.

“Of course,” you said, to the doorframe.

You took your seat at the front desk and forced your eyes to the screen. Their voices slipped under the office hum anyway, hers bright and eager, his steady, the tone he used to talk about load-bearing walls and realistic timelines. Through the glass, you could see the back of her wrist lifting, the way she gestured with fingers that wore expensive rings. Once, there was laughter—hers uncontained, his softer and purely polite—and the sound threaded your ribs into a knot.

You answered two emails you had nothing to say to. You printed a receipt for a man who wouldn’t pick it up until Thursday. You clicked through a list of scholarships you’d already bookmarked and skimmed the bullet points without reading them—eligibility, essay prompt, deadline already past—and scrolled back to the top like the information might change if you wished hard enough.

Time did its trick where ten minutes stretched and snapped and then dumped you half an hour ahead. A soft scrape of chairs. The meeting bled toward an end. You looked up in time to see Ms. Carroway stand and lean across the desk toward Joel, hand outstretched for the shake that lingered a second longer than strictly necessary. She touched his forearm with her free hand—friendly, nothing more—and your heart hit the side of your ribcage like it wanted out.

“We’ll be in touch,” she said, bright. “I like a man who knows where to put a window.”

Joel smiled the way he smiles when he’s already measuring a beam and ordering hardware in his head. “We’ll get you a draft by Friday.”

She turned to you then, all charm. “Thank you for the coffee,” she said. “Perfect.”

“Of course,” you said, and your voice didn’t break, which felt like cheating death.

She swept out on perfume and momentum, the bell over the door giving its ridiculous tiny cheer as if anything about the moment warranted it.

You busied yourself with a stack of manila folders, aligning edges like it might keep the world square. Joel walked the client to the sidewalk, said something you couldn’t hear, and then—hesitation visible in the tiny pause—came back in. He didn’t look toward the front desk. He crossed the room with his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder and disappeared into his office.

Tommy reappeared like a designated safety exit. He propped his hip on the counter and kicked at a nick in the baseboard with his boot toe. “She gonna sign?” he asked, like small talk needed to be made.

“Sounds like it,” you said. “Big kitchen, lots of light.”

“That’s his candy store.” Tommy glanced toward the closed door, then back. “You did good.”

“Thanks,” you said, because anything else might have flooded the room. Your mouth felt like you’d been breathing cold air for an hour. “I’ve got invoices to enter.”

“Alright.” He tapped twice and retreated, giving you the decency of distance.

Silence came back in and sat down across from you. You clicked your inbox just to hear the small sound the computer made acknowledging your existence.

Three new emails. A vendor. A client reply. And one with a subject line that made your throat go dry in an instant

Scholarship Committee Decision

Your finger hovered. You could hear the thin buzz of the lights. The plant leaves at the window trembled with the air conditioning and then stilled. You clicked.

The letter was polite. Of course it was. It thanked you for your time. It congratulated you on impressive scores. It encouraged you to apply again in the future. It informed you, in the crispest, gentlest font possible, that regrettably, the committee could not offer you an award at this time.

You read it twice. Three times. The words didn’t change.

The back of your neck prickled hot. You swallowed and it felt like trying to get a coin down your throat. Your hands were suddenly too big for the keys. You minimized the window and your reflection swam up in the dark of the screen for a second, eyes too bright, mouth pressed thin.

Okay, you thought. Okay. You breathed once, shallow. Again, deeper. You set your palms flat on the desk because you needed to feel wood under skin. You could put one denial next to the others and still move. You could. You had to.

In Joel’s office, a drawer slid open and shut. Paper whispered. A pen clicked twice and then settled. You didn’t know how to stand up without your knees going loose.

Your phone buzzed against the desk and you flinched like it might blow. A spam text. You laughed once, an awful, tiny sound that embarrassed you in a room no one could hear you in.

You pushed your chair back and it made a skittering noise against the rug. Quietly, you got up. You refilled the water pitcher you didn’t need to refill. You arranged the stack of estimate folders by date and then by client name and then back by date because the order you had already picked was fine. You straightened the peppermint bowl, one wrapped candy tilted and clinked against glass.

The door to Joel’s office opened. Your lungs forgot what they were for.

He walked out with a file tucked under his arm and the other hand sliding his keys into his pocket. He didn’t look at you, but you could see the way he was seeing the room, where the light fell, where the shadow lay. He paused at the coffee pot like he might pour a cup and then didn’t.

“Tommy,” he called, not loud. “You got those site photos on your phone? Bring ’em out.”

Tommy emerged, phone held up like a trophy. “Yep.” He flicked through to the right album and handed it over. “That beam order’s in. Two weeks, they’re sayin’.”

Joel nodded, thumb working the screen, gaze narrowed. “Alright.” He handed the phone back. “We’ll adjust the schedule. Tell Hodge I want his crew on demo Monday.”

Tommy caught your eye then and gave you a small, ridiculous wink like you were both somebody’s kids trying not to make faces in church. It saved you, by one hair.

Joel turned toward the door. The outside light made a stripe across the floor, he stepped through it and the stripe went with him. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t owe you one.

The bell chirped as it closed and something in your chest, already pull-tied, cinched another half notch.

You sat back down. The denial email waited at the bottom of your screen like an open mouth. You clicked to a blank browser tab and stared into its empty white until your eyes watered.

The front door opened again, a draft following. For a heartbeat, you let an impossible hope flare and then extinguish. The UPS guy waved an electronic pad at you. “Delivery.”

You signed, set the box near Joel’s office door without looking at the handle, and returned to your chair.

The rest of the morning did what it always did, marched on like it hadn’t seen you fall apart and didn’t care to. You took a call from a woman who wanted to know whether her tile had arrived yet and told her the truth, it hadn’t, but you were on it. You sent two follow-ups with language so polite it could have joined a country club. You ate the granola bar you’d shoved in your bag in a different lifetime, which was to say at 7:12 a.m., and chewed until your jaw ached like the ache could go somewhere else.

At noon, Tommy popped his head out. “You hungry?”

“No, but thanks,” you said, and he read it for what it was. He came back ten minutes later with a brown bag anyway and set it on your desk without comment. Inside, a turkey sandwich and a cookie the size of your palm. You ate half the cookie and the world steadied a millimeter.

At 12:42, the door chimed and a couple came in to drop off a deposit. They’d met with you three times and still forgot your name every time in the exact same, apologetic way. You smiled like a professional, processed their card, thanked them for their trust, and wrote your very best, cleanest JOEL MILLER CONTRACTING receipt, the one with the phone number perfectly centered.

At 1:06, you clicked the denial email again and read the second paragraph like it might have learned mercy since the last time. It hadn’t. Your chest did that funny hollow thing where your heart beat against bone and then had nowhere else to go.

You closed the email, shut your laptop for a second like you could shut your brain, and opened it again because hiding wasn’t going to get you out of here. You made a new list. Other scholarships. Call financial aid again. Ask Maria to look over essays. You added buy cheap secondhand laptop and tried not to picture the corpse of your old one on your desk at home, hinge snapped like a neck.

At 1:30, the office went quiet in the way it does when even the air is tired. You leaned back in your chair and looked at the ceiling and counted the little holes in the acoustic tile. Forty-two in one square. Forty-two in the next. Forty-two again. Comfort in repetition. Comfort in anything you could count.

You didn’t check the parking lot for Joel’s truck when tires hissed past outside. You didn’t check your phone for messages that weren’t coming. You didn’t look toward his office when the sun shifted and put a neat rectangle of light on his closed door. You kept your hands on the work in front of you like prayer.

It occurred to you, slowly and then all at once, that this—this exact hour, this day—might be the most honest shape your life had taken in months, you at a desk you’d rescued from ugliness, denying yourself the luxury of collapse, letting the grief move through you in a steady current while you stacked small, necessary tasks into a raft.

When the clock sneaked toward two, you rose, took your empty mug to the sink, and let the hot water run over your fingers until you felt your jaw loosen. Outside, heat gathered in the parking lot and made shimmers you could see from the window. Inside, the peppermint bowl gleamed with its small, silly candy suns. You set your cup upside down on the drying rack, wiped your hands on a paper towel, and went back to your chair.

Your inbox pinged.

You didn’t flinch this time.

You clicked.

Maria’s front door sighs behind you the way a house does when it recognizes your shape. Evening light spills across her kitchen like honey, the counters are clean, garlic already waiting in a neat little pile, a dutch oven warming on low. There’s a card with your name on it propped against the fruit bowl, Maria’s looping handwriting: “Leftover lasagna is yours if you want it. Wine rack is fair game.”

Fair game. You decide to interpret that as permission, not temptation.

You take the stemless glass she likes for weeknights, rinse it though it’s already spotless, and choose a bottle that looks friendlier than the rest, a label with sunflowers, a cork that sighs when you twist it free. The first pour is small, the kind of careful that could pass for moderation if anyone asked. You lean against the counter and let the first swallow spread warmth from your sternum outward, a soft unfurling after a day that kept you folded tight.

You tell yourself you’re just taking the edge off. One glass because the client at three o’clock was cruel in that offhand way—“sweetheart, do you even understand change orders?”—and because your email still sits open on your phone with the subject line you can’t stop seeing, We regret to inform you. One glass because you did not cry at your desk when you read those words, did not throw your phone, did not walk out the door and keep walking. You held your breath, finished the call, thanked a woman for her business. You did every adult thing you were supposed to do and now you get to let your shoulders drop an inch.

Half a glass in, the house feels less like someone else’s and more like a place your body can occupy without apology. You drift to the sink and watch the neighbor’s oak lift its hands to the last of the light. You take a second pour because the first one went down without a fight and because there’s a pulse of heat behind your eyes that could be grief or a headache, hard to tell from here.

By the time the bottle is light in your hand, the specifics have blurred, the way the woman lifted her eyebrows like your answer was a magic trick, the exact sentence in the scholarship rejection that thanked you for your time. What remains is the shape of it, failure, again, smallness, again, the sense that the future keeps asking you for the right key and you keep handing it the wrong ring.

You set the empty on the counter, surprise catching up to you a second late. When did you pour the third? It doesn’t matter. The ache in your chest hasn’t budged. The heat there is stubborn, the kind that wine can warm but not soften. You think about Sarah’s baby, about how easy her breathing looked when you held her last, about the awful sweetness of that powdery new smell. You think about Joel’s hands cradling a head no bigger than his palm and how your throat closed like a fist.

You open the cabinet above the fridge because you know what sits there. Tommy’s bottle is square and severe. When the cork comes free, the scent is clean and mean. The first mouthful is a lesson you don’t learn. The second is a lie that works for a minute. The third is a slow elevator dropping you somewhere quieter somewhere where guilt sounds like weather in the next county and not thunder over your roof.

The front door clicks.

You don’t have time to hide the bottle, you don’t even try. Maria comes in with one of those big reusable bags and her hair in a loose knot, keys in her mouth as she nudges the door shut with a hip. She sees you, registers the bottle on the counter, and sets the bag down without breaking eye contact.

Her voice is soft, not careful, there’s a difference. “Hey, honey.”

Something flares in you, sharp and ugly because it’s built from everything you’ve been fighting all day. “Don’t call me that.”

Her eyebrows go up a fraction. “Alright.”

“You think you’re so perfect.” You hear yourself and want to snatch the words out of the air before they land. It’s too late. You’re already moving toward the edge of something you can’t climb back from once you’ve stepped off. “You think you have all the answers. You sit there with your nice lists and your reassurance voice and your, your guest room like you’re the saint of lost girls.”

Maria sets her keys down. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t rush in with the hug you’d accept if she offered it. “Long day?”

“Don’t do that.” It comes out strangled. “Don’t shrink me down into a long day. I’m not a charity case and I’m not your daughter and I don’t need” Your hands are shaking now, you wrap them around the edge of the counter. “I don’t need pity.”

She takes two steps closer, close enough that you can smell rosemary on her sweater. “I don’t pity you.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say. Your laugh is a broken plate. “Because I pity me. I pity me so much I can’t breathe.”

That lands somewhere behind her eyes. She nods once, like she’s accepting a confession she doesn’t expect you to repeat. “You got the email.”

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste iron. “We regret to inform you,” you recite, bright and brittle. “We regret to inform you that even though you tried and tried and tried, you’re still not enough.”

She shakes her head, slow. “That is not what it says.”

“It’s what I heard.”

Maria’s mouth does that thing you’ve learned to trust, a quiet line that means she’s about to choose proof over comfort. “You heard it with the voice you learned in a house where love and worth were rationed.” She gestures gently toward the hall. “Let’s get some water in you. Then we can fight the voice instead of each other, okay?”

You hate that she’s right. You hate that she’s kind when you’re trying to make her a wall you can bounce off of and bruise. “I don’t want water.”

“Then sit,” she says. “Or walk with me to the end of the block and back.”

“I don’t want” Your voice cuts out. You suddenly see yourself through the window over her sink, a girl-woman with a flushed face and a bottle in her hand, a good kitchen behind her, a soft place on offer, and still the instinct to burn it down. Your stomach turns. The shame is a clean knife.

“I need air,” you say, smaller now.

“Take my hoodie,” Maria offers. “It’s colder than it looks.”

“I’m fine.”

She nods, not arguing. “Text me when you’re at the corner and when you’re headed back. Please.”

You want to punish her for asking nicely instead of ordering you to be safe. You want to punish her for making you want to do the right thing just because she asked. “Fine.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she says, because she means it when she lets you pick your own pain. “Be careful.”

You leave before you can cry in her kitchen.

The air outside is cool enough to surprise you for a Texas summer. You shove your hands into your hoodie pocket and walk fast, like maybe you can outrun the part of your brain that records everything, the way Joel wouldn’t meet your eyes at the hospital, the muttered “I’ve got it” when you offered help, the fact that his cigarette burned down to the filter before he noticed because he was watching the baby breathe. You should be thinking about the scholarship essay you did submit, about the other deadlines Maria flagged in yellow, about the binder in your tote where your new life is lined up in neat tabs. Instead, your mind pulls open every drawer you’ve ever slammed shut and dumps them on the floor.

You text Maria at the corner like you promised. Two blocks later, you call an Uber because the city feels too big to walk across sober and you are not sober.

The driver doesn’t make small talk. The silence is generous. You watch the neighborhoods change through the window, the tidy bungalows, the sleepy streets, the stretch where the road shoulders peel away and the hill shouldering up black against the sky begins.

At the turnout, the driver says “You sure?” and you say “Yeah, thank you,” and step into a wind that lifts the hair off the back of your neck like a blessing.

The lookout is exactly what you remember and nothing like you need. The guardrail is still dented where someone’s bumper found it. The graffiti still declares that Alex loves Jess in a hand that probably changed within a year. Far below, the city glitters its indifferent constellation, gas stations, hospital, the smear of a stadium jumbotron, the lazy pulse of traffic on the loop like a bloodstream.

You slip past the rail and sit on the cool concrete. It leeches the heat from your thighs through your jeans. You hug your knees to your chest and let the night press its cool palm to your forehead. The wind has teeth up here, you let it bite.

For a few minutes there’s nothing but your breath and the hard insistence of your heart and the distant shout of somebody’s laughter on the trail below. If you didn’t know better, you would call this peace.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Maria: You okay?

You type: At the lookout. I’m fine. I’ll text when I head back. Three dots appear, vanish. She lets you have the space you asked for and you love her and hate her for being exactly who you need.

You scroll through your contacts like walking a familiar hallway in the dark. Your thumb lands on his name without thinking, like it always does. Joel. It’s ashamed muscle memory now, a habit you promised yourself you were breaking and then rewrote the rules on when you shattered somewhere nobody could see.

You press call before you can talk yourself out of it.

The phone rings. Each buzz is a little cliff. You picture his phone on a table, face down, his glasses folded on top of a book he isn’t really reading. You picture his hands—broad, precise—closing around a mug the way he closes his hands around problems, as if they are physical things he can disassemble and repair. You picture the cigarette, the way he holds it like guilt he thinks he earned.

Voicemail. His voice is stiff and impersonal: You’ve reached Joel Miller.

The beep is a gunshot in the quiet.

“Hey.” Your voice cracks on the first syllable. You swallow and try again. “Hey. It’s…me.”

Wind tugs at the edge of your hood and your words. You brace your feet against the concrete and find the shape of what you mean by talking around it. “I know you don’t want to hear from me. I know I said I wouldn’t call.” You let out a small, helpless sound and it surprises you to hear it out loud. “I just…I don’t know where else to put any of this.”

You breathe, an ugly, wet sound. “I didn’t get it,” you say, because that’s the smallest truth and it’s the one you can lift right now. “The scholarship. The one I thought maybe…I didn’t get it. And I know it’s not the end of the world and there are other applications and deadlines and blah blah blah. I know. But it felt like…another door. You know? Another one I pushed on with everything I had and it…didn’t catch.”

Silence hums back through the line, that peculiar emptiness that happens when you talk to a machine that wears the voice of a person you’re afraid of losing. You keep going because if you stop, you won’t start again.

“My dad” Your throat closes around the word. You force it open. “He found the acceptance letter. He tore up my room. He broke my laptop. He told me not to come back and for a second I believed him and it was almost a relief because then the decision would be made for me. Isn’t that twisted?” You laugh, a small bark that feels like it belongs to another animal. “Then I packed a bag and I walked and you saw me and I told you I didn’t need you to be my hero and I haven’t stopped thinking about your face since. Because I do. I do want you to be my hero and I hate myself for it.”

You close your eyes. Behind them live the mornings that built a life, your coffee in his hand because he pretended he didn’t need it, your hips in his lap for five minutes before the office woke up, his thumb drawing circles on your knee while he read a bid. “I miss you,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve told anyone all week. “I miss you in stupid ways. The way you hated the second pancake and ate it anyway if I burned the first one. The way you checked my car tires even when I told you they were fine. The way you looked at me when you thought I wasn’t looking at you.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. It only spreads the wet. “I know you’re angry. You should be. You were right, God, it hurts to say it but you were, you were right about the lying. About the foundation. About how I made you build a house on a thing that couldn’t hold it.” Your voice goes small. “I didn’t understand how wrong I was until I watched you walk away. Now I think about it every time I stand up. Every time I try to hold anything else.”

A car slides into the turnout behind you, headlights washing the guardrail in white. A couple stumbles out laughing and then sees you and lowers their voices. They turn back after a minute, leaving you with your shadow and your witness and your ugly truth.

“I’ve been trying to be a person who deserves the kind of forgiveness I keep asking for,” you whisper. “I go to work. I show up for Sarah even when it hurts. I study. I apply. I clean up after my drunk father and then I leave before he can break me again. I say the honest thing even when the honest thing is ‘I messed up.’ I’m trying, Joel. I am trying like my life depends on it because I think it might.”

You lean back against cold metal and let it take some of your weight. “And I keep thinking....if I get into school and I go and I become someone who wears her own name without apology, maybe you’ll…see me. Not as a problem you almost solved. Not as a kid you needed to shepherd out of her own disaster. As me. As a woman who learned the hard way and kept learning.”

Something loosens in your chest. The words themselves aren’t grace, but the saying of them is a step in that direction. “Tonight I drank Maria’s wine and then I drank Tommy’s liquor and then I said ugly things to a woman who has only ever loved me right. I did that. I did it and I knew while I was doing it I’d hate myself and I did it anyway. So. Here we are.” You let out a breath, long and shuddering. “You were right when you said I act like a kid sometimes. I do. And I’m trying not to be that kid anymore.”

You imagine his face, the set of his mouth when he’s holding in more than he should, the softening around his eyes when something tender gets past his guard. The memory hurts and comforts at once. “I don’t expect anything,” you say. “Not a call back. Not forgiveness. Not…anything. I just needed you to hear my voice and know that I know. That I know what I did. That I know what I cost you. That I know I broke the one place that made me feel like I could lay my head down and sleep.”

You make yourself say the last line because you promised yourself you’d stop half-confessing like that would count. “I love you,” you say, clear and quiet, the way you would say your own name if someone asked. “Even if that love is the least useful thing in the world right now. Even if it’s a thing I have to learn how to live with and not act on. Even if it’s the ache I carry all the way to Arizona and back. I love you.”

The wind shifts, bringing you the breath of cedar and wet dirt and the far-off ghost of barbecue smoke. You close your eyes and let it run its fingers through your hair.

“I’m going to be okay,” you add, surprising yourself with how much you believe it in this exact second. “I don’t know what that looks like, but I am. Tomorrow I’ll apologize to Maria and do her dishes and answer emails and call financial aid and apply for three more stupid things and maybe eat something that isn’t a granola bar. I’m going to be okay, even if it’s a version of okay where I miss you every single day.” You swallow. “I hope you’re okay too.”

You don’t hang up right away. You let the voicemail catch a few seconds of wind, of the distant buzz of a motorcycle on the road below, of your breath leveling out. Then you press the screen with your thumb and let the line go dead.

You sit there a long time after that, the concrete slowly warming under you because bodies do that, make heat, even when they feel empty. Your phone buzzes in your palm. Maria: You safe?

You type back: I am. Heading home now. I’m sorry.

Her reply lands like a blanket. Come home. We’ll talk in the morning. I made soup.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and stand. Your legs prickle pins and needles, you shake them out and make your way back toward the turnout’s gravel, careful where you place your feet. At the rail, you stop and look once more at the city, the ER’s square of light you know too well, the black seam of the river, the neighborhoods you’ve mapped by heartache and relief.

“Okay,” you tell the dark. It isn’t a dare this time. It’s an agreement.

The Uber driver who picks you up doesn’t ask why your eyes are red. He turns the radio low and hums along to a song you don’t recognize. When you step back into Maria’s kitchen, the house smells like thyme and patience. The bottle you left on the counter is still there, mute proof of a version of you that needed to run.

You rinse your glass clean, set it upside down on the drying mat, and turn off the lamp over the stove. In the guest room, you sit on the edge of the bed and feel the slow, late tug of exhaustion pulling at your bones. You set an alarm for early—apologize, clean, coffee, email—and slide between cool sheets that smell like clean cotton and second chances.

In the dark, you whisper one more thing, because it’s the habit you’re trying to build, saying it out loud makes it real. “I’ll do better.”

It doesn’t sound like a punishment tonight. It sounds like a plan.

Chapter Text

Morning arrives like a whisper through gauze.
You surface to a ceiling you don’t recognize, pale as milk, and for a second you don’t remember where you are. Then your head throbs, and everything slots back into place, Maria’s guest room, last night’s wine and whiskey, the voicemail.

You groan and pull the comforter over your face. Your mouth is dry as chalk. The clock on the dresser is merciless. 8:14.

A soft knock. “You up, sweetheart?”

You manage a sound. The door opens on a slice of warm light and Maria balancing a tray like she was born doing it. She sets it down, toast slick with butter, bacon, scrambled eggs, a glass of water, a mug of coffee strong enough to walk itself across a room.

“Oh, honey,” she says, with that uncanny talent for making concern feel like sunlight, “I’ve met this hangover before. Ibuprofen first, then food.”

You take the pills. Water kisses the desert of your throat. The room steadies a fraction.

“I’m…sorry about last night,” you croak.

“I know,” she says simply. “You didn’t say anything I can’t fold up and toss. You’re hurting and you don’t have a place to put it right now.”

Your eyes sting. She tucks hair behind your ear the way moms do in movies. You didn’t grow up with this gesture. It hits like a blessing.

“And for the record,” she adds, half-smiling, “you did not invent the drunk, ill-advised voicemail. I once sang three verses of ‘Before He Cheats’ into an ex’s inbox.” She lowers her voice. “Off-key.”

You snort-laugh and flinch at your own volume. “No.”

“Oh yes,” she grins. “Tommy still brings it up when he wants to win an argument he isn’t in.”

You try coffee. It’s perfect, dark, hot, forgiving. “Thank you,” you say, and it’s bigger than the tray, bigger than the room.

“Always,” she says, like it costs her nothing. “Now eat. Then shower. Then I’m hijacking you. Girls’ day. Non-negotiable.”

“Girls’ day?”

“Me, you, Sarah, baby Ellie. We’re going to look at wedding things and not talk about anything that hurts unless you want to. Tommy's got you covered at the office."

You start to protest—your head, the ache under your ribs—but the idea of movement, of errands that are about love and not bills, loosens something. “Okay,” you say, and mean it.

By the time you’re out of the shower and dressed, the worst of the pounding has retreated to a manageable tap. You find Maria at the stove, flipping pancakes like a magician. She slides a short stack onto your plate and sits with you, eating her own slowly, watching you without hovering.

“You don’t have to be brave with me,” she says, when your fork hesitates. “You can be a mess and still be my favorite person to feed.”

“I’m so tired,” you admit. “Not just from drinking. Tired-tired.”

“I know.” She squeezes your hand. “So today we do small, soft things. Those count as healing too.”

Sarah meets you on the porch with a diaper bag slung across one shoulder and Ellie in the crook of her arm, round and warm and fussy. Sarah’s hair is piled into a messy bun, there are crescents of exhaustion under her eyes. Still she’s luminous, the particular glow of someone who’s doing a hard, old job and surviving.

“I look like I got in a bar fight,” she announces, stepping into her sandals.

“You look like a goddess who owns bar fights,” you say, relieving her of the baby automatically. Ellie’s weight settles against you and the old ache blooms—sharp and complicated—but today it’s edged with something gentler. You sway, and she quiets, blinking that solemn, new-person stare up at you.

Maria adjusts the car seat into her car. “Rule one,” she declares, falling into ringmaster mode. “No cruelty to ourselves today. Rule two smoothies first. I bribed my hangovers that way for years. Rule three, anyone who says ‘rustic chic’ with a straight face buys lunch.”

“Deal,” you and Sarah say in tandem.

The smoothie place is bright and loud, a chorus of blenders and laughter. Ellie’s eyes go wide at the noise. You murmur nonsense into her hair and she settles, the trust of it like a warm stone in your palm. Maria orders you something green “for vitamins and penance,” then winks and adds a muffin “for joy and rebellion.”

You sit at a high table by the window. Outside, Austin does its morning shuffle, families, dogs, couples, the whole parade of a city trying to be gentle with itself. You pull the straw through your teeth and let cool sweetness damp down the scab of last night.

Sarah bumps your knee under the table. “Tell me how you’re actually doing.”

You consider lying. It’s easier sometimes. “Not great,” you say instead. “But better when I’m not alone.”

Maria taps her cup to yours. “Then we practice not-alone.”

The craft store smells like cinnamon and fresh cardboard. Aisles of jars, ribbons, faux greenery, chalkboard signs in a dozen fonts. Sarah drifts toward a display of pillar candles and winces. “This is the corner where Pinterest goes to die.”

Maria clucks. “You two are snobs.”

“I’m practical,” Sarah says. “We can’t have open flame near Tommy’s hair gel. He’ll go up like a signal flare.”

You snort. Ellie lets out a small coo that sounds, suspiciously, like agreement.

Maria holds up two garlands, eucalyptus and something with tiny white blossoms. “We could do long farmhouse tables. Low greenery. Nothing fussy.”

“Greenery is good,” you agree. “Pretty, but no centerpiece tall enough to block the sightline when Tommy cries.”

“Tommy’s absolutely going to cry,” Sarah says. “I’m going to take photos.”

Maria pretends to be scandalized. “I’ll be crying too.”

“Yeah,” Sarah says, “but you’ll look good doing it. Dad will cry too, he'll look like a man who lost a bet with his tear ducts.”

The word dad lands without bruising for once. You swallow, feeling it slide through you like a stone you didn’t choke on.

“Burgundy,” Maria says, returning to her plan. “I’m set on it. Romantic without being fussy. You two pick whatever dress style you like in that color.”

“Anything?” Sarah perks up. “I’m picking something with sleeves. My arms still look like uncooked biscuits.”

“Your arms look like arms,” Maria says dryly. “And they’ve been carrying a human. They’re magnificent.”

You catch sight of yourselves in a mirror—Maria decisive and soft, Sarah stubborn and beautiful, you with a baby in your arms—and the image is…good. Not painless. But good. A small, humming goodness that climbs into your chest and curls there like a cat.

The dress boutique is quiet, a little temple of satin and chiffon. The clerk brings water and compliments. Ellie snoozes with her mouth open, a pink bow crooked on her fuzz of hair. You hold her while Sarah tries on shapes, A-line, fit-and-flare, something sleek. She turns, frowns, brightens, makes faces you read as fluently as a sibling’s.

“Okay,” Sarah says finally, stepping out in a v-neck that glances at her collarbones and skims where she wants to be skimmed. “I could do this.”

“You look stunning,” Maria says, misting without warning. “Lord, I’m going to need waterproof mascara for every day from now until the wedding.”

“Let’s try you,” Sarah says, pointing at you. “You’re next.”

You blink. “Me?”

“You think you’re getting out of trying dresses on?” she snorts. “Nope. You’re in this wedding whether you like it or not.”

The clerk is quick, kind. She pulls burgundy gowns with an eye for your shape. You change and step out under the white lights. In the mirror, a version of you stands straighter than you expect. The color makes your skin look like you slept. A laugh you haven’t heard in weeks leaks out.

“Pretty,” Maria says, real delight in it. “That neckline is good.”

Sarah fans herself. “You’re going to make all the groomsmen propose. Dad’s going to pass out.”

The mention of Joel isn’t a stab this time, just a pressure. “He can avert his eyes,” you say, attempting lightness. It almost lands.

“Okay,” Maria says, signing something on a clipboard. “We’re not buying yet. But we have direction. That’s a victory.”

You refuel at a taco truck that Maria swears makes the best carne asada in the county. Ellie squawks, you bounce and sway and make the ugly little songs babies adore. It works. She stills. Warmth bleeds into your bones.

“How’s it going?” you ask Sarah quietly, when Maria goes for napkins. “Really.”

Sarah exhales, a long-tired sound. “Better. Still hard. Sometimes I feel like I’m underwater and everyone else has gills. But I’m sleeping a little more. She smiles at me now. It helps.”

“She adores you,” you say, meaning it. “You’re doing so well.”

Sarah’s mouth softens. “Thanks. And you, for real this time?”

You consider the question. “Not great. But I’m upright. I’m…trying.”

She nods. “He listened to your voicemail.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh.”

“I don’t think I was supposed to hear,” she says. “He just sat at the table with his coffee and stared at the wall for a while. Didn’t say anything.”

You look at your hands. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Probably not,” she says, brutally gentle. “But it’s done. You didn’t say anything vicious. Just…..sad.” She shrugs. “He’s stubborn. If you want anything from him, you’ll have to make the first move. He’ll die hanging onto his pride.”

You huff a laugh that tastes like old smoke. “I don’t know if there’s a move to make. I’m leaving. Arizona.”

Her head snaps up. “Arizona? You got in?”

Maria returns at that exact second, eyes narrowing, already ready to celebrate. “she got in!!"

You nod, helplessly pleased in the face of their joy. “I did.”

“My girl,” sarah says, pulling you into a one-armed hug careful of Ellie. “We’re throwing a going-away party.”

“Please don’t,” you groan, already smiling.

“Absolutely we are,” Sarah crows. “I’m buying balloons so obnoxious you can see them from space.”

You tip your head back and laugh. Under the laughter, something stitches itself, small, precise, the first neat seam after a messy tear.

The afternoon becomes a montage you’ll replay later when the homesickness hits, Maria comparing swatches to the light, Sarah trying on a flower crown and immediately rejecting it, you slow-dancing in an empty aisle with Ellie because the store’s speaker plays an old song you love and the baby likes the sway. At some point, Ellie burps in your hair and you pretend to be offended. Sarah snorts until she cries.

At checkout, Maria tries to buy everything. You protest, insist on splitting it at least three ways, and she narrows her eyes. “You can pay me in babysitting and strong opinions. Done.”

“Done,” you say, exquisite relief pooling under your sternum.

Back at Maria’s, the house smells like rosemary and lemon. She puts on tea and tells you, in that practical, loving cadence of hers, the things you didn’t know you needed to hear.

“You’re not a burden,” she says, dicing garlic with terrifying efficiency. “You’re allowed to be taken care of while you learn to take care of yourself.”

“I’m twenty,” you say, like it’s both confession and indictment.

“I’ve met forty-year-olds who need more hand-holding,” she shoots back. “Being young means you’re learning. That’s the job.”

You sink onto a stool. The counter is cool under your palms. “I feel like I keep failing in public.”

She slides the cutting board aside and looks at you square. “You keep trying in public. That’s braver.”

Your eyes heat, but the tears don’t fall. “What if I don’t get the money I need? What if I can’t make it work?”

“Then we pivot,” she says. “There are always more roads. You did not get out of a burning building to stand on the curb and argue with yourself about whether you deserve oxygen.”

A laugh barks out of you. “That’s a line.”

“It’s true.” She bumps your shoulder with hers. “Also, I talked to a friend who works in admissions two towns over. If you want to be closer, we can keep that card up our sleeve. But if your gut says Arizona, I’ll help you make Arizona happen.”

“Thank you,” you say, and the gratitude tastes like a clean, cold drink. “For all of it.”

“Of course.” She flips the burner off and adds, casually, “Also, I meant to ask you something before the hangover and the tacos. Would you be a bridesmaid?..I mean you already tried the dresses on so I figured you got the memo, but I just wanted to formally ask. No pressure.”

The room tilts, gentle and dizzy. “Maria.”

“I want you standing with me,” she says simply. “You’re family.”

You press your fingers to your mouth to hold everything in place. “Yes,” you manage. “I’d be honored. Even if walking past the end of the aisle might kill me.”

“It won’t,” she says. “And if it tries, I’ll elbow him in the ribs for you.”

You hiccup a laugh that turns into a tiny sob, and she wraps you up again, the way people do when they are unafraid of your tears.

As afternoon leans toward evening, Sarah texts that Ellie’s down for a nap and she’s going to try one too. Maria pads back to the living room with a fleece blanket and the smug, kind face of someone who has successfully mothered an entire day.

“Couch or bed?” she asks.

“Couch,” you say. “Close to the tea.”

She tucks the blanket around your legs and sets a glass of water within reach and an ibuprofen beside it like a tiny, secular communion. “Two sitcom episodes,” she orders. “No sad movies, no doomscrolling. Then you tell me whether we want eucalyptus runners or olive branches.”

“Bossy,” you murmur, already sinking.

“Observant,” she corrects, grinning.

You let the laugh track wash over you. Your phone buzzes once with a message from Sarah again. You looked happy today. I like you happy. You type back, Me too. Then you tuck the phone away.

Sometime during the second episode, your thoughts drift. Joel at the table, coffee cooling, listening to the voicemail. Sarah in burgundy. Ellie’s sleepy heat on your shoulder. Maria’s voice saying you’re family. The ache is still there. But there’s a new layer above it, thin and bright, like the first coat of paint on a patched wall. You can’t live with just that, but it’s a start.

You fall asleep to the clink of spoons and the smell of rosemary floating in from the kitchen. When you wake, the light has gone gold, and Maria is humming along to a song on the radio, the kind of old tune people build kitchens around.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hey there, sleeping beauty. Feel human?”

“Human-adjacent,” you say, stretching. “What’s for dinner?”

“Lemon chicken, roasted potatoes, and a salad to pretend we’re making good choices.”

“Burgundy bridesmaids to balance it,” you say, and she cackles.

“Exactly.”

You join her at the counter and tear lettuce leaves with your hands. She hands you the good olive oil without comment, like she knew you’d ask. The ordinary choreography of it loosens something deep in your spine. This is what healing looks like, you think. Not a single revelation, not forgiveness struck like a match, but this, food and fabric swatches and laughing over bad centerpieces, the lazy weight of a baby against your chest, the small astonishments of being wanted in a room.

After dinner, the sky goes lavender. You help with dishes and take the trash out and stand on the back step for a minute, breathing air that smells like wet soil and tomatoes. Your phone buzzes, Sarah again: Thank you for today. I needed it.

Me too, you send back.

Also, she adds, Dad says he’ll bring home the step ladder tomorrow to help hang lights for my baby-photo wall. He’s in a mood.

You smile in the dark, a private thing.

Inside, Maria is writing a list on the fridge candles, Gina’s bakery tasting, call florist. She underlines bridesmaids and draws a tiny heart next to your name.

“Bed?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you say. “Just going to sit a second.”

She kisses your temple as she passes. “Good. Sit and know you’re loved.”

You do. The house settles. Somewhere down the block, a dog barks twice and then thinks better of it. You watch your own breath go out and come back. It’s not fixed. None of it. But tonight you walked around a store with two women who love you and picked a color for a day that will be tender and loud, and a baby fell asleep on your chest like you were a safe place, and a future—some future, not the one you once demanded—unfolded a corner for you to stand on.

You can live with that. For now, it’s enough.

Chapter Text

Joel came home later than he meant to, a paper sack cutting into his fingers, the edge of a loaf of bread bent where the milk pressed it. He thought only of lowering the weight onto the counter, maybe sitting long enough to feel his shoulders ease. Then the noise carried, voices sharp enough to snag. He turned his head and saw the U-Haul. Rust at the wells, boxes stacked without sense, a mess that looked like frustration itself.

Harry’s voice barked from the doorway. Joel knew that voice. Didn’t like it. Never had. The kind of man who aimed his words like weapons. The kind Joel avoided on principle.

But then there was you. Arms wrapped around a box too heavy, sneakers sliding, hair coming loose as you laughed at your own clumsiness. Too young, that was Joel’s first thought. He told himself not to linger, shoved his key into the lock, and gave you his back. Bread crushed under milk when he dropped the bag too hard, muttering that it was just a neighbor moving in. Just that. Nothing more.

But his bedroom window lined up with yours. Not clean, not like some movie trick, just enough that it kept catching him. A lamp glow, the shape of your wrist when you turned it, pacing shadows, music bleeding through. He told himself neighbors overheard, neighbors glimpsed. Still, something in him twisted every time the light caught your silhouette.

The night he caught you sneaking in ended that lie.

Window cracked for the heat, cicadas steady, he’d just begun to slip under when a scrape pulled him back. A grunt. Then a laugh, pitched low, like it wanted to stay hidden. He leaned up on instinct.

You were climbing through the siding, drunk, skirt riding high, shoes clutched awkward in your hand. Joel’s jaw locked. He felt the same irritation he used to when Sarah’s friends would sneak in reeking of liquor, but this wasn’t the same. His chest was beating too fast for it to be the same.

When your eyes snagged on his, Joel froze. He should’ve shut the curtain. Should’ve gone back to bed. But he didn’t. He let the silence stretch. You smiled like it was a secret. Like you weren’t afraid at all.

Later, pressing his spare key into your palm, he told himself it was safety. Better than finding you one day broken under the window. You told him you were 25. He believed it because believing anything else would’ve made everything worse.

But he knew better. He felt it in the way your smile stuck long after you’d walked away. He wasn’t keeping you safe. He was giving himself an excuse.

The next morning Harry’s voice carried sharp across the yard “Dumb as your mother.” Joel’s teeth ground together before he even saw you. Bent over the car hood, head ducked, shoulders folding. He wanted to tell you Harry was wrong, that his kind only knew how to wound. He didn’t. He watched you gather yourself, jaw set, then walked over and got the car running like it was no big thing. The way your relief lit your face almost broke him.

The grocery store nearly did. His cart was the usual mess, frozen wings, pizza, beer. He tossed the bottle of lube in like a man buying batteries. Practical. Necessary. Done. Then he caught your smirk from across the aisle. The flush burned hot under his ears, and your teasing made him feel young and old at once. He muttered something, didn’t matter what. What mattered was the spark in your eyes, the way you didn’t flinch. When you walked away calling that you’d cook him dinner, his heart kicked rough. He told himself he’d say no. Deep down, he already knew he wouldn’t.

Joel told himself it was just dinner. Just company. A neighbor who wanted to cook, and he wasn’t fool enough to turn down a home-cooked meal. That was all.

But the truth crept in anyway. The way you hummed under your breath while you moved around his kitchen, hips swaying like you’d been doing it for years. The way your hands looked confident on the skillet, showing him how to bread and fry like it mattered, like he mattered. He burned the first cutlet, cursed low, and you laughed, soft and unafraid, pushing at his shoulder like you’d known him forever.

It had been years since anyone filled this house with that kind of sound.

By the time the plates hit the table, Joel was rattled. Your knee brushed his under the wood, and he kept his eyes down, chewing slow to hide the way his pulse picked up. The schnitzel was damn good—better than anything he’d pulled from a box in years—and he told himself that was why the meal stuck with him long after you left. Not the way your smile had lit the room. Not the warmth that lingered in the air like candle smoke. Just the food.

When you gathered your things, Joel followed you to the door out of habit, manners drilled deep. He should’ve let you go, but something kept him there, watching the night air catch your hair, watching your lips twitch like you were waiting for him to say something. He didn’t. He let you walk away. And the moment the door shut behind you, he felt it, a hollow, aching absence he couldn’t name.

A few days passed, restless, before he found a reason to reach out again. Fishing weekend with Tommy. The house needed watching, mail brought in, lights flicked on and off. He told himself it was practical when he asked you, nothing more. But when you smiled and agreed, he felt something stir low in his chest.

“Appreciate it,” he said gruffly. Then, after a pause, “And maybe you oughta…stop changin’ in front of the window.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. He saw your brow lift, saw the curve of your mouth.

“Maybe you should stop watching,” you shot back.

Heat crawled up his neck. He wanted to defend himself, to say it wasn’t like that, but the words tangled. And then you were gone, slipping out his view. Joel stood there, hand braced against the truck, feeling the echo of your laughter through the quiet.

That weekend the house was different when he walked back in. Subtle things. A flannel gone from the closet. A cushion shifted, lights not quite as he’d left them. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask. He told himself not to look too hard, not to ask questions he wasn’t ready to hear the answers to.

But later, lying in bed, the memory of your voice lingered. The teasing edge, the way you’d looked over your shoulder with that spark in your eyes. It wouldn’t leave him alone. You were under his skin, deep, and Joel knew it.

A few nights later, he caught himself at the window again, leaning on the sill like a man without sense. Beer long gone, but the habit the same, watching you move through your room like you owned it. He told himself to look away, to keep his distance, but his eyes wouldn’t quit tracking you. Every laugh, every flick of your hand, every shift of your hips caught him sharp, like a hook under his ribs.

And when you stretched by the window, shirt riding high, the flash of bare skin lit his chest hot. He cursed himself for looking, cursed himself harder for not being able to stop. Because you weren’t teasing some boy your own age, you were teasing him. And the worst part was, you knew exactly what you were doing.

He should’ve shut the curtains. Should’ve turned the light off and gone to bed. Instead, he stood there, breath shallow, heart thudding hard in his chest like he’d run a mile. When your shirt slid off, when the curve of your back caught the streetlight, Joel felt every excuse he’d built over the last weeks crumble to dust. He clenched his jaw until it ached, trying to hold the line, trying to remember he was supposed to be the steady one.

But then you crawled into bed without closing the curtain, without pulling the blanket up, stretched out like you were daring him to admit what you already knew. Joel’s throat worked. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides. He wanted to walk away, but the truth was he wanted to walk toward.

When he finally moved, it was only to turn off the light. The house went dark, too quiet. He told himself he’d made the right call, that letting you go was the smart thing, the safe thing. But lying in bed later, staring at the ceiling, he knew the truth.

A few days later you were back in his kitchen, hair pulled back, helping him “practice” making a lasagna for Sarah’s birthday. Joel had admitted he was a bad cook—worse than bad, downright hopeless—and you’d teased him until he finally gave in.

The kitchen felt different with you in it. You moved like you belonged there, opening drawers he never touched, humming while you grated cheese. Joel tried to focus on the recipe, on the careful layering you insisted on, but it was near impossible with the way your shirt shifted every time you bent toward the counter. It wasn’t indecent, not exactly. Just enough to make his throat go dry.

He told himself not to look. Told himself he was only doing this for Sarah, that you were only here because you liked to help. But then you leaned across him, pressing utensils into his hand, close enough that he caught the warmth of your skin and the faint scent of your perfume.

“You’re gettin’ the hang of it,” you said, smirking at the way he scattered the cheese too heavy on one side. “Not bad for an old man.”

Joel gave a short laugh, shaking his head.

I like older guys. They take their time. Know how to make a woman happy. You had said earlier

The words landed in his chest like a hammer. Joel stiffened, covering the heat in his face with a cough, pretending to busy himself with the pan. You couldn’t mean it. Not really. Not about him. But the way you held his gaze, steady and sure, made him wonder if maybe you did.

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat again, buying himself a moment before he said, low, “Careful with talk like that.”

You only smiled. Soft, teasing. Dangerous.

By the time the lasagna came out of the oven, Joel’s hands weren’t steady. He told himself it was the heat, the weight of the pan, but the truth was you’d gotten under his skin. Deep.

At the table, with the candles you insisted on lighting, your knees brushed his beneath the wood. He felt every spark of it, tried to chew slow and steady like nothing was happening. But every flicker of your smile, every shift of your outfit, every reminder of those words I like older guys carved at his resolve.

He packed up the leftovers for you at the end, forcing his hands to move careful, deliberate, while his chest pulled in two different directions. He wanted to ask you to stay. He wanted to push you out the door before he lost himself completely.

In the end, all he managed was a rough, “See you next weekend?”

You smiled, soft and knowing, and walked out with the foil pan in your hands. Joel stood in the doorway long after you were gone, shoulders tight, stomach hollow.

That night, lying in bed, the memory of your voice lingered. The teasing edge. The spark in your eyes. You were under his skin, and Joel knew it.

The week dragged Joel down, the way it always did when Sarah’s birthday came close. Work stayed busy enough, but the house felt heavy. He caught himself watching the window across the way more than he should, jaw tight when he saw you come home late, shoulders tight when he heard Harry barking inside that house. He hated how often he thought about crossing the yard. Hated worse how often he didn’t.

Saturday came, and with it the usual nerves. He wanted the day to be good for Sarah—special, memorable—but his hands never seemed to make things turn out the way he pictured them. Streamers taped crooked, balloons too bright, banner letters uneven. He’d been running back and forth trying to get it right when your knock came.

You laughed the second you saw him, hair damp, shirt wrinkled, face flushed like he’d been caught in the act of caring too much. “You nervous?” you teased.

Yeah. He was. But he only shrugged and muttered about decorations being off.

When you smiled and told him Sarah would love it, Joel let himself believe it. Just for a moment.

Then he remembered the errands still hanging over him—her gift, Tommy stranded at the shop—and before he thought better of it, he asked you to start the lasagna. You said yes too easily, sliding out of your coat like you belonged there, and Joel had to clear his throat before leaving.

When he came back with Tommy, the house already smelled like home. Like family. He saw you leaning in the doorway with that casual ease that made his chest ache, Tommy looking at you like he was trying to figure out the same puzzle Joel had been wrestling for weeks.

Later, Joel caught every word when Tommy pulled him aside. She’s way too young for you…don’t play dumb. Joel’s silence gave him away, and he knew it. The worst part was hearing his brother put it plain—the window, the tension—and realizing you could probably hear it too. When he came back into the kitchen and saw the way your hands trembled just slightly at the salad bowl, he knew. He knew you’d heard.

Sarah arrived with Thomas, laughter brightening the whole place. Joel watched the two of them with a father’s mix of pride and worry. He told you he only hoped she was smart, safe, careful, but the words tasted like surrender. Tommy’s jab about protection landed sharp, and Joel tossed a towel instead of answering, hiding the twist in his gut.

Dinner went smooth on the surface. Sarah moaned over the lasagna, everyone laughed, and Joel let the pride warm him like whiskey. But underneath, the wire was live. He felt it every time his foot brushed yours under the table, every glance he caught sliding to your mouth. When Sarah, half-tipsy, joked you were too young and too pretty to be single, Joel’s head snapped before he could stop himself. He stared at his plate to keep from staring at you.

The night carried on, cake, candles, whiskey, guitars. Joel let himself loosen for once, fingers finding familiar strings while Sarah swayed in Thomas’s arms. Then the music shifted, radio humming, and somehow he was on his feet pulling you into a dance. For a few precious minutes, he let go. Dipped you low, heard your laugh crack open something in him he’d kept shut for years. It felt like family. It felt like maybe things could be good again.

Until the knock.

Hard. Repetitive. Angry.

Joel’s stomach dropped before the door even opened.

Harry.

The man stormed in, drunk and sour, dragging the stink of cigarettes and bitterness behind him. His words were knives. Slut. Old men. Wife. Joel felt the floor shift, something breaking loose inside him. When Harry’s hand clamped on your arm, Joel didn’t think, he just moved. Peeled the grip away, voice low and steady That’s enough.

The shouting rose fast, Harry spitting rage, Joel answering sharp. Tommy stepped in, Sarah froze behind the couch. And then you were gone. Bag in hand, storming out before Joel could say your name.

He wanted to go after you. God, he wanted to. But with Sarah watching, with Harry still snarling, he stayed rooted. He hated himself for it even as the door slammed shut.

Hours later, the house was quiet. Cake half-eaten, bottles half-empty, Sarah at her house with Thomas. Joel sat with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over your name until he finally pressed it.

When you answered, your voice was cracked thin. Apologizing for ruining Sarah’s birthday. Joel’s jaw clenched. “Hey, no you didn’t,” he told you, firm. He wanted to take every ounce of blame off your shoulders. Told you your dad was home, that they’d sent him off with food, tried to make it sound like the storm had passed.

But then you whispered the truth, I don’t wanna go back there.

Something broke in Joel’s chest. He offered you Sarah’s bed without hesitation. It wasn’t a choice. You weren’t going to sleep in that car. Not while he was still breathing.

But when you pushed back, when you called it a handout, Joel’s throat tightened. He tried to make it right, to call it what it was, a hand, not pity. A rope in the dark. That’s what friends did.

The silence on the other end told him it wasn’t enough. Then the question, Is that what we are? Friends?

Joel shut his eyes. He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell you the truth, that you were under his skin, that he thought about you more than he should, that every part of him wanted to tear down the line he’d drawn. But the truth scared him more than the lie.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s all we can be.”

The words landed like a stone. He heard it in your breath, in the hollow laugh that followed. And then you were gone. Call ended. Silence heavy.

Joel sat there with the phone cooling in his hand, stomach twisting with everything he hadn’t said. He told himself it was for the best. That keeping you at arm’s length was the only way to protect you, to protect Sarah, to protect himself.

But the house felt emptier than ever.

And when he finally went to bed, Joel knew he hadn’t saved anyone.

All he’d done was let you slip further away.

Joel had always been a man of routine. Lights out at ten, up before dawn, coffee on the porch. A rhythm that kept his head quiet. But that night, when his hand worked rough and restless under the lamplight, it wasn’t the magazine he was seeing. He knew it. Hell, he hated himself for it.

And then, he felt it. That itch down his neck, that old animal sense of being watched. For one wild heartbeat he thought he saw movement across the way. Curtain twitch. Shadow shift. He didn’t look straight on, didn’t dare, but his gut told him enough.

He finished anyway. And afterward, lying back with his arm over his eyes, he thought maybe the shame would keep you away. Maybe the silence would wash it clean.

So he shut the curtains the next morning. Broke his own habits. No coffee on the porch. No errands when he knew you’d be out. No wave toward your dad’s house. Just the truck window rolled tight and his jaw locked. Distance was safer.

But three days of that distance didn’t make him feel better. It made him restless. Hollow. And when he pulled into his driveway that evening, groceries biting into his hands, he wasn’t ready for you rounding the corner. Barefoot, bottle on your breath, eyes sharp.

“Why’ve you been avoiding me?”

Joel felt the weight of it drop straight into his chest. He didn’t answer—couldn’t—not with his pulse climbing the way it was. So he asked the only thing he could: “You drunk?”

The shrug you gave him was answer enough. He sighed. Told you to go inside. You snapped back, you weren’t his daughter. No, you weren’t. That was the problem.

And then you said it. You saw me.

His throat went dry. He tried to play dumb. You wouldn’t let him. Your voice kept climbing, raw with hurt, until he had to grab your wrist and drag you inside before the whole damn street heard.

The door shut, and the air between you sparked hot. Too close. Too loud inside his ribs. And when you kissed him, messy and desperate, Joel broke for a second. Kissed you back like he’d been starving.

Then he tore himself away. “No.”

The look on your face damn near gutted him. The question that followed—so if I was sober, you’d kiss me again?—he couldn’t answer clean. Didn’t know how. Didn’t know what answer would hurt less.

So he made you sit, pressed water and a sandwich into your hands like it would anchor the moment. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees, and told himself to be the man who drew the line. “Twenty-five’s too young.” His voice sounded thin even to his own ears.

You pushed back, every word sharper than the last. When he denied it—when he tried to call it just a crush—he saw the anger blaze through you, the betrayal, the wound he’d just carved himself. And then you said it, too sharp to ignore. Next time you jerk off with the window open, don’t pretend it wasn’t me you were thinking about.

Joel flinched like you’d struck him. Because you were right.

You slammed out, and he couldn’t let it end there. His boots hit the porch, the gravel, catching up to you across the lawn. He grabbed your wrist again, frustrated, words tumbling out about immaturity, about running. And then you broke in front of him, not with fury, but with hurt. Spitting truths about your dad, your boss, your mom. About being unwanted. A mistake.

Joel didn’t think. He pulled you in, arms tight, voice rough in your ear. “You’re not any of those things. You hear me?” He meant it. God help him, he meant it.

But you shoved him back, eyes wet, and told him not to act like a hero. Told him he was lying to himself. And when you screamed it—you either feel something or you don’t—Joel finally let the truth slip out.

“I do,” he said, ragged. “I never said I didn’t.”

It cost him to admit it. Cost him more to keep going, that he cared, that that was the very reason he couldn’t let it happen. Because he was too old, too ruined, too sure he’d destroy you like he destroyed everything else he loved.

The look on your face—that silence—was worse than any slap.

You told him not to ask you to pretend. Then you walked into the dark. And Joel stood there in the yard, his chest tight, his hands empty, watching the only light left flicker out across the grass.

He’d rehearsed a dozen versions on the walk over and none of them sounded like the truth until it left his mouth, he’d been pushing you away so he wouldn’t have to feel how bad he wanted this. Watching the way you swallowed that, guarding your breath like it might be used against you, nearly sent him right back into silence. But he kept going—no promises, no forever—just the honest thing he could offer, try. See if the thing you both kept circling was real or if it would split you both open.

You laughed—nerves, not mockery—and he felt the sting anyway. A trial run? A test drive? He shook his head because it wasn’t that and crouched until he had your eyes. You’re not too much, he said, and meant it down to bone. You’re just not used to someone stayin’. When he held his hand out, palm up, he made himself leave the last inch of space for you to cross. Your fingers slid in—shaky, sure—and some tight, stubborn knot between his ribs loosened. You set your terms, he took them all. No ghosting when it got hard. No pretending you imagined it. The little crooked smile came on its own when you said you’d always need more reassurance than you let on. Good, he said. Truth felt better than pretty.

He didn’t kiss you that night. Not because he didn’t want to, but because wanting wasn’t the only thing that mattered. If this was going to start, he needed to build the first board straight. So he texted you the next morning—be ready at five, shoes you could ruin—and when you stepped out in cutoffs and a tank, every plan he’d made had to hold steady against the simple punch of how you looked in daylight.

“You look beautiful,” slipped out before he could sand it down. Your mouth tipped, teasing, and he felt the old heat rise, the one he’d promised himself he could take slow. He opened the truck door instead of answering the line about mud.

On the road, he talked to keep the quiet from filling with everything else. Work, small stories, the weathered edges of his life. You talked back, about Tori, about wanting out and not knowing where “out” was. He didn’t fix it, he just nodded like a man who recognized the map.

The trailhead was memory, Sarah’s little hand used to fit in his, her questions about deer and English. He said it before he thought it—been a long time since I’ve done this…a date, I mean—and your answer landed shameless and bright. He choked on the rest of his dignity when you brought up honey packets like they were field rations and swore under his breath that he didn’t need anything from a gas station to keep up.

You hated the woods, he could see it. Bugs, heat, branches whipping your legs. He tried not to laugh and failed when the mud took you out like a cheap trick. Your glare, the fist of mud you slung back at his shirt, the way you called him a smartass, he felt younger than he had any right to feel. Lifting you was easy, not kissing you while you hung over his shoulder, laughing into his back, was the hard part.

The overlook did what it always did, shut a man up. Sunset threw the country open like a secret, and still he looked at you. Mud-smeared, hair wild, cheeks bright from the climb, and happy in a way he wanted to memorize. What a view, he said, low, and when you tipped your chin up he told the truth, he wasn’t talking about the mountain. When you kissed him, he didn’t pull away. He let the hunger come and keep coming until it turned careful, until your breath lived right against his, until that old panic—don’t ruin this—eased under his hands at your face.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” came out hoarse. You called him old. He laughed because being teased like that felt like being alive.

He never let go of your hand on the way back. Squeezed once in a while because it said more than talk in the dark. Stars shook themselves out over the trees and, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t keeping count of exits. He was just walking with you.

At the truck you fretted about ruining the seat. He didn’t care, he’d put worse through this cab. He put the windows down and let the night work some of the heat out of both of you. His hand found your thigh on instinct and stayed, thumb tracing slow circles that said later without promising more than tonight.

The diner was all neon and chrome and twenty years ago, you fit into it like trouble he’d choose every time. You ordered like you hadn’t eaten in days and he ordered the spaghetti because that’s what you did here, and your eyes went wide like he’d committed a felony. Under the table, your foot started its own conversation. He tried to hold the line, told you again he wanted to do this right. Watched you drop your foot with a sigh big enough to rattle the straw in your milkshake and knew exactly how much restraint he was asking from the both of you.

The food came. You stole from his plate with a fork and moaned like you were trying to kill him where he sat. He wiped a streak from your mouth and caught himself smiling the way a man smiles when he’s already too far gone. He didn’t reach for you again. He didn’t have to. The space between you, even crowded with plates and bad coffee, hummed like a promise.

Driving home, you sang along off-key and he sang right with you. His hand stayed on your leg, easy, like his body had learned the route. He didn’t say forever. He didn’t need to. Tonight had its own kind of truth, he’d come to you and said try, and out there under the last wash of sunset with mud on your knees and his name still in your mouth, it felt like the first board might actually be straight.

Joel stayed on the couch after you left his lap, hands gripping his knees like if he moved, he’d go after you. He told himself it was better this way. Better to let you cool off, better to hold the line.

Then your lamp flicked on across the way.

He shouldn’t have looked. God help him, he shouldn’t have. But his eyes went straight to the window, and there you were, centered in the glow like you knew exactly how to catch him.

Clothes falling one piece at a time. That little pause before your bra slipped, like you were daring him to blink. The slow peel of your panties. Until you stood there bare, proud, unashamed, like you were made to undo him.

Joel froze. Breath caught. It felt like worship and punishment at the same time. And when you winked before yanking the curtain shut, he felt the spark catch tinder in his chest.

He barely slept that night.

The next evening, your text lit his phone , you up? with a picture soft enough to split him in two. He stared at it too long. Wanted to answer. Wanted to send something back. But instead, he buried himself in a late-night call for work, talking too long, laughing at things that didn’t matter, trying to remind himself there was a world outside of you.

And he knew you saw him. He felt it, that steady burn from your window. Knew you’d watched him look at your name on the screen and set the phone back down. It gutted him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look your way. Not that night.

By morning, guilt had him cracking eggs and frying bacon like it might buy him forgiveness. He texted one word Breakfast?

When you showed, he tried to soften it, poured your coffee the way you liked it, pressed your hand to his lips like he meant it, because he did. He gave you the client excuse. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. The truth was, you scared the hell out of him. And he wanted you more than was decent.

He promised you a date, something proper. Thought that would fix it. But hours slipped, work caught him by the throat again, and by the time he pulled in you were already waiting, dressed to kill, eyes blazing.

The fight was inevitable.

And when you threw those sharp words — make me — he broke. Kissed you like punishment, carried you inside like his body had been waiting for this moment all his life. The way you moaned his name lit every nerve raw. The way you called him Daddy stopped him cold.

He couldn’t. Not like that. Not halfway.

But when you pushed harder, when you stripped down to nothing but defiance and heels, when you begged — God help him — he gave you his mouth. Dropped to his knees, tasted you like a man starved. He liked the sweetness of you, young and sharp and alive against his tongue. Liked how it made him feel, reckless and 25 again, like time hadn’t won yet.

And still, even after you fell apart for him, he pulled back. Told you no. Told you not tonight.

Because Joel Miller had already destroyed enough good things in his life, and if he was going to take this — take you — he wanted to do it right.

Even if it killed him to wait.

He hadn’t seen much of you in days. A handful of texts, sure, but nothing that felt like you. He answered some, short and clipped, the kind of replies he hoped would keep you from pushing too far. But even from across the yard, he could feel you pulling back.

Most nights, when he shut off the lights, he caught himself glancing at your window. Sometimes you were already gone, sometimes he swore you were watching, waiting. He told himself he was just tired, just busy, just, trying to keep things in check. But the hollow where you should’ve been still spread wide in his chest.

Then he came home that evening, gravel crunching under his tires, and there you were. Perched on the AC unit like a bird that’d lost its nest. Legs swinging. Eyes raw from crying. And his damn flannel hanging loose on your shoulders.

It hit him square in the ribs.

He didn’t even have to think. “Hey,” he called, voice sharper than he meant. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

You wiped at your face with his sleeve—his sleeve—and muttered something about needing air. He looked past you, toward the shadow of your father’s house, and felt his jaw tighten. He could see it plain as day on your face, you’d been crying, and it wasn’t because of him.

“Wait a second. Is that my flannel?”

The way you froze, the way your mouth opened without words, it should’ve made him laugh. Almost did. But then he saw your eyes again, wet and heavy, and all the humor drained out of him.

“Hey,” he said softer, stepping close, holding out a hand like he was coaxing a skittish animal. “C’mere.”

You came. Of course you did. And when you pressed into him, small and trembling in the folds of that shirt, Joel wrapped you up tight. One hand in your hair, the other locking you to his chest. He held on like if he let go you’d fall apart.

Inside, he made tea because it was something to do with his hands. The peppermint kind you’d once offhandedly said you liked. He set it in front of you, watched your fingers curl around the mug, sleeves swallowing your hands, and listened.

You told him everything. Every word from your father’s mouth. Every name he’d called you. Joel sat there, his jaw working, teeth gritted so hard his temples throbbed. He wanted to break something. Wanted to storm across the yard and put that son of a bitch through a wall.

“That guy’s a fuckin’ piece of shit,” he muttered when you finally trailed off. “I know he’s your father. I’m sorry. But you’re a grown woman. He can’t talk to you like that.”

You begged him not to make a thing of it. Your voice shook. Your eyes wide with fear, not of him, but of losing him. So he sat back, breathing hard, telling himself he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Not unless the bastard tried it again.

But in his head, the promise was already made, next time, it’d be his fist.

And then you folded into him. Climbing into his lap like you belonged there. Like you knew he’d catch you. And he did. Every bit of you.

Joel rocked you without even thinking about it, the same way he used to soothe Sarah when she was small and hurting. His hand stroked circles into your back, his chest rumbling with low reassurances “you’re alright, I got you,” and “you’re safe now, baby.”

When your sobs broke harder against him, Joel shut his eyes and held you closer. It wasn’t the kind of comfort he should’ve been giving you, but it was the kind he had. Solid arms, steady hands, the vow in his chest that he wasn’t going anywhere.

He felt you calm. Felt the hiccups fade, your breathing settle into him. And when you finally tilted your face up, eyes rimmed in red but steady now, Joel knew he was already gone for you.

You whispered about leaving, about heading back before your father noticed. He should’ve let you go. Should’ve stood, walked you to the door like nothing had happened.

Instead, he brushed the hair from your cheek, leaned down, and pressed his lips to your temple. It wasn’t a kiss meant to change anything, but his mouth lingered too long. His breath warmed your skin as the words slipped out before he could stop them

“You look good in my flannel.”

The way you flushed, God, it undid him.

You promised to bring it back, and Joel shook his head. “Don’t you dare. Looks better on you anyway.”

He meant it.

When you finally slipped out into the night, the door clicking shut behind you, Joel sat there in the silence of his living room. His hands still smelled faintly of your hair. His chest still hummed with the memory of your weight.

And he knew.

He was already in deeper than he ever planned to be.

He’d meant to keep the day ordinary—load the truck, double-check the tackle, swing by for ice—something simple he could hand you like a promise he might actually keep. But ordinary didn’t stick to you, it never did.

All afternoon he kept seeing you in his damn flannel, eyes red, breath hitching against his chest while he rocked you without thinking. He’d told himself the woods would help. Give you both some quiet. Trees don’t ask questions, a lake doesn’t judge. He could build a little space around the two of you and let the noise burn off.

His phone buzzed on the workbench. Your name with the heart.

“Hey,” he answered, already stepping outside where the signal was better. “You okay?”

A moment passed. He heard the thinness in your voice and pictured you chewing your lip, trying to swallow panic. “Yeah,” you lied. Then you said something came up after work. You’d still come, just later. You’d drive yourself.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, weighing it. Whatever it was, you didn’t want to say it, not yet. He could push, or he could make it easy.

“Alright,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Same spot as before, trail off the fire road, near the busted bridge. I’ll hang a lantern by the tree line. Text me when you leave, alright?”

“Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” You sounded small, then steadier. “I will.”

“Drive safe,” he said, and meant the whole world with two words.

After the call, he stood there a long minute with the shop fan buzzing and the smell of cut pine in his teeth. He wanted to go get you, to put you in the passenger seat and fix whatever was sliding around under your ribs. But you’d asked for the space, no, you’d claimed it. He could respect that. He could be the kind of man who respected that.

So he worked the problem the way he knew how. He packed careful. Extra water. An old hoodie for you even though you’d “stolen” his flannel and he’d told you to keep it. Tossed the first-aid kit on top. Lanterns, two, one for camp, one for the trail mouth so you’d see him from the road and know you were headed toward the right light. He checked the forecast. Clear. Good.

On the drive out he kept catching himself glancing at the empty seat and feeling that quick, ugly flare of worry, about your dad, about whatever put that tremble in your voice. About all the ways he couldn’t protect you if you didn’t want to be protected. He turned the radio down and let the tires hum. When the road went to dirt he breathed easier.

He set camp like a man staking a claim against bad thoughts. Tent tight. Lines clean. Lantern hung high where the branch wouldn’t sway too much. He laid your sleeping bag beside his and immediately second-guessed it, shifted it six inches farther away, then moved it back because the ground dipped there and your hip would catch. He built a small fire and didn’t light it yet, save the match for when you arrived so you’d see flame and not just the cold glint of a lantern.

His phone buzzed again while he was fussing with the cooler latch.

All good. On my way. See you soon.

He exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. He typed out three different replies—You sure you’re okay? / Want me to meet you halfway? / Proud of you, you know that?—and erased them all. He settled on Be safe. I’ll leave the light on.

He stared at that line after he sent it. It felt like more than a text. Felt like the best he had to give you most days, some steady glow you could steer toward when the rest of the road went dark.

Twilight peeled slowly across the tree line. He lit the lantern by the trail and another at camp, then sat on the tailgate with a pocketknife and a piece of cedar, shaving curls off the edge just to keep his hands busy. He thought about your voice, tight and thin, and the way you’d said I’ll still come, like you were promising him and yourself at the same time. He thought about how easy it would be to screw this up by grabbing at it. How much harder it was to wait.

The phone nudged his palm, a photo from earlier he’d sent without thinking, sun in the trees, his flannel half-buttoned and his hair a mess. You’d replied I really wanna see you. He read it again, thumb over the screen like he could keep the words warm.

“Me too, baby,” he said to the empty clearing, quiet enough that only the pines could hear it.

He stood, checked the lanterns one more time, and watched the road through the trees for your headlights, his light burning steady, just like he promised.

He measured you all evening the way a carpenter measures a span before he trusts it. You in the chair by the fire. You next to Maria. You under his arm. You were quiet in places he didn’t like. Your smile worked, but the edges were tight. He knew when you lied. Most folks were easy to fool if you kept your voice even. Not him. He watched the way you kept glancing at the path like your mind was pacing on it. He tucked you closer and told you, low, don’t live up there too long. He felt the words leave his chest and hoped they landed in a soft place.

The guitar helped. It always did. He tuned by feel, fingers remembering work he hadn’t asked them to do in years. The first song came slow and blue. He didn’t play for applause. He played because it gave him a way to tell you something without saying it. When he looked up and caught you watching him like the sound was doing you a kindness, he had to look away. The liking of that look scared him more than the fire or the whiskey or the way your knee found his again when he sat back down.

When Tommy called for a beer run, Joel read the numbers. One left. A pretext he could live with. He squeezed your shoulder and asked with his hand if you’d be alright without him for a bit. You were. He went because that’s what a man does when he can do so little for the larger things. He gets the small ones right. Ice. Beers. A wine cooler because you liked sweet. He grabbed honey on instinct when he passed it. Put it back just as fast. He didn’t want to be that man for you. Not the one who needed tricks or shortcuts. He wanted to be enough straight out of the box.

He came back to find you wrapped in a blanket with a look that told him your mind had been places he couldn’t follow. He settled you on his lap because that was the language that had worked earlier. Bone. Heat. Steady. His hands traced the hem of your hoodie, counting the thread like prayer beads, and your body softened by degrees. You said you were in your head and he let the line about the battlefield fall out because it was true for him too. He could feel how close to confession you were. Then his eyes drifted to the guitar case and he gave himself something to hold besides your worry.

He played again until the whiskey made his hands honest. His voice wore the grain of years and you looked at him like it belonged there. Later, when the fire sobered to coals, he took you to the tent and you went into his arms like a solution he trusted. The night pressed close around the canvas. He breathed into your hair and felt the old fear about permanence settle in beside the new certainty. He wanted the morning with you. He wanted ten.

He woke before the birds like he always did. Made coffee in the cheap tin pot. Poured yours the way you liked it now. He did not think about how fast he had learned you. He just did the thing and put the cup in your hands and watched your mouth tip at the first sip. That small satisfaction went further in him than the whiskey had.

On the water he pretended it was about fish. It was about quiet and a place to set the words down where they might survive hearing themselves aloud. He told you he’d like to make it official, and the way your face lit made him feel foolish and seventeen and like a man who had finally set a beam in the right place. Boyfriend sounded wrong in his mouth and right in your smile. He laughed. Let the boat rock with it. Let the old part of him that guarded joy sit down for once.

Then he asked what you’d wanted to tell him and watched guilt flicker across your skin like a shadow from a passing cloud. He took your answer because trust is built in small loyalties. He didn’t push. He told himself there would be better days for hard truths. He told himself the water could carry whatever he didn’t know yet.

When you caught the first fish he barked a laugh that startled even him. He loved the way you startled yourself with how much life you could hold at the end of a line. He liked your pride. He liked how you looked at him for approval and didn’t need it. He told you what any man would, that yours was bigger, and took his place next to you with a chest too full for the small boat it lived in.

Between all that sweetness there was the quiet worry that lives under every good day. It sat on his shoulder while he rowed. It watched you across the fire. It counted and counted and could not find a neat sum. Sarah. Tommy and Maria. The house that could feel small and big at the same time. Your age he didn’t know yet, the lying itch he ignored when your tells showed up and he pretended not to see them. The dream of you in his kitchen making fun of his coffee. The fact of you going somewhere he could not follow when school took you. He carried the contradiction like a toolbox.

He promised himself again to go slow. To make it right. He would not be a man who rushed and ruined. He would be the one who built. Breakfast before heat. Days before nights. He would clean the fish while you held the bowl. He would put a hand at your back in crowds and not make a show of it. He would talk to his brother if he had to. He would learn how to love you in ways that did not light the house on fire.

He felt himself praying without words the way he sometimes did when the truck climbed a steep grade with a heavy trailer. Be good. Hold. Let me bring this home.

That night, with the fire low and the tents zipped, he tucked you against him and felt your breath even out over his heart. He thought of all the ways a life breaks and all the times it doesn’t if you’re careful. He watched the lantern throw a weak halo on the fabric wall and let the ache of wanting more than he should run through him without shame. The wanting did not frighten him anymore. The losing did. He closed his eyes and let both truths stay.

Morning would bring hands busy with small jobs. Coffee. Lines coiled. Chairs folded. The kind of work that made sense and the kind that didn’t. He would do it all and keep the private vow that had started on his couch with your face wet against his shirt. Stay. Be steady. Try.

If the truth you were carrying chose to surface, he would meet it when it came. He would not like it and he would not run. He would put his palm over the tremor and see if it settled. That was all a man could do, he figured. That and keep his window cracked to let a little air in, even when the weather turned.

Joel carried the afterglow like a wound. Not pain, but rawness. You were still humming against him, cheek on his chest, legs tangled over his, when the phone lit up with Tommy’s name. He wanted to ignore it. Pretend the world outside your skin didn’t exist. But he knew better. He always knew better.

The words on the line—Sarah, party, cops called down, signed her out—cut through him faster than any blade. His body went rigid under yours. His head filled with noise he hadn’t heard in years, the kind of noise that comes when you’ve failed somebody you’re meant to guard.

He mouthed her name across the tent, and your eyes sharpened, the way they always did when you caught the current under his calm. You looked concerned, but quiet. Joel turned back to the call and promised an hour, even though his heart wanted to sprint barefoot across gravel.

When the line died, his jaw stayed tight, muscles clamped against the words that wanted to break out. He pulled on his shirt wrong twice before the buttons lined up. Your hand circled his waist, cheek pressed to his back like you thought you could anchor him. He let it soothe him for a breath, let his hand catch yours against his stomach. “I know,” he said, softer than he felt.

But the drive back burned. His knuckles went white on the wheel, dust rising behind the truck like smoke from a fire he should’ve seen coming. He left you with a kiss that wasn’t enough, a muttered “Be good” that sounded harsher than he meant. And then the door slammed, hard enough to rattle the frame, hard enough to echo in your chest.

Inside, Joel’s anger sat quieter. Not yelling—never yelling—but worse. A distance, a withdrawal that felt like punishment. He couldn’t look at you because if he did, he’d see the comfort he wanted, the distraction he shouldn’t take. He told you to go, voice like a wall. You whispered his name, small, cracked, and it nearly split him. But he held the line.

When the front door closed behind you, the house was suddenly hollow. He stood in the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, head bent low. Your apology clung to him, trembling and too soft. His own words echoed back, heavy and sharp. I said go.

Joel hated himself in that silence. Hated the slam of the door, the glass sound of it in his bones. But he told himself it was necessary. He told himself Sarah needed him more than his comfort for you. He told himself if he split his focus, he’d lose both of you. And Joel Miller knew better than anyone what it felt like to lose.

He stayed there a long time, listening to the house breathe without you, wondering if restraint had ever felt this much like regret.

The knock rattled through the rain, sharp and desperate. Joel dragged a hand down his face, certain at first he’d imagined it. Nobody in their right mind would be standin’ out there in weather like this. But when he pulled the door open, there you were, soaked through, hair stickin’ to your face, chest heaving like you’d run half the county.

His gut dropped clean out of him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered before he could stop himself, eyes tracing the water dripping off your sleeves onto his porch. You looked half-drowned. Half-shattered. A damn kid with a storm in her chest.

He should’ve said go home. Should’ve told you to get yourself dry, let this wait till morning, anything but what he did. But the word was already lodged in his throat, thick and useless, and what came out instead was a quiet, “Come in.”

You stepped past him, leaving little puddles on the hardwood. Joel grabbed a towel because it was something to do with his hands, something besides reaching for you the way he wanted. He pressed it into your palms, and when your eyes lifted, wet lashes clumped together, he swore the storm outside wasn’t near as dangerous as the one you carried in.

“I shouldn’t have lied.” Your voice shook. Raw. And Joel felt it in his ribs like a punch.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Just stood there, arms crossed so he wouldn’t give himself away. You spilled everything,fear, shame, the truth about the damn party. Then turned it on him, too, that low crack of your voice when you told him he shouldn’t have pushed you out, shouldn’t have turned his back.

Joel flinched because you were right. You were goddamn right.

He wanted to tell you it wasn’t you, that it was him, always him, always this knee-jerk instinct to shove folks away before they could leave him first. He wanted to tell you he didn’t mean half the things he said, that his temper had teeth and sometimes they bit the wrong person. But all that came was a long breath through his nose and a rough, “You’re right.”

The words cost him. Felt like dragging stones out of his chest. But when you looked at him—hopeful, scared, still standin’ there despite everything—it cracked somethin’ open.

Joel reached up, thumb brushing the rain from your cheek like he could wipe the whole damn night away. Leaves us both with some work to do, he thought, though he said it aloud, too, because maybe you needed to hear it. And when you whispered that you wanted him anyway, wanted this, Joel’s heart lurched hard against his ribs.

He promised you then. Quiet, forehead pressed to yours, his voice near breaking on the word. Promise.

And he meant it. For once in his life, he meant it with every damn piece of him.

When you kissed him after, hot and desperate, Joel almost lost it. His body surged forward, every inch of him aching to take what you offered. But he stopped himself, god help him, he stopped. Not tonight. Not when what you really needed was to be held. To be kept.

So he led you upstairs instead, his hand firm in yours, and laid down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your breath evened against his chest, and Joel stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling while the storm rolled on.

He told himself he was a fool. Too old. Too broken. That you deserved someone better, someone without all this wreckage trailing behind.

But when you shifted in your sleep, curling tighter into his side like you already knew he wasn’t goin’ anywhere, Joel believed, just for a breath, that maybe he could be enough.

Joel had been through plenty of Thanksgivings, most of them loud in all the wrong ways, shouting matches, football games drowning out silence, meals eaten out of obligation. This one was different. The house buzzed warm. The table crowded, noisy with laughter that wasn’t cruel, stories that didn’t cut. He sat with your knee pressed against his, your hand sneaking under the cloth to rest on his thigh, and for the first time in years, he felt something close to peace.

Every so often he caught himself watching you instead of his plate. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed, how you leaned into Maria as if you’d known her your whole life. The pink in your cheeks when folks teased you and him together. It was dangerous, that ease. Dangerous because it stirred up old, buried wants. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this again. Not at his age. Not with you.

Still, he let himself enjoy it. The weight of your hand. The way you didn’t flinch when he told a story, didn’t roll your eyes like Sarah had started to do when she was too grown for her old man’s tales. You listened, you laughed, you gave him that soft look across the table that set something restless inside him quiet.

When Tommy and Maria made their announcement, Joel clapped along with everyone else, hugged his brother tight, kissed Maria’s cheek. But the moment he turned, he saw you—eyes glassy, tears threatening—and it near gutted him. He brushed his thumb along your cheek without thinking, catching the first damp streak before anyone else noticed. You weren’t cryin’ because of Tommy. Not really. You were cryin’ because this—family, joy, belonging—was something you hadn’t had. Joel knew that bone-deep, because he hadn’t had it either.

Later, when the dishes clattered in the sink and whiskey loosened every laugh in the room, Joel leaned back and just let himself watch you. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way you folded yourself right into his people like you’d been there all along. His chest ached with it, the simplicity of it. A life he never thought he’d get another chance at.

On the drive home, you went quiet, staring out the window. Joel didn’t push. He just slid his hand over yours on the bench seat, let his thumb trace circles on your knuckles. He knew you were thinkin’ about what it meant to be part of somethin’ like that. He knew because he was thinkin’ the same damn thing.

When you finally whispered that it felt like your first real Thanksgiving, Joel had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep steady. Because that’s what he wanted for you, for both of you. To feel whole again. To stop livin’ like ghosts in houses too quiet.

He kissed your hand at the red light. Didn’t look at you when he did it, because it would’ve been too much, too bare. But the promise was there all the same, wordless and heavy, you’re mine now, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone take this from us.

He should’ve known the second the waitress asked for your ID.

It wasn’t the smile you gave her, or the easy little shrug. It was the pause before both. The way your hand went to your bag and then didn’t go anywhere at all. Not the clumsy dig of someone who forgot a wallet. The stillness of someone deciding. You said you didn’t have it. Joel felt the lie land in his gut and sit there like a stone.

He told himself not to make a scene out of nothing. People forget things. People change their minds. He took a slow pull from his beer and watched the way you filled the space with that bright chatter you used when you were trying to move a moment along.

But the lie stayed. Small. Sharp. A sliver under skin.

He catalogued little tells without meaning to. The way you leaned on sweetness when you were rattled. The way your eyes checked the door like a habit. The way your foot slid between his ankles and pressed up his calf with the slow, testing touch of someone who knew exactly how much trouble they were starting. His body answered like it always did. Heat first. Thought later. He shifted, tried to breathe through the ache, tried to remember who he wanted to be with you. Slow. Careful. Better than the men you had learned from.

You laughed when he took your fork and stole a bite of food he didn’t even taste. Your eyes went soft for a second that lasted too long. He felt the ground tilt under him and blamed the low light, the booth, the way the night pressed its face against the windows and asked to be let in.

Back at the truck, you climbed close. Your scent was warm and young and mean with the power of it. He wasn’t built for this kind of nearness anymore. He had used up the easy years and the careless ones. All that was left was honesty or shame. You kissed him like you had chosen both. His hands went to your hips without permission. The seat creaked. The stars pretended not to watch.

He stopped you with more gentleness than he felt. Not tonight. Not like this. Not with the sliver still under the skin. Your face closed a fraction. The hurt of it moved through him like weather. He could have taken it back. He did not.

Later, he was brushing his teeth in the dim of his bathroom when a change in the air pulled his eyes to the bedroom window. Instinct, that’s all it was. The curtain across the way wasn’t drawn tight. A sliver of light, enough to make a shape out of shadow. You stood there in that thin, gold frame, head tipped, mouth soft and unsmiling, and Joel felt his pulse slam up against his throat. You peeled yourself out of your clothes like you were shedding a skin you’d never asked to wear. Slow. Not performing. Just unafraid. It undid him worse than anything else could have. You winked and closed the curtain and left him barefoot and stupid, angrier at himself than at you because he had watched. Because he had wanted to.

He slept badly. The kind of sleep that never quite locks in. Every time he drifted, he felt the memory of your silhouette walk through the room and lay down beside him. He woke a little ashamed and a lot decided. Be steady. Be careful. Do right. If he could not be a good man in every way, he could at least be one in this.

And then life showed him what mattered by taking the shortest route. You in his kitchen, shaking and small, the sound of your father still stuck to your skin. All those rules turned useless on the floor. He gathered you because that is what his hands were for. Rocked you because some part of him remembered the secret rhythm that tells a hurt body it can come back. He spoke quietly because loud had already happened to you. Your breath climbed out of the well and met his. He felt something settle that had been looking for a place to land for years.

The days after threaded sweetness through his restraint and tied it off with want. You came to him open, soft in the edges he had only seen sharp. He answered with coffee the way you liked it. With his palm at your back when doors opened. With patience he built like a fence, post by post, so the two of you could sit inside something safer than weather.

Still, the sliver remained. The ID that didn’t appear. The pause that didn’t feel like forgetting. He told himself there would be a right time to ask. He told himself a man can hold two truths at once. She is good. Something is wrong. He held both until his shoulders ached.

When the night finally tipped from almost to more, it wasn’t a decision so much as a surrender. The house was quiet. Your laugh was sleep-slow. You touched him like you already knew what he was afraid of and wanted to set it down for him. He kissed you back with care that hurt his teeth. He carried you. Not because you couldn’t walk, but because he needed the moving to be deliberate. He laid you out like a blessing and undressed you with a patience he’d never had for anything else. You looked up at him with a trust that asked him to be the kind of man he told himself he was.

He was gentle until gentle wasn’t enough. He was slow until slow turned into worship. He moved like he wanted you to know you could keep what he was giving. No hurry. No scramble. The kind of pace that says stay.

Your hands marked his back. Your breath broke on his name. He felt his own body come apart and hold together at once. When it ended, he didn’t let the emptiness rush in. He fetched a cloth. Warmed water. Cleaned you careful because after is where a person learns whether they were wanted or used. He kissed your knee. Your temple. Tucked the blanket close and pulled you onto his chest like you fit there, because you did.

Don’t test me like that again, he murmured, not as threat but as plea. He had felt the cliff under his boots. He had turned away this time. He did not know if he could again.

He could feel it in the small hours. That quiet tally the body keeps when you are not looking. The old ache in his shoulder. The knee that hummed when a front rolled in. The way sleep slipped off him too early and left him staring at a faint line of dawn like a man waiting on news.

And then there was you. Bright as a struck match. Walking into his kitchen with wind still in your hair and the day’s losses clinging to your blouse. He watched the way your mouth lifted anyway. He watched himself try to lift with it.

He had not planned to be this warm again. He had not planned to remember where to put his hands. He had not planned on the panic that flickered through him when you leaned into him with your whole weight. Not fear of you. Fear of the moment missing him by half an inch. Fear of his body betraying the promise in his eyes.

So he prepared. Quietly. The way he had always prepared for hard work or bad weather. He drank the water. He slept when he could. He cut back on the whiskey even when it felt like a friend. And in the far back of the medicine cabinet he hid a small blue insurance policy behind a cracked bottle of aftershave. He told himself he would not need it. He told himself he was foolish to keep it near. Some nights he only touched the foil and never tore it. Other nights he broke the tablet clean and swallowed pride with it. He never wanted you to know the difference.

You never did. You only noticed that he came to you steady. That he came to you patient. That he stayed.

He made rituals out of simple things to steady his hands. Coffee the way you liked it. Showers that turned steam into a soft curtain where he could slow the world to your breathing. The slow care of washing your hair. The press of his thumbs at the base of your skull until the hour’s edge went dull. He felt younger there. Not in the mirror. In the work of tending. In the proof that gentleness still lived in him and could survive the heat that rose in its wake.

When you smiled at him he felt taller. When you climbed into his lap he felt needed. When your fingers found the back of his neck and stayed, something in him believed he had not been entirely used up by this life. That belief scared him. He knew what disappointment could do to a person. He had watched it hollow people out. He did not want to offer you a promise his bones could not cash.

So he worked for it. He lifted in the yard until the old knot between his shoulder blades loosened. He fixed the hinge that had squealed for months. He carved you a small rabbit and sanded the ears down smooth and round. He liked that your laughter would touch something he had made when you were not there. He liked the way your fingers closed around it like it mattered.

There were nights he felt like a man outrunning a shadow. Your joy could be a flood and he would open his chest and try not to drown. You would lean back and grin and he would think about timing. About breath. About pace. Not because he wanted to hold anything back. Because he wanted to give you what you asked for and still be there at the end. He wanted to finish with enough quiet left in him to pull you close and listen to your heart as it settled. He wanted to be the person who steadied the world after it rolled you.

The first time doubt clipped him mid-stride it came out of nowhere. A day of errands and small successes. You walked in glowing from nothing more than clean hair and a cheap lipstick and he felt the floor tilt. Not from desire. From the sudden, stupid thought that a man his age should not get to keep this. He went to the cabinet and pressed his thumb against foil and told himself it did not matter whether he needed help tonight. It mattered that you would not see him reach for it. It mattered that your faith would not be asked to carry yet another thing.

Then he thought about the way you curled under his arm after. The way you breathed into his shirt like it was a field of lavender. The way your mouth softened when he laid you down and wrapped a blanket around your calves. He put the packet back. He chose trust in his own body and in the slow rhythm he had learned from repair work and riverbanks. He chose to take his time. He chose to listen to the way your breath climbed. He chose to let himself be guided by small sounds and the way your fingers tightened when he got it right. The fear did not vanish. It fell behind the work.

He learned to read you like weather. A set jaw that meant the day had been unkind. A too-bright tone that meant a manager had taken a cheap shot. The bounce you used like armor. The quiet that came when the armor slipped. He found he could meet each one with some answer that made sense to his hands. A kiss that was a promise. A joke soft enough to let you keep your pride. A slow sway in the kitchen. The kind that says home without the word.

He did not always get it right. Some afternoons he mistook eagerness for endurance and felt shame rise quick when his body answered faster than his plans. He learned how to breathe through that too. How to step back into the moment without scolding himself. How to let affection be the bridge over the gap. You made it easier. You never counted misses out loud. You met him exactly where he was and pulled him forward a half step at a time. That generosity unfixed something in him he had not known was stuck.

When you stood in your window with the curtain half drawn and the light on your skin, he felt both young and very old. Young in the ache. Old in the awareness that the ache meant a kind of luck he had not expected to see again. His first thought was not hunger. It was worry. That you would catch a chill. That someone else would see. That your daring would write checks his patience would have to pay. Then the pride crept in. You were choosing him. You were saying in the only language that made sense that you wanted to be seen by this exact pair of eyes. He let himself look for one quiet minute. He let himself be worthy of the looking. Then he turned off his lamp and texted two words that meant come home the safe way.

He carried that same thread into the mornings. He liked the simple proof of his hands. The way toast and honey could feel like care. The way a palm on your hip could say I am here and mean a hundred other things. He did not know how long any of it would last. He did not know if the distance you dreamed about would take you from him. He did not know if the truth you were swallowing would punch a hole through everything he was building.

He knew this. He wanted to be the man who tried. He wanted to be the man who did not look away when the light shifted. He wanted to be the man who could keep up without pretending to be twenty and who could slow down without apology when slow was better. He wanted to be the kind of steady that outlives doubt.

Sometimes his heart stuttered with the old fear. Sometimes he stood in the bathroom and looked at the man in the mirror and thought about the boy he had been and the father he had learned to be and the partner he had failed to be once. He pressed the edge of the sink until his knuckles blanched and he made himself promise out loud. Not to be perfect. To be present. To choose tenderness when he felt the urge to reach for anger. To reach for patience when pride pricked him. To reach for you even when his body worried about the clock.

A week later he found the pill still there behind the aftershave. He left it. He shut the cabinet and went to the kitchen where you were humming at the stove. He slid his hands around your waist and felt your back meet his chest without hesitation. The water in the pot ticked softly. The house smelled like garlic and butter. Your breath eased under his palm. He thought there are a thousand ways for a man to measure himself and tonight I pick this one. The sway. The steady. The fact that you leaned back and stayed.

For a while it was simple. The glow after a storm. The small miracles of a day that doesn’t bruise. He cooked. You smiled against his shoulder. He told himself that maybe the sliver in his palm would work itself free without blood. He told himself the body knows what it’s doing, that love is a kind of immune system if you let it be.

But love doesn’t make rent or erase history. It doesn’t fix the tired that starts behind the eyes and leaks down into the bones. He came home heavy one night, the kind of heavy that sinks a man in his chair before his keys stop swinging. You wanted more of him than he had left. He wanted to give it and didn’t know how. The air thinned. Every small ask turned into a measure he felt himself failing. He reached for quiet because quiet was the only tool he’d learned that didn’t break the furniture. You mistook it for indifference. Maybe it was, a little. The indifference a man puts on when the other options are rage or tears.

He said he needed space. He said it badly. The look on your face made him want to take a hammer to the mouth the words came from. He didn’t. He sat there with his beer and his tired and watched you stand and leave, and the sound of the door lifted the hair on his arms.

Outside, the night smelled like metal and cut grass. He drifted into the yard without deciding to. Habit pulled his eyes to your window. A light snapped on. Your shape against the glass. He waited for the next right move to present itself. It didn’t. You lifted your hand instead. One finger. A clean blade of fury.

He didn’t flinch. Not on the outside. Inside, something gave. Not a crack. A quiet tear, the kind that doesn’t bleed until later. You dragged the curtains shut hard enough to shake the bar. The darkness that followed felt older than both of you.

He stood there another full minute like a man who had been told to stay. Then he went back inside and sat where the cushion was still warm from your body. The house sounded like an engine cooling down. He put the beer on the table and didn’t touch it. He stared at the blank TV and thought about the sliver in his hand. He could feel it now. Deep. Angry. Red around the edges. He had hoped time would lift it out without pain. He knew better. Things under skin come out one way only.

Joel had never liked the sound of his phone in the middle of the night. Nothing good ever came from a ring after midnight, and when it cracked through the silence at three a.m., his first instinct was dread.

He almost didn’t answer. Thought about letting it go, about folding deeper into the quiet he’d asked for. But the name lit up on the screen, and his gut went cold. You.

The first thing he heard wasn’t words. It was your breathing, ragged, broken, soaked in liquor and tears. And then your voice, apologizing, stumbling over syllables, calling his name like he was the only place left for you to land.

His anger—the same sharp edge he’d had earlier that night—snapped clean in two. Underneath it was something older, something bone-deep. The kind of instinct you don’t choose. Protect. Go.

By the time you mumbled about not knowing the address, he was already up, pulling on his boots with the phone wedged against his shoulder. He knew the sound of fear in a voice. Knew the hollow kind of crying that came when someone was out of places to run. He told you to stay put, steadying his voice like it could anchor you until he got there.

The drive was a blur of stoplights and white knuckles. When his headlights swept over you on that lawn—small, swaying, streaked with mascara and rain—something inside him twisted so tight it hurt. You looked like hell. You looked like something he’d failed to protect.

He crouched down, hand under your chin, and for a moment the frustration surged again. Christ, you were drunk out of your mind, careless, breaking yourself open where anyone could see. But the words that left his mouth weren’t the ones he wanted to spit. They were the ones you needed. Softer. Steadier.

When your knees buckled, his arms moved before his brain caught up. You fit against him too easy, too light, your face pressed to his chest like you’d belonged there all along. And then—God help him—you said it. Those three words, heavy and slurred against his shirt, I love you.

He carried you to the truck like a man trying not to shake apart. Buckled you in. Bought water and crackers at the gas station because it was something to do with his hands, because keeping you alive and upright was all he could think about. You tried to drink, spilling half of it down your chin, and Joel wiped it away without thinking. Like Sarah, once upon a time. Like someone who couldn’t not.

Back at your room, he laid you down gentle, shoes off, blanket up, all the motions of care he knew by heart. He should’ve left then. Should’ve gone home and sat with the silence like he’d told himself he needed. But your hand caught his, trembling, and you whispered don’t leave.

He didn’t. He sat there with your fingers tangled in his, watching your breath even out, feeling the weight of everything he wasn’t strong enough to walk away from. He kissed your temple before he could stop himself.

God help me, he thought, forehead pressed to your hair. I’m gonna let this girl ruin me.

And the terrifying thing? He already knew he’d let you.

He worked through the morning like penance and tried not to look at the window across the yard. When his truck finally rolled in near noon, he saw your curtains flung wide, bed made tight. He also saw the way the sunlight caught on the glass of a mason jar on your sill and knew you’d found the wildflowers he’d left , the ones he’d never bring up because leaving them was the whole point. Lift, don’t label.

He kept busy, but the shape of you kept slipping into the quiet, your laugh in his kitchen, your cheek on his chest while the stove clicked, your fingers on his phone when you’d called his font “billboard big.” He could still feel your thigh across his lap from last night, the weight of you when you came apart crying and he just rocked, old instinct, father and man braided together, trying not to think about how good it felt to be needed and how dangerous that was.

By afternoon the silence between houses hardened into something with edges. His phone buzzed once: Sorry I called so late. Hopefully I didn’t bother you. He read it, thumb hovering, and set the phone down again. Space, Joel. You said it.

Then your text hit: Got a call from a college advisor. I set up an appointment for next week. Trying to figure things out. He swallowed around the knot that put in his throat. Pride went through him quick and mean, so bright it hurt. He typed, deleted, typed: Good. I’m proud of you. Deleted that, too. He hated how every right thing felt like a trespass.

Toward evening he idled at the curb longer than he should’ve, just listening to the engine so he didn’t have to listen to his own head. He saw the shift of your curtain and made himself go inside without looking up. He shut his own curtains soft. If you were watching, he didn’t want you thinking the sight of him was an answer you had to earn.

He didn’t sleep much. He got up before the sun and left earlier than he needed to, boots soft on the porch, coffee going cold in the holder while the jobsite swallowed him whole. He figured if he kept swinging a hammer long enough, the ache might move out of his chest and into his back where he knew how to carry it.

Two days like that. In and out, early and late. Curtains shut. Space holding.

He didn’t go to the restaurant for a date. He went because the bid was big and the woman signing checks liked to meet on neutral ground, liked to talk about light and egress and the kind of windows that make a room feel expensive without saying the word. She’d brought her husband, well-heeled, easy laugh. Joel shook both their hands and kept his eyes on the folder, not the wine.

He knew the instant you saw him. He didn’t even have to turn, the air changed. The sound of your steps—he could pick it out of a crowd now—came fast, then the shock of cold across his face, water and ice down the collar of his shirt. He blinked hard and caught a mouthful of melt while you stood there shaking, words like shrapnel, we’re not even broken up, old-ass bitch, you think I’m stupid?

He didn’t think you were anything but hurt. He felt it like a fist to the breastbone. He opened his mouth to say your name and all that came out was a useless “Hey, hone"

The husband stepped in—rings flash, protective posture—and Joel’s stomach just dropped through the floor. “Sir, I..this isn’t..” He looked at the wife, at her careful smile gone tight, then back at you, eyes blown wide and already far away. Tori’s hand clamped your wrist. He wanted to get between them, to slow you down the way he had on his couch, but a room full of strangers had their eyes on you and he knew the only decent thing he could do was not make it worse by chasing.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the couple, napkin in his fist. He meant it in a dozen directions at once. They murmured that it was fine, awkwardness rolling like a fog over the table, and he sat there drenched and hot with shame while your voice cracked in the doorway, No. Fuck you. I quit. The door slapped back and forth once like a heartbeat and then the place went quiet except for the hiss of the kitchen and his own pulse.

He closed the folder and forced himself to finish the meeting. He offered to comp their time later, promised revisions, overcorrected into polite professionalism because it was that or bolt after you into the hot afternoon and make a scene that would finish what had just started. When the check-in was done, he stepped outside into the glare, shirt drying stiff against his shoulders, and put his hands on the rail just to feel something solid.

He hit send on the pin and stared at the little blue arc of service like it might take the message back. No words. He didn’t have the right ones left. Coordinates were cleaner than anything he could say without making it worse.

The pull-off sat above the whole town, his spot when the noise got too loud. Night air thinned out the heat, crickets worked the edges. He’d quit smoking years ago. He lit one anyway, because his hands needed something mean to hold.

Headlights climbed the switchbacks and found him. You killed the engine and stayed there a beat—hood up, small in the cab—like you were weighing whether to turn around. He didn’t wave. Didn’t trust the steadiness of his arm.

When your boots hit gravel, he tasted smoke and apology in the same breath.

“It’s a beautiful view,” you said, soft, like you were asking for a gentler version of him.

“Yeah.” He watched the city. “Come up here sometimes. Clears my head.”

You stepped in close. He finally met your eyes and it was all there, the restaurant, the water, the look on his face when the room went quiet and you went loud. He dragged off the cigarette, flicked ash, and put the only true thing he could find into the open.

“You cost me the biggest client I’ve had in three years.”

It landed. Your eyes shined and he felt a flash of old anger, quick as lightning. He forced it into words before it turned into something worse. “Don’t,” he said when you swiped at your face. “Don’t use your tears against me.”

You owned it. Said you were sorry without dressing it up. It loosened something and tightened something else.

“It’s immature,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. “It’s…everything I was afraid of bein’ with you.”

You fired back, about space that felt like a lock, about silence he mistook for steadiness. He’d asked you to give him room and then shut the door like a coward. He hated how right you were.

“Not fair?” he bit out anyway, voice low. “You humiliated me in front of half the town.”

“Maybe if you’d told me what was going on, I wouldn’t have had to wonder if you were moving on.”

He stepped in. Close enough to count the pulse at your throat. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

He caught your chin, rough from the day, gentler than he felt. Smoke on his knuckles, wind in the trees. “You wanna push,” he said, voice down where gravel turns to heat, “I’ll push back.”

He kissed you.

It hit like a breaker—anger, shame, want—rushing the same narrow channel until his mouth found yours. Metal thudded at your spine, his palm locked to your hip, and the world cinched down to breath and heat and the tick of a cooling engine. You tried to speak, he took the words with his kiss and felt the edge under his own teeth. Too far. He was the one who’d drawn the line.

He stopped. Forehead to yours, hand firm at your waist, he made himself breathe through the riot you’d set off in him. The tremor in you wasn’t all fury anymore, there was fear braided through it, and that changed the way his hands moved. The grip softened. Instinct took the wheel, pull her in, steady her, rock her like something precious that might spook.

You eased against him. The fight bled out of your shoulders. He straightened your hoodie, brushed grit from your knees like penance, then lifted you onto the warm hood and sat beside you. The cigarette at his boot went cold. Below, the city blinked like a scatter of ground-level stars, and the quiet worked on the raw edges in both of you.

He thought about the text you’d sent—college, trying—and felt that small, hard bud of pride he never knew what to do with. Then you told him what you wanted most, the thing with a clock attached—wife, mother—and the truth in his chest bucked. Too old. Too late. He stared down the black ribbon of highway and pictured handing you back to a life that could give you years he didn’t have.

You wouldn’t take it. You stood right in front of him and made him look. Said you wanted him, not the math. He studied the rim of red under your eyes, the stubborn set of your mouth, the way you were still here after the worst version of both of you, and something in him gave. His thumb found your knuckles, the movement was slow, stalling for time he didn’t deserve.

He wasn’t good at letting people in. Every time he’d tried, it had cost him. Alone was easier, no one to disappoint, nothing to lose. He could feel old ghosts lining up to be counted. But your insistence was steady heat against his cold logic, and when your tear slid free, his hand rose without asking, smoke and cedar at your cheekbone, brushing it away like it mattered more than anything he’d said.

You didn’t flinch from the part of him that wanted too much. You met it head-on. I’m not going anywhere, your body said, even before your mouth. He folded to that. Pressed his brow to yours. Let the truth be simple for once and held you the way he had on his couch, no performance, just promise.

Later, when you admitted the job had to change or the roof might, the protector in him snapped awake. He lifted his head to see your face—less sharp now, more breakable—and felt the old carpenter’s urge to build you a door out of a wall. You’ll find something, he thought, not as comfort but as a thing already true because you’d decided it.

You leaned into him and the view blurred at the edges. Brake lights stitched red trails below, the wind carried the faint hum of the highway and cooled the heat he’d put on your skin minutes before—enough that his gut loosened at the memory of how completely you’d come apart for him when he gave you what you needed. Not a victory—an answer. Proof he could read you right and not break you in the process. It made him feel younger than his years and older than his caution at the same time.

Morning came easy for once. Coffee, you in one of his shirts, bare legs catching the light, quiet domesticity that fit so good it scared him. He handed you keys, pretended errands were just errands and not an excuse to keep you close all day.

Truck cab, your knee under his palm, the world finally moving at a livable speed. Hardware store, bank, post office, you made every aisle look like a scene, asking about sandpaper like it was a secret. He grumbled, but the truth was he liked being the one who knew things. Liked the way you leaned into him to learn.

The grocery run went sideways. He caught the tail end of that waitress’s smile, the kind that cuts. Old ass man. Saw the words hit you—hot, mean—same spot his own doubts live. You squared yourself instead. Claimed him without a scene. Took his hand like it meant something permanent. It did.

The drive home was mostly road noise and your breathing. He could feel you blinking back tears, feel the fight in himself to tell you he got it—age, gossip, all of it—without turning it into another lecture. “People will talk,” was all he managed, and even that felt thin. When you snapped don’t give up on us, it landed. He’d done that before, called retreat “being sensible.” He squeezed your thigh and shut up. Sometimes being steady is keeping your hands where you can feel them and his mouth closed.

Joel hadn’t meant to reach for the damn bottle.

But there it was, tucked into the back of his need one cabinent, something he’d picked up months ago and sworn he didn’t need. He’d told himself it was foolish pride, told himself he could keep up, that you didn’t notice the moments he slowed down, the times he caught his breath longer than he wanted to.

Except you did notice. You noticed everything. The way your eyes lingered when his chest rose too hard, when he rolled off you and rubbed the small of his back. You never said anything, but it was there, in the soft curve of your smile, in the way you touched him after like you were soothing something he didn’t admit out loud.

Tonight he couldn’t stand it.

You’d come apart in his arms, breathless and flushed, whispering more, harder, and Joel had felt his body respond—strong at first, steady—but already the edges of fatigue were creeping in. He was 50 years old, for Christ’s sake. And you were young, quicksilver and hungry, looking at him like he was all you’d ever wanted. That look broke him down and built him up in equal measure.

So when you slipped into the bathroom to clean up, Joel sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the pills heoved to his nightstand drawer. His hand shook a little as he opened it, shook more when he popped the cap and tipped one of the little blue pills into his palm.

He swallowed it dry.

By the time you cane back in—bare, glowing, still damp from the washcloth—he’d shoved the bottle back, tried to school his face into something casual. But his pulse was already climbing, heat spreading low and sharp, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the medicine hit.

You crawled back into bed, curling into his chest, and Joel almost lost his nerve. He could’ve left it at this, your warmth against him, the soft drag of your fingers across his ribs. It would’ve been enough.

But then you tipped your head up, kissed him slow, and whispered, “Still keepin’ up?” with that teasing little spark that always got him.

Joel’s breath caught. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Darlin’,” he said, voice low, rough, “I plan on provin’ it.”

The rest came easy once he gave himself over. The pill did its work, sure but mostly it was you. The way you kissed him like you were starving. The way you arched into his hands, greedy and unashamed. The way your laughter tangled with your moans, sharp and sweet, like you couldn’t decide whether to tease him or beg him.

Joel pushed himself past where he thought he could go. Past the ache in his hips, past the burn in his lungs. Every thrust, every kiss, every word was an answer to the voice in his head that said too old, too slow, she’ll want more than you can give.

You wanted him. Just him. And when you broke beneath him, trembling, crying his name, Joel thought maybe—just maybe—he could forgive himself for wanting so bad to be enough.

After, when you were limp and smiling against his chest, he stroked your hair, pressed a kiss to your temple. His body still hummed, restless from the little blue pill, but his heart ached with something bigger.

“Don’t matter how old I get,” he murmured into your hair. “Long as you’ll have me, I’ll keep findin’ a way.”

You tilted your head, kissed the hollow of his throat, and whispered, “You already do.”

Joel closed his eyes, let the words sink deep. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe them.

Christmas at Tommy and Maria’s rubbed the ache out of him. Kitchens are a cure he keeps forgetting. Garlic and cumin and a house full of voices that know where to land. You fit right into the noise. The way some people fit into a song without needing to know the lyrics. He watched you turn shiny under Maria’s fuss and thought about all the rooms that had made you small before this one. He wanted to build you ten more like it. He wanted to hand them to you wrapped up and say here. Keep these for when the world gets mean.

He talked in the hallway when he should have shut his mouth. Tommy and the desk at the office. His brother with easy fixes. Joel with stubborn pride. Mature enough. The words left him and he hated them as soon as they hung there. Not because they were cruel. Because they were honest and clumsy and not meant for the echo of a house with thin walls. He wants you to have what is yours by right. Not by him. He wants you to show up somewhere and be wanted on sight because you are bright and quick and you don’t quit. He also wants to keep you near because the days are better when you wander through them. That is the trouble with desire. It tugs both ways and calls the pull virtue.

Then Sarah walked in late and glowing and handed him a box. White cotton. Crooked letters. Best Pawpaw Ever. It stole the breath clean out of him. He felt his knees go soft. He has carried her through every season a father can carry a kid and still the world finds a way to make him new. He held her and thought of tiny feet and tiny lungs and the way life keeps throwing rope to people who think they’re done climbing. Joy is a loud thing but it has a quiet shadow and he saw it pass over your face even as you hugged her. Not jealousy. A bruise that didn’t belong to anyone else’s hands. He tucked it away to answer later. He cut the pie. He pretended his hands were steady.

You moved through the house like you were distributing light. Drying plates you didn’t dirty. Admiring an ultrasound foot like it was the first star you’d ever seen. The night wore down into good tired. Coats and laughter and that soft hush a house gets when it’s given all it has for the day. On the porch he squeezed your hand and you squeezed back and he told himself you were both telling the truth even in the parts you didn’t say yet.

The drive home was a kind of mercy. The city done up in plastic reindeer and stubborn palm trees and the kind of cold that only nips at the edges. Joel kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting empty on his thigh. The radio landed on a song you half-know. The city slipped by, all that glow dimming as he turned into the neighborhood. Inside he made tea the way you like it and let a movie carry the last of the noise out of your heads. You leaned into him. He traced slow circles over your arm like he was smoothing paper for a letter he hadn’t written.

Later he found your eyes on him and knew you were going to have to open the box he left in that hallway. Not tonight, your gaze said. He nodded because he could feel the seams of the day and there are conversations that need new thread. He is learning to wait. To let the heat pass. To pick the moment that keeps the bridge standing.

It is a strange thing, the way quiet can feel full. The lamp made a small lake of light and you sat inside it like people who had finally come in from the weather. Joel thought of his hand on the wheel and how empty it felt. He set his mug down and took yours and slid it to the table too. He placed his palm over your thigh where it should have been hours earlier. Not to claim. To say you made it home.

He will have to tell you the whole truth. About jealousy that turns his mouth to gravel. About a kid’s look that makes him fifteen again and thirty years more tired. About a future he has already held that you might still want to touch from the beginning. About how bad he is at being measured and how good he wants to be at being kind. About how watching you in a room full of family made him so proud he had to look away.

When he switched off the lamp the house settled around you. Your head found his shoulder like it had been training for this all its life. He listened to the old bones of the place creak and to the softer sound of your breath. He let the dark be simple. He let his hand rest where it belonged. He promised quietly to keep the anger small and the tenderness large. To hold space for hard talks and leave the cabinet of easy fixes closed. To keep showing up even when pride made his steps clumsy.

The room went still. His eyes adjusted. Outside the neighbor’s lights blinked slow. You eased one last inch closer and Joel thought, this is the work. To be steady in the little hours. To love without flinching. To stay.

New Years eve night, he reads the weather the way he reads people, the wind wrong, the air charged, the kind of sky that makes hospitals busier. He hates the word omen, but it drifts through him anyway when Sarah calls from the back of an ER that smells like bleach and worry. He thinks about plastic chairs and vending-machine dinners and the way families get small in crisis, how the circle tightens until there’s only blood and breath inside it. He loves you. That’s the truth that sits warm in his chest. Another truth sits beside it sometimes love waits outside the door. He tries to say it gentler than it sounds and still hears the wince in his own voice. You nod like it’s nothing, like you’re agreeing about the weather, and he kisses your cheek and tells himself you understood the part he couldn’t find words for, I’ll carry this one, I need you to let me.

The drive to the hospital is a tunnel of red lights and bad songs on low. He keeps the radio on because silence feels superstitious. He counts the breath in, breath out, and makes deals with God he hasn’t believed in for years. When he steps into triage and sees his girl sitting upright, monitors beeping steady, a paper bracelet cutting her wrist into childhood and not-childhood, the world unclenches by an inch. He holds her hand and cracks jokes he doesn’t feel and remembers every fever he ever walked through and every night he slept sitting up so she could sleep lying down. It’s always like this with fatherhood, past and present layered so thin he can see through both at once.

Near midnight he steps into the hallway and texts you. It takes him too long to find words that won’t make your waiting heavier. He types the facts. They’re enough to let you breathe. Then he adds what’s true and useless and still wants saying, you look beautiful tonight. He doesn’t know if it’s comfort or just confession, but it’s yours either way.

Morning cracks open and finds him in a kitchen with buttered toast and gratitude lodged in his throat. He’s still wearing yesterday’s flannel. When your key turns, it sounds like belonging, and for half a heartbeat he wishes he’d had the sense to meet you at the door and fold you into the good news with his hands first. Instead you walk into his little living room and see the shape of his life as it is, Sarah under a blanket, Thomas next to her, the soft, stunned light new parents wear. He watches the heat rise in your cheeks and feels the tug between two loyalties he never wanted set against each other. It isn’t a choice. It’s a braid. He makes space on the couch and tries to show you that with his body when words feel like clumsy tools.

Plans pour out, school online, a room remade, the practical tenderness of grocery lists and bed frames. Pride stings him tender. The love is simple, the logistics will not be. When the door shuts and the house exhales, he turns to tell you everything left unsaid in that small room, and you pivot instead, you’ll take the job. He laughs, surprised and grateful, and then feels the thin crack of something else, how relief can make a man miss the flicker of a different truth behind your eyes. He pulls you in and promises fairness because he means it, because he wants the things you earn to carry your name, not his shadow.

The room that was Sarah’s becomes a day’s work. He is happiest with his sleeves rolled and a purpose that can be lifted, sanded, set just so. You lift one end of a desk and call him old with a grin, and he feels younger in the teasing than he ever does in a mirror. Out in the shed, dust turns to glitter in a spear of light, in the closet, a plastic bin breaks him open on contact. A onesie as small as a palm. Socks that look like storybooks lied about feet. A crocheted blanket that smells faintly of cedar and years. Memory is a muscle, it flexes without asking. Page after page, chocolate frosting on a baby mouth, a missing tooth smile, a man he half-remembers at a school assembly with his free hand stuffed in his pocket because he didn’t know where to put it. You say “you were hot,” and he laughs, but the ache beneath the laugh is gratitude edged with fear. He had all that once. He did it as best he could. He is not sure he can be the right shape to do it again.

The talk finds him before he can choose the hour. He wishes for a wiser man’s patience and hears his own caution spill out anyway. It’s not that he can’t see the picture you see. It’s that a new one tilted into view last week, the word grandpa fitting into his mouth like a coin he didn’t know he’d been saving. He doesn’t say grandfather as apology. He says it as a compass needle twitching. He will be a good one. He must be. And the math of it, the two-year promise before marriage feels honest on his tongue and unfair against your skin. He sees the hurt land. He wants to gather it up with his hands and smooth it flat and knows some hurts are meant to be looked at, not hidden.

By the time the sheets are changed and the baby boxes are stacked in the closet, the house has a new echo. He walks past the doorway and feels the absence like a tide, no posters, no laundry pile, no guitar picks at impossible angles on the dresser. He finds you staring at a crooked frame and he can’t keep his hands off your waist. Work all day switches to a different kind of work without anyone naming it. He isn’t trying to prove he’s young, he’s trying to prove he’s alive. Still there. Still wanted. Still enough. The way you soften under his hands fills him with a satisfaction that isn’t conquest. It’s homecoming.

He carries you because he can. It delights him, the ease of it, the strength he forgot his body still holds when joy runs through it. He hears your laughter braid with his breath and thinks maybe the world will give them this reprieve. He keeps it tender because he wants the memory to hold if the talking goes hard later. He keeps it intense because he wants it to drown what can’t be solved in one afternoon.

And then the line. Small in sound, enormous in consequence. He says he needs to pull away. Choice is a quiet word until it isn’t. You tighten, and for a heartbeat he thinks he imagined it. Then he feels his own boundary buckle under the oldest heat in the world and the newest fear in his chest. Everything in him strains past pleasure toward anger, not the punishing kind, the startled kind, the kind that flares when trust trips at full speed. The body doesn’t know the difference, it finishes anyway. The heart does. It stumbles into stillness.

Silence arrives meaner than anything he could say. He moves away, careful because tenderness is a habit he refuses to break even when he’s hurt. He hates the edge in his voice and keeps it anyway because the lesson cannot be learned if it’s wrapped in sugar. Don’t turn theft into romance. He thinks it and feels his throat burn because he loves you and hates that he has to be the teacher in this moment. He sees your face crumple and wants to take it back and knows he can’t. He says he needs a minute because he does, because the man he’s worked hard to become knows he shouldn’t talk when the boy he used to be is still pounding on the inside of his ribs.

You ask if you should go and he says yes and it rips through both of you. He hates the way the word sounds in his house. He touches your cheek with two fingers because there isn’t room for his whole hand, because the part of him that’s furious isn’t bigger than the part that’s devoted. I love you, I’m mad, he puts both truths on the table and lets them sit side by side, ugly and honest and still true.

The door clicks. The yard is a ribbon of dark between two windows. He stands there longer than he should, a man at his own threshold, and watches the square of your light flare and hold. He wants to hammer something. He wants to fix what is not a hinge. He wants to walk across the grass and say come back, and he wants to leave you to your quiet so the apology you deserve won’t be the kind wrung out of panic.

Later, he turns the lamp off and lies in the room that’ll soon be louder, fuller, messier. He counts the new roles pressed into his palms, father again in a different key, boss with your name on the payroll, man who meant it when he said he’d try. He catalogs the work ahead, the talk about kids that can’t be avoided, the talk about trust that can’t be softened, the truth he keeps swallowing about the way your age sits like a thorn in his thinking even though the love sits like a stone. He vows to keep his temper small and his listening large. He vows to guard his choices and honor yours, both. He vows to be brave enough not to run when love shows him the worst part of himself and still ask for another day with you in it.

Across the way, your room goes black. The house breathes. He lets the anger cool and the tenderness remain and feels both like two hands on the same rope, pulling toward morning.

A few days later he walked you through the office, watching you take in the cluttered desks, the worn-out carpet, the framed prints that had yellowed a little around the edges. It wasn’t much, but it was his. Tommy’s mess was everywhere, coffee cups, bent nails, half-finished notes. Joel almost apologized, but then you laughed, light and bright, and something loosened in his chest. You weren’t put off by the chaos. You fit yourself into it like you always did, with a kind of ease Joel didn’t know he needed until it was right there in front of him.

He’d waited a long time for someone to help keep this place together. Now he had you.

Still, when he reminded you about payroll—social security, ID, all the little details—he saw a flicker across your face, something quick and unreadable. You agreed, voice steady, but Joel’s gut twisted anyway. He almost asked, almost pressed, but he didn’t. He wanted to believe the steady tone, wanted to believe you were fine.

Later, when the office was quiet, he let himself lean in close, hands bracketing your thighs as you perched on his desk like temptation itself. You teased him about movies, about passion in a pile of flying papers, and he chuckled, low, already imagining it. But then he caught himself, pulled the reins. Not until he knew you were safe. Not until you were on birth control.

It was supposed to be simple. Responsible. The right thing. He didn’t notice at first how you stiffened under his kiss, didn’t hear the sharpness of your silence. He thought of your safety, of the future, of not failing you the way he’d failed others. He called you “good girl,” and meant it with nothing but care.

When you excused yourself, he let you go, settling back at his desk. He hummed without thinking, content in the ordinary. He had a daughter back home, a woman he loved within arm’s reach, and for the first time in a long time, he could almost taste peace.

Joel didn’t know what you were carrying in the hallway. Didn’t see the tremor in your hands as you made that call. He just knew he was happier than he’d been in years, and he told himself it was enough.

He had never thought an office could feel alive. For years it had been a holding place for contracts, invoices, Tommy’s coffee-stained notes. A man’s space. Bare, functional. Then you came.

In four months, you’d turned it into something he almost wanted to linger in. Framed photos leaned on shelves, potted plants catching stray sunlight in the window, a corkboard with colored pins keeping Tommy’s chaos in line. You’d started a little social page for the company, posting job sites, finished projects, even the crew smiling around a new roof beam. Joel didn’t understand half the technology, but he couldn’t argue with the calls that started pouring in. New clients. Big jobs. Folks who’d never even heard of Miller Contracting before suddenly wanted him. Really, they wanted what you’d built.

He’d sit back in his chair some mornings, watching you work, hair bent over a ledger or fingers tapping fast across the keyboard, and he’d feel something sharp and warm twist through him. Pride, sure. Desire too, plenty of that. But also this quiet awe, the kind that made him wonder if he’d finally stumbled into something like grace.

You were trouble in that office too. He’d learned quickly that closed blinds meant temptation. You were his favorite lunch, his favorite risk, perched on his desk, legs wrapped around him while paperwork waited untouched. He’d never known the taste of routine and wildness at once, but with you he lived it daily.

At home, you slid into his life without asking. His shirts on your shoulders, your perfume on his pillow. You cooked more than he did, cleaned when you thought he wasn’t looking, teased him when you caught him folding your laundry into too-neat stacks. You were the shape of a wife without a ring, and Joel found himself craving the permanence of it, the word he’d sworn off years ago whispering back into his mind, forever.

Sarah noticed too. She’d smile when you nudged her about doctor’s appointments, when you sat beside her flipping through baby name books, when you organized a shower with Maria that left the whole house buzzing with laughter and pastel ribbons. When you comforted her during her breakup with Thomas and gave her words of wisdom beyond your years. Joel watched his daughter bloom under your care, and the knot of fear in his chest—fear that Sarah would ever feel alone—unwound a little more each day.

The four of you—him, you, Tommy, Maria—fell into double dates, into dinners thick with stories and jokes, into talk of weddings that made Joel’s chest tight in a way that was half-fear, half-hope. You fit everywhere. At his table, in his bed, beside his daughter, among his friends. He caught himself more than once with his thumb tracing your knuckles under the table, thinking, this is it. This is what I never thought I’d have again.

Joel Miller, the man who had lost more than he could name, was in love. Falling deep, falling fast, and for once in his life, he didn’t try to stop it.

The day didn’t announce itself as a ruin.

It was ordinary in the way you’d begged for, lights up, printer waking, your mug already waiting by the machine because you knew he’d pretend he didn’t want the first pour and take it anyway. You’d nagged him for weeks to book the accountant—“grown-up stuff, Joel, please”—and he’d finally said fine, put it on the calendar, I’ll sit still.

He did. Shirt sleeves rolled, pen lined up with the edge of the desk like that could make numbers behave. Tommy leaned in the doorway, trading jabs with you, and the office wore all the little touches you’d stitched into it, green windows, soft rug, the photo you’d snapped of him when he wasn’t looking. He felt…kept. The ship caulked. The seams holding.

The door chimed. Gray suit, too sharp for your warm room. Handshakes. Paper, paper, paper.

Then a pause that wasn’t a pause, not really, more like the air thinned.

“Discrepancy,” the accountant said, polite as a hammer. A tap of his finger. A rectangle of ink. Your birth year, sitting there like a live wire no one had bothered to tape.

2005.

Joel didn’t hear numbers so much as a date catch in his throat. Not 26. 20.

He did the math like a man adding up a debt he didn’t know he owed. Sarah’s sonograms on your desk. Sarah’s laugh, still a little girl when she wanted to be. Sarah born in ’03.

The floor buckled in a way only he could feel.

You said something, he would never remember what. His pen rolled, hit the leather blotter, stopped with a tidy sound that felt obscene. He stood. The chair legs scraped, a small animal cry. You reached for him and his body moved like it had been taught by pain, away, away, away.

Keys, door, daylight. He didn’t slam it. The slam happened inside.

The truck drove itself. He kept seeing your hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves, your mouth on paper cups of gas-station coffee, your voice laughing in stairwells like a dare to gravity. In the same frame now, the black numerals on white, the stupid calm of ink. He wanted to be furious at you, at the accountant, at the casual way truth sits until it’s read aloud and then it detonates. Mostly he was furious at himself.

He had made a home out of a lie, and the lie had chosen a decent table to sit at, had eaten with him, had slept in his shirt.

On the hill the wind took his breath and handed him back pieces of it. He lit a cigarette he didn’t need just to busy his hands and watched the ember make a wound in the dark. Rain freckled his sleeves, beaded, ran off. He thought of every morning you’d tucked yourself into his lap, how he’d felt younger there, not because your body said so but because your faith did. He thought of the first time he’d seen your face open under his, how he’d let himself believe he hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something gentle.

And then the numbers came back like a siren.

Younger than his daughter.

He gagged on the math, on the ugly words it dragged behind it, predator, old man, fool. He saw himself as the town would, a man who should have known better, who had known better, who chose the dream anyway because it was warm and it said his name like salvation. He saw you as they’d see you and hated them for it, then hated himself for needing their eyes to tell him anything.

He remembered your small, hushed winces about your father. The cheap lamp in your room. The way you’d worn his flannel like armor. He had told himself I am pulling her forward. The paper said No, you are dragging her somewhere she cannot follow you to without cost.

He wanted to be sick. He wanted to punch the hood until his knuckles split and the truck bled sympathy back. He wanted—God help him—to rewind to an office morning with coffee and your grin and the printer singing ordinary. He wanted none of it to be true and all of it to still be real.

How do you carry both?

The questions lined up like a firing squad and took their turns.

Where did the lie start? The first hello? The first time you ducked asking how old you were? Every memory he loved sprouted a shadow at its edge and he couldn’t tell which was the outline and which was rot.

He tried to be kind to the man he had been yesterday. Tried to say, You didn’t know. But the man on the hill tonight knew, and the knowing leaked backward and soaked everything.

He thought of Sarah’s baby. Of his own father’s hands, blunt and certain, building a crib out of pine in a kitchen where the radio wouldn’t tune. He thought, What kind of man am I if I keep this? What kind of man am I if I throw her away? He thought, What kind of man was I, all this time, without the right facts?

The cigarette burned down to the filter. He lit another because he didn’t trust his hands to be empty.

He tasted the word betrayal and couldn’t decide who had betrayed whom. You had lied, that was the cleanest thing in the whole mess. But he had laid his body next to yours and told himself he was righteous because you were good to him, because you made the office greener and the bed warmer. It was a child’s logic in a man’s mouth, and it curdled there.

He felt dirty. Not in the way soap fixes. In the way memory won’t.

He remembered the first time you had fallen asleep on his chest in broad daylight, sun finding your hair, dust turning gold in the beam. He had thought then, unexpectedly, of church, of being small and held and certain he was seen by something that loved him anyway. Tonight he felt seen by a different witness entirely, one that did not look away, one that wrote things down.

“I should’ve asked again,” he said to nobody, to the wet air, to the one honest thing left on the hill. “I should’ve”

There were a dozen should haves and none of them brought back the room where coffee steamed and the accountant hadn’t yet arrived.

He heard you before he saw you, gravel shifting, breath coming hard through rain. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm like a tired animal and turned.

There you were, hood dark with weather, face upturned, already breaking. The streetlamp cut clean lines down your cheeks. Whiskey ghosted off his breath. The whole night had the shine of something about to split.

“Twenty,” he said, because there was no softer doorway into it. The number left his mouth and kept falling.

Everything inside him answered at once, tage, shame, a father’s terror, a man’s disgust, a lover’s grief. The worst part was how easily they took turns.

You moved, he put up a hand. No closer. The rain made the gesture look merciful. It wasn’t. It was the only boundary he trusted himself to keep.

He watched the truth land in you like a stone through glass. Months of mornings and coffee and keys in the dish, and still this, ink on paper undoing a life he’d started to believe in. Your mouth formed apologies he couldn’t let himself touch. Fear, you said, he could see it, he’d loved you with it in your eyes. But fear was not a scaffold. Fear was rot he hadn’t smelled until the wall gave way.

He kept seeing Sarah’s sonogram clipped on your desk, the curve of a hand no bigger than a coin. He kept seeing the year on the form and doing the math he would never stop doing now. Younger than his daughter. Younger than his daughter. He tasted metal. He tasted age.

Love, you said, he flinched like you’d pressed a bruise. If love was anything, it was clean. You had set the table and left mold in the wood. He’d eaten off it smiling.

The anger wasn’t loud, it was precise. He could feel himself choosing sentences like tools. He hated that he knew how to hurt you and hated more that some part of him wanted you to feel a fraction of the sickness rolling through him. He threw the ugliest thought he had—worse than cheating—just to see if it would make the pressure in his chest ease. It didn’t. It only made the rain sound meaner.

You reached for him. He let you brush the edge of his jacket, and heat seared cold straight to bone. Once, he’d pulled you in without thinking, now every inch was a decision. He stared past your shoulder at the city and tried to picture a version of this night where the numbers were different, where the foundation held. He couldn’t. The truck’s hood behind him was the only steady thing he could lean against without lying.

He thought of all the firsts he’d tucked into you—tools and recipes and the language of paperwork—and bile rose in his throat. He had told himself he was teaching a woman he respected. The date on the page made him feel like a man the town whispers about. It made him feel unclean in a way no shower fixes. He could not forgive you without forgiving that in himself, and he wasn’t sure there was a priest for that.

You said you could be better. He believed you. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the bed had been made with different measurements, and now even the good nights felt crooked in retrospect. He wanted to hold both truths—your goodness and the lie—and his hands weren’t big enough.

Silence did the talking for him. It laid down every question he couldn’t stop asking What else didn’t I see? What else did you choose for both of us without my consent? What does this make me?

He stepped back because forward would betray every boundary he had left. The space between you wasn’t punishment, it was oxygen. If he stayed in your heat, he would forgive you too fast and hate himself for it later. If he left, maybe he could keep the part of himself that still knew right from wrong.

“Don’t follow me,” he managed, not trusting his voice with anything longer. He didn’t look at your face. Looking would cost him.

Boots on gravel. Each step felt like he was dragging hooks out of his own chest. He didn’t count them. He let the rain take the sound and wash it downhill. Behind him the overlook held two shapes, a man made of weather and a girl trying not to shatter again. He wanted to turn back and mend what he had just broken. He wanted to protect the man who could no longer live with not knowing.

He chose the road because it was the only honest thing left to do. And as the night closed over the hill, the word that kept repeating wasn’t anger. It was grief—raw, salt, animal—grief for the mornings, for the office plants, for the easy lap you fit in, for the version of himself who had believed he was building something true.

He saw you in everything. Your sweater draped over his couch. Your mug in the sink. The faint outline where your perfume clung to the pillow. He wanted to throw it all out, clear the house of you, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift a hand.

He pressed his palms against the counter, leaned hard, shoulders shaking. He’d called himself steady all these years, a man who didn’t get blindsided. But this? This had carved him open.

It wasn’t just the number. Christ, it was never just the number. It was months. Months where you smiled at him across a table, months where you pressed your hand into his, months where he thought you were building something real. He’d believed every word out of your mouth, every touch, every laugh. And all of it had a shadow on it now.

He thought about Sarah. About if she were in his shoes. About some man closer to his age than hers looking at her the way he’d looked at you. His stomach turned. His jaw locked until it ached.

“Goddamn fool,” he muttered, the words rasping out of him like gravel.

He slammed the glass down too hard, watched amber spill across the counter. Didn’t wipe it up. Just braced himself there, staring at the mess, because it matched what he felt inside.

He had loved you. Christ, he still did. That was the cruelest part. Even with the lie unraveling in his hands, even with the ground gone out beneath him, he could still feel the pull. The way your voice softened when you said his name. The way you fit against him in the mornings, warm and half-asleep, like you belonged there.

But love wasn’t enough. Not when it came tangled in lies.

He dropped into his chair, rubbed both hands over his face. His mind kept circling back to that moment in the office, the paper on the desk, the numbers printed clear as day, the way the room went so quiet his ears rang. The way you reached for him and he couldn’t bear to let you touch him.

He thought about Tommy’s face, tight with something Joel didn’t want to name, knowledge, pity, disappointment. Thought about the look in your eyes when he walked out. Desperate. Shattered. And it twisted the knife deeper, because part of him wanted to go back. Wanted to hold you even in your lie.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Not tonight.

He leaned back, stared at the ceiling, let the whiskey burn a hole through his chest. He told himself space was the only answer. That if you loved him like you said, you’d respect it. That if he loved himself at all, he’d demand it.

The rain still pattered outside, steady and relentless. Joel sat there in the dark, jaw clenched, and wondered if honesty was too much to ask for in this world. Wondered if he was damned to keep losing everyone he tried to love.

And the worst part, the part he’d never say out loud, he already missed you.
Joel had been everywhere but home.

Sites that didn’t need him, roofs that had already been tarped, lumber hauled twice over just to feel the weight. Nights he drove the loop out to the lookout and let the cold bite his ears, the skyline blurred by rain, smoke curling off his cigarette until it was gone and he had to light another. He told himself work was the answer, keep the body moving, the hands busy, the head too full of plans and bolts and joists to let anything else in. But the silence of his truck cab always found him, and in it was your voice, your laughter, your goddamn lie.

The driveway stayed empty on purpose. He couldn’t stand to see your window lit across the yard, couldn’t stand to risk catching a glimpse of you on the porch or hear his name said in your voice. He told himself space. He told himself survival. But it felt like punishment too, one he carried out on himself as much as on you.

And then you called Tommy.

He drove like a man possessed, headlights burning holes in the wet dark, heart hammering like it hadn’t since she was little. The hospital smell—antiseptic and too clean—hit him like a wave of deja vu. He remembered nights with fevers and broken arms, remembered the helplessness of being a father when the world tilted.

When he saw her—sweaty, pale, trembling but smiling with something fierce—his knees almost buckled. And when the nurse placed that tiny bundle into her arms, the world narrowed to a single point.

Joel moved closer, slow like the air was fragile. Sarah tilted the bundle just enough, and there she was.

Ellie.

Pink and new and impossibly small. Her fist flexed in the air, like she was already fighting, already claiming her place. Joel felt something in his chest tear open. He hadn’t thought he had room for anything more, not after everything, but there it was, a whole new love shoving in under his ribs like it had been waiting all along.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispered, rough, leaning in until his shadow fell over her face. She blinked, unfocused, and it didn’t matter. She was his granddaughter. His blood. A second chance wrapped in hospital cotton.

He kissed Sarah’s damp hair, voice breaking. “You did so good, baby girl. So damn good.”

For a while it was only awe. Only the rhythm of Ellie’s breath, the small sounds Sarah made, the way Tommy and Maria hovered like family does when they can’t help themselves. Joel let himself sink into it. Let himself hold Ellie, the weight feather-light but enough to steady him. He counted her fingers, traced her cheek with a work-rough thumb, breathed her in like she was made of grace itself.

But then the door opened, and he saw you again. Just for a second, through the press of people, the swing of the curtain, the soft fluorescent light.

It gutted him.

The joy snapped against the grief like a whip. His chest split in two, one half warm, filled with Ellie and Sarah’s laughter, the other half raw, bleeding, remembering the taste of betrayal every time he looked at you. He thought he’d steeled himself, thought distance was armor enough, but seeing you again was like pressing on a bruise. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t look too long without the anger rising to meet the love.

He turned away before it could show on his face. Kissed the crown of his daughter’s head again, buried himself in the miracle of Ellie, because that was something pure, something untouched by lies.

Later, when the room emptied out and he drove home, Joel sat in the cab of his truck long after the engine died. He stared at his house, at the window that used to be lit for him, and felt the absence all over again. He thought about your crude "Fuck you" outside the hospital.

He had a granddaughter now. A new reason to fight. A new reason to hope.

But God help him, the thought of you still lived in his bones, even if all it did was hurt.

He heard you before he saw you, the soft shuffle of your shoes, the pause at the door. He wanted to lift his head, to tell you thank you, to tell you he saw you, but the weight in his arms kept him still. Ellie’s small body was warm and impossibly light, her breath like the tick of a clock against his shirt. His thumb moved on its own, tracing circles over the swaddle. He hadn’t known he could still feel this kind of gentleness.

Your voice cut through, quiet, reverent. “She’s beautiful. Her. And the way you hold her.”

Joel’s throat closed up. He couldn’t answer without everything spilling out, the anger, the ache, the love he still hadn’t managed to kill. So he kept his mouth shut. Let his hands do the talking, steady on the baby’s back. He felt you leave by the shift in the air, the way the room folded in on itself when your presence was gone.

At the office later, he clung to the familiar, the scratch of blueprints, the measured talk of square footage and support beams. Ms. Carroway laughed at something he said about light and windows, her bracelets catching the sun, and Joel smiled because that’s what you do in meetings. He didn’t think about it until he caught, in the corner of his vision, the way you bent over your desk, papers squared so tight it looked like you were holding your ribs together with them. That flash of your expression—controlled, professional—hit harder than any client’s charm.

When Ms. Carroway touched his forearm on the way out, Joel let it happen. He let her linger that beat too long because it was easier than pulling back. Easier than acknowledging the burn of your silence across the room.

Outside, he said his polite goodbyes, promised her a draft, and then hesitated with his hand on the door. Going back in felt like walking into a house fire. But not going back in meant cowardice, and Joel Miller had spent too long running.

So he went in. Eyes forward. Past the front desk without so much as a glance. Every nerve in his body strained toward you—your perfume, the shift of your pen—but he kept walking, shut the door of his office, leaned hard against it.

The quiet swallowed him whole. He sat at his desk but didn’t reach for the plans. Just pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind them. He thought about the baby shower you’d thrown, about the laughter you used to spill into these walls, about the future you’d dreamed up together. And then he thought about the numbers on that paperwork, your real age, the lie that had gutted him clean.

Ellie’s tiny heartbeat still seemed to echo against his chest, warm and miraculous. He should’ve felt full. Instead, the space inside him was jagged, love for his granddaughter burning right alongside the hollow ache of losing you.

Joel dropped his hands, stared at the blank wall, and realized he had never felt more like a man split in two.

The kitchen was still when the message played, except for the low hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the clock that always seemed too loud when a house was empty. Joel sat at the table with his coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug like it might steady him. The phone lay flat between his elbows, your voice spilling from the speaker into the stale air.

He didn’t move when you said his name. Didn’t breathe right for a few seconds either.

The words came soft, slurred with wine, weighted with the kind of honesty he’d both wanted and dreaded. Every confession cut deeper for how plain you laid it out, the fight, the self-loathing, the kid you admitted still lived in you. He found himself staring at the knot in the wood grain on the table, tracing the circle with his thumb as if that could keep him from looking at the way your voice tightened when you said I love you.

His chest went heavy and hollow all at once. Love. You said it like a name, like something you’d carved into your skin. And he believed you. God help him, he did. But believing it only made the ache worse.

He thought about the lie, about the paperwork, about the months you let him believe something that wasn’t true. His jaw ached from clenching, but his eyes burned in a way he couldn’t stop. He hated that he missed you even now, hated the way his body leaned toward the sound of your voice like you were standing in the room instead of miles away.

When the message ended, when the wind and the motorcycle faded into silence, Joel didn’t replay it. Didn’t delete it either. He just sat there, staring at nothing, the coffee gone cold in his hands.

Part of him wanted to get in the truck, drive until he found you, pull you back into the space where his arms still remembered the shape of you. Another part—the older, meaner part—kept him nailed to the chair, reminding him of what had been broken, of the years between you that no apology could shrink.

He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the scratch of stubble and the weight of exhaustion settle into his bones. Pride held his tongue still, kept his phone facedown on the table. He wouldn’t call. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But alone in the kitchen, with your voice echoing through the hollowness of him, Joel let himself whisper it back once, quiet enough the walls couldn’t hold him to it.

“I love you too.”

Then he drained the last cold swallow of coffee, set the mug in the sink, and went back to work. Because work was the only thing that didn’t lie back.

Chapter Text

Morning starts plain. No grand ache, no sudden joy. Just light pushing in at the blinds of Maria’s guest room, pale and thin, like it had been held back too long and now wants in. You drag yourself upright, head heavy but not from drink this time, just from the weight of everything you’ve been carrying.

The house is quiet. Somewhere down the hall Maria hums, a low note that could be a hymn or could be nothing at all, just sound to keep the day from being too silent. You dress, smooth your hair, splash water on your face. It’s been a couple weeks, and though the wound of Joel still throbs like it was cut yesterday, routine has returned enough that you can move without crumbling.

At the office, everything is where you left it, the rug you insisted on, the mug with the chipped handle, the faint smell of printer ink and burnt coffee grounds. But when you sit at your desk, there’s something you didn’t leave behind.

A laptop.

Brand new. Sleek, dark metal gleaming in the fluorescent light, keys untouched, screen clean as a sheet of water. No sticky notes curled at the corners, no faint dust line where the mouse pad wore. Just pristine. Waiting.

Your heart goes tight.

You pull the lid open with the cautious hands of someone handling glass. The screen wakes at once, smooth, expensive. Nothing installed, nothing written. No note beside it. No receipt tucked under. Just the machine itself, a silent accusation.

You sit back, arms crossed. Who?

Maria. Of course. She’d mother-henned you into everything else—food, sleep, medicine—why not this? You grab your phone and call.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey, honey, you at work?”

“Maria.” Your voice cuts sharper than you intend. “I told you I could buy my own laptop.”

Silence. A puzzled silence. Then, “What are you talking about?”

“The laptop on my desk. Brand new. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t do that,” she says, slow, careful, the way people talk to someone who might break. “Tommy didn’t either. We’re barely figuring out how to print our tax returns without the thing jamming. You know that.”

“Then who?” you press, though your stomach already knows.

Maria’s exhale is too long. “Well…..might have let it slip. To Joel. About the laptop breaking. He brought up the fight with you and your dad."

You close your eyes, bite the inside of your cheek. Heat flashes through your chest. “Maria.”

“I wasn’t trying to meddle,” she says quickly, mother-soft but firm. “He asked if you had what you needed. I told him the truth. You’re in school, you’re working, you can’t afford to lose time over a busted computer. If this is how he wanted to help…”

“I’m not a charity case,” you snap. The words come out fast, raw, like something you’ve been holding for too long. “I don’t need laptops dropped on my desk like pity gifts.”

“Maybe not.” Her voice gentles. “But maybe talk to him about it instead of assuming the worst. Sometimes help isn’t charity. Sometimes it’s just help.”

You swallow hard. The laptop stares at you, black screen reflecting your own scowl. “Fine,” you say. “I’ll talk to him.”

The rest of the morning blurs. You try to work, answering emails, filing invoices, half-listening to a client’s story about their remodel. But every time you glance sideways, the laptop gleams back at you, a reminder of something unresolved.

Near noon, you hear boots. The familiar tread. Joel’s shadow cuts across the glass as he passes toward his office. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say hello. Just nods once and disappears into his space.

You wait ten minutes. Fifteen. Your pulse drums steady in your ears. Then you stand.

The laptop feels heavier than it should when you lift it, cradling it against your chest like something you might smash or something you might pray to. You don’t knock. You push into his office.

He looks up, startled. The scruff still lingers on his jaw, the hollows under his eyes still deep. He doesn’t speak first.

“I’m not a charity case,” you say. The laptop lands on his desk with a muted thud. “I don’t need this.”

He blinks. Slow. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maria told me.” You cross your arms, force your voice steady. “She said you knew. That you bought it.”

Joel leans back in his chair, rubs a hand over his mouth. His voice when it comes is rough, tired. “You need it for school. For work. That old rigged-up thing out there barely turns on.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to fix my life for me,” you shoot back. “It’s not your responsibility.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight of them nearly drops you. “Ain’t responsibility,” he says low. “Just…..help. Take it as a bonus. A tool for the job.”

“I’ll pay you back,” you insist. “Take it out of my checks.”

Joel’s mouth tics like he might argue, but he only nods once. “Alright.”

You know he won’t. You know he’ll let the money slide like water down a drain. But you can’t fight anymore. Your throat aches. “Fine.”

You scoop the laptop up again, walk out without waiting for more.

Back at Maria’s that evening, she whistles when she sees it. “Well, he didn’t skimp. That’s nicer than anything Tommy’s ever used.”

You force a laugh. “Yeah. Nicer than anything I could’ve bought myself.”

Her hand finds your shoulder. “Don’t twist it into something ugly, honey. Sometimes people show care the only way they know how. Doesn’t make you weak for accepting it.”

You nod, though your chest doesn’t believe it.

Later, curled on Maria’s couch with the laptop balanced on your knees, you sift through your emails. Scholarship notifications stack like unopened bills. You click them one by one, eyes skimming.

Awarded: $2,000. Congratulations!

Awarded: $1,500.

Awarded: $5,000.

The numbers should feel like blessings. Instead, when you pull out a notepad and do the math, the truth sharpens, you’re still twenty thousand short. Twenty thousand you don’t have.

Your hands go cold. You close the screen.

Maybe you go local. Maybe you don’t go at all. Maybe this dream is too heavy to carry.

You don’t tell Maria. You smile when she asks about your day. You help wash dishes. You nod when Tommy talks about the weather. Then, later, when the house is quiet, you drive.

The outlook waits. The rocks cool under your palms as you sit, legs dangling into night air. The city sprawls below, lit up like it belongs to someone else.

You let yourself think of Joel. His hands, rough and careful. The way he avoided your eyes today like they were dangerous. The ache in his voice when he said it wasn’t responsibility, just help.

You wonder if he’ll always be a shadow at the edge of everything. You wonder if you’ll ever learn how to stop loving him.

The laptop sits in the passenger seat of your car, glowing faintly like a promise you’re not sure you want.

You close your eyes, tilt your face to the stars, and whisper to no one, Where is all this supposed to end?

Your phone lights the pocket of your jeans, a small square of white against the dark. You’re still at the lookout, the night pulled close around your shoulders, the hum of Austin below like a far highway in your ribcage. You don’t reach for it right away. You let it buzz once, twice. You hope it’s spam. You hope it’s no one.

It’s your mother.

The name does something mean to your sternum. You swallow, wipe your palms on your jeans, and answer anyway.

“Hey, baby,” she says, syrupy like she’s already in apology for something she’s planning to say. There’s noise behind her, forks chiming, a TV too loud, the small shriek of a child that might be a laugh or a protest. “You got a minute?”

You stare at the black slice of hill across from you. “I guess.”

“Just wanted to check in on you about your big fancy school. How's it going?"

You could say good. You could say great, even, because the acceptance letter exists, because the scores surprised you, because somewhere on paper you are a person who can leave. But you’ve been practicing a different kind of truth lately, the smaller, heavier kind.

“I’m twenty grand short still." you say.

She clicks her tongue. “Lord. That much?”

“Yeah.” You pick a pebble up with your shoe and nudge it to the edge. It drops soundless. “After aid. After scholarships. After everything I can get without selling a kidney on the internet.”

“Uh-huh.” A cupboard door thuds. Something scrapes. “Well, honey, you’re a simple kind of girl. Might be better to stick to community college anyway. Nothin’ wrong with startin’ there. You can transfer later. People do that all the time.”

The night lifts off your shoulders like someone yanked your coat. “That’s not what you said a month ago.”

“What’d I say a month ago?” she asks, almost laughing, because the month is already a blur to her.

“You said ‘shoot bigger,’” you say. You make your voice light in imitation. “‘Don’t sell yourself short, baby. Get outta there. Make us proud.’”

“Well sure,” she says, quick. “But sometimes you gotta be practical. You can’t afford it. That’s just real life. You do what you gotta do.”

“You mean I do what I gotta do,” you say. “You don’t do anything.”

Silence. The TV in the background switches to a commercial with a jingle you used to hum in the cereal aisle. Then, sharper “Now that’s not very nice.”

You press your fingers into your thigh hard enough to feel bone. “Neither is moving the goalposts because it’s convenient.”

“I’m not moving any poles,” she says, tripping the word. “I’m telling you the truth. You always hated the truth unless it sounded good.”

“Or unless it sounded like something you could tell people that made you look like a good mom,” you say, and the meanness surprises even you. It’s not the kind of weapon you’ve practiced. It flies out anyway. “You stand in kitchens bragging about my test scores, but when it’s time to write a check, suddenly I’m ‘simple’ and should ‘be practical.’”

“I can’t afford to write you a check,” she snaps, her voice pinching. “You think money grows on trees? You think I got a little pot in the pantry labeled COLLEGE? We’re payin’ bills same as you. And..” she huffs “we got your sister to think about.”

Your step-sister, eight, with the gap-toothed smile and the way she clung to your leg last Christmas like you were a favorite couch cushion. Your chest softens for half a second—real love, the nontransferable kind—and then your mother continues

“She’s startin’ that new school in the fall. The private one I told you about. It’s a good place. Real good. Uniforms and everything. They don’t let phones in the classroom, and they do violin on Tuesdays.”

Violin on Tuesdays. The phrase lands like a joke with a cruel punchline.

“How much is that?” you ask, already tasting the answer.

“A lot,” she says, fussing with something on a counter. “But worth it. I want her to have every chance.”

“How much,” you repeat.

She sighs like you’re the one asking for the moon. “More than twenty,” she says. “More than what you just said.”

You let the number sit between you like a stone on a plate.

“So,” you say finally, soft because if you say it loud you’ll start screaming, “you won’t help me pay for college, but you’ll send an eight-year-old to a school that costs more than what I need. An eight-year-old who eats her boogers and can’t even” the nasty line rises and you hate yourself for how satisfying it will be “wipe her own ass properly.”

A sharp inhale. “Now you listen,” she says, words turning thin and dangerous. “You do not talk about my child like that.”

“She’s my little step-sis” you say. “I love her. I’ll buy her the whole damn violin section if I can. But don’t tell me you can’t help me and then say ‘we found it for her.’ Just say you won’t.”

“I won’t,” she says, quick, proud of herself for the clean cut. “Because it’s time you were a real adult. You figure it out like everybody else. I did.”

“You didn’t,” you say, the truth slipping its leash. “You got help. From me. From men. From time and luck and people who forgave you when you didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, you’re a saint now, are you?” she sneers. “A little martyr with her big words and bigger ideas. You think you’re better than me. You always did. You pick at me like I’m your scab.”

“I think I want different,” you say. “That’s all I’ve ever said. Different doesn’t mean better. Different just means not this.”

“Well different costs money, baby,” she says, and there it is, the sermon dressed as wisdom. “And you ain’t got it.”

“I know,” you say. It comes out like a laugh that learned to limp. “Believe me, I know.”

The wind shifts. The smell of cedar drifts up the hill. You can hear your own breath in the phone now, that thin thread you’ve been following out of rooms your whole life. On her end, a drawer slams. Your stepfather calls something from another room. Your mother ignores him and presses on.

“Look,” she says, softening enough to feel like gaslighting, “you’ll be fine. You’re a tough girl. You make the best out of things. Community college is fine. Plenty of people do it. They get jobs. They buy houses. They don’t act like the world owes them because they took one test good.”

“One test well,” you correct, dry. The petty correction is armor, you put it on out of habit.

“Oh for God’s sake.” She laughs, exasperated. “I call to check on you, and you bite my head off. You wonder why I don’t call that much? You make it hard.”

You close your eyes and see the kitchen you grew up in, the sticky counter, the jar of pennies, the magnet that says BLESSED even when nothing is. You remember the way you used to make your voice small to make her bigger. You remember the skill you learned before you knew it had a name. Appease, appease, appease.

“I don’t wonder,” you say. “Not anymore.”

“Real nice,” she says. “That’s real nice.”

“You asked,” you say, and your voice is so calm you almost respect it. “I told you. I’m still twenty grand short. I’m trying. I’m doing everything right and it’s still not enough. I called to see if the one person who told me to shoot bigger might help me load the gun.”

“You watch your mouth,” she says, snapping back to the mother you know best. “I am not your wallet. I am not your villain either.”

“You’re…you,” you say helplessly. “And I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?” Her laugh is mean again. “Of the consequences of your choices? You chose that man”

“Don’t,” you cut in, and this time it’s not a plea. It’s a blade. “Don’t say his name. Don’t talk about things you didn’t bother to understand.”

“You’re right,” she says, too bright. “I didn’t. I don’t need to. It’s done, isn’t it?”

The words knock the breath out of you like you tripped on nothing and hit the curb.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s done.”

There’s a beat where neither of you knows how to land the call without admitting what it was, another loop around the same old track. Then she sighs theatrically.

“I gotta go,” she says. “We’re late. Your sister’s got a playdate with that little girl who always smells like grapes. I just wanted to check in. Let me know what you decide about school so I can tell your Nana.”

“So you can tell Nana,” you repeat.

“Don’t be like that,” she says. “I’m proud of you.”

“You’re proud when I’m far away,” you say, before you can catch it. “You’re proud when it’s a story and not a responsibility.”

A sound that might be a growl or might be a laugh. “Okay. That’s enough from you today. Call me when you’re in a better mood.”

“I’ll call you when viability tuition is less than private-school violin on Tuesdays,” you say.

“That’s ugly,” she snaps. “You’ve always had an ugly streak.”

“And you’ve always had a talent for not hearing me,” you say, surprised at the steadiness in your bones. “Maybe we’re both good at something.”

“You know what?” she says, triumphant like she found a coin in the couch. “You need to pray on it. That attitude. College won’t fix a bad heart.”

The anger flares and dies in the space of a single breath. What’s left is something colder, cleaner, like a sheet pulled tight over a bed.

“Goodnight, Mom,” you say.

“Don’t you hang up on me,” she says quickly. “I’m not done”

You end the call.

The chirp of the disconnect is small and obscene in the night air. You set the phone face down on your thigh and stare at nothing until the city lights split and rejoin and you realize it’s your own tears that did that, not traffic.

For a while you let yourself be a person with a wet face, breathing like someone who just ran across a parking lot. The old reflex comes—a tug to call her back and apologize for words that were only true—and you hold still until it passes.

When your phone buzzes again, you don’t look. You let the message land and slide away and become just another bright spot in the dark.

Below you, the city keeps being a city. You close your eyes and imagine yourself farther west already, a horizon lined in red rock and sky, a classroom where your name sounds like it belongs, a hand that isn’t your mother’s reaching to steady you when the work gets heavy. Your own hand, maybe.

You wipe your cheeks on the heels of your hands, sniff once, hard, and whisper to the air, “I’m going anyway.”

The wind moves like it approved. Or maybe it’s just wind, and you’re the one who finally said the thing you needed to hear. For a heartbeat, it’s louder than your mother’s voice.

But then the silence rushes back in. The wind dies down. The promise hangs in the air like something you don’t know if you meant. You think about the scholarships you didn’t get. The twenty thousand-dollar hole you can’t crawl out of. The way your mom’s voice sank when she said be practical.

And it hits you, maybe she’s right. Maybe this whole thing was a reach too far. Maybe you’ve been fooling yourself, thinking you were big enough to climb out of this town when you can barely stand steady in it.

You turn the key in the ignition, headlights spilling weak light over the gravel. The engine hums like it doesn’t care where you go. Your chest feels like something caving in.

You drive slow, careful, the phone still glowing beside you, and you don’t say it out loud this time. But in your head, where no one else can hear, the words change

I’m not going. Not anywhere.

Not Arizona. Not community college. Not anywhere with a tuition bill you can’t pay.

The night holds. The decision does, too. But this one feels like a door locking.

Chapter Text

You carry the decision in your mouth all day like a coin you’re afraid to swallow. It warms with your breath. It tastes metallic, wrong. You don’t say it. You don’t even let yourself think it in whole sentences while you move through the office, lights on, coffee maker sputtering its friendly cough, plants watered with the carefulness you reserve for anything that can’t ask for what it needs.

Tommy pokes his head in twice, asks about a bid, drops a joke that lands crooked and still makes you smile. You answer phones, schedule a walkthrough, send an invoice, eat half a granola bar and pretend it counts as lunch. When the quiet stretches, you fill it with the clack of keys and the rustle of files. Every now and then your eye snags on the new laptop where it sits on your desk, cool and sure as a promise you don’t trust. You work from the old desktop anyway, stubborn, like it might make the day simpler if you keep pretending the future is something you don’t have to plug in.

At five you lock the door and the room exhales. Evening rides shotgun while you drive to Maria’s, pink sky, sun dropped low enough to make every window flash. It’s a small mercy that her porch light is already on. The house smells like garlic and something sweet. You toe off your shoes, wash your hands at the sink, and let ordinary settle over your shoulders like a shawl.

“Look at you,” Maria says, hip-bumping the cupboard shut, her hair twisted up with a pencil stuck through it like a flag. “Right on time. You toss the salad, baby? Dressing’s in the jar.”

You breathe. “Yes, ma’am.”

You talk about everything that isn’t the thing. Tommy’s story about the client who kept changing her mind about the tile until she circled back to the original choice. Maria’s classroom, one kid who reads books three grades ahead and another who will only do math if she gets to jump while she counts. How she misses teaching high school sometimes, how fifth graders still say “teacher look!” like magic is something you can produce on cue.

“I do love the little ones,” she admits, flicking the oven light on to check the biscuits, “but I swear, if I have to tie one more shoelace”

“You’re gonna be tying them for Ellie too,” you say, and the name softens the room. The three of you orbit it for a few seconds, careful and warm. “Sarah texted. Baby slept three whole hours in a row.”

“A miracle,” Maria says. “Write it in her baby book.”

You set the table. Forks to the left, knives to the right, napkins folded as triangles because Maria likes them that way. Tommy comes in from the garage with citrus on his hands and steals a biscuit before the basket hits the table. You slap his wrist like it’s tradition, because it is.

For a while dinner is just dinner. Warm food, good butter, the comfort of other people chewing. You laugh at Tommy’s story, the way he mimes a client’s hand flutter, the way Maria rolls her eyes but can’t stop smiling at him. You let yourself be a person in a chair with a plate, not a problem to solve.

Halfway through the meal there’s a knock. Three short, one long. Tommy startles like he’s remembered something late. “Ah, hell,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Forgot, Joel’s swingin’ by to grab the laser level for that inspection in the morning.”

Your stomach tightens in an old, immediate way you pretend is just hunger. You put your fork down carefully. Maria glances at you, apology and warning in the same look, and then goes to the door.

Joel’s voice hits you before his body does, all gravel and courtesy in the hall. “Just in and out, promise, don’t want to interrupt”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maria scolds, steering him toward the dining room by sheer force of hospitality. “There’s plenty. Sit. Eat.”

He tries to decline, you can hear the shape of it—No, really, I shouldn’t—but his steps carry him forward anyway, and then he’s here. Older in the weeks since you measured him daily. Same, in the ways you wish he wasn’t. He looks like a man pulled taut, not wrecked like that first night, but sanded down. He smells like sawdust and soap and the outside. The only empty chair is next to you.

You don’t move. He doesn’t either. He slides into the seat, careful, knees angling away from yours, every gesture tidy, contained. “Evenin’,” he says, and it’s the thinnest kind of peace offering.

“Hi,” you answer, salt stinging your tongue for no reason that has to do with the food.

Tommy serves him like a man feeding a stray who won’t admit he’s hungry. Maria asks him about the site. He answers in short, competent lines, laying facts down like boards. You watch his hands while he talks, how they bracket his plate, how he worries the edge of the napkin between forefinger and thumb. Yours stay in your lap unless they’re picking up the fork.

For a while you can pretend. The old rhythm stutters but doesn’t die. Then Maria turns to you with that gentle, too-perceptive tilt of her head.

“And how’s the college business, sweetheart? Did the scholarship deadline go okay yesterday?”

The word college is a stone dropped in a bowl of water. Ripples bump every edge of you.

You clear your throat. “Yeah,” you say. “I did the thing.” You spear a green bean you don’t want and chew to buy time. Tommy pours more tea like he’s offering cover. Joel’s fork stills.

Maria waits, soft as a held-out hand. “And?”

There’s no way to say it that will make her face do anything but what it’s about to do. Still, you try to make it gentle. “I…...I’m not going.”

Silence drops, sudden and complete. Forks down. Breath held.

Maria blinks first. “What do you mean you’re not going?”

“I mean I’m not going,” you say, and it sounds braver than it feels. “I can’t afford it. I’m still twenty short. More, if I’m honest. I’ve been doing the math and the math keeps laughing. So…I’m gonna stay. Work. Figure out another plan.”

Tommy leans back, chair creaking. “We can figure somethin’,” he says automatically, generous to a fault. “There’s”

“No,” you say, sharper than you intend. You soften it with your eyes. “No more patching holes with other people’s kindness. I’m tired. I can’t ask. I don’t want”

“This isn’t asking,” Maria interrupts, and there’s steel under her sweet. “This is community. This is family. Scholarships aren’t the only road. Plenty of kids start at community college and transfer. You could take six hours and keep working. Or take a gap semester and keep applying. We can make a plan.”

“I don’t want community college,” you answer, small and hot. “And I don’t want a plan that requires me to feel small every day. I’m tired of negotiating with doors that don’t want me.”

“That’s not what this is,” she says, quiet but fierce. “This is a door we kick together.”

You shake your head. The coin in your mouth presses against your teeth until you think it might cut the inside of your cheek. If you don’t say it clean, you’ll carve yourself up around it. “I’m not going.”

Joel hasn’t moved. You can feel him not-moving beside you, the heat of his body like a small weather system at your shoulder. He speaks without looking up. “Don’t make a forever call on a bad week.”

Something in you flares, hope, anger, the instinct to turn toward the voice you trust the most. You keep your eyes on the salt shaker instead. “It’s not just a week.”

“You’re talkin’ like your mama,” Tommy says gently, and it lands like a pebble in your shoe, small, accurate, irritating as hell.

“Maybe she’s right,” you snap before you can be kinder. “Maybe I am a simple kind of girl who should stick to what she can afford.”

The room changes shape. Maria’s hand finds your forearm. “Don’t you ever talk about yourself the way someone else taught you to,” she says, not scolding, pleading. “You’re not simple. You’re resourceful. You’re scared. Those are different things.”

Heat climbs your throat. You push your chair back. The sound is too loud in the quiet. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Sweetheart”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

You leave your napkin folded beside your plate and stand up because standing is the only way to keep the tears from falling. You make it down the hall on stiff legs, into the small guest room Maria has made into a landing place, and shut the door with more care than your hands want to use. You lock it. You lean your forehead to the cool wood and breathe like you’re trying not to drown.

It doesn’t last. The breath breaks. You fold onto the edge of the bed and press your palm to your mouth to keep the sound inside. The crying is a quiet, shaking kind, the kind your body does when it’s tired of holding itself together for other people. You cry for the money you don’t have and the future you can see and the man who sat two inches from your elbow and didn’t touch you because you told him not to be your hero. You cry for the way he said don’t make a forever call and how much you want to believe he’s right.

After a while there’s a soft knock. “It’s me,” Maria says, the way you’d announce a bird at a window. “Can I come in?”

You scrub your eyes with the heel of your hand. “Yeah.”

She slips inside with a small plate—two slices of the peach tart she made because sun tastes like hope—and sets it on the dresser before she sits beside you. Her palm slides in slow circles between your shoulder blades like you are a feverish child and also a respected adult, both at once, the only way she ever touches you.

“I’m sorry,” you say into your knees. “I didn’t want to wreck dinner.”

“You didn’t,” she says. “Feelings showed up. That’s not wreckage. That’s proof you’re alive.”

You let out a laugh that’s half a hiccup. “I feel very alive.”

“I bet.” She waits. When she talks again, her voice is soft enough to climb under. “Listen. I love you. If you tell me you don’t want to go to college, I’ll believe you and I’ll help you build the next thing. But if you’re not going because you’re scared or angry or tired or because other people told you you aren’t allowed to want big things? I’m going to get loud. Because then it’s a lie you’re swallowing, not a decision.”

You stare at the patterned rug until the shapes blur. “It’s all of it. I’m tired of asking. I don’t want to owe anyone. I don’t want Joel to think” You stop. The unspoken piles up between you like laundry you’re not ready to fold.

Maria doesn’t make you say it. “I know it’s Joel,” she whispers. “Of course it’s Joel. I invited him to stay for dinner without thinking about how that would land, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was trying to be polite. Sometimes those get tangled.”

“I’m not mad at you,” you say quickly, because it’s true. “I’m just” You tip your head back and look at the ceiling. “It’s been weeks. I should be over it.”

She huffs a small laugh, all sympathy and no mockery. “Healing’s not linear, baby. It’s a map drawn by a drunk. You’re doing the best you can in a body that’s trying to carry grief and hope at the same time. Some days you’ll do both. Some days you’ll do neither. All of it counts.”

The knot under your breastbone loosens a fraction. “I miss him so much.”

“I know.” Her arm curls around your shoulders, tugging you into a side hug that feels like being shelved somewhere safe. “You can love somebody and still choose yourself. You can love somebody and still go to school. You can love somebody and still say no.”

“What if he never talks to me again?” The question is small and sharp, a child’s question asked by an adult mouth.

“Then you’ll live,” she says gently. “You’ll live because you’ve got a whole life that wants you. And because people who love you—me, Tommy, Sarah—are going to keep pulling you forward even when you want to lie down in the road.”

You take a breath that doesn’t rattle. It’s not an answer. It’s enough.

“Eat your tart,” she says after a minute, practical again. “Sugar helps nothing and everything.”

You manage two bites, too sweet and perfect, and sip water she presses into your hand. When she stands, she kisses the crown of your head like she’s blessing your hair. “We’ll talk about college in the morning, when your brain isn’t hot. No decisions tonight.”

“Okay.”

She reaches the door and pauses. “For what it’s worth,” she adds, head tipped, “he looked like he wanted to catch your eye all through dinner, and he didn’t, because you told him you didn’t want rescuing. That’s respect, even if it hurts.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. She nods like she hears you anyway and slips out.

You sit there a while with the plate on the dresser and the little lamp making friendly light on the wall. You hear the murmur of voices down the hall, low and domestic, Tommy washing dishes, Maria teasing him about the way he stacks, Joel’s baritone answering, then a chair scraping, the front door opening, closing. A car starting. Road noise swallowed by the neighborhood.

Eventually you kick off your jeans and slide beneath the good quilt Maria keeps for guests. The room smells like lavender and line-dried sheets. You stack your palms under your cheek and stare at the soft blur of the curtain. Your chest aches. Your eyes ache. Your decision sits heavy in your stomach like a stone you aren’t ready to spit out or swallow.

You must doze, because the next thing that happens is a dream of water, steady and calm, and then a real hand on your shoulder, gentle. “I brought you some tea,” Maria whispers. “For sleep.”

You sit, take the mug, let steam touch your lashes. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she says. She squeezes your fingers once and leaves you to the quiet.

You sip. The tea is lemon and honey and something floral. It loosens your jaw. Your thoughts drift back, uninvited, to the table, Joel’s wrist steady as he cut his chicken, the small way his mouth tightened when you said you weren’t going, the single sentence he offered like a lifeline he wasn’t going to force on you. Don’t make a forever call on a bad week.

You put the mug down and curl on your side and whisper into the dark, “I’m trying.”

The room doesn’t answer. It holds you anyway. Outside, somewhere, a late train moans through the city like a long, low animal, and you let yourself pretend the sound is the world moving forward whether you come with it or not.

In the morning there will be new words, better ones maybe. Plans. Or the absence of them, made bearable by scrambled eggs and a list written in Maria’s neat teacher hand. Tonight there is only the bed, the ache, the taste of peach on your tongue, and the smallest, stubbornest ember of yourself refusing to go out.

Chapter Text

Morning comes in soft and sideways, like it’s trying not to spook you.

You unlock the office the way you always do—key, shoulder, little jiggle because the frame swells in humidity—and breathe in the familiar mix of printer dust, last night’s coffee, and the faint clean of the lemon spray you use on Fridays. The plants you brought in lean toward the window as if the light is an old friend. Joel’s door is shut, his name stenciled there like a word you’re not saying out loud this week.

You set your bag down, smooth the runner on the front desk that won’t ever lie flat, and sit. Your hands hover over the keyboard and then find the admissions number you saved under “A.” You don’t let yourself think. You don’t look at the little sticker on your laptop, the one you peeled back from your old one and stuck again because you needed something familiar. You stare at the office phone’s blinkless face and dial.

A recorded voice. A too-cheerful music interlude. Then a real voice, bright and clipped, the kind that runs on a headset and institutional optimism.

“This is Lila with Admissions. How can I help you today?”

You clear your throat and feel your decision sit up straighter inside you. “Hi. I, this is embarrassing, I need to withdraw. From fall enrollment. I can’t afford it.”

Keys click on her end. “Can I get your full name and applicant ID?”

You give it. You spell your last name the way you always do, then do it again because she asks. You tuck your ankle around your chair leg so you’ll stop bouncing your knee.

More clicking. “Okay, I have your file. It looks like…” Her voice softens into something close to delighted. “You’re all set. Balance is zeroed.”

Silence barrels up on your end. “What?”

“You’re cleared,” she says. “We were processing some last-minute aid updates Friday afternoon. You must have been caught in that. It shows a Foundations Grant, sometimes they come through right under the wire if they’re private-donor matched. You’ll be living on campus, correct? Our system shows a housing deposit processed.”

“Processed by who?” Your voice tilts sharp, then you drag it back to polite. “I mean, there must be a mistake. I was…...I was twenty grand short.”

“Not anymore.” She sounds pleased for you in that bureaucratic way that doesn’t have to worry about how stories fit together. “Dorms open three weeks from Monday. You’ll get your assignment via email. Oh! And there’s an orientation track for nontraditional freshmen if you’re interested, older students, transfers, folks starting after a gap year. It’s a great cohort.”

You squint like you can see the numbers through the phone. “Can you…read the line to me? The one that says how.”

“Sure,” she says cheerfully. “Let me scroll… Here we go ‘Foundations Grant 2, Private Match, Faith Fund Auxiliary.’ Looks good on our end. Congratulations!”

She means it. You can hear that she means it. Your suspicion doesn’t want to stand up in the same room as her sincerity.

“Okay,” you say, because you don’t have another word that doesn’t shake. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Anything else I can answer for you?”

“Do you…...” You stop. You almost ask if they can tell you which “private match” did this, if they can tell you whose generosity you’re currently swallowing like a pill with no label. You don’t ask. “No. I’m good.”

“You’re going to do great,” she says, and you want to believe her more than you want to breathe. “Watch for housing. And welcome.”

You replace the receiver carefully, like the slightest thump could re-scramble the universe. The office hums around you, refrigerator in the little break room, the AC catching, the distant rush of traffic like a giant breathing. Your hands sit palms-down on the desk and you stare at the wood grain until it stops moving.

Zeroed out. Covered. Cleared.

It doesn’t make sense. It makes perfect sense.

Maria, you think, immediately. And then, because the thought arrives whether you invite it or not, Joel.

You shove that second thought away the way you shove away a bee you can’t swat without making it mad. It comes back, slow, ominous, interested.

You go about the day like you aren’t suddenly attached to fall by a brand-new thread. You answer three calls and schedule two estimates. You print fresh copies of the vendor insurance certs and wedge them into the binder tabs you labeled in your late-night burst of efficiency last month. You water the pothos until the soil darkens. Around noon, you remember you haven’t eaten and break into the emergency almonds Maria slipped into your bag “for low tide.”

Zeroed out. Covered. Cleared.

Tommy isn’t his usual buoyant self that morning. He moves through the office with a kind of carefulness, like every motion has been padded down, muted. He still greets you, still asks if the coffee’s fresh, but his voice has none of its usual warmth. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You notice the way he lingers by Joel’s closed door, like he’s measuring whether to knock, then doesn’t. The way he fiddles with his keys longer than he needs to. He asks you about invoices, about a client reschedule, and his words feel thinner, stretched.

When you’re filing away paperwork before lunch, he clears his throat. “Hey, just so you know, I’ll be out early today. Maria....It’s…..a hard day for her.” He says it softly, without explanation, and doesn’t invite questions.

You nod, even though curiosity knots in your stomach. He pats the desk once, a hollow little sound, then adds, “Just hold the fort, alright? You’re good at that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the office a little emptier than before.

You don’t press. You don’t ask. But the air around him lingers—quiet, heavy—and it follows you through the rest of the afternoon, like a shadow you don’t yet know the shape of.

The drive home feels like wading through thick air, like every red light wants to hold you in place longer than it should. Tommy’s words sit in your chest, heavier than the seatbelt, heavier than anything you can name. It’s a hard day for her. He’d said it without his usual lilt, without the half-smile that softened almost everything. He hadn’t needed to explain what kind of day. His silence had done the explaining for him.

When you turn onto their street, the house looks normal from the outside,porch light on, curtains drawn. But the moment you unlock the door, you feel the difference. Usually Maria’s voice is the first thing you hear, drifting from the kitchen with some pot bubbling, her rhythm steady as breath. Tonight, the house is dim, still. The air feels heavy, like even it doesn’t want to move.

There’s a note waiting on the counter, penned in Maria’s looping hand.

Not feeling myself tonight. Order pizza or something easy. Love you, M.

It takes you a second to blink through the words, because they don’t fit her. Maria never skips dinner. Dinner is her ritual, her anchor, the way she makes the day solid, the way she reminds the house that life is still happening, that it’s worth sharing. The note is softer than her voice but somehow harsher too.

You stand in the quiet a moment longer before knocking softly on her bedroom door.

“Maria?”

A pause. A sniffle. “Come in, sweetheart.”

You ease it open and find her sitting on the edge of the bed with a photo album in her lap. The lamp casts everything gold. Her hair is undone, shoulders rounded in a way that makes her look smaller, not the unshakable woman who always fills a room. Her fingers rest in the middle of a page, like she’d been tracing a picture and got lost somewhere between memory and now.

She doesn’t look startled to see you. Just tired.

“Sorry,” she says, voice soft, wrecked around the edges. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

You step closer. “Tommy said…..it was a hard day.”

Maria nods slowly, eyes sliding back down to the photos. “Today’s the day my boy died. Kevin.”

The name hangs in the air like smoke. You’d never heard her say it before. It doesn’t feel borrowed or unfamiliar, it feels like it belongs, like it’s been sitting underneath her breath this whole time, waiting to be spoken.

“I didn’t even know…” The words feel too small.

“I don’t talk about him much. Hard to.” She smooths a hand over the photo. A round-cheeked boy with dark curls grins back at you, mouth sticky with popsicle juice, joy lit bright enough to outlast film. “He was three. Fell in the backyard pool while I was inside making dinner. I thought I’d checked the gate.” Her throat catches, but she forces the rest. “By the time I found him…”

The unfinished sentence is heavier than any detail she could’ve given.

You sit carefully on the edge of the bed, not daring to touch the photo album, afraid of disturbing something sacred. After a long moment, you reach over and cover her hand with yours.

Her hand trembles once, then stills beneath yours. She breathes like she’s relearning how.

“I used to think,” Maria says quietly, “that if I just replayed it enough, if I studied every second of that day, I’d find the one place I could’ve changed it. One different step, one faster minute, and maybe he’d still be here. But life doesn’t work like that. It just..…happens. And you’re left with the ache.”

You squeeze her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Her mouth twists into something like a smile, but sadder. “That’s why I mother the way I do. Why I push you about school. Why I hover more than I should. Losing Kevin didn’t make me stop, it made me worse.” She huffs a soft, shaky laugh. “Or better, depending on how you look at it. I swore I’d never let someone I love feel like they didn’t have somebody rooting for them. If I can’t give it to him anymore, I’ll give it to whoever else needs it.”

Tears prick your eyes before you can stop them. “Maria…”

She shakes her head gently, brushing at her own tears. “Don’t cry for me, honey. Just promise me you’ll keep trying, even when it’s hard. That’s what Kevin taught me, that love doesn’t stop just because life gets cruel.”

You nod, because words feel useless.

Maria turns the page. The next photo shows Kevin in a tiny cowboy hat, plastic horse clutched between his hands, his grin as wide as the horizon. She tells you how he begged for that toy, how he’d ridden it around the living room until the legs bent in half. She tells you how his laugh was so loud the neighbors heard it through the fence, how he slept with his blanket pulled all the way to his chin even in July, how he called butterflies “flutterflies.”

You listen. You cry quietly. And somehow, listening feels like giving him back a little piece of life, just for tonight.

When she finally closes the album, she leans into you and lets you lean back.

“Whatever you decide about school,” she murmurs, rubbing your shoulder, “whatever happens with Joel or anything else, you’re not alone. Not while I’ve got breath in me.”

Her words land heavier than the ache in your chest, but steadier too. For the first time all week, you believe her.

The house is still quiet when you leave her room, but the quiet feels different now. Not hollow, not heavy, just restful. You carry the weight of Kevin’s name with you down the hall, not as a burden but as something tender, something Maria let you hold because she trusted you with it.

In your own room, you sit cross-legged on the bed with the glow of your laptop against the wall, the cursor blinking in an empty document. You don’t type. You just stare at it and think about Maria’s hands on the photo, about the way she said love doesn’t stop just because life gets cruel.

The night stretches out around you. You let it. You let yourself.

Chapter Text

The week after the call with admissions felt different in a way you couldn’t name. Not lighter, not heavier, just…tilted. Like the house you’d been walking through every day had shifted on its foundation, so the floor wasn’t level anymore. Everything looked the same, but you felt it in your step.

You went about your routine anyway. Work at the office, the safe thrum of phones ringing and Tommy whistling through his teeth. Nights in Maria’s kitchen, where the rhythm of family life—your found family—kept time better than any clock. Chop, stir, taste-test. Laugh when Tommy swore the stew was too salty and then went back for seconds anyway. Pretend it was normal. Pretend your chest wasn’t holding something you couldn’t quite look at.

It was Thursday night when Maria found you sitting cross-legged on the rug with a basket of laundry, your back resting against the couch. The TV was on low, some local weather forecast you weren’t listening to. Kevin’s picture sat on the mantel, haloed by lamplight. You’d gotten used to it being there now. At first it had startled you, the sudden addition of a child’s face in a home you thought you knew. But over the past week, it had begun to feel right. Like a piece you hadn’t realized was missing.

Maria came in with her coffee cup, settling into the chair across from you. She always held her coffee the same way, both hands wrapped around the mug as though the warmth could seep straight into her chest. Her eyes followed you for a while, the way mothers look at children when they’re lost in thought, like she already knew where your mind had gone.

“You’ve been quiet since that call,” she said softly.

You shrugged, folding a towel into precise squares. “Just a lot to think about.”

“That’s fair.” She sipped, eyes narrowing like she was about to take a leap. “I hope you don’t mind me being blunt, but…..I pulled some strings.”

Your hands stilled. “Strings?”

She nodded, calm and matter-of-fact. “Called in a couple of favors at the district. There’s a teacher fund we sometimes use for promising students. Doesn’t always get advertised, but it exists. I told them about you. About how determined you are. How you’ve been through more than most and still get up every morning. They listened.”

You blinked at her, throat dry. “Maria, twenty grand isn’t ‘strings.’ That’s…..that’s a whole tree.”

Her laugh was soft, but it bent at the edges, like she knew exactly what you were saying. “Lord, I couldn’t afford that if I tried. Don’t be silly. But I did make sure someone heard your name at the right time. That’s all.” She tapped the rim of her mug, eyes on you but not pushing.

Something twisted in you. Gratitude, confusion, suspicion, all tangled. You thought of Joel for a flicker of a second, the way he lingered on the edges of your days, but you shoved it down. Maria looked so proud sitting there, and you didn’t want to tear the moment open with your doubts.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered.

“Say thank you,” she teased, smiling. “And then go do something with it. That’s the part I can’t do for you.”

Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”

Her smile softened, less teasing now. She leaned forward, touched your wrist with her free hand, grounding you. “You’ve been good for me too, you know.”

You tilted your head, caught off guard. “Me?”

She nodded. Her eyes went to the mantel. To Kevin. “It’s been a long time since this house felt alive.”

The silence stretched. You followed her gaze, that little boy’s grin carved in permanence. The first morning after she set the picture there, you’d caught her straightening the frame before leaving for work. She hadn’t seen you watching. You hadn’t said anything.

“Sometimes,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to betray her, “he feels closer when you’re here.”

Your chest ached. You wanted to say the perfect thing, something wise and soothing, but no words came. Just heat behind your eyes and the heavy awareness of all the ways grief reshapes people.

“Maria” you tried.

She waved a hand, smiling through it. “Don’t look so heartbroken for me. I had him for three years. Three years of laughter and messes and that ridiculous cowlick I could never tame. And then I lost him. I thought that was the end of me. But I went on. I went to college, I kept going. And now here we are.” She met your eyes again. “And here you are.”

You swallowed, hands gripping the fabric in your lap. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t take him from me.” She leaned back in her chair, exhaled. “But I’ll tell you something I don’t say out loud much, I thought being a mother was over for me. I thought I’d never get that part of myself back. And then you came barreling into my life again with your heart all banged up, and suddenly I remembered what it felt like to fuss over someone. To make lists on the fridge. To worry about curfews and essays and all the little things that mean you care about someone’s tomorrow.”

You couldn’t hold her gaze anymore. You looked at your hands instead, at the neat towel now damp where your palms had pressed into it.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you said.

“You’re not.” The answer was instant, fierce in the way truth sometimes is. “You are a reminder. That it’s okay to keep loving. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

You lifted your eyes then, because you had to. She was steady, her expression soft but firm, like she meant to press the words into your skin so you couldn’t shake them off later.

“Maria” Your throat tightened again, useless.

She smiled. “Don’t cry on my clean laundry, alright?”

You laughed, a choked sound, but it was a laugh.

“There’s my girl,” she said, reaching across the space to squeeze your hand. “Now finish folding before Tommy comes in and pretends he doesn’t know how to do it himself.”

You folded. She sipped her coffee. Kevin grinned down from the mantel. And for a few precious minutes, you let yourself believe her, that maybe you weren’t a burden, maybe you were a reminder, maybe life had given you something back after all the things it had taken.

Later, in bed, you replayed her words. Pulled some strings. Teacher fund. Small miracle. You wanted to believe it was that simple. You wanted to let yourself be grateful without questioning the shape of it. But in the dark, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t shake the suspicion. Strings, yes, but whose hands were really pulling them?

Friday carried you into exhaustion. By the time you clocked out at the office, your head was full of phone calls and paperwork, the buzz of fluorescent lights that seemed to hum even when you closed your eyes. The drive home blurred, one long exhale between stoplights.

The house was dark when you opened the front door. No radio. No clatter of pans. No Tommy calling something from the garage. Just quiet.

You frowned, setting your bag down in its usual corner of the counter. “Maria?”

No answer.

The living room stretched in shadow. The fan above ticked against its chain. You walked down the hall, checked her room, empty. The quiet pressed at you until you thought of the backyard. Maybe they were out by the garden.

The sliding door stuck like it always did before it gave. And when it did

“Surprise!”

The night bloomed all at once. String lights erupted across the trees and fence, gold fireflies strung in wires. The backyard was full,faces you knew, faces you’d seen only in passing, neighbors and coworkers, Sarah balancing Ellie on her hip, Tommy with a beer in hand, Maria radiant in the glow of it all. Folding tables lined with food, mismatched chairs, a speaker thumping low and bright. The air smelled like grilled meat and summer.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Maria was there first, her arms wide, her grin already saying I told you so. “You thought we’d let you sneak off to college without a proper send-off? Absolutely not.”

You laughed and cried at the same time, clinging to her. “Y’all are insane.”

“Insanely proud,” Tommy said, appearing over her shoulder with his easy grin. He kissed the top of your head. “Look at you, college kid.”

“Not yet,” you managed, but the words tasted possible.

And then you saw him.

Joel was leaned against the far side of the grill, hands in his pockets, half-shadowed in the string light glow. He looked carved out of the night, older and younger all at once, like he’d stepped out of a memory and into this moment without asking. When your eyes caught his, the world tilted just slightly. He looked away first.

You turned toward Sarah, desperate for something solid. She was glowing in her tired way, Ellie’s little fist curled in her shirt. “We made the playlist,” Sarah said proudly. “It’s ninety percent you, ten percent me.”

“You’re perfect,” you told her, hugging her carefully.

The party rolled forward like a tide. Someone handed you a cup of too-sweet punch, neighbors hugged you, the men from the crew clapped your shoulder, people pressed cards into your hand. Inside, a table was covered in gifts, practical, silly, sentimental. A banner read You Did It, and under it, Kevin’s picture smiled like he’d been invited too.

You opened Sarah’s gift, a tiny tool kit and screwdriver keychain. “For when the dorm furniture tries to kill you,” she said.

“Bless you,” you said, hugging her again.

Maria’s box held a set of pens you’d once admired in a store and put back, and a notebook embossed with your initials. “So the lists can travel,” she teased.

The ache in your chest nearly undid you.

And then, late, your mother arrived. Step-siblings in tow, her hair too carefully styled, a wine cooler already in her hand. You braced yourself for sharpness, but she surprised you with a decent gift, new sheets and a comforter, something soft and real for your dorm.

“Picked it out myself,” she said, and for once, the words weren’t sharp.

You hugged her, awkward but genuine. “Thank you.”

For a little while, you let yourself believe it might stay like that. Music thumped, kids ran through the grass, laughter filled the spaces where your doubts usually lived. Joel stayed at the edges, orbiting the party, but your eyes found him anyway. They always did. A magnet, a curse. Every time you looked away, you felt the pull. Every time you gave in, he was already watching.

You wanted to be happy. You wanted to believe this was enough. But the night kept tugging you in two directions, toward the family you’d built and the love you still hadn’t unlearned.

Then it happened fast.

Maria had just carried the cake inside, its frosting letters still pristine under the soft kitchen lights " Good Luck " written in your favorite color. Everyone crowded in, paper plates waiting, forks clinking. You stood at the island, knife in hand, feeling the sweet weight of the moment.

Then a small hand reached up from under the counter lip and dragged four sticky fingers through the center. A perfect comet trail gouged through the frosting, letters smeared into something illegible.

Your stepbrother grinned up at you with a frosting mustache, proud as if he’d painted the Mona Lisa.

The room made that sound people make when something is both adorable and criminal, half gasp, half chuckle.

“Hey,” you said, sharper than you meant. “People are waiting. You can’t just"

“He’s five,” your mother cut in, her tone already defensive. “It’s a party. He wanted a taste.”

“It’s not about his age” you began, heat rising in your face.

“Don’t be selfish,” she said smoothly, like it was her favorite word. “It’s just cake.”

Something inside you twisted. It wasn’t about the cake. It had never been about the cake.

Maria stepped in, calm as always. She slid a spatula under the ruined section, scooped it clean, and set it on a plate in front of your brother. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said kindly. “You get the messy piece.”

He beamed, oblivious. The room relaxed. But your mother didn’t.

Her eyes flicked to Maria’s hand still resting lightly on your arm, grounding you. She tilted her head, her smile like a blade.

“So,” she said, too bright, too sharp. “Is this my replacement?”

The air stilled.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“She does everything for you now, doesn’t she?” your mom went on, voice pitched high enough for the whole kitchen to hear. “Cooks for you, fusses over you, plays Mom. Guess I should be saying thank you.”

Maria’s hand didn’t move. “That’s not fair,” she said, voice quiet but steady.

“Fair?” your mom’s laugh was brittle, wine cooler sloshing in her hand. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

“No,” you said, and your voice shook, “you’re saying what you always say when something isn’t about you.”

Her eyes narrowed. There it was, the fight she always waited for. “You’ve always needed someone to baby you. Don’t pretend this is new.”

Maria’s voice firmed. “Enough. This isn’t the place.”

But your mother was just warming up. She looked past you now, across the room, and her gaze landed squarely on Joel.

“And what about him?” she said, loud now, enough to catch the ears of the few still lingering at the table. “You’re all so good at enabling him. Pretending it’s fine he slept with my nineteen-year-old daughter. Pretending it’s not predatory.”

Your heart stopped.

Heads turned. Forks froze midair. Joel’s shoulders went rigid where he leaned by the wall, cigarette unlit in his fingers. His eyes flicked to yours—one moment, two—and then dropped to the floor.

“Mom,” you hissed, humiliation burning hot across your cheeks. “Shut up.”

She ignored you. “What, none of you are going to say it? You think it’s romantic? A man his age sniffing around a kid? And Maria” she turned, zeroing in, “don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. Playing house, pretending you’re her savior. You should be ashamed.”

Something cracked in the air. For the first time since you’d known her, Maria looked truly angry.

“That’s enough,” she said, her voice iron. “You don’t get to come into my home, insult my family, and humiliate her like this.”

“Family,” your mom scoffed. “She’s not your family. She’s mine.”

Maria’s jaw tightened. “Then why do you treat her like she’s disposable?”

Gasps rippled through the room. Your step-siblings clung to each other, wide-eyed. Your stepbrother’s lip trembled, confused, frosting still on his cheek.

Your mom sneered, the wine cooler shaking in her hand. “I knew this would happen. I knew the moment she came back into your life, you’d try to steal her. You’ve always been like this. Playing the saint even when you were just her damn teacher. It’s pathetic.”

“Enough,” Maria snapped again, sharper this time. “You need to leave.”

The words stunned the kitchen into silence.

Your mom blinked, then laughed, brittle and mean. “Fine. If that’s what you want.” She slammed the half-empty bottle down on the counter. “But I’m taking my things.”

She stalked toward the pile of gifts, yanked the bag she’d given you from the table, and shoved it under her arm.

“Mom!” you cried, horrified.

“You don’t need it,” she said coldly. “Not if she’s going to keep pretending she’s your mother now.”

One of your step-siblings started crying, high and panicked. The other clung harder, little arms wrapped around legs. The room buzzed with whispers, people looking away, embarrassed to witness this implosion.

Joel still hadn’t spoken. He stood in the corner, jaw tight, every line of him screaming tension but his mouth shut, his eyes fixed anywhere but you. The shame of it wrapped around you like a noose.

Your mom’s husband appeared in the doorway, red-faced and weary. “Alright, let’s go,” he muttered, corralling the crying kids. “You’ve had enough.”

Your mom jerked her arm out of his hand but followed, still clutching the gift bag like a trophy. “You’ll regret this,” she threw over her shoulder. “All of you.”

The door slammed behind her.

Silence flooded in.

You stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, tears burning hot and stupid in your eyes. Everyone looked anywhere but at you. Joel’s gaze brushed you once—heavy, unreadable—before sliding away again.

Your throat closed. You couldn’t breathe in that kitchen, in that house, in that life.

You stormed out through the sliding door, past the string lights, past the banner, past Kevin’s picture smiling sweetly under it all. The night hit you like water too cold. You didn’t stop walking until the voices behind you blurred into the dark.

The street felt colder than it should have for August. You didn’t realize you were shaking until your hand slipped twice on the side-gate latch and you had to breathe through that small stupid failure like it was the first lesson in a long class you weren’t prepared for.

The gate gave. You stepped out onto the sidewalk into the little bowl of light cast by the streetlamp. Moths stitched frantic signatures through it. Somewhere down the block a dog barked once, then remembered itself.

You wrapped your arms around your middle because there was nothing else to hold. Your mother’s voice still clung to your skin—predatory, enabling, replacement—and the shame of the room’s silence felt like it had finger-painted itself across your face. You stood there, breathing like it hurt, willing your body not to fold in half.

The gate clicked again.

“Don’t,” you said without turning. Your voice was ragged, the word a warning and a plea. “Please don’t be my hero.”

His boots on the path, careful. Then his voice, low enough not to spook anything feral left inside you.

“I’m not tryin’ to be your hero,” Joel said. “I just…know what it’s like to have difficult parents.”

You turned, because you had to see the shape of the hurt you were talking to. He stood a step back from the circle of light, hands in his pockets like he’d put them there to keep from reaching for you. In the glow you could see how tired he was, beard trimmed too short, eyes ringed like a man who’d been bargaining with his ceiling.

“My dad,” he said, when you didn’t answer, when you couldn’t. He cleared his throat, found a place to look that wasn’t your face. “He was a cop. Thought he was the law in our house, too. He’d come home with the day still stuck to him, and he didn’t…he didn’t lay it down when he walked through the door.”

Your breath snagged. Joel had told you pieces, one or two knotted stories, nothing with a name. This was different. This was a door he didn’t open.

“Tommy,” he went on, mouth creasing with a fondness that made the rest sharper, “he was always wild. Not mean—never mean—but restless as hell, you know? Ran hot. Picked fights he couldn’t win. I kept thinkin’ if I could just head him off, take the ground out from under whatever was gonna get him in trouble, Dad wouldn’t…wouldn’t have a reason.”

He swallowed. The streetlight turned the motion to a small flare.

“So I took the fall,” he said. “More than once. Told Dad the dent in the truck was mine, that I was the one out past curfew, that I was the one smoked behind the bleachers.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Didn’t matter. Dad wanted to be mad. He wanted a place to put it. Tommy’d grin and run and I’d stand there tryin’ to make myself as big as I could so it all hit me instead.”

The picture arrived fully formed, two boys in a kitchen, one loud as a summer storm, one building a wall with his own body. You pressed your thumbnail into your palm until you felt the sting. It made the scene hold still.

“You never told me that,” you said, your voice small with the new weight of it.

“I don’t like thinkin’ about it,” he said simply. “Most days I’d rather pretend I started at thirty with calluses and a daughter who calls me on my shit.” His mouth twitched. “’Cept that ain’t true, and sometimes you gotta say the old truth out loud, or it keeps drivin’ and you never realize you’re in the passenger seat.”

Something in you cracked soft, like a shell that was too thin to call armor. Your mother’s words had been a bludgeon. Joel’s were a knife, sharp, precise, meant to cut the story down to the tendon.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant your whole life with those two words, the kitchen tonight, the office that afternoon months back, the way you’d carried your lie like a talisman instead of a bomb. “I’m sorry for…for all of it. I miss you.”

He closed his eyes like that hurt worse than your mother’s accusation. When he opened them, they were the color of dark water. “I know,” he said. “I miss you, too.”

Hope leapt like a fish and then went still when he kept speaking.

“But that doesn’t make it okay.”

You nodded because the alternative was arguing your way back into a past that didn’t exist anymore. The street hummed its electric hum. A car turned the corner far off, tires whispering on asphalt.

“I’ll make you proud,” you said, the promise falling out before you could test it. Unpolished, desperate. “I swear I will. I’ll, go to school. I’ll do it right. I’ll be the kind of person wh-”

“I hope you do it for you,” he said, gently, and the gentleness landed like a bruise you’d forgotten. “Not for me. Not to fix something that broke because we weren’t honest. Not to prove you’re worth the love you already were.”

You looked away, into the hedge, into the moths chasing themselves into heat. “I don’t know how to do anything for me that doesn’t feel like I’m asking you to watch.”

“That’s part of the work,” he said. “You learn to put yourself at the center of your own life without makin’ everybody else orbit tight ’til they can’t breathe.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I ain’t good at it either. But I’m tryin’.”

You laughed, and it came out shredded. “When did you get so wise?”

“Been old a long time,” he said, and for a breath the old joke almost made it across the gap between you. Almost.

Silence stretched, the kind that asks you to choose. You chose, because you are always choosing him even when you’re trying not to.

“Joel,” you said. “About what she said. My mom. She was cruel. And she was drunk. But she was also” You swallowed, the word like gravel. “She was also trying to hit the nerve that already hurts. I hate that she’s the one who said it but”

“but you’ve thought it,” he finished for you. Not unkind. Just true.

You shook your head. “I’ve never thought it.”

He looked at you a long moment. Then he turned his face to the dark beyond the streetlight, as if he could speak more honestly if he wasn’t looking right at you.

“Maybe she’s right,” he said.

The world went very narrow. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Please don’t.”

“I need to say it,” he said, voice even, like he was balancing something heavy. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should’ve seen the signs. Maybe I didn’t want to look too close at the math ’cause the feelin’ of you fit so…damn…easy.” His mouth pulled, pained at his own confession. “I can stand here and tell you I didn’t know, and I didn’t, but there’s a part of me that knows men like me got a responsibility to check anyway. To err on the side of askin’ the hard question even if it ruins dinner.”

Tears burned hot and humiliating. “Joel”

“I’m not sayin’ you tricked me,” he said quickly, as if he could catch you before you fell. “I’m not. I’m sayin’ I liked the way you felt in my life so much I didn’t go lookin’ for anything that might take it away. That ain’t on you alone. That’s on me.”

“Please,” you said, chest tight. “Please don’t keep flaying this open.”

“I can’t carry it quiet,” he said. “Not after what happened in there. Your mama used a word I won’t repeat. She wanted to humiliate both of us. But I gotta take the seed of it and ask what’s mine. Otherwise I learn nothin’ except how to duck faster.”

You shook your head, tears spilling now. “I was not a child.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “You were the person in front of me. Brave and messy and stubborn and so much more grown than you should’ve had to be. I loved you for all of it. I still” He blew out a breath. “Doesn’t matter. Loving you don’t erase the fact that I should’ve been the one to say, Tell me your age, darlin’. Show me you belong where I’m invitin’ you.”

The past rearranged itself in your head, a handful of nights, a handful of mornings. Places he hadn’t let himself ask because the answer could have torn the roof off the house you were building. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he had done all the right things but the one you asked him not to do. You wanted to tell him he was right, that men like him do carry the extra weight of asking. Both truths lived in your throat and made it hard to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, because it was the only bridge you had left that didn’t collapse when you stepped on it.

“I know,” he said. “And I believe you.” He worked his jaw, looked like a man trying not to touch a bruise with dirty hands. “But sorry ain’t a solvent. It don’t dissolve what happened. It just makes a space where somethin’ good might grow if we keep the weeds down.”

You wiped your cheeks with the heel of your palm, annoyed at yourself for crying like a girl in a movie instead of the woman you’d been learning to be. “I wish you would lie to me,” you said, a laugh breaking on the last word. “Just once. Tell me we’ll be okay, we’ll find our way back, we’ll be wiser and better and…together.”

His face crumpled in the smallest way, like a corner of a letter folding. “I can’t promise that,” he said. “I won’t promise that. I don’t trust who I am when I want somethin’ that bad.”

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do with this,” you said, the words suddenly fierce because the grief needed somewhere to go. You gestured uselessly toward yourself, toward the yard where the party had re-found its laughter, toward the house where Maria was probably sewing up the hole your mother had punched through the night. “Tell me how to stop loving you when my body keeps doing it without me.”

He flinched like the sentence hit him square. For a second, the hand in his pocket clenched, then eased. “You don’t stop,” he said. “Not right away. You let it..…cool. You take it out of the oven so it don’t burn the whole damn kitchen down.”

It was an absurd image. It worked. You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured.

“Old,” he corrected, and you knew he was hiding inside the joke because the truth was too raw to stare at for long.

From the yard came the faint echo of your name, Maria’s voice calling you back to the table with the gentleness of a shepherd and the authority of a general. You didn’t move.

“I’m going to make something of this,” you said, quieter now, the promise finding a shape that wasn’t a plea. “Not because I think it will undo what I did. Not because I want to earn you like a prize. Because I want to live a life I can look at without wanting to tear the page out.”

He looked at you then the way he had looked the first night you’d sat on his porch and told him what you wanted, steady, taking you at your word. “Good,” he said. “That’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that feels like it belongs to you.”

Wind moved through the live oaks above you, leaves shivering, a sound like quiet applause. You didn’t know if it was for what you’d said or for the fact that you were both still standing.

You took a step toward the gate, toward the light, toward the mess waiting inside. He took a step back, ceding the path like he had been standing there only to keep the dark from pressing too close while you remembered how to move.

“Joel,” you said, one more time, because the name itself was a little prayer you couldn’t help. “Thank you for following me out here.”

He nodded. “I’ll always make sure you get to the door,” he said. “That much I can do without getting in your way.”

He looked at the ground, then at the yard, then back at you, as if measuring how long he could stand in this little mercy before it stopped being mercy and started being hope.

“I should go,” he said finally. “Before I say something I can’t unsay.”

“Please don’t,” you said, quick, because you could feel the pressure building under your ribs, the need to ask him to undo the wisdom and make the wrong promise. “Please don’t.”

He dipped his chin. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

The endearment slipped out before he could catch it. You wore it like a bruise you couldn’t help pressing. “Goodnight,” you said, and somehow your voice didn’t break.

He turned and walked back along the fence, boots quiet on the hard dirt. He didn’t look back. You watched his shoulders until the dark took him, until the glow of the string lights reached for him and found nothing left to hold.

Then you set your hand on the gate again. The metal was cool, the latch stubborn, familiar. Inside, a life you wanted and a life you had were both waiting. You were going to choose the one you could live with in the morning. Tonight, you would walk back in and let Maria fold you into the circle she kept making, again and again, no matter how many times the night tore a hole through it.

You breathed once, deep, the way you’d told Sarah to breathe when the pain came in waves. In and out. In and out.

And then you went back in.

Chapter Text

Maria had always loved a list.
Not the neat kind written once and tucked into a drawer, but the sprawling, annotated, doodled-in margins kind, lists that grew like vines across every flat surface of the house. A week before your move, they bloomed in full force, taped to the fridge, pinned to the corkboard, sliding out of her purse when she came home from the store.

“Dorm essentials,” one read, every letter in her blocky teacher handwriting.
“Clothes, practical,” another.
“Toiletries, Misc., Don’t Forget.”

You crossed items off in your slanted script, but Maria’s pen always seemed faster. If you erased ten, she added twelve more. She swore the lists were shrinking. You swore they were breeding in the night. Neither of you said aloud what they really were a countdown clock.

The kitchen had become mission control. Maria stood at the counter, a yellow legal pad propped under her elbow, and recited out loud as if she were preparing you for flight.

“Day one, Austin to El Paso,” she said, tapping her pen. “It’s long, but we’ll split the driving, and I found this café with green chile enchiladas we have to try. Day two, we slow it down. Stop at The Thing?” she said the name like it was both a question and an inside joke“then Tucson. I booked a little roadside inn there, nothing fancy, but good reviews. Day three, easy drive into Tempe, and we’ll get you checked in bright and early.”

You leaned against the counter, pretending calm while your stomach fluttered like a bird too big for its cage. “You make it sound fun.”

“It will be fun.” Her eyes softened as she looked up from the pad. “College drop-offs don’t have to be all tears and goodbyes. We’ll make memories, too.”

She grinned. “And besides, who better than me to keep you fed and organized for a cross-country trip? By the time we get there, you’ll be begging me to stop mothering you.”

You laughed, but it broke in your throat. “I already beg you to stop mothering me.”

“Liar.” She flicked the pen at you, mock-offended. Then, quieter "I’m going to miss it. Miss you.”

You didn’t know how to answer. You busied yourself with folding a stack of T-shirts into a suitcase already bursting. “It’s not like I’m moving to another planet,” you said finally. “It’s just Arizona.”

“Which is a thousand miles away,” Maria said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed her. “And a thousand miles is farther than I ever thought I’d let you go.”

You set the shirt down, smoothed it flat, and looked at her. She had gone back to her list, scribbling something you couldn’t see, but her shoulders were tight.

“You helped me get here,” you said softly. “You know that, right?”

Maria looked up again, and for a moment, you saw past the to-do lists and the road-trip itineraries to the woman who had buried a son, who had carried grief like a second skin, who had opened her door and her heart to you when she didn’t have to.

“You helped me remember I could still be a mom,” she said. Her smile wavered. “You gave me back pieces I thought were gone forever. Having you here, it healed things I didn’t even realize were still bleeding.”

Your throat tightened. “Maria”

She waved her pen like she was brushing away her own tears. “Don’t you start crying yet. We’ve got two days before that.”

But she sniffled, and you laughed, and somehow that felt right.

The days blurred in cardboard and tape. Maria bossed, you obeyed, and Tommy hovered in the background with the patience of a man who had been bossed into many projects before. He hauled boxes to the garage, teased you when he caught you staring too long at your stack of paperbacks, and kept a running tally of how many “last loads of laundry” you insisted on doing.

At night, you and Maria sat at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and piles of sticky notes. She planned snacks for the car ride, backup routes in case of traffic, playlists that mixed her favorites with yours. “One sightseeing stop each day,” she declared. “Non-negotiable. Life’s too short to only ever drive past the good stuff.”

“Like The Thing?” you teased.

“Especially The Thing.”

She had even circled a few options for dinner in Tucson. “Not just chains,” she said firmly. “We’re finding places with character. That’s half the fun.”

But underneath all the laughter and logistics, a tenderness threaded itself into every corner. The way she smoothed your hair as she walked past. The way she left Kevin’s picture on the mantel now, like a quiet witness to your packing. The way she lingered a beat too long when she hugged you goodnight.

You felt it too. Every zipped suitcase was a reminder of leaving, not just the town, not just Joel, but her. The house that had made space for you when you had nowhere else to go. The kitchen where Maria’s voice had been your anchor. The couch where you had cried yourself out and been pulled back together by steady arms.

“I’ll call every day,” you promised one night.

“Every other day,” Maria corrected, though her eyes glistened. “You’ll be busy living.”

By the end of the week, the house looked both full and hollow. Boxes stacked by the door, lists half-crossed, the air buzzing with expectation. Maria bustled through it all, trying to keep her voice light.

“Tomorrow’s your last day at the office,” she said, scribbling one more line on the pad. “We’ll load the U-Haul after dinner, get some sleep, and hit the road first thing. I’ve got snacks already packed.”

“Of course you do,” you said, smiling despite yourself.

“Hey, I take pride in my road trips,” she said. Then, gentler “But I take more pride in you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat was too tight. Instead, you wrapped your arms around her, squeezing like maybe you could memorize the feel of her before you went.

She let you.

The night fell soft and quiet. You lay awake longer than you meant to, staring at the ceiling, thinking of lists and roads and the sharp ache of goodbye. Tomorrow would be the last day in the place that had steadied you when everything else broke. Tomorrow, you’d say goodbye to more than Maria.

Your last week at the office had felt like living inside a slow dissolve, edges softening, colors washing together, everything familiar turning gently into a memory.

Janice arrived on Monday in a lavender cardigan and earrings that looked like tiny moons. She had the sensible shoes of a woman who’d stood behind a hundred counters and the kind smile of someone who’d learned the names of every mail carrier on three different routes. “You’ll have to be patient with me,” she said on her first morning, laying a notebook neatly beside the keyboard. “I’m fluent in paper, but computers and I are on a trial separation.”

“You’ll be great,” you told her, and meant it. You slid into the teaching voice you didn’t know you had, showing her where you’d tucked the vendor numbers, how you color-coded the calendar, which clients liked early calls and which ones answered only after lunch. You showed her the petty cash tin hidden behind the stapler, the cured-wood smell of the printer that meant it needed a new cartridge, the way the phone liked to ring in pairs, never singles. She wrote everything down in tight, tidy letters, nodding like a student who trusted the teacher.

By day two, Janice could route a call without hanging up on anyone. By day three, she’d learned where you kept the good pens and which drawer stuck unless you leaned your hip into it first. She admired your plants like they were old friends and your rug like it was a miracle. “You made this place soft,” she said, passing a hand over the edge of a pothos leaf. “That’s not a small talent.”

You pretended to fix the tape dispenser so you wouldn’t cry.

Word got around. Regulars wandered in with goodbye offerings that were more practical than pretty and somehow better for it, homemade cookies in a rinsed-out pickle jar, a coffee gift card with a Post-it that read, “For late nights studying,” a pack of gel pens from the woman who always forgot her appointment time and swore you saved her life every month. One older couple, the kind who held hands without noticing they were doing it, brought a potted herb and said, “Basil. For new kitchens.” You set it by the window and promised it would be your first plant in Arizona.

Joel was around more. It didn’t feel calculated, not exactly. He just…..appeared. In the mornings with a stack of site reports that suddenly needed your eyes. At noon with a question only you knew the answer to. At four-thirty because a client wanted to “pop by” and Joel never let clients see a front desk without someone friendly behind it. He moved through the office with the carefulness of a man walking on a dock—aware of the give beneath his feet—keeping just enough distance from you to call it respectful. Every now and then your eyes caught across the room and you felt something loosen and tighten at once. He’d look away first, lately. You let him have that.

You started making his coffee again. Habit, muscle memory, mercy, you weren’t sure. The first day you reached for his mug without thinking, your hand flinched like you’d touched a stove. But then the smell hit—dark, warm, exactly wrong and exactly right—and you let yourself do this one ordinary kindness. Two scoops and a half, a touch of honey, the splash of cream he always pretended to object to. You slid the mug to the edge of your desk like you used to, where he could take it without brushing your fingers.

“Trying to ruin me,” he murmured the first morning, the old line softened with something you didn’t name. He drank anyway, and fast.

You taught Janice how to make it on Wednesday. “He’ll tell you he likes it black,” you said, measuring by muscle memory, “but he’ll drink it faster if you do it this way.” Janice raised a moon earring. “Men are astonishingly consistent,” she said, amused, and you laughed into your sleeve.

The days stacked like tidy boards. You packed your desk between calls, your stapler, your cactus, the photo Maria had taken of you and Sarah at the shower, your notebook thick with pages turned soft at the corners. The drawer you used to slide your phone into—out of sight, out of daydream—looked empty and wrong without your things. You cleaned out the candy bowl and refilled it anyway. Janice insisted the next person should not inherit a sticky mess. “Besides,” she said, “sugar hides the taste of goodbye.”

Tommy took to hovering in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame and pretending to check the schedule while his eyes did the softer work of memorizing a room that wouldn’t be the same without you. “You sure you ain’t tempted to fail out and come back?” he said, wry, the day before your last. You told him to get out of your office and bring you a breakfast taco. He came back with two.

Clients noticed, because they’d learned your rhythms and missed you before you’d even left. A contractor from down the road shook your hand with both of his and said, gruff, “You kept this place upright.” You ducked your head. “They do the building,” you said. He grunted. “Everybody knows the person at the desk builds something, too.”

The last morning, the light came in gentle, like it understood. You got there early, just to sit in the quiet your plants made against the windows, the hum of the printer soft as breathing. You watered the basil, the pothos, the fiddle-leaf fig that had hated the office until you moved it from the door to the corner. Each leaf looked like a question you’d answered. You put your palms flat on the rug you’d picked out on a whim six months ago, its pattern worn just enough to prove it had belonged.

Janice came in with a thermos and a ribbon in her hair. “I’m not a crier,” she said immediately, then laughed because it made you both want to cry. “Okay, I’m a liar. But I brought waterproof mascara.” She hugged you quick, the kind of squeeze that said, You did what you came to do. You handed her the cheat sheet you’d made her, and she tucked it into her notebook like a talisman.

By ten, the day had settled into its old music, phones, voices, the faint scrape of Joel’s chair in his office. He kept his door open more than he used to, as if the air needed to move between rooms. He said “Morning” when he came in, then got swallowed by spreadsheets and a call from a job site, the low grit of his voice turning everything around it into the shape of work.

Around noon, the couple with the basil came back with a bag of tamales and said, “You need something to eat that’ll keep, and something to eat that won’t.” You laughed and ate one standing up with Janice while you answered emails with your free hand. On your screen, the inbox that used to fill itself looked strangely still. You’d already emailed the vendors to introduce Janice, already written the “it’s been a joy” note to the client list, already set your out-of-office for Monday with your school address below your name. Seeing it in writing made your chest ache and glow at the same time.

At two, Joel called your extension. He could have walked the twelve steps to your desk. He called anyway. “Got a minute?” he asked, voice neutral.

You took your notebook and stepped into his office, an old ceremony that still lifted the hair at the nape of your neck. He looked awful and good, work-rough, shirt sleeves rolled, jaw shadowed, eyes tired in that way you’d learned to read as too much thinking, not enough sleep. The desk was neater than it used to be. Your binder of “preferreds” sat on the corner where he’d left it the day after everything broke, as if he’d known he would need your brain long after he lost your mouth.

“I wanted to go over the crews for next week,” he said, and he did, and you did, and the conversation stayed in its lane like a careful driver. But when you set your pen down, he didn’t reach for the next file.

He looked at your hand, at the little crescent of ink the pen had left on your ring finger, then past you to the window where your basil’s shadow made a soft shape on the wall. “You trained her good,” he said. Not a question. Not praise, exactly. A recognition.

“She trained herself,” you said. “I just labeled the cabinets.”

He huffed and then almost smiled. “You label things well.”

“Occupational hazard.” You moved to stand, suddenly spooked by the gentleness. He didn’t stop you. You were halfway to the door when he said your name, the whole of it, careful, as if it were something he could hold without breaking. You turned.

“I’m” He paused, pressed his tongue to his teeth like he was measuring the shape of the next words. “I’m proud of you.”

It landed like a benediction and a bruise. You swallowed and nodded once, because anything else would have opened you up in ways neither of you could afford.

“Thank you,” you said. You meant, I’ve been trying to be someone you could be proud of even when you weren’t looking. You meant,, I wish this were a different room in a different life. You meant, I hear you.

You left before the room could tilt. At your desk, Janice slid a tissue into your palm without looking up from the schedule. “Allergies,” she said. “Office is dusty.” You laughed wetly and told her you’d miss how she lied.

The last hour unwound in a hundred small ways. You showed Janice the workaround for the glitch in the invoicing software. You tucked your mug into your tote, the one with the coffee ring you’d never been able to scrub out. A courier dropped a box and said, “Don’t forget us,” and you said you wouldn’t and knew you wouldn’t. You printed out the last day’s schedule for Monday out of habit and left it on the corner of Janice’s desk. “For luck,” you said. “For superstition,” she corrected, winking.

Five o’clock came and didn’t. The light through the window turned that soft late-summer gold that made the dust look like glitter. Tommy stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, and said, “Don’t make me be sentimental,” then hugged you so tight your ribs clicked. “Go do the big thing,” he said into your hair. “We’ll keep the shop from burnin’ down.”

You did the last walk-through you’d always teased the guys for, lights, locks, plants, printer off. You shut your drawer and stood with your hand on the cool metal like you could convince it to stay warm after you left. Janice collected her purse and her notebook and said, “I’ll see you in the morning,” and the two of you laughed because you wouldn’t, not really.

Joel lingered in his doorway as you reached for the key ring. The office had a hush you’d only heard a handful of times, the morning after a storm, the day you’d come in early with cupcakes for Sarah’s shower and felt, for a moment, like love could be an ordinary thing. He stepped forward, stopped at that careful distance you’d both learned, and held out his hand.

You laid the office key in his palm. The tiny weight of it surprised you, the way something small can tug your whole arm down when you expect it to be lighter.

“I’ll“ You cleared your throat. “I labeled the sticky drawer. There’s a trick to it.”

“I know,” he said. “You showed me.”

You smiled, helpless, and then everything inside you rushed up at once. Before it could crest, you nodded, turned, and walked, the bell over the door giving that familiar, ridiculous ding as if it were cheering or mourning, you couldn’t tell which.

Outside, the heat welcomed you like an old aunt. You made it to your car, sat, and stared at your hands on the wheel until the world came back into focus. Then you did what you’ve learned to do in every hard moment, you breathed, turned the key, and drove toward home.

Maria’s lists would be waiting. So would her road map, her cooler, her ridiculous bag of labeled snacks. Tomorrow had been sketched in permanent marker. Tonight, you let yourself miss the small things, the way the phone rang in twos, the way Joel’s mug felt in your hand, the way a basil leaf turns its face to the light like that’s all it knows how to do.

You were leaving a place you’d helped build. You were making room for the person who would sit where you’d sat and answer to a name that wasn’t yours. It hurt. It was right. Both could be true.

And in the morning, you’d start the long road west.

Chapter Text

The early morning of departure began in a hush, the kind of silence that only happens in a house braced for change. You were up early, shower steam still clinging to your skin when you came out of the bathroom, hair damp against your neck, jeans and a clean shirt tugged on with trembling hands. Your bags were stacked by the door, the U-Haul key heavy in your pocket. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and cardboard.

Maria was already in the kitchen, but she wasn’t herself. No humming along with the radio, no wooden spoon tapping the side of the skillet. She leaned against the counter, her phone on the table, her arms folded tight across her chest. When she looked up at you, you knew something was wrong before she said a word.

“What is it?” you asked, soft, half-afraid of the answer.

She pressed her lips together. “It’s my mom,” she said finally. “The nursing home called. Something’s wrong, they need me and Tommy there right away.”

Your heart sank. “Oh my God, Maria, I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head, a hand brushing the air like she could wave away your worry. “It’s not your problem. But it does mean I can’t go with you. Neither can Tommy. We’ve got to drive out there now.”

You tried to smile, to steady both of you. “It’s okay. I can handle the drive. It’s just me and the U-Haul, right? I’ll be fine.”

Her head snapped up, sharp. “Absolutely not.” There was steel in her voice you rarely heard. “That’s over a thousand miles alone. Too long. Too dangerous.”

“Maria, come on,” you said, the plea breaking through. “There’s no one else. Sarah’s got Ellie, she can’t come. You two are busy. I’ll just, I’ll just do it myself.”

“No,” she said again, firmer. She stepped closer, her hand warm on your arm. “There is someone else.”

The air stilled. Your stomach dropped. “No,” you whispered. “Maria. Don’t. Please don’t.”

Her eyes softened, but her jaw held. “He’s already on his way.”

You closed your eyes, the words hitting like a door slamming. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It’s the only person I trust,” she said. “It’s the only way. You can’t go alone.”

“I’ll fly,” you snapped. “Forget the U-Haul, forget the plan. I’ll just book a flight.”

“I already checked.” Maria’s voice gentled, but the finality in it cut deeper than any shout. “There’s nothing that isn’t outrageous. Besides, you need your things when you get there. Driving’s the only way.”

You folded your arms, desperate. “Fine. Then we’ll leave tomorrow. We planned the extra day, remember? It’ll be fine.”

She shook her head. “You need that day. I already booked the hotels. You two can still do the trip I mapped out. Enjoy it. And maybe…” She exhaled, eyes on you like she was weighing how much to say. “Maybe you can work some things out. So you’re not leaving on a bad foot.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. Your chest burned with protest, with longing, with all the things you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t feel. You turned away, staring at the sunlight slanting across the living room floor.

And then the front door opened.

Boots on hardwood. A silhouette in the doorway, too familiar to mistake. Joel stepped inside, shoulders square, eyes shadowed, the weight of the road already in his presence.

The sound of your pulse filled the room. The day had begun.

The air felt heavy with goodbye before you even stepped outside. Joel stood in the doorway like a shadow you hadn’t invited, arms crossed, eyes as unreadable as they’d ever been.

“Don’t you have a project? Something you’re supposed to be running?” you asked, voice sharper than you meant.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Crew can handle it. I trust ‘em.” A pause. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled about this either. But it’s a dangerous route. I’ll make sure you get there safe.”

That was all he said. Simple. Final. You couldn’t argue with it, though every nerve in your body wanted to.

Maria wrapped you in a hug that clung, her cheek damp against yours. Tommy’s arms folded around both of you, his grin too easy, trying to lighten the mood. Then Sarah came up the walk with Ellie bundled against her chest, and your throat burned when you pressed a kiss to that baby’s soft head. Saying goodbye to Sarah was harder than you’d braced for, the way she whispered, “You’re gonna be amazing,” like it was a secret only the two of you could keep.

You cried when Maria pulled you close one last time, her words muffled into your hair. “Call me the second you get there. Promise?”

You nodded. Promised.

Then you climbed into the passenger seat, hung yourself out the window, and waved until they were only a blur behind you.

“Alright now,” Joel said, hands steady on the wheel, tone quiet but edged. “That’s not safe.”

You slid back into the seat, tugged your sunglasses on like armor. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”

He didn’t answer. Just flicked his eyes back to the road, jaw set.

You twisted the dial, cranked the music up loud enough to rattle the dashboard. His frown deepened. You knew he hated that. Knew he hated the way you shoved your feet up on the dash too, crossing your ankles like you belonged there.

“It’s not safe if we wreck,” he muttered.

“Well,” you said, refusing to look at him, “don’t wreck.”

Silence bloomed thick between you. Awkward. Tense. Every mile stretched longer than the last. The road opened in front of you, two days of asphalt and memory, and all you could think was how impossible it was to leave him behind and yet how unbearable it felt to sit beside him now.

The highway unspooled in a long gray ribbon, sun low enough to flash between the cab’s visor and the top edge of the windshield, turning your eyes into little aching lenses. You pretended to be busy with Maria’s printout so you didn’t have to watch Joel’s hands on the wheel. The paper was creased into soft squares already, her bullet points marching down the page in neat teacher handwriting

Fredericksburg: pastry + photo

Junction: stretch by the river ( to touch grass)

Lunch: roadside BBQ (“the place with the cow statue”)

Fort Lancaster Overlook: ten-minute view break

Marfa lights rest stop (optional if making good time)

Motel in Van Horn: check-in before dark

You cleared your throat. “She said she’ll revoke our road-trip privileges if we don’t provide photographic evidence.”

Joel’s jaw went sideways like he was weighing a nail with his teeth. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“You’re making fun.”

“Just sayin’,” he said, eyes never leaving the lane line, that measured slow-blink he did when he didn’t want to haul a conversation to shore. “Maria’s serious about itineraries.”

“So am I,” you said, softer than you intended.

A moment. The truck hummed. Somewhere under the dash a coin ticked with each tiny road seam, counting out the space between you.

A few minutes later, Fredericksburg happened to the windshield in a neat rush of color, flags, planters spilling geraniums, antique shops with their glass winking in the midmorning light. You tried to turn your voice casual. “She said try the peach fritters from that place on the corner.”

Joel eased into a spot with the practiced patience of someone who had parked on too many job sites with too many trailers. “Then we better try ‘em.”

Inside, the bakery was cool and loud with trays and chatter, the kind of sound that’s all punctuation and sugar. You ordered the fritters and a cinnamon roll too big to justify, because Maria would demand samples later and because it felt good to hold something warm and certain. Joel kept his hands in his back pockets and stared at the cases like they were blueprints.

“Coffee?” you asked, already reaching.

He hesitated. “I can get it.”

“I’m right here, Joel.”

There it was, your name in his mouth. He nodded once, a truce you didn’t deserve or maybe you did. You paid. He carried the box. Outside, you took the first picture, his shoulder, the bakery sign, your half-hidden smile. You texted it to Maria with the caption, Proof of pastry. A bubble popped on your screen immediately

Maria: GOOD. Save me a bite or I will haunt you both. Love y’all.
You: we know
Maria: Take the scenic turn by the courthouse. There’s a mural.

You followed directions because it was easier than talking, because following directions was a muscle you’d built in that little office until it held. Joel drove the loop. You hopped out for a second shot—a mural of wildflowers taller than you, your fingers in a sloppy peace sign—and jogged back to the truck, breath quick, laughing to no one, to the day itself.

The laughter died smaller when you sat. You put the pastry box between you like a polite chaperone. Joel tapped the lid with a knuckle. “Take a bite before it gets cold.”

You did. It was indecently good, and you made a small traitorous sound that yanked the corner of his mouth into a near-smile. You ate in shared quiet, tearing soft, sticky pieces, halfway through, he licked sugar from his thumb and looked like the man who used to leave notes on your desk before the office lights were fully awake.

The road took you back, out past the last tidy fences, the fields widening into scrub and mesquite, that flat old music of I-10 a long, low note. Your playlist tried to fill the truck—songs Maria insisted were “roadworthy,” songs Sarah texted with too many heart emojis, songs you’d loved before Joel, during Joel, after—and you kept it lower than you liked because he hated loud, and he didn’t ask you to turn it down, and that felt like a concession from both of you.

You hit Junction just as the heat started to mean it. The river ran low and green around its stones, dragonflies stitching the air. He parked by the little strip of grass and stepped out into the kind of brightness that makes your teeth feel too white. Joel followed slower, hands on hips, stretching his lower back the way he did after a long day. He didn’t look at you while you took a picture of your shoes by the water. He didn’t have to. You could feel the shape of his attention the way you feel sunlight on your forearm, there, steady, undeniable.

“Touch grass,” you said, half-joking, half-Maria’s voice, and stepped off the curb to kneel and press your palm into the hot green. You held it there a second longer than necessary, the absurd ritual making something inside you line up. He huffed, the closest he’d come to a laugh, and kicked at a tuft with his boot.

“Tell her I complied.”

You angled the phone just-so, caught his boot and the grass and the riverband, sent it off. A second bubble

Maria: Good. Drink water. Do not fight. Eat real lunch. I mean it.
You: define “real”
Maria: If I see a single bag of neon chips I will teleport to that truck and take the wheel.

“Which,” Joel said, when you read it out loud, “she absolutely would.”

“Yep.”

A few more miles and the cow statue rose from the heat like a mirage wearing a belt buckle. The barbecue joint was the kind with a smokehouse out back and a line that braided around crates of pickles. You stood behind Joel and tried not to breathe too much of him while you breathed too much of the sauce. He ordered brisket and potato salad and the beans, you added a mess of coleslaw because it was a thing you did now, introduce crunch where there wasn’t any.

“Sit,” he said at the end, chin tipping toward a two-top in the corner, and you did, because you didn’t have a better plan.

“How’s…how’s Sarah?” you asked, when the food arrived and steam and pepper made the air an argument.

“She’s good,” he said. “Tired.” A pause. “Ellie’s…..she’s loud. Healthy-loud.”

The name made your chest cinch and loosen in the same motion. “Good,” you said. “I’m glad.”

He nodded, and that was that. You ate, careful, each of you doing the math of being two people who still knew the other’s mouth and pretending you didn’t. When you were done, Joel pushed his tray a centimeter back and said, “I’ll get to-go cups.”

“I can”

“Let me,” he said, and it was not a question, not a command, just a way to carry a small weight you were too proud to hand him.

The gas station hug of afternoon settled around you by Sonora. Heat pressed its palm against the windshield and left sweat-pink prints on the edge of your hairline. You announced, “Pit stop,” because your body wasn’t interested in pride or poetry. Joel swung off the exit, the truck rolling up to a tank with a clunk that felt like you’d arrived at something more than a pump.

You went in for the bathroom and the junk, a bag of neon chips, pretzels, two candy bars, a bottle of water the size of a baton, and a cold can of something fizzy because you wanted a present that popped when you opened it. You knew exactly what he’d say and bought them anyway.

At the counter, you hesitated—wallet or not?—and then Joel came in behind you, set a pack of cigarettes on the rubber mat, and slid his card across before you’d decided.

“I can pay for my own—”

“I know,” he said. “We’re puttin’ miles down. I’ll get this one.”

You did the face you knew he hated—eyebrows up, mouth a straight I-don’t-need pity line—and he looked, for a second, ruined by how much of you he still knew.

Outside, he fed the pump, clicked the handle, braced his forearm against the side of the truck like the whole apparatus might blow if he didn’t add his weight. You climbed back in, the seat belt hot against the inside of your elbow, and watched him through the glass, the way his shirt pulled where his shoulder met his neck, the wave of heat making him shimmer and not. He finished, hung the hose, and slid in beside you. The first sound was the crackle of cellophane, the soft slide of a lighter out of his pocket.

You stared at the pack in his hand. “Those are worse than my snacks.”

“I know.” He didn’t look at you as he said it. Flame, brief, then the slow-build hiss of tobacco catching. He cracked the window half an inch and made the first drag look like an apology you were too tired to accept.

“Maria’s gonna murder you if I tell her.”

“You won’t.”

You hated how certain he sounded. You hated that he was right. “It’s a filthy habit,” you muttered, clicking open your fizzy drink, letting the tiny pop answer for you.

“Yep.”

You sipped. He smoked. Somewhere behind you, a billboard bragged about the world’s largest rattlesnake. The truck smelled like salt and sugar and smoke and a road trip the universe kept trying to turn into a parable.

The afternoon went long and flat after that. The radio found a classic rock station and then lost it, the hills shouldered closer, shouldered back. You sent Maria proof-of-life photos she kept answering with gold stars and bossy hearts and updates on her mom. Joel pointed out a tiny storm walking the horizon on bone-thin legs “Gonna rain over there and nowhere else” and you pretended you didn’t love him for saying it.

Fort Lancaster was more wind than fort, a view pause where the land looked like someone had scrubbed it with steel wool until it gave up and became beautiful. You got out because the itinerary told you to, because the truck needed a rest as much as you did. The gusts came clean and hot, shoving your hair off your face. You lifted the phone and took a shot of nothing but sky, then turned and caught Joel mid-squint, one hand over his brows, the other in his pocket like he always needed an anchor.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Not even for posterity?”

“I don’t have a very good relationship with posterity.”

You took the picture anyway and didn’t send it to anyone. It felt like a crime and a kindness at the same time.

Back in the cab, the mood tilted. It was nothing—an elbow brushed while you both reached for the map, a shared breath at the same second—but it was enough to remind every nerve in your body that this was the man who’d once been home. You folded the itinerary until the edges lined up perfectly. He turned the key. The engine caught. You imagined you could hear the exact moment the afternoon tipped toward evening, that small internal click a day makes when it realizes it’s half over.

“Marfa lights are optional,” you read, more to fill the space than to inform.

“We won’t make ‘em today,” he said. “That’s alright.”

“Maria will file a grievance.”

“Add it to the pile.”

Silence took the truck back. Not a bad one. The kind that wears you smooth. You let the miles have you. You drank your water and didn’t comment when he lit another cigarette an hour later. He didn’t comment when you spilled a few pretzels into the tray and ate them one at a time, like an offering to an altar you weren’t sure you believed in anymore.

As Van Horn edged onto the signs—math you didn’t have to calculate, a promise you could keep—your body remembered other endings, nights you’d driven home from the office with his hand on your knee, nights you’d left his house and stared through those sheer curtains, pretending you could see him moving in the lamplight. This ending felt stranger, not a door hitting a jamb but a slow closing of something you’d propped with your foot for months.

Your phone buzzed.

Maria: PROGRESS REPORT??
You: Fredericksburg ✔ Junction ✔ Real lunch ✔ Gas stop ✔ No murder ✔
Maria: Proud of you both. 🤓 Text when you check in. Also: get the front desk to take your picture, proof you made it intact.

You laughed aloud at that one, and Joel glanced over as if he’d heard it too. “Maria?” he asked.

“Who else?”

He nodded, then, after a minute, said, “You hungry again?”

You weren’t, not for food. “I could eat.”

“Front-desk lobby vending machine counts as dinner if you’re twenty,” he said, serious as could be, and for the first time all day you let yourself smile at him, full and unhidden. It landed between you like a coin in a jar you had both been pretending wasn’t there.

“Bold of you to assume I’m twenty,” you said, and immediately wished you could claw the joke out of the air and swallow it whole.

Joel’s mouth twitched, not quite a flinch. “Bold of anyone,” he said, and the words were plain, not knife-edged, which was, somehow, worse. You looked out the window until your face remembered how to be just a face again.

The motel arrived in that way highway motels do, suddenly, like they’d been built while you blinked. Stucco the color of sand. A lobby that smelled like lemon and old carpet. A clerk who tapped too loudly at a keyboard and offered a free map you’d never unfold. You held the door while Joel wrestled your overnight bag in, and when the clerk asked, “One bed or two?” your heart did a trick you didn’t authorize.

“Two,” Joel said, exactly as expected, exactly as required, and the trick passed.

Room 212 had two beds and a unit under the window that coughed cool air in fits. Joel dropped the bag at the foot of the bed farthest from the door, his old instinct to put himself between a threshold and a woman’s sleep stronger than whatever else you’d broken in him. You set your things on the other bed and stared at the neutral spread like it held a spell no one should read aloud.

“I’ll…uh, go check the vending,” he said. “Text Maria a picture so she doesn’t climb through the AC vent.”

“Okay.” Your voice sounded like it had been left in the sun too long.

When the door clicked behind him you sat down very carefully, as if the bed might bite and you wanted to show it you could be polite. You took the required photo—thumbs-up, travel hair, eyes a little raw from miles—and sent it with a caption only Maria would read as steady Made it. Day one survived.

Her reply came quick and bright—Look at my girl. Sleep. Tomorrow, desert magic. Proud of you—and you swallowed around the way pride from someone who hadn’t known you at thirteen could still feel like medicine.

Joel came back with a plastic bag of soda and those tiny, traitorous muffins that taste like Saturday mornings from nowhere. He didn’t hand you anything, he set everything on the table between the beds like a Switzerland you could meet in without incident. You cracked your can. He cracked his. You both said, almost at once, “To” and stopped, because neither of you was sure what to toast. To the road? To goodbyes?

“To getting there,” he said finally.

“To getting there,” you echoed.

The soda fizzed against your teeth. The AC rattled. The day laid itself down just outside the windows, cowboy-quiet and full of the kind of stars you couldn’t see yet.

You pulled Maria’s list from your bag and smoothed it against your knee. A smear of cinnamon sugar had left a thumbprint on the margin. You circled the next morning’s first stop, like it mattered, like every circled thing you’d made for yourself might hold.

“We’ll leave early,” Joel said into the quiet, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And we’ll send her the picture.”

“Yeah.”

“And…” He blew out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “And we’ll get you there.”

The words rang in the little room with a steadiness that made your throat hurt. You nodded, once, sharp, as if agreement could keep you from doing something stupid like cry.

“Okay,” you said, to him, to the door, to the highway already waiting outside. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

The morning broke slow and square around the edges.

A thin blade of sun slid between the motel curtains and laid itself across the carpet like a measuring tape. You watched dust drift in it, turned your face to the cool side of the pillow, and—for a heartbeat that wasn’t long enough—forgot where you were. Two beds. Two bedside lamps. One man you used to let breathe right against your mouth.

A soft click, then the hush of a door easing shut. Footsteps. The scrape of a cardboard tray against cheap veneer.

“Hey.” Joel’s voice, low from not using it yet. “Don’t jump.”

You pushed up on your elbows. He stood at the little dresser like a mechanic sorting parts, sleeves shoved to his forearms, hair not quite obeying him. On the tray sat two paper cups with their flimsy lids, a rustling handful of creamer pods, sugar packets, a wooden stirrer he’d already stained dark.

“Lobby only had the one kind,” he said, as if you’d scold him for their coffee selection. “Burnt as sin. I got you milk. And the little vanilla.” He didn’t look over, just set about fixing it, the same way he used to find the exact mug you liked without making a speech of it. He tore the sugar with blunt fingers, emptied it in, added milk until the color changed to the shade he knew by heart, then peeled the foil off a creamer pod with a tenderness that made your throat go hot.

He snapped the lid on and carried it to you. “Careful.”

The lid was warm under your lip, the coffee was terrible and perfect. He’d got it right—somehow always did—strong, but cushioned from the edge. You curled both hands around the cup and let yourself say, soft, “Thank you.”

He tipped his chin, noncommittal, but the line of his shoulders eased a millimeter. “Breakfast place’s three exits down. We’ll beat the rush if we move.”

You nodded and slid out of bed. He found somewhere else to look as you passed him for the bathroom, as if the tile between you needed a chaperone. The mirror gave you back the kind of face a road deserves, puffy-eyed, stubborn. You smoothed your hair into something that claimed the day instead of letting it happen to you.

When you zipped your bag, he was already packed, corners tucked, the way men who’ve had to leave in a hurry keep things ready even when no one’s chasing them. He’d left your cup on the nightstand and tucked a napkin under it so the ring wouldn’t stain. You took the napkin, too. Some small part of you wanted proof of the care.

Outside, the air had that flat, early brightness that belongs to west Texas, nothing to catch on, nothing to hide behind. Joel popped the truck’s locks. He’d wiped the windshield while you were in the shower, the glass blinked clean at the sun.

“You didn’t have to” you started.

“Bugs’d turn to concrete by afternoon,” he said. “Better when it’s cool.”

You slid into the passenger seat. He set your coffee in the cup holder, notching it so the seam wouldn’t drip. You watched him do it like he was drawing a boundary around the day that said“I remember.”

He turned the key. The engine coughed, steadied. He didn’t touch the radio. You dug in the glove box for Maria’s itinerary, the paper had already softened at the folds from how many times you’d opened it.

“Okay,” you read, letting brightness into your voice like oxygen. “Meal One, Rosa’s Diner, exit 23. Pancakes for me, eggs for you, send picture or Maria will revoke our road-tripping privileges.”

He huffed. “Didn’t know she issued licenses.”

“She does if she’s paying for two of the hotel nights and three of the snacks.”

“Mm.” He checked his mirrors, merged. “Let her know I paid for the gas.”

“I will.” You leaned the paper to the window light. “Next ‘Quick detour for the photo at the road runner statue. Don’t fight me.’”

He cut his eyes at you. “I ain’t takin’ a picture with a bird statue.”

“You will if I’m the one holding the phone.”

“Then I ain’t lookin’ at it.”

“That’s fine. Your scowl photographs great.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “Eat your coffee.”

“I am eating it,” you said, and took another slow sip he pretended not to be pleased by.

A few miles down, he reached into the paper bag between you and came up with the pastry he’d apparently acquired at the lobby counter, wrapped in napkins like contraband. “They called it a kolache,” he said, suspicious. “but don’t look like the ones back home.”

You took it because you would always take what he offered, because it mattered that he’d thought you might want this. The pastry was warm in your palm, sweet dough pulling apart to reveal something you couldn’t name and didn’t need to. You broke it in half, handed him the larger piece without comment. He didn’t argue. He never did about that.

Traffic thinned until it was only you and the long straight promise of I-10. The land lay open like a chest with all its ribs showing. You let your forehead rest against the warm glass and felt the small yaw of the truck with each gust of wind.

“Austin to Tempe is what, fifteen hours?” you asked, mostly to fill the quiet before it hardened. “Maria budgeted two and a half days. She wants us to meander.”

Joel breathed out through his nose. “She wants souvenirs.”

“She wants memories.” You waggled the paper between two fingers. “She wrote ‘memory’ in cursive with a little heart, see? That’s binding.”

He didn’t look, but you watched his jaw soften. “We’ll hit the diner,” he said. “We’ll see the sand. I ain’t sleddin’ down any dunes.”

“You don’t have to. You can watch me.” You kept your tone light and didn’t add, the way you used to watch me do every reckless thing and pretend it annoyed you when it only scared you because you cared. “And you can hold my shoes.”

“That I can do.”

The sign for the breakfast exit shouldered up out of the heat shimmer. Joel flicked his blinker like a promise to no one else on the road. “You want the sweet stuff?” he asked, not unkindly. “Or you want eggs.”

“Sweet.” You braced a palm against the dash as he took the ramp. “After yesterday, I’ve earned it.”

He didn’t ask earned what. He didn’t say you didn’t force me to drive you to the edge of everything we can’t fix. He just grunted and took the turn clean.

Rosa’s looked like every diner tries to look chrome lip on the counter, pie under glass, a waitress who could smell when your coffee hit the low-water mark. Joel claimed a corner booth with his back to the wall, an unchangeable reflex.

When the waitress—a woman with acrylic nails that clicked against the coffee pot—set two steaming mugs down, Joel nudged yours closer. You arched a brow at him.

“I know how you take it,” you teased, tearing open the sugar. “Don’t pretend you don’t like a little sweet in yours, too.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, not quite a smile. “You talk too much after caffeine.”

But when you slid the sugar across the table, he didn’t push it back. He poured half a packet in, stirred, and took a sip.

The burnt taste coated your tongue. “God, this is terrible.”

“Always is,” he said, drinking again anyway.

It made you think of another diner, another life, a night when the two of you sat in a booth and you ordered an obnoxiously large milkshake topped with whipped cream so high it sagged. You’d teased him until he stole the cherry with his teeth, then acted like you’d lost a bet.

“This place is nothing like the one with that milkshake,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Joel’s eyes flicked up, sharp and caught. For a second, the silence between you softened. The ghost of that night lingered, sweet, stupid, uncomplicated. Then he blinked, set his mug down, and the thread snapped.

The waitress came back, pen ready, and set a hand on Joel’s shoulder as she leaned in. “What can I get you, hon?” she asked, her voice a little warmer for him than for you.

“Eggs. Over easy. Toast,” Joel said, neutral as stone. He didn’t flirt back, but he didn’t shrug her off, either.

You busied yourself stirring more cream into your coffee, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. When Joel’s gaze slid over like he’d caught the twitch of your mouth, you lifted your mug with a bland smile. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said, but his look lingered, like he’d read the jealousy you were trying to deny.

You speared a piece of pancake as soon as they arrived, more force than finesse. He slid the syrup toward you without being asked, same as always, and that tiny unthinking act hurt worse than the waitress’s hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll have plenty of boys chasin’ after you soon enough,” Joel said finally, his fork scraping against eggs. “College is full of ‘em. Age appropriate, too.”

Your fork froze. “I’m not going for boys,” you said flatly. “I’m going to learn.”

His mouth quirked like he almost believed you, like he almost wished you meant it. “Mm.”

You stabbed another bite of pancake, too sweet, too much. “Not everything has to be about who I’m dating, Joel.”

“Never said it did.” He sipped his coffee. “Just sayin’you don’t need to be jealous of a waitress pourin’ refills.”

Heat prickled your cheeks. You kept your eyes on the plate, pretending the burnt coffee was the reason your throat felt raw.

He set his elbows on the laminate. “You got that itinerary memorized?”

“Almost. I was up late.” You shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes lifted, quick as a sparrow. “Night noises get you?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, because it was easier than saying the quiet makes a drum of your name. “Just excited.”

He didn’t push. He never did where a gentler man might.

“Picture,” you remembered, already fishing your phone out. “Smile like you’re not a grump.”

“Smile’s extra,” he said, and the waitress snorted as she walked by.

You snapped two, one where he wasn’t ready and his mouth had almost shaped a smile, another where he put his polite face on, the one he used for county inspectors and clients who thought they could haggle him down to nothing. You sent Maria both. She responded with IF YOU DON’T TAKE MY GIRL TO THE ROAD RUNNER I’LL HAUNT YOU ALIVE.

Joel read the text upside down and shook his head. “Tell her to try it.”

“‘Maria says she’s coming for you in your sleep,’” you narrated as you typed. “Also she says to tell you the syrup looks ‘obscene’ and she approves.”

He glanced at your plate, at the way you’d poured too much and didn’t care. “She would.”

“You like that she would.”

He picked up his fork. “Eat before it gets cold.”

You did. He did. You passed him the salsa without him asking, he slid you the napkin before you realized you needed it. The ordinary choreography made your eyes sting, so you looked down at your plate and bit your cheek until the want settled.

The check came tucked beneath a chipped mug, and Joel reached for it before you could move.

“I can pay for my pancakes,” you said, fingers brushing the edge.

His hand stilled, the veins on the back of it catching the dull light. “Ain’t about who can pay. Just easier this way.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to remind him that you weren’t a kid anymore, that you could cover your own breakfast without needing him to swoop in. But the words tangled in your throat, stuck between pride and the memory of every other time he’d covered for you, quiet and steady, like it meant nothing at all.

“Fine.” You leaned back, arms crossed, pretending the surrender was flippant. “But I’m tipping.”

His mouth tugged in the barest hint of amusement. “Tip’s all yours.”

The waitress lingered a moment longer than necessary as Joel handed her the cash, fingers brushing hers. You caught yourself holding your breath, waiting to see if he’d smile back, if he’d let her know he wasn’t as untouchable as he pretended. But he didn’t. Just a nod, a clipped thanks, and then he was standing, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.

“C’mon.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Long way ‘til Las Cruces.”

You slid out of the booth, your shoulder grazing his as you stood. It was nothing—less than nothing—but it sent a shiver down your arm, like static snapping in a storm. You pulled your bag higher onto your shoulder and pushed past him before your face could betray you

Outside, the day had brightened into something honest and hard. Joel held the door for you like it was just easier that way, like he hadn’t always done it because he liked the chance to be the person between you and everything else. In the parking lot, heat came off the asphalt in visible waves.

The neon cowboy winked above the lot, that broken bulb flashing slow as a heartbeat. Joel lit a cigarette, cupping the flame against the breeze. Smoke curled upward, pale and lazy.

“You’re gonna reek like that the whole drive,” you said, half out of habit, half because you hated the way your chest ached watching him do something so ordinary.

“Truck already smells like smoke.” He exhaled, eyes narrowing against the sun. “What’s one more?”

You shook your head, tugging your sunglasses down. “You’re impossible.”

“Been called worse.” He flicked the ash, the smallest smile spreading across his mouth.

You wanted to grab it, that smile. Hold it still and pin it like a photograph you could keep forever. Instead, you turned toward the truck, your sandals slapping the asphalt. The cab loomed like a furnace, the vinyl seats ready to scorch.

Joel climbed in after you, moving with the same tired grace he always had, like his bones already knew where to go. His hand brushed the gearshift, the same hand that once steadied your hip on a dance floor, that once cupped your face when he kissed you soft, like you were breakable. You looked away quickly, watching the horizon blur in the heat.

The engine rumbled to life. You tucked Maria’s itinerary back onto the dash, smoothing the fold with your thumb.

“She’ll want a picture of the cowboy sign,” you said, scrolling through your phone until you found the crooked shot.

Joel glanced over, one brow lifting. “She’ll live if it ain’t perfect.”

“Maria doesn’t live if things aren’t perfect,” you teased, nudging the itinerary toward him. “That’s her superpower.”

“She’s got plenty.” His voice softened, like he meant it.

The road stretched out ahead, cracked and endless. You settled into your seat, feet curling beneath you this time, careful not to tempt another lecture about the dash. Joel adjusted the mirrors even though nothing had changed.

The silence was different now, not sharp, but weighted, thick with everything you weren’t saying.

You thought about the way his eyes had lingered on you over the diner table, not long enough to be obvious, but long enough to burn. About the way he slid the syrup over without thinking, like some part of him still remembered your smallest habits.

It felt like a life you’d lost and were still living all at once.

He took your empty cup, glanced inside, and made a show of measuring. “You’re gettin’ there.”

“Getting where?”

“Drinkin’ it like coffee and not pudding.”

“Shut up,” you said, but you smiled when you said it, and he let that be the end.

You didn’t put your feet on the dash, you tucked them under you and pretended that wasn’t its own kind of intimacy. Joel adjusted the vent to blow toward you, then flicked the visor down so the slice of sun wouldn’t land in your eyes when he turned east to west on the access road.

“You always do that,” you said.

“Do what.”

“Figure out what’ll make something easier and it.” just….do

“S’called drivin’.” He cleared his throat. “And payin’ attention.”

“To what?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence already knew your name.

“I wonder what she’s doing right now.”

“Maria?” He glanced at the clock, mouth twitching. “Been up since five. Probably made half a dozen lists, watered the ferns, packed Tommy a lunch big enough for three men. By now?” He huffed a laugh. “Yoga in the living room.”

You laughed and felt it loosen a knot behind your ribs. “I miss her already.”

“She misses you.” He said it without looking at you, as if the windshield would be kinder if it were the thing to hear it. “House is gonna feel different.”

“So’s the office,” you said, then wished you hadn’t. The word office set something tender between you throbbing. “Janice will be great,” you hurried. “She’s already got a system for vendor calls. And she baked cookies. Clients love her.”

“Clients love you,” he said, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

You turned your face to the window. “They’ll forget me fast.”

He didn’t answer again, and the road took the weight of the silence for a mile and a half.

A green sign announced the next exit. The little cartoon roadrunner on the highway attraction placard looked like he was in on a joke you weren’t. You took a breath.

“Left at the statue,” you read, like a spell. “Photo. No excuses.”

“Mm.” Joel signaled, and the sun laid a soft bar of light across his wrist. He had new freckles there from the last few weeks, and because you were cruel to yourself, you counted them.

“You gonna scowl?” you asked, gentler than the last teasing.

“Probably.”

“Okay.” You swallowed. “I’ll scowl too.”

He glanced over, just once. Something like a smile ghosting his mouth and was gone.

The parking lot was mostly empty. The statue was larger than you expected and exactly as ridiculous. You handed Joel your phone without asking first this time, he took it without pretending not to know the unlock code. You stood in front of the metal bird, lifted two fingers in a peace sign because your heart couldn’t manage sincerity and humor was the last shield you had left.

“Ready?” he called.

“Always.”

“Don’t move.” A pause. “Okay.”

You let your arms drop, rubbed your palms on your jeans. “Your turn.”

“I said”

“Scowl,” you reminded, and waited.

He walked into frame, stood there in that Joel way, shoulders squared, chin down, like he was letting the picture take him instead of the other way around. You clicked the shutter. It felt like proof of something you didn’t know how to keep.

Back in the cab, the air had warmed toward noon. You tucked the phone into your bag like contraband and watched the road make its long straight bargain with the horizon.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you said again, because it meant more than it should and you wanted him to know twice.

He kept his eyes on the white line and the heavy sky and the miles he’d promised to carry. “You’re welcome,” he said.

And for a few exits, it was enough.

You traced the condensation on your water bottle with your thumb, the plastic slick under your skin.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Joel’s gaze stayed on the road. “What is?”

“Us. This. Driving across the desert together like nothing’s.…different.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Nothin’ about it feels the same to me.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to ask him what it did feel like, if it hurt him the way it hurt you, if he hated this closeness that kept reminding you both of what had been lost. Instead, you forced out a brittle laugh.

“Guess not,” you said, turning the music up a little louder.

Static filled the gaps until the next station caught, a ballad too syrupy for your taste. Joel didn’t complain this time. He let it play, his hand tapping once against the steering wheel before stilling again.

You watched him in profile, the line of his jaw against the glare of the sun, the threads of gray in his hair. You thought about how unfair it was that someone could be this much a part of you and still untouchable. That you could love someone so much and already know you’d lost them.

The truck hummed beneath you, tires eating miles you couldn’t get back. You pressed your forehead to the glass, watching the desert slip by.

Every turn of the wheels carried you closer to a future you’d chosen, a future you needed. But all you could feel was the gravity of the man beside you, the gravity you’d been trying to escape since the night you told him goodbye.

And still, some traitorous part of you thought, it would be easier to stay lost with him than to find yourself alone.

Joel adjusted the air vents, clearing his throat. “Maria’ll like the picture.”

“Yeah.” You kept your eyes on the horizon. “She will.”

But the truth pressed down on you harder than the sun, Maria wasn’t the one you wanted to impress.

Eventually, the banter turned lighter, almost easy.

“You drive like an old man,” you teased when Joel’s foot never pressed past the limit, his patience an insult to the open desert highway.

“Better’n drivin’ like a damn fool.”

“You’d get there faster.”

“You’d get there dead.”

You smirked, leaning across the console just close enough to smell the hint of smoke clinging to his collar, that scent that had never really left him since he picked that nasty habit back up. “Maybe I like living dangerous.”

His knuckles flexed tighter on the wheel, the leather creaking. His voice came low, not scolding but worn. “Don’t.”

You leaned back, letting silence swallow the rest, heart thumping a little too loud in your chest.

By the time the sun dragged low across the horizon, painting the sky in a haze of violet and molten orange, you reached the motel Maria had circled on her carefully inked itinerary. To your relief, it wasn’t the usual roadside relic with sagging awnings and buzzing neon. This one sat tucked just off the main stretch, adobe-style walls painted warm clay, lanterns strung along the walkways. The vacancy sign still flickered, but it was steady, less a warning and more a welcome.

Joel parked the truck and sat for a moment with his hands still on the wheel, watching the light dim. You pretended to fuss with your bag so you didn’t have to watch him, so you wouldn’t catch yourself memorizing the slope of his profile in gold light.

“I’ll check us in,” he said finally, pushing the door open with a grunt.

You leaned against the warm side of the truck while he disappeared into the lobby. The air buzzed with cicadas, their bodies clinging to the stucco walls and lampposts. A breeze stirred the dust, cooling your arms. Somewhere nearby, a radio played a Spanish ballad, the singer’s voice sweet and distant.

When Joel came back, he held up two keycards between his fingers. “Two queens.” His mouth twitched at your expression. “Beds, not people.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck. “Wasn’t even gonna say anything.”

Inside, the room smelled faintly of bleach and lavendar. The bedspreads were patterned with desert flowers, the kind someone had chosen years ago but still carried a charm in their faded blues and ochres. The walls were painted a soft tan, hung with framed photographs of canyon trails and winding rivers. Not glamorous, but it felt…safe.

Joel dropped his bag at the foot of one bed and sat down heavily, rubbing his palms along his thighs like the drive had seeped into his bones. You set your bag carefully on the other bed, smoothing the fabric as if that act alone might steady your shaking nerves.

For a moment, the distance between the two beds looked smaller than it was.

Dinner was better than you expected. Maria had picked out a little restaurant in the next town over, not a greasy diner this time but a modest cantina painted in bold reds and yellows, its windows spilling warm light onto the sidewalk. Inside, families lingered at tables with baskets of chips and pitchers of soda, the air alive with conversation and the smell of roasted peppers.

A hostess led you to a booth by the window. Joel slid in across from you, elbows braced on the table, glancing at the menu like he didn’t already know he’d order something simple. The paper lantern above your table cast him in a warm glow, softer than you’d seen him look in months.

When the waiter brought chips and salsa, Joel nudged the basket toward you first. “Don’t say I never give you nothin’.”

You smiled, dipping a chip in salsa. “You gave me a laptop.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but his eyes softened, just a flicker. “That was different.”

The food came fast, steaming enchiladas for you, carne asada for him. He ordered a beer, you stuck with soda, letting the fizz tickle your throat. Conversation moved like it used to, not effortless but less jagged than it had been, circling safer topics, Maria’s endless lists, Sarah adjusting to motherhood, even the desert heat compared to Texas.

You caught yourself laughing once, really laughing, and Joel’s eyes lingered on you just long enough to make your heart stumble. He didn’t smile, not quite, but the corners of his mouth softened, as if the sound had reached him somewhere he didn’t want to admit.

On the walk back to the motel, wrappers crumpled in your hand, you said, “You didn’t have to pay.”

“Didn’t say I had to,” he replied, voice even.

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Take care of me like..” The words caught. Like you still love me. Like I still want you to. You swallowed. “Like I can’t take care of myself.”

His jaw ticked, eyes fixed straight ahead. “Never said you couldn’t.”

The air between you stretched, tight and buzzing. The night hummed with cicadas, the smell of grilled meat still clinging to your clothes, and Joel’s shadow stretched alongside yours, close enough to touch but untouchable all the same.

Back at the room, he held the door for you, and you brushed past with a murmured thanks, your chest aching with everything you didn’t say.

Two keys. Two beds. Two people carrying the weight of what once was and what could never be.

And for the first time all day, you let yourself wonder if the walls between you were as solid as you pretended..

You hesitated at the foot of your bed. The silence pressed down heavy. He turned the TV on low, some news channel mumbling about markets and weather fronts, but his eyes didn’t look like they were on the screen.

And you, your body betrayed you. It moved before your better sense could catch it, feet carrying you across the ugly carpet, heart pounding like you’d sprinted.

“Joel,” you said, soft.

He looked up. Just once. Just long enough for the room to tilt.

You bent before you could think, before fear could intervene, closing that small impossible gap and leaning down toward him, the taste of salt and longing already in your mouth.

But Joel turned his head.

It was subtle, gentle even, but it might as well have been a wall. Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, not his mouth, and the rejection slammed into you harder than if he’d shoved you away.

“Sorry” you stammered, jerking back, heat flooding your face. “I just..God, I thought maybe…”

He stood quick, chair-scrape sharp, like the air had burned him. His voice came low, strained. “Don’t.”

The word landed like a blow.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, stepping back toward your bed, swallowing against the fire climbing your throat. “I’m sorry. I just thought maybe, just one more time. Something good before I leave.”

Joel’s hand dragged down his face, eyes closing like he wanted to erase the moment. When he opened them again, there was no anger, only the weight of something heavier, older. “You don’t know what you’re askin’.”

“I do,” you whispered. The ache in your chest clawed sharp. “I’m asking for you.”

His eyes softened, broke. For one raw heartbeat, you thought he’d cross the space, thought he’d undo the distance with the truth you both still carried. But then his jaw set, iron and sorrow both.

“I love you,” he said, and the words tore out like confession, like sin. “But not like this. Not anymore. Not when you’re leavin’ and I’m..." He shook his head. “It ain’t right.”

The ground tilted. Your throat locked around a sob you refused to give him. You nodded, too fast, backing toward your bed, collapsing onto the stiff floral comforter like gravity had finally claimed you.

“Right.” Your voice cracked. You swallowed hard. “Of course. Stupid of me.”

“It ain’t stupid,” he said, gentler now, but you couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear the sight of his hands flexing empty at his sides like he wanted to reach for you and knew he couldn’t.

Embarrassment scalded hotter than tears. You turned your face toward the wall, staring at the faded print of desert wildflowers hung crooked over the bed. The ache in your chest roared, a wound you’d pressed your own hand against.

Behind you, the TV clicked off. The room fell into quiet but for his breathing, steady, unbearable.

You buried your face in the pillow, teeth clenched to keep the sobs from spilling, but they came anyway, silent, shaking, the kind that wrung your body dry. You thought about every moment that had led here, the lists Maria had taped to the fridge, the goodbye gifts at the office, the hours in the truck where laughter had almost stitched the two of you back together.

How right it had felt. How wrong it was.

You loved him. God, you still loved him. And you’d lost him twice now, once when things cracked, and again tonight when you tried to pretend history could be borrowed back for a single night.

The ceiling fan ticked slow overhead. Joel shifted once, boots hitting the floor, then settled back on his bed. A whole gulf stretched between you, wider than any desert you’d crossed.

You pressed your eyes shut until stars burned.

Tomorrow would mean more miles, more pretending, more distance you couldn’t outrun. Tomorrow you’d have to wear a face that said you were fine.

But tonight, in the dark, you let yourself break quiet, letting the ache gnaw through your ribs, knowing he was close enough to hear if he wanted to, and that he wouldn’t come.

That was the truest cruelty, not his turning away, not the “no,” not even the quiet confession of love bound by walls.

The cruelty was knowing Joel still breathed steady in the same room, and you could do nothing but cry into a motel pillow, a heartbeat away from the only person who had ever felt like home.

And yet, home was gone.

The night held the weight of that truth until sleep finally dragged you under, raw and restless, with the ache of wanting and not having louder than any road you’d yet to travel.

Chapter Text

The motel AC rattled like it had found a loose screw it couldn’t shake free. You lay there and counted the beats between the clanks, the way you used to count seconds between thunder and lightning as a kid. If you could measure it, maybe you could manage it. If you could manage it, maybe you could sleep.

You couldn’t.

The sheets were too stiff, the pillow too thin, the room too much like every room that wasn’t home. And then there was the other bed, the reason the ceiling wouldn’t quit being a ceiling. Joel’s breathing had fallen into that deep, even cadence you knew far too well. You wanted to hate him for it, the simple cruelty of a man who could sleep through anything, even the ache he left behind. You didn’t hate him. You hated yourself for not hating him.

Sometime after five, the dark picked up a gray edge. You rolled onto your side, face tucked toward the seam where the curtain panels didn’t quite meet. A blade of dawn slid across the carpet and stopped at the foot of his bed. Curiosity—stupid, old, feral—nudged your shoulder. Don’t look, you told yourself. You looked.

Joel lay on his back, one hand under the pillow, the other slack near his ribs. Sleep made him younger, the worry bled off his face when he wasn’t awake to hold it there. Your heart cracked a little at the sight, the same small, traitorous way it always had. Everything in you wanted to pretend this was a thousand other mornings, to reach across the distance and smooth your palm over the rough of his jaw, to say good morning in the quiet language you’d built together.

Your gaze slipped lower before your will could catch it.

The blanket rose in a clean, undeniable slope.

Heat licked up your throat. You went motionless, as if stillness could erase knowledge. It didn’t. Memory walked in like it owned the place. The weight of his thigh thrown over yours. The rust-and-honey sound of his voice when he first woke. How sometimes he’d roll you gentle onto your back and kiss you so slow the day had to wait its turn, how other mornings he’d tug the covers down and greet you with a hunger that felt like an answer. You swallowed hard. Your body answered first, the way bodies do when they remember being wanted.

You tried to breathe around it, to ride the ache back into something you could sleep through. But every breath came tight, high in your chest. Your thighs pressed together of their own accord. Your palm found your stomach, then drifted lower, as if the map had never changed. A soft, involuntary sound escaped before you could catch it, half sigh, half prayer.

His breathing hitched.

You froze, hand snatched back like you’d touched a hot stove. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe the clatter of the AC had swallowed you whole. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t

Joel shifted. His head turned on the pillow. His eyes opened slow, unfocused at first, then sharpening as the room gathered itself within them. He blinked once, twice. His gaze fell to your face.

And stopped.

The shame arrived so fast it made you dizzy. You could feel what you must look like, flushed, eyes too wide, lip caught between your teeth the way you have never been able to break yourself of. His name almost tripped out of you, you swallowed it back like a crime.

“Hey,” he said, voice gravel dragged over velvet, sleep-thick. It should’ve been illegal for him to sound like that at this hour. “You okay?”

You wished the floor would open. You wished the AC would explode. Anything but the truth in his question, anything but the gentle.

“Yeah,” you lied. Your voice came out hoarse. You cleared it. “Yeah, I just, couldn’t sleep.”

He watched you a moment longer, eyes narrowing half a shade. The way he used to look when a wall wasn’t where a wall was supposed to be. He followed the shape of your breathing, the way your sheet was bunched in your fist, the way your gaze kept sliding away from him and then, traitorously, sliding back.

His attention dipped—only a flick, a reflex—to the tented blanket over his hips before coming back to your face. The faintest wince spread across his mouth. As if he’d just realized what you had, and hated that he had to know it.

“Right,” he said. The word was gentle and razor-clean at once.

Silence stacked up in the room, sheet by sheet, until you couldn’t stand under it. “I wasn’t,...I wasn’t doing anything,” you blurted, because denial is the first lifeboat even when you know it’s full of holes.

Joel’s brow creased, not with anger, with something harder to bear, care that didn’t know where to land. “You don’t gotta lie to me, darlin’.”

“I’m not lying,” you said quickly, too quickly. You sat up a little, hair falling around your face like you could hide in it. “I was just, thinking. That’s all.”

He exhaled, slow. “You made a sound.”

Your face burned. “People, make sounds.”

“Not like that,” he said, and the way he said it—soft, certain—was worse than if he’d shouted. Because you heard what sat behind it, the muscle memory of you. The catalog of the noises he knew by heart.

You opened your mouth, closed it, finally marshaled a thin, brittle joke. “Well, I mean ” you gestured weakly toward the undeniable “you’ve got…morning, um, what you always have.”

Color touched his cheekbones. He dragged the blanket a fraction higher, as if that pixelated motel cotton could undo the situation. “That ain’t somethin’ I’m choosin’, kid.”

There it was. Kid. A word that had no business feeling like a caress and a knife all at once.

You swallowed. “I know. I just ” You ran out of road. The ache didn’t.

For a long moment neither of you moved. A sliver of sun sharpened on the carpet. The AC wheezed itself into a brief silence, then rattled back alive. Somewhere, a truck rolled past on the frontage road and faded into the big morning.

“Look,” you tried again, softer. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I wasn’t going to wake you up.”

His mouth twitched, pained. “That ain’t the point.”

“Then what is?”

He sat up, knuckles braced on his knees, the blanket a stubborn hill over his hips, his eyes finally steady on yours. “The point is you don’t gotta pretend with me.” He jerked his chin, not lewd, just honest. “You were hurtin’. And I was..…not helpin’.”

Something in you wilted with relief and humiliation at once. You blew out a shaky breath. “I know it’s pathetic.”

“It’s not.” No space between the words. He said it like a man naming a fact. “Don’t call yourself that. Not with me.”

You stared at the ugly watercolor hung over the dresser until it blurred. “I’m sorry,” you said, small. “I’m sorry, Joel. I didn’t mean to, make this weirder than it already is.”

His jaw flexed. “Ain’t weird. It’s human.”

You gave a half laugh that broke in the middle. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It ain’t simple.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. When his palm dropped, his eyes were fierce and tired and kind in a way that made your chest ache. “But it ain’t shameful.”

That nearly undid you. The kindness, always the kindness. It was the only thing big enough to break you clean.

Your fingers twisted in the sheet. The confession rose like tidewater. “I miss you,” you said, finally, wrecked. “I miss, everything. Wakin’ up and” You swallowed the rest, the images too bright to say aloud. “I miss the mornings.”

His gaze flinched. If the room had been a fraction brighter you would’ve seen it outright. He looked down at his hands, then at the slice of light creeping up the bedframe, then back at you. “I know,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “Me too.”

Breath punched out of you. Hope—stupid, greedy—flared, quick and hot. You leaned forward a fraction, as if the air between the beds could carry you the rest of the way.

He saw it. He shook his head, once, slow, like a man asking a skittish horse not to spook. “But that don’t mean we can”

“I wasn’t asking,” you lied, even as your body leaned.

His mouth pulled, sad. “You were.”

You shut your eyes. The tears threatened. You bit the inside of your cheek until the sting steadied you. “Fine,” you whispered. “Fine.”

You tried to stand, the sheet tangling your knees. Joel instinctively reached out, hand hovering inches from your wrist, stopping before contact like the space between skin might burn him. You wrenched yourself free of the linen and your own humiliation and made for the bathroom on unsteady feet.

“Hey,” he said, not quite a call, not quite a plea. You paused, hand on the cheap brass knob. “Don’t walk away thinkin’ I’m angry at you. I ain’t.”

“What are you then?” You kept your back to him. You didn’t trust your face.

He hesitated, and in that small pause you heard it all, the years between you, the lines you crossed and couldn’t uncross, the way love can be a blessing and a ruin in the same breath. “Hurting,” he said. “Same as you.”

You nodded once, a sharp, private motion he couldn’t see. “Okay.”

You shut the bathroom door with more care than you felt. It clicked home like a period at the end of a sentence you didn’t want to write.

Cold water. You needed cold water. You turned the shower handle and let it cough itself awake. In the mirror, a girl-who-wasn’t-a-girl-anymore stared back at you, cheeks flushed, throat blotched, eyes too bright. You pressed your palms to the sink and let your breath stutter once, then again, then settle into something passable.

The pipes groaned. You peeled your sleep shirt off, slow, like your bones were tired, and stepped beneath the spray. It landed cold enough to steal a gasp, then eased to merely bracing. You let it beat at your scalp, trickle down the ridge of your spine, flatten the last shards of heat clinging to your skin. You didn’t cry. Not because you were strong but because you were empty in the way that comes after a long night of not sleeping and a longer morning of telling yourself no.

When you finally turned the water off, the motel towels felt like sandpaper. You wrapped one around yourself anyway and dug into your overnight bag for clothes, and came up with the problem you already knew you’d find. Half your life was packed in the U-Haul because it had to be. The rest was in the laundry sack you’d left by the door. All that remained in the bag was a pair of shorts that could barely be called that and a tank you’d meant for sleeping, soft as a breath and twice as revealing. You stared at them, jaw working, then pulled them on because what else could you do, wrap yourself in a towel all day?

You cracked the door and stepped back into the room.

Joel had turned the TV volume low enough to be a hum he didn’t appear to be watching it. His elbows braced on his knees. He was staring at his hands the way men do when they’ve done too much with them and can’t figure out how to stop.

Then he looked up.

His gaze caught, dropped, came back in a disciplined snap. Color rose under the scruff along his jaw, he looked suddenly, achingly human. “You can’t” He cleared his throat. Tried again. “You’re gonna get the wrong kinda attention at school, wearin’ that out the door.”

You let out a breath that was half laugh, half defense mechanism. “The rest of my clothes are in the truck. Or dirty. This is what I have.”

He stood, went to his duffel without hurrying, like he’d decided on the move in some quiet place inside himself. He rifled for a second, then turned and held something out. A navy t-shirt, soft, worn thin around the collar, the old logo cracked across the left breast. Miller Contracting.

“Here,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes. “It’s clean.”

You took it from him like it might shatter. The cotton was warm from his hands. You tugged it on over the tank. It swallowed you to mid-thigh. You hated how good it felt. You loved how good it felt. You hated that you loved it.

“Thanks,” you managed.

He nodded once, a little too brisk. “Breakfast downstairs just started,” he said, like logistics could ferry you both back to shore. “We should eat. Got a long drive still."

You nodded back, fingers worrying the hem without meaning to. “Okay.”

Neither of you mentioned the way your name looked under his on the cracked logo. Neither of you said the obvious, that there are some mornings you don’t get to have again, and some you have to survive anyway.

He held the door. You passed close enough to feel the heat off his forearm, but neither of you shifted to touch. The hallway smelled like coffee that had been sitting too long, like bleach, like other people’s loud weekends. You walked toward breakfast like it was any other morning on the road. Like you weren’t still shaking a little. Like desire and shame hadn’t been roommates in your chest an hour ago and might be again by noon.

Behind you, the door snicked shut, and for once it sounded like neither a punishment nor a promise, just a door closing on a night that hadn’t destroyed you, and a day that would ask you to keep going.

Breakfast passed in silence, the kind that scraped. Forks against cheap plates, Joel’s coffee cooling between his hands, your waffle syrup turning to glue while neither of you looked up. Words pressed at the backs of your teeth but never made it out. Outside, the sun was already white-hot, the truck waiting like another trial.

The highway unwound toward a sky so clean it felt like a new sheet you were afraid to wrinkle. White Sands crept up by degrees, a pale film at the edges of your vision, then flats like frozen lakes, then dunes cresting into hills, ridges combed into them by wind that had all the time in the world.

You pretended to sleep. Headphones in, volume low. You’d been doing that since you left, practice at absence, at making your body a closed room no one was allowed to enter. Still, you felt the way Joel checked on you in the glass of the window, in the pauses between his breaths. You felt the way he kept his hands gentle on the wheel even as the truck shuddered over patched asphalt. That gentleness made you want to slam a door. It made you want to crawl into his lap and disappear. It made you two kinds of wrong at once.

“Turnoff’s up,” he said, voice careful like he was approaching an animal with a trap on its leg.

You slid the earbud out. “We could just go on. Straight to Tempe.” Your voice tried to sound bored and landed on brittle.

“Maria’ll put my head on a stick,” he said, a huff that wanted to be a laugh and didn’t make it. “She planned this stop for you.”

You watched the arrowed sign bloom from the heat: WHITE SANDS NATIONAL PARK “She planned it me and her,” you said, and then wished you hadn’t.

He didn’t flinch. “She planned it because she loves you,” he said, and made the turn.

The access road narrowed into a pale ribbon, sand banked on either side like snowplow drifts. The sky turned bluer. The whiteness brightened until you felt it behind your eyes. You took your shoes off in the passenger seat without meaning to, some old muscle memory that said, this place asks for bare feet.

Joel parked in the lot where three other cars glared under the noon sun. The wind was a polite hand on your face. A family wrestled plastic sleds from a trunk. A ranger in a flat hat laughed with a couple at the map board. It felt like a world where nothing bad had ever happened, which somehow made everything you were carrying louder.

You opened your door and stepped down. The sand was silk-smooth on top and cool under. The strange mercy of shade an inch below glare. You walked without waiting to see if Joel would follow. You knew he would. He always had. Even when he shouldn’t.

The dune you chose wasn’t the highest. It rose just high enough to make your breath hitch by the time you reached its crest. You folded into the slope and let gravity make a seat. Wind combed your hair into your mouth, you pulled it loose and tucked it behind your ear with hands that were steadier than you deserved.

Joel came slow. Boots sinking, toes angled, a blunt shoulder against gravity. When he crested the ridge beside you, he didn’t drop immediately, he stood with his hands on his hips and turned 360 slow, taking it in like a carpenter assessing a strange job. Then he sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, breathing hard the way men do when they refuse to admit they’re breathing hard.

“Never seen nothin’ like it,” he said after a minute, voice softened by the wind. He didn’t look at you when he said it. He looked out.

“It looks like winter,” you said, because the words arrived and asked to be said. “Like somebody forgot to color this part in.”

He huffed. “Kids’d be feral out here.”

“You’d be worse,” you said, and this time the corner of his mouth did it, twitched, that traitor.

Silence lay between you, shaped like this morning. The motel dark, the thin line of light under the door, the sound you’d made without meaning to, the moment his breathing changed. The way shame had sprinted through you faster than any desire ever had. The way his face had looked, surprised and wrecked and tender in a way you wanted to slap from his mouth.

He spoke first. “About earlier.”

“Don’t.” You didn’t mean for it to come out like a snapped leash. It did.

“I ain’t” He paused, chased down the right word, always careful with knives. “I ain’t mad at you.”

“That’s a shame,” you said, eyes burning. “Because I am.”

“At me?” He didn’t sound defensive. Just…..tired.

“At me,” you snapped. “At everything.” The wind took a tear and cooled the track it left. “You’re supposed to be furious. You’re supposed to hate me for everything I am and everything I am not. For the lie I told you. For the way I made you something you never wanted to be.”

His jaw worked. “I wanted to be yours,” he said, too quickly, and then shut his mouth like he’d cut his thumb on the admission.

“How convenient,” you said, and laughed a small, awful laugh. “Me too.”

He took the hit without flinching. “I ain’t mad at you,” he repeated. “I’m mad at bein’ a man who took a long time to see what was right in front of him. I’m mad there ain’t a good road where both things can be true, you bein’ grown now, and me wishin’ you’d had the chance to be younger longer. I’m mad at how easy it was for me to forget the years between us when I was happy. I’m mad that I liked bein’ happy.”

“You should be madder than that,” you said. “You should call me names. You should make it easier to walk away. You should make me feel as dirty as I already do.”

He turned his head, slow, met your eyes. The look was steady. It didn’t pin you. It held you. “You ain’t dirty,” he said. “You’re hurt. And you’re twenty. And the parts of you that learned the wrong lessons from the wrong people are loud right now.” His mouth twitched again, but there was no humor in it. “And you’re stubborn. Which I can’t exactly judge.”

The hot, wild thing in you thrashed. You wanted him to yell. You wanted him to cut you. You wanted him to put his hands on either side of your face and kiss you until you forgot your own name. You wanted to deserve none of those things more obviously than you didn’t.

“Stop being gentle,” you said. It came out as a plea, and you hated the way your voice shook.

He looked back out at the dunes, like he was letting the horizon answer for him. “I ain’t bein’ gentle,” he said finally. “I’m bein’ careful. With you. With me. With what we’re carryin’. There’s a difference.”

“Semantics,” you said, but it sounded weak even to you.

“That what they teach you first week?” he asked, and for a second it was almost banter, almost easy, and that made tears rush your throat again.

“I hate this,” you said. “I hate that we sit in beautiful places and talk about how we’re not allowed to love each other.”

He didn’t look at you when he said, quiet as prayer, “We did love each other.” Then, after a moment, like he was correcting himself on a job site “We do.”

The words were a hand pressed to an open wound. You couldn’t help it, you flinched.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “Not if it changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” he said. “It just don’t change what we’re gonna do about it.”

A drift skittered across your toes like a small animal. You wriggled them free, watched the sand fall back into itself. “I don’t know how to be a person without you,” you said, and hated how true it felt. “I know that sounds pathetic. I know if this was a story then everyone reading this would scream at me to grow up. I know. I know.”

“Ain’t pathetic to say it out loud,” he said. “It’s honest. And you ain’t gonna learn how to be one unless you try.”

You scrubbed your cheek with your wrist. “I tried this morning,” you said, brutal because you wanted to be. “And you caught me.”

His breath left him like a door closing soft. “I know.”

“What did you think?” You couldn’t believe you asked. You couldn’t believe you needed to.

He swallowed. Looked down at his hands. “I thought you were hurtin’,” he said. “I thought you were lonely. I thought you were reachin’ for somethin’ that felt like home, and I wanted to be that, and I couldn’t be that for you in that way without makin’ it worse later.” He pulled a face, grief and humor mixed. “And I thought I should’ve pretended to stay asleep.”

You let out a sound that surprised you, a hiccup of laughter through snot and salt. The wind took it and smoothed it down. “You always wake up quiet.”

“Never wanted to scare you,” he said.

“You never did,” you said, then added, because truth demanded every tax “Except when you left the office without looking at me.”

He nodded once, like a man taking a deserved blow. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I ain’t sorry about walkin’ out. But I’m sorry about how.”

You didn’t say you forgave him. You didn’t say you didn’t. The dunes didn’t care either way. The sun moved an inch.

“You keep sayin’ I should be mad,” he said after a while, voice gentled by the distance you both kept. “You keep wantin’ me to turn into the worst story in your head. Why?”

“So I don’t have to miss you,” you said. “So I can paint you into something I won’t keep loving.”

He blew out a breath. Dug his heel into the sand and watched the mark fill. “That’s not love,” he said, not unkindly. “That’s defense.”

You bristled. “Oh, so now you’re a therapist.”

“No,” he said. “Just a man who spent a lot of years mad at people on purpose ‘cause bein’ mad hurt less than bein’ sad.” His mouth tilted. “Didn’t work. Hurt anyway.”

You hated that he was right. You hated that the horizon looked like an answer you couldn’t read. “I want to be normal,” you said, voice small with a kind of new grief. “I want to go to college and be excited about classes and complain about cafeteria food and sleep through alarms and hate my Econ professor and call home on Sundays. I want it so bad it makes me shake. And at the same time I want to blow it up and stay here and climb into your truck and go back to the office and make your coffee and pretend none of this happened.”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer. When he did, you could hear the scrape of truth in it. “You ain’t ever gonna be normal,” he said. “You’re gonna be you. And that’s better, even when it’s harder.”

You let your head tip back. The blue above you seemed held up by wire. “Maybe my mom’s right,” you said, because cruelty to yourself felt easier than tenderness, “maybe you did take advantage”

“No,” he said, so fast and so hard it snapped your eyes to him. “Don’t do that. Don’t hand her the story. I didn’t take advantage. I fell in love. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve asked more questions. I should’ve seen things sooner. I should’ve, hell, I can list a hundred should’ves. But I didn’t wake up in the morning and decide to be a villain. Neither did you.”

“Feels like we did,” you muttered.

“Feelings ain’t facts,” he said softly. “You taught me that. When you weren’t tryin’ to.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The white around you felt almost like quiet snow, a muffled world where the two of you could finally say what was true without the rest of Austin leaning in through the windows.

Joel stood slowly, palms pressing into the sand. He offered you his hand without looking down, a habit. You stared at it. Big, knuckled, nicked near the thumb where a bad driver had cut too close to an orbital sander last spring. The hand that had held your ankle under a table once, months and inches ago. The hand that had fixed doorframes and balanced coffee mugs and learned the geography of your spine.

“No,” you said, not unkindly. “I can get up.”

He didn’t drop the hand like you’d slapped it. He lowered it, wiped sand on his jeans, and waited while you rose, legs humming from the climb. When you wobbled, you hated the way you wanted the steady.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice back to ordinary, because that was his way, making space for your storm to pass and then offering a small, human task.

“No.”

“That’s too bad.” The corner of his mouth barely moved. “We’re eatin’ anyway.”

“I don’t want to play normal with you,” you said, and your throat closed around the truth, you did, you wanted nothing more.

“Then just eat with me,” he said. “Couple sandwiches in the cooler. Maria’ll yell if you show up to Tempe starved and mad at me.”

“I’m already mad at you,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “Eat anyway.”

You were the first to step off the crest. The sand gave and slid, your feet sank to the ankle. You went down the slope without grace and without falling, the way you had learned to do everything lately. Behind you, you could hear the drag of Joel’s boots, the small grunt when he caught himself, the muttered curse chased into the wind.

At the bottom, a child with a neon sled barreled past, shrieking with joy, sand snowing around him. His mother shouted careful! and laughed all the way through the warning. You looked at Joel. He looked at you. And for a stuttering second the ache softened, we could have had this, we had pieces of this, we are still two people who know how to laugh at the same kind of ordinary.

“Come on,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard that thought thrum out of you. “There’s shade by the truck.”

You walked side by side and not touching. Your toes found the cooler pockets of sand. His shadow fell across your shoulder and then slid away when you shifted. The wind carried salt and something sweet you couldn’t name. The dunes went on being dunes, indifferent and tender at once.

In the backseat, Joel flipped the cooler lid and handed you a bottle of water, then a sandwich wrapped the way Maria wraps everything, too much care for paper to hold. Turkey. Mayo. Tomato. Packaged individually so it wouldn't get soggy. There was a cookie smuggled into the napkin, a heart in chocolate chips. You thought of Maria at her counter, tongue caught between teeth in concentration, and felt your throat thrum with love you could hold without complication.

You ate. You both did. Neither of you said much. The kind of quiet that isn’t a punishment. The kind that is a rest.

When he finished, Joel dusted crumbs from his hands and leaned his hip against the truck, face tipped toward the glare. “We should get you checked in soon,” he said.

The words bellied up and flopped in your chest like fish. “Okay.”

He looked at you then, longer than the glance he’d been rationing himself to all morning. It wasn’t the kind of look that asked for anything. It was the kind that memorized. You hated him a little for that, and loved him too much.

“About earlier,” he said, meaning the motel, meaning your body under the thin sheet, meaning the sound you’d made into the dark. “You ain’t bad. You ain’t broken.”

“I know,” you said, and it wasn’t a lie, not exactly. “But I feel like I am.”

“Feelin’s loud,” he said. “Let the desert drown it a minute.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re so folksy it hurts.”

“Somethin’s gotta.”

He tossed the sandwich wrapper into the bag, tied it neat, set it in the cab so the wind wouldn’t make regret of it across the dunes. When he shut the door, you caught your reflection in the window, eyes a little swollen from crying, hair wind-gnarled, shirt sticking at the ribs where sweat had cooled. You looked like a person who had been held together by will for months and had finally let a seam slip. You looked like someone who might learn to put herself back, different and better, molecule by molecule.

“Ready?” Joel asked.

“No,” you said.

“Me neither,” he said, and opened your door.

You climbed in without needing his hand. He shut you in with a gentleness that would undo you if you let it. Around you, the white world glared unblinking. Ahead, the road drew a line toward a life that waited whether you were brave enough to step into it or not.

Joel rounded the hood and got in. His fingers found the ignition. The engine coughed awake. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t look at him.

“Tell Maria we took the pictures,” you said into the hum.

“I will,” he said. He checked his mirrors. He checked them again, as if there were something behind you he could save. Then he eased the truck into gear and followed the blacktop back toward color.

You put one earbud in. Left the other out.

The wind moved over the dunes like breath. The desert said nothing. It didn’t have to. You heard it anyway, You are small. You are not alone. Keep going.

You did.

Chapter Text

The road after the dunes unspooled like someone had tugged a thread straight through the desert. Five hours, Joel had said, five hours until Tempe turned from a word you’d been carrying to a place you had to stand in. The number hung in the cab like a third presence, ticking forward each time a mile marker flashed green and slipped behind you.

Heat rose in sheets from the asphalt. Mesquite and creosote dotted the flats, far off, low mountains lay on their sides like sleeping animals. Joel drove the way he always drove when there was more road than talk, one hand high at twelve o’clock, the other easy on his thigh, instead of yours where it once belonged, posture loose but intent, a man who could spend an entire day inside a task and not complain once. He’d peeled off his flannel at the last gas stop,, the gray Miller Contracting T-shirt clung at the shoulders where the morning’s climb had left its mark. The cracked window fed the cab a thin ribbon of air that lifted the sweat from your neck and moved his hair just enough to make it look like he’d been laughing five minutes ago.

Static chased itself across the radio until a station took hold. A guitar lick you knew by muscle memory, then that first line came and your whole chest answered before your brain had time to tell it no. Joel didn’t move. He didn’t wince, didn’t reach for the dial. The song filled the air between you with the weight of all the kitchens and porches and slow dances it had ever scored.

You leaned forward and turned the knob. The music snapped off so cleanly the silence made a pop.

“Didn’t bother me,” he said after a minute, voice quiet, not testing.

“Bothered me,” you said, looking straight ahead. It was easier to breathe with the sound gone. Harder, too.

For a while the truck was just an engine and the road and the small sounds the two of you made when you pretended you weren’t making any. Joel’s thumb tapped against the wheel, not quite a rhythm, more like proof he was still attached to the body that was doing all this enduring. You’d picked up a sunburn on the dunes that you’d only now started to feel, it tightened when you swallowed.

Your phone sat in your lap face down. You flipped it over, woke the screen, watched the black glass turn your face into a ghost. It felt ridiculous to sneak a picture, juvenile, something you’d promised yourself not to do. You lifted the camera anyway. Joel’s profile lined itself up on instinct, forearm golden where it stretched to the wheel, that small cut near his wrist from a jobsite mishap, the breeze ruffling his hair, the road sliding past in a long blur of heat and distance. You pressed the shutter.

He didn’t startle. The corner of his mouth tipped, half a smile, like he’d tasted the thought before you ever did it. “That for Maria?”

“Maybe,” you said, too fast. You glanced at the photo and had to press a thumb to the center of the screen because your chest did that ache it does when something’s perfect and also over. “I might print it,” you admitted. “Frame it. I don’t know. I just” You stopped before the word remember could roll out and sit there like a dare.

Joel adjusted his grip, knuckles pale for a heartbeat. “My favorite picture of you ain’t even a picture you know about.”

You turned, pulse tripping. “What?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “First big client you brought in, back when you started turnin’ that office into a place folks wanted to be. You were on Maria’s steps with your shoes off, papers everywhere. Tommy had you laughin’ so hard you couldn’t breathe. Sun was hidin’ behind you, sky all done up like it was showin’ off.” He breathed like it cost him something and let it out slow. “Took it without you knowin’. Still got it on my phone. I look at it when I forget what you can do.”

The cab made a new kind of quiet. You pressed your phone to your sternum like it could hold your ribs in place. “You never told me that.”

“Didn’t seem like tellin’ would make it better,” he said, gentle. “Seemed like keepin’ it would.”

You stared out the window until the earth stopped stuttering. Far off, a hawk wrote a loose sentence in the air and then erased it. Heat shimmer lifted the horizon a couple inches off where it should be, as if distance had decided to hover and wait to see what you’d do next.

He was the one who pulled you back. “You thinkin’ about joinin’ one of them sororities?”

You laughed because the image was ridiculous, your face framed in Greek letters, you and a crowd of girls in matching sweatshirts singing something you didn’t know the words to yet. “You think I’d survive rush?”

“Don’t know what that even means,” he said, mouth quirking, “’cept I see ’em on TV wearin’ shirts with chickens on ’em.”

“Those are letters,” you said, and found yourself smiling. “And I don’t know. Maybe. I liked the idea of built-in people.” You folded the edge of Maria’s itinerary until it made a sharp crease and then flattened it again. “Would be nice to have a place to land.”

“You’ll make one,” he said without ceremony, like he was telling you you’d remember to breathe. “You always do.”

You let that settle in your lap with the phone and tried to decide whether to believe it.

He asked about holidays a little later, not like a test, more like he was inventorying the parts of the year that would feel emptiest without you in them. “You comin’ back for Thanksgiving? Christmas?”

“If I can afford it,” you said. “I want to. Of course I do. But flights are evil and I’m not exactly” You spread your hands. “Rolling in cash.”

“Campus jobs?”

“Looking,” you said. “Coffee shop, maybe. Or tutoring. I didn’t bring the car, so it’ll have to be close.”

His brow furrowed like the absence of the car had only just now made a hole in the picture he’d been holding. “So what’d you do with it?”

“Left it,” you said. “Figured I’d keep it for breaks and summers. If someone would” You hesitated because the ask felt like something bigger hiding under something small. “Just start it up sometimes? Make sure it doesn’t die from being ignored?”

“Course,” he said immediately, no drama. “I’ll take it round the block once a week. Promise I won’t get any ideas about fixin’ what ain’t broke.”

You snorted. “Uh-huh. I better not come back to a new battery, four new tires, and a bow on the hood.”

“Gonna hold the bow,” he said. “Might not be able to help myself on the battery.”

“Joel.”

“Kiddin’.” He wasn’t.

The sun slid an inch, and then another, changing the color of everything. Fenceposts walked alongside the road for a while and then got tired and let you go on without them. The truck’s engine found a hum it liked and stayed there. Somewhere between mile marker whatever and a little sign for a town you’d never heard of, you realized you’d been breathing easier for a full ten minutes. It felt like blasphemy and also like taking off shoes that were the wrong size without knowing it until your toes finally stretched.

You cracked the window another half inch, and the air carried a different scent in, a mineral sweetness you couldn’t name. Joel adjusted the AC one notch colder without being asked. You remembered all at once how many tiny kindnesses had accumulated between you, the hundred small ways a person says I know you, I know you, I know you. You wanted to list them out loud just to prove they existed.

He gestured with his chin toward the cooler tucked between your seats. “There’s a water in there for you.”

You opened it and found the one with the cap already loosened. He hadn’t said anything when he’d done that back at the gas station, just twisted the top until your hands wouldn’t have to fight it later. You thought you might cry over a plastic cap and decided maybe the desert had made you dumb.

“Thanks,” you said, and he tipped his head like of course.

A billboard promised THE BEST PECAN PIE IN NEW MEXICO at an exit that came and went too fast to test the claim. You imagined a version of this trip where you and Maria had stopped there and taken a picture with your mouths full, where she’d made you rank every pie crust on a scale from “cardboard” to “communion.” You imagined a version where Joel pulled off anyway, where he let you have a slice because your face had done that pleading thing he’d never been good at resisting. You imagined too many versions and had to blink away the ache.

You took a picture of the road to make your brain behave, windshield bugs and all, dash gauges glowing faintly, Joel’s wrist at the frame’s edge. It wasn’t a good photo. It felt like evidence anyway. We were here, we were moving, we were not done being ourselves even if we were done being us.

He nodded at your phone without looking. “Gonna print that one too?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Stick it in my desk. Remember that I didn’t pop into Tempe like a genie.”

He grunted. “Be a sorry genie if I had to rub a truck.”

“Don’t ruin metaphors,” you said. “It’s illegal across state lines.”

“Pretty sure the illegal thing is keepin’ your feet on the dash,” he said, and shot you a look that almost made you put them there on purpose just to see the vein in his forehead. You placed your soles square on the floor mat because you were trying to be the version of yourself who made good choices even when no one was watching.

The radio found a station with less static, then betrayed you by landing on something that sounded suspiciously like the same country station as before. This time, it wasn’t that song, but another one from the same shelf, the kind of lyric that would have you closing your eyes in the passenger seat, the kind of chorus you’d sing to the kitchen wall with a wooden spoon. You left it on as long as you could stand it and then let it fade into whatever came next. Joel didn’t comment. You didn’t either. Your hands kept finding the hem of your shirt and smoothing it flat like there was a wrinkle only you could see.

He surprised you when he asked, “You got any ideas what you wanna do for work out there? Like, the big work. Not just coffee.” His tone was casual but you knew him well enough to hear the care tucked underneath. He wanted you to say it out loud so it could start being true.

“Business, yeah,” you said. “But not like…I don’t want to live in a spreadsheet. I like people. I like making places that work better for them.” You thought of the reception area you’d turned softer, the rug, the plants that liked the morning light, the way clients’ shoulders loosened on that couch because it was a couch and not a chair meant for shouting. “Maybe operations. Maybe building something that keeps its promise.”

“Figure you already know how,” he said. “You did it to my office when you weren’t even tryin’.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, as if he hadn’t just handed you a sentence you’d put in your pocket for bad days. “You’ll find the job that fits.”

“And if I don’t?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“You will,” he said again, and the certainty in it steadied your pulse.

Somewhere near the state line, a dust devil unspooled across a bare field, dancing itself out before it touched anything that could be broken. You watched it go and thought, learn from that. Learn how to whirl and not ruin.

Joel rolled his shoulders like the day had taken up residence in them. “When you come home for Thanksgiving, if you do, you want me to pick you up from the airport?”

The picture jumped to life so quickly you could smell the terminal coffee. “Yeah,” you said, hope and caution stacked in the same syllable. “If you want to.”

He grunted something that meant yes without letting the word out where it could get lost. “I’ll bring you decent coffee so you don’t gotta drink that burnt nonsense before you even get your bag.”

You laughed. “Snob.”

“Standards,” he corrected.

The sun slid another inch. Signs began to suggest Phoenix without committing, then committed. Traffic thickened. The air-conditioning worked harder. Joel’s hands adjusted on the wheel like they were finally getting to do something besides endure. He cut a look at you that said he’d seen you watching him and had decided not to make you pay for it.

“You gonna be okay without the car?” he asked again, as if worry just needed something to chew on.

“I think so,” you said. “I’ll walk. Or bus. Or make a friend with a bike and ride on the handlebars until I break my teeth.”

He snorted. “Please don’t.”

“You’re no fun,” you said, which was your way of saying thanks for worrying.

“You’ll call,” he said less a question than a clause in a contract he hoped you’d sign.

“I’ll call,” you said, and meant it until money and pride and all the other bright stupidities stepped in between you and the phone. Today, though, you meant it with your whole mouth.

He nodded once. Let it be enough for now.

The miles did what miles do. You kept catching him in tiny kindnesses, scooting the cooler closer with his boot so you wouldn’t have to reach, nudging the vent so the air hit your face and not your sunburn, changing lanes with the kind of smoothness that made your stomach trust him even when your brain was busy remembering all the ways not to. You started to catalog them the way you’d been cataloging the horizon—this, this, this, this—as if you could build a bridge out of noticing.

“You cold?” he asked at one point, noticing before you did that you’d rubbed your arms because gooseflesh had risen.

“A little,” you said.

He turned the AC down a hair. Put nothing else on it. He never did, he just made a small, right change and moved on.

Outside, the light went from rude to tender. Palms began to show up in proper rows. Billboards turned earnest and urban. The world shifted from out there to we’re almost. You felt your heart start to bang the way it does when you’ve been holding a door shut and someone on the other side finally stops pushing.

“Last chance to turn around,” you joked, and your voice did that wobble thing on the second word.

“Not funny,” he said, which was how you knew he’d heard the wobble and didn’t trust his mouth to handle it.

You put your phone against the window and snapped one more picture, your reflection layered over the road, Joel’s hand at the wheel, a sign for TEMPE 15 that you wanted to chew like a nail. You didn’t check to see if it was good. You knew you’d print it anyway and stick it behind something where no one else would find it until years later when you moved again and needed proof that once, you were this brave.

“Hey,” he said quietly, almost like he was afraid of scaring the moment. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You nodded. Didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

You believed him for the length of a breath and then again for the length of another. It was enough to carry you the rest of the way.

Pulling off the highway, the first thing that hit you was the color, maroon and gold on every banner, every sign, every awning. Palm trees lined the boulevard like it was their duty to welcome you, their fronds swaying against a blue too wide to be believed. Arizona State was bigger than any picture could’ve hinted at. The campus looked alive, sunlight flashing on windows, fountains spitting diamonds into the air, clusters of students spilling across crosswalks with backpacks slung casual and laughter that didn’t know how lucky it sounded.

You shrank a little in your seat. “Shouldn’t be you,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “Should be my parents dropping me off.”

Joel’s knuckles flexed once on the wheel, then settled. He pulled into the lot by the dorms and let the engine tick itself quiet. “Should be,” he said finally, steady. “But it ain’t. And listen, don’t you let that cheapen it. You’re better than them. Always were.”

The words landed heavy, like he’d placed them in your hands instead of said them. You stared through the windshield at a father clumsily helping his daughter with a mini fridge, at a mother fussing with a blanket, at parents who would never show up for you.

You blinked fast and pulled your first box onto your lap. “Guess we better find my room.”

Turns out, that was easier said than done. The dorm map was a puzzle with half the pieces missing, and the building numbers didn’t make sense, not to you and apparently not to Joel either. You wandered past a courtyard where kids were stringing up fairy lights, circled a fountain twice, got turned around in a hallway that seemed to lead back where you started. Joel carried one of your heavier boxes like it weighed nothing, muttering directions under his breath.

At one point you stopped, laughing despite yourself. “We’re lost.”

He smirked, shifting the box against his chest. “Don’t tell Maria.”

You found the room eventually, door propped open, walls bare and echoing, the kind of space that felt like a question. Two beds, two desks, a closet that smelled faintly of fresh paint. It was nice enough, clean, but empty.

Joel set the box down with a grunt, looked around. “Bare bones. But you’ll make it right. You’ll decorate this place just fine.” His eyes flicked over you, softened. “Same way you did the office. Same way you did…” He paused, throat moving. “My house.”

You didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, you crouched, tugging open the box at your feet. Books, notebooks, a framed picture of you and Maria, wrapped in a sweatshirt. And at the bottom, small velvet, catching the light.

You froze. The heart-shaped charm necklace. The one Joel had given you on your birthday, back when the world between you was still bright, before the truth burned holes through it. Your fingers closed around it before you could think, before he could see the way your chest broke open.

The room went very still. Joel looked at the chain glinting in your hand, then away, jaw tightening like he’d been the one cut by it.

You swallowed hard, throat rough as sand. “I...I didn’t know I’d packed it.”

But you had. Of course you had.

He didn’t say anything, just crouched to pull another box closer, as if the work could hold the silence for you both. The necklace burned cool against your palm.

And the room—the room that was supposed to be the start of everything—already carried too many ghosts.

You and Joel worked until there was nothing left to do but pretend there was. Hangers scraped softly as you spaced shirts like they mattered, folded the same blanket twice just to give your hands a job. Joel broke down the last cardboard box with the side of his palm, neat, efficient, the tape making that slow rip that sounds like a zipper on memory.

The room had shifted around you, less echo, more you. Books were lined up like little spines on the shelf. Your mug—Maria’s thrift-store find—sat by the kettle you weren’t technically supposed to have. A strand of fairy lights waited unlit along the window, ready to sweeten the night. Outside, the campus was easing toward evening, voices softer, the fountain a hush instead of a shout, the sky taking on the coppery edge that makes everything look loved.

You smoothed your hand over the desk just to feel the wood catch your skin. “Well,” you said, because endings require small words. “I guess this is it.”

Joel’s thumb worried a curl of cardboard until it gave. He tucked the flat box against the wall, straightened, and took the room in one more time, the way he does when he’s about to leave a site and wants to make sure he’s not missing a nail out of place. “Yeah,” he said. The syllable was steady. His eyes were not. “My hotel’s about an hour out. Best get on the road, beat the worst of the traffic. U-Haul wants their rig back in two days.”

You tried for lightness and missed by a degree. “No time for sightseeing, huh?”

He shook his head, a shadow of a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. “Saw everything I needed to.” His gaze flicked to you and away. “With you.”

Something loosened and pinched at the same time behind your ribs. You nodded like adults nod, slow, measured, as if that could keep anything from spilling. “Okay.”

The distance between you wasn’t much, five feet of cheap carpet, two beds, a lifetime of what if. You crossed it first. You didn’t say, Can I. You didn’t have to. He met you halfway like a tide reaching itself.

The hug landed quiet and irrevocable. No theatrics, just the fact of his arms around you, the broad plane of his chest, the scent that had nested in your lungs so long it felt like air, cedar, coffee, sun. He exhaled into your hair, a shiver of breath you tried to borrow for yourself. Your fingers curled in his shirt at the seam of the shoulder, the one you’d learned by heart. He tightened once, a bracket, then gentled the hold like he remembered the work of letting go.

The room telescoped. You saw all the firsts and almosts layered over this one small ordinary goodbye, your knees knocking his under diner tables, blue morning light through his blinds, the way he’d murmured your name like a promise and a question and sometimes a prayer. If you tipped your face up, you could kiss him. You knew it, where his mouth would be, how the first inch would feel like falling and the second like landing. The thought flared and ached, brilliant and brutal.

You didn’t move.

He was the one who eased back, careful, as if he were setting something fragile down. His hands lingered at your elbows, the slightest squeeze, then slipped away. The silence after felt like ringing.

“Thank you,” you managed. For the road. For the patience. For not letting me swallow myself whole.

He nodded, jaw working once. “Proud of you,” he said again, quieter, as if the room were a church and this the last right thing left to say.

You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth, like Maria taught you when feelings got tall. “Don’t say that or I’ll”

The door banged wide.

“Uggghhh, finally,” a voice announced, breathless and victorious. “I didn’t think I was ever gonna find this damn dorm. Why is it a maze? Who hates freshmen?”

You and Joel startled apart like kids caught behind the gym. A girl breezed in backward, dragging a suitcase with one hand and a plant with the other. She pivoted, clocked you both, and froze for half a second, cheeks flushing. “Oh. Hi. Sorry. That was….an entrance.”

You laughed on an inhale because the room needed oxygen. “We got lost too,” you confessed. “Twice.”

“See?” She pointed at you with the plant. “It’s not just me. I’m Callie, by the way. Roommate-slash-human tornado.”

“Hi, Callie,” you said, tugging the hem of your shirt like it could organize your heart. Your name fit clean in your mouth for the first time all day, new room acoustics. “And this is Joel. He was just”

“Leaving,” Joel supplied, polite to a fault, already backing toward the doorway like a big-furred dog terrified of knocking over a toddler. “Welcome.”

“Thanks!” she chirped, leaning the suitcase against the wall. “I have like four more trips. My mom’s circling like a hawk. She’s in a mood about parking. You should probably flee.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. “That my cue.” He looked at you one last time, the kind of look that tucks something into a pocket you can’t pat. “Take care.”

“You too,” you said, and for once the words felt like a bridge instead of a shrug.

He stepped into the hall. Callie slipped by him with a gasp of “Soooo sorry,” then popped back an inch and stage-whispered, “Dude....... damn your dad is hot.”

It happened on his exhale. He didn’t stumble, didn’t choke. Just a bare pause at the hinge, half a heartbeat where his shoulder hit the doorframe and he absorbed the sentence like shrapnel with dignity. Then the smallest shake of his head, a huff that could have been a laugh if anyone here were built for easy, and he was gone, boots on the stairs, the sound receding.

Heat climbed your neck. “He’s not my” You cut yourself off, useless. “We’re…It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Callie said cheerfully, then clapped like a coach. “Okay! I have a mother with a minivan and an advanced degree in panic idling out front. Help?”

You were grateful for the distraction. “Absolutely.”

The next hour was a small storm of boxes and ice-breaker chatter. Callie’s mom swept in talking a mile a minute and hugging like you’d done something brave just by existing nearby. You let yourself be handed lamps and folded duvets and the illusion that every life fits in a trunk if you’re ruthless enough. You learned Callie was from Santa Barbara, that she has a little brother who skateboards like gravity owes him a favor, that she once ate a ghost pepper on a dare and saw God. You told them Texas things in return, easy ones, Maria’s lists, Tommy’s grill, Sarah’s baby who slept like she was being paid for it.

Each trip up the stairs, you caught the echo of boots that weren’t Joel’s and let your stomach settle around the difference.

When the door closed behind the last box and Callie’s mom finally consented to go “Text me pictures of your fire alarm if you set it off!” the room felt fuller and somehow more yours. Callie flopped on her unmade bed and fanned herself with a course catalog. “Okay, roommate, I like you already. You pass my vibe check.”

“Blessings upon us both,” you said, setting the plant under the window where the light fell kind.

She lifted a brow. “You good? You look like somebody walked over your grave and then apologized about it.”

You smiled, squinting into it. “I’m excited. And tired. And every other thing.”

“A stew,” she declared. “You’re a stew.” She wriggled off the bed. “Target run in the morning? We’ll throw money we don’t have at organizers we don’t need.”

“Deal.”

You showered after she called dibs on FaceTiming her dad. The water ran too hot and not long enough, and still, when you stood there with your forehead against the tile you felt layers rinse away, the road grit, the dunes’ salt-powder, the last of Texas night. When you came out in an old T-shirt, Callie had hung a few shirts in her closet crooked and was humming something that might have been a church song or a pop anthem slowed down.

“Lights?” she asked, hand hovering by the switch.

“Give me ten,” you said. “I’m gonna text my…” You fumbled the word and let it go. “My people.”

You sat at your desk, the one you’d already nicked with your key, and took inventory of the quiet. Campus sound floated in, the scooter whine, the fountain’s hush, a whoop from someone making a new friend. You thumbed your phone awake. Three messages from Maria, one from Sarah with a photo of Ellie sleeping mid-scream, mouth open, tiny fist curled like she’d won the fight. Nothing from Joel. Of course not. That was a mercy and a wound.

You typed to Maria first Made it. Room is cute. I’m okay. Miss you already.

Her reply came like always, immediate, effusive, a parade. SO PROUD I COULD LIFT A CAR. Eat a snack. Drink water. Send pics or I will perish.

You took a picture of the room with the lights still on. It looked softer through your camera, everything did. You sent it. She sent sixteen hearts and a GIF of a woman air-hugging through a screen.

Then, because you’re the kind of person who labels boxes and still leaves something out, you opened the top drawer where you’d stashed the little velvet box and slipped it out like contraband. The necklace lay against your palm, fine chain caught on its own shine. You didn’t put it on. You just held it, thumb rubbing the heart’s smooth face until your pulse remembered its job. You tucked it back when your eyes got hot.

By the time Callie clicked off her video call and collapsed with a dramatic groan equal parts theater and truth, you’d moved your body through the small rituals that make a place livable, filling the mug with pens, tucking the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, placing the book you were pretending you’d start tonight by the lamp. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, and climbed into sheets that smelled like detergent and not-home.

“Lights?” Callie asked again, dimmer switch pinched between two fingers like a magician.

“Yeah,” you said, and it came out steadier than you felt.

The room went soft. The fairy lights made a low halo over the window. Outside, the courtyard lamp cast a square of pale on the floor like a throw rug they forgot to pick up. Callie turned onto her side and sighed in the put-on way of people trying to make someone else comfortable. “Night, new friend.”

“Night,” you said, feeling the word settle over you like a blanket.

You lay there a long time with your eyes open. Not crying. Not bargaining. Taking inventory of the ache and how it didn’t consume you as much as accompany you, like a familiar song playing low in another room. You let yourself think of Joel, hands at ten-and-two, jaw in profile under gold light, the way he’d paused at the threshold like the door might say his name back. You let yourself think of Texas as a thing that could be mapped, a house that smelled like cedar, a porch where Maria would sit with her coffee and the paper, a streetlamp that knows the shape of your worst nights. You let yourself think of mornings that hadn’t happened yet, coffee here, done the way you like it, a walk across the quad where you don’t feel like an impostor, a class that makes your brain light up like a switchboard, a laugh that surprises you out of your own mouth.

You stitched those pictures together like a quilt to sleep under.

It was not the end of the road. But the road had ended here, for now. That’s the thing no one tells you about arrivals, they feel a little like grief, right up until they feel like grace.

You rolled onto your side, face toward the window, and let the dark be a friend. “Goodnight,” you said to the room, to the campus, to the version of yourself who had gotten you here against so many odds. “Please keep me steady.”

The air conditioning hummed back, faithful. Somewhere below, laughter became a lullaby. Your eyes slipped shut.

You would wake in a different life. For now, you rested in the threshold, one hand open on the sheet, as if ready to take what morning offered.

Chapter Text

The weeks slipped by in a blur of sunlit courtyards, lecture halls too big for their own echo, and the constant rattle of someone else’s voice outside your dorm window. August bled into September before you realized you’d stopped counting the days.

You woke early, you stayed up late. You bought notebooks that already had their corners bent from being jammed into your bag, and pens that somehow vanished every time you needed one most. You learned which buildings had the best air conditioning and which didn’t at all. You mapped the path to the dining hall, to the library, to the one vending machine that carried the brand of soda you liked best.

And slowly, the campus began to feel less like a movie set you’d been dropped into and more like somewhere you could belong, at least for now.

There were names to memorize, faces to match them to. Study groups formed in corners of the library, voices hushed but bright. Dorm mixers blurred into late-night pizza runs. A girl from your English seminar taught you how to work the buses, a boy from your history class lent you his spare highlighter. You let the rhythm of their chatter pull you along, even on days you felt like a tourist in your own life.

Somewhere in the chaos, you tried rushing a sorority. Not because you’d ever seen yourself in Greek letters, but because someone down the hall swore the sisterhood was worth it. You went to the first meeting, watched girls with glossy hair and loud laughter circle each other like they’d been born to this dance, and left before the end. Maybe later, you told yourself. Maybe when you felt less like the odd shape in the puzzle.

Callie had slipped into your life like a song you didn’t know you already knew the words to. At first, you’d been wary, two strangers split by tape down the middle of a dorm room, two different hometowns, two different sets of habits. She liked to wake up early, you preferred staying up late. She drank iced coffee even when it was cold, you swore by hot. She studied in bursts, you wrote lists.

But the differences never mattered. Somehow, they bent around each other instead of colliding.

She teased you about your “mom tendencies,” how you couldn’t stand a crooked picture on the wall or a pile of dishes in the sink. You teased her about the way she’d sing along to every song on her playlist, even when she only knew half the words. Nights stretched long with her sprawled across your bed telling you about her little brother back home, or the time she nearly broke her arm climbing a fence, or how she still didn’t know what she wanted to major in.

She reminded you of Sarah before motherhood, bright, restless, impatient for the world to notice her. Callie had that same spark, that same quick laugh. But she wasn’t Sarah, not really. She was her own whirlwind, and you found yourself grateful for it.

It felt almost like having a sister. The kind who didn’t share your blood but shared your snacks, your secrets, your complaints about professors who assigned ten-page papers like it was nothing. She’d drape an arm over your shoulders when you were homesick. She’d shove half her fries toward you without asking when you looked tired.

You hadn’t expected to find that here. You hadn’t expected to find her.

And in the quiet moments—when she fell asleep with her headphones still glowing blue, or when she reached across to flick off your lamp because she knew you’d forget—you realized this was what it meant to build a life from scratch. To stitch new people into the fabric of yourself.

There were calls home too, Maria’s voice carrying all the warmth of Texas kitchens, Tommy’s half-joking reports of his latest screw-ups, Sarah’s giggles brightening the line when she pressed the phone against baby Ellie’s mouth so you could hear the babbling. Even your dad once when he was sober, surprising you with stiff but genuine questions about your classes, about whether you were eating enough.

But the biggest surprise was Joel.

The first time you dialed his number, it was out of something like obligation. Guilt, maybe. Or just the need to hear a voice that sounded like steady ground. You’d expected him to keep it short, ask if you were settled, then hang up. Instead, he talked. Told you about Tommy nearly backing the truck into a mailbox, about how Janice was working out just fine. About how Ellie was growing like a weed, already trying to sit up at four months, stubborn as her pawpaw.

You listened, and you told him things too. About your professors, about the friend who swore you had to join a sorority, about the party's of campus he didn't see that looked even better than it ever had in pictures. You told him about grades and how hard it was to focus when everything was new and loud.

And then you called again the next week.

Once a week turned into twice. Twice turned into every other day.

By mid-September, you were talking every night.

It never drifted into anything it shouldn’t have. No flirting. No words you’d regret if Maria overheard. Just…chemistry. The kind that filled every pause without you trying. The kind that made hours disappear. You’d start a call meaning to check in quick, and suddenly the clock glowed 2 a.m. and you were still laughing, still listening, still hungry for the next thing he might say. Thank God your roommate was a heavy sleeper.

Sometimes you shoved your textbooks aside, promised yourself you’d catch up later. Other times you balanced the phone against your shoulder and told him what you were studying, and he hummed along like he cared, even if he didn’t understand half the words. He told you about the smell of sawdust on job sites, about the way Ellie’s tiny fingers clutched at his shirt, about mornings when his back hurt worse than usual and he joked he was already halfway to being ancient.

It wasn’t the kind of intimacy you could name. But it was the kind that made the dorm feel less empty when the calls ended. The kind that made you dread hanging up even when your eyes blurred from exhaustion.

And you didn’t stop.

You didn’t want to.

The date sat on your calendar for weeks like a bruise you kept brushing against, joel’s birthday.

You thought about flights. Thought about how you could maybe scrape together the money if you skipped a few meals in the dining hall and picked up an extra shift once you landed a job. But classes stacked up quick, syllabi scolding you in bold letters about attendance policies. And holidays weren’t far off, Thanksgiving, Christmas. You wanted to save the visits for then, when you’d have more than a weekend.

So you stayed.

Stayed, and spent the whole day restless, circling campus like a ghost, stomach pulled tight with the thought of missing it. You told yourself it wasn’t like last year. Last year, you weren’t calling him from a thousand miles away, weren’t waking up alone. Last year, you had him, for real and not for real, and you didn’t even realize how fragile it was until it slipped.

This year, you propped your phone on your pillow and waited for Sarah’s FaceTime call.

The screen lit up with her grin, Ellie perched in her lap like a doll come to life, everyone crowded in the background. Maria with her cake, Tommy with his too-loud voice, Joel holding a plate already half-empty.

They started singing.

And you sang too, a thousand miles away, your voice wobbling but steady. Joel sat at the head of the table, cheeks pink from embarrassment, eyes shining from more than the candles. You swallowed tears and forced yourself to smile, forced yourself to act like it was enough.

Because it had to be.

When the candles went out, the screen jostled, everyone talking at once, plates clattering, Tommy saying something that made Sarah roll her eyes. The moment stretched thin until, one by one, they drifted away, leaving the kitchen quieter. Joel gave the camera a nod, his hand warm on Ellie’s back as Sarah wrangled her off to bed.

Then your phone buzzed again.

Joel Miller.

You answered before the first ring finished. “Didn’t get enough of me already?”

His laugh was rough, warm. “Sarah showed me this…what d’you call it…FaceTime? Felt strange with everyone crowded in. Figured I’d try it with just you.”

The angle was all wrong, his forehead too close, the room behind him tilted. You snorted. “Joel, you’re showin’ me your hairline.”

He frowned down at the phone, muttering under his breath, shifting it one way, then the other. “Damn thing…”

“Other button,” you coached, laughter bubbling up. “Turn the camera. No, the little circle. Joel, that’s the volume”

Finally, you saw him, properly this time. Leaning back in his chair, lines carved deeper into his face than you remembered, but his eyes catching the light like always.

“There,” you said, softer. “Told you you could figure it out.”

“Still feels strange,” he admitted, voice lower now.

You made him keep it anyway.

You lay on your stomach, propped him against your pillow, your feet swinging lazy behind you. He sat there in the little square, the glow of his kitchen falling across his shoulders. The distance between you shrank, not gone but different, held in pixels and wireless signals and the way his mouth tipped when you teased him.

“So,” you said, grinning. “Old as hell now, huh?”

He gave you that mock glare you’d missed, shaking his head. “52's not old.”

“Please. You’re practically a senior citizen. I should be sendin’ you coupons for the early bird special.”

He huffed. “Careful. You’re talkin’ to the man who drove your ass across the country. You don’t wanna make me regret it.”

The banter was easy. Natural. Like muscle memory. You teased until your cheeks ached from smiling, until your laughter slipped out too fast, too hard, until you had to slap your hand over your face to smother it.

Joel cocked his head. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” You waved him off, fingers pressed against your mouth.

He didn’t buy it. “Darlin’, I can see you grinnin’. Spit it out.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, heat rising all the way to your ears. “It’s stupid.”

“All the more reason I wanna hear it.”

You peeked at him through your lashes, heart pounding. “You remember…..when you first got your new phone?”

His brow furrowed. “Yeah.”

You shifted, pressing your face into the pillow, voice muffled. “Remember the first…uh…the first picture you took?”

Joel froze. His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing slow, his mouth parting just enough to let the color rise into his cheeks.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Your laugh turned nervous, tumbling out too quick. “I told you it was stupid.”

But you couldn’t stop looking at him. The way his eyes cut down, then back to you. The way the memory hung between you, dangerous and sweet, the kind of thing that felt too close to touch but impossible to ignore.

You rolled onto your side, staring at his face in the tiny square, at the man who was still Joel, still yours and not yours. The silence grew heavy, humming with all the things you weren’t supposed to say.

And still, you felt it. The ghost of that picture, the ghost of him.

~~~~

The room was still.

Heavy with heat. Skin on skin. Your thighs still sticky, his breath still ragged. Your legs were tangled with his, your body boneless.

Joel rolled onto his side, still panting, one hand sliding gently over your stomach, the other braced against the sheets. His cock twitched, still wet from where he’d just finished on you.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed. Ruined. Your hair was a mess. There was sweat between your breasts. Your lips were red. Your thighs were parted, and his cum was slowly trailing down.

And Joel?

Joel fucking stared.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You turned your head lazily. “What?”

“You. You look like a fuckin’ dream right now.”

You smiled, lazy and smug. “Yeah, well. You’re welcome.”

He reached for something on the nightstand.

You didn’t think anything of it until you heard the click. The new phone he just got today.

Your eyes widened. “Joel! what the hell?”

He held it up again, snapped another one. “Don’t move.”

“Joel,” you groaned, dragging the sheet up. “What are you doing?”

He grinned, boyish, guilty, completely unrepentant.

“I don’t ever wanna forget this,” he said. “You, right after I fucked you. All wrecked and smilin’. Lookin’ like that.”

You flushed. “You don’t even know how to work that thing.”

“I know enough,” he said, clickin the phone off with a little snap. “I know how to take a picture. And I know how to keep it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If I ever find that photo, you’re dead.”

“Then you better not snoop,” he said, leaning in to kiss you. “But for the record? You looked so fuckin’ good I’d hang that picture on the fridge if I thought I could get away with it.”

You laughed into his mouth.

He pulled you close again, still half-hard, hand drifting back between her thighs.
~~~

The memory broke like a wave, pulling you under and spitting you back out. The dorm ceiling above you was flat and white, the pillow cool where your cheek pressed. But you were flushed, cheeks hot, skin tingling, your breath coming shallow.

And worse, you could feel it. The ache low in your belly, the warmth spreading, the unmistakable wetness that made you bite the inside of your lip until it hurt.

Joel was still on the screen, leaning back in his kitchen chair, face shadowed by the low light. He hadn’t spoken since you reminded him of that first photo. His jaw worked like he was chewing over words he wasn’t sure he should let out.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t be talkin’ about stuff like that.”

You tucked your face half into your pillow, muffling the smile that tugged at your mouth. “Why not? It’s harmless. Just a memory.”

His eyes flicked up at you, sharp. “You and I both know it crosses a boundary.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering. “I guess so. But…..it’s fun to see you squirm.”

That earned you a huff, almost a laugh, though his mouth stayed tight. He dragged his hand over his jaw, beard rasping against his palm, the sound of a man trying not to grin.

You propped yourself up on your elbow, the glow from your screen catching the mischief in your eyes. “Tell me, Joel. Did you delete it?”

His gaze darted away, too fast. “Yes.”

You sat up straighter, pounced on it. “Liar.”

“I’m not lyin’,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You are,” you pressed. “You’ve got a tell.”

That got his attention. He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Do I now?”

“Mhm.” You folded your arms, smug. “I’m not telling you what it is, though.”

Joel actually laughed then, low, reluctant, but real. It reached his eyes, crinkling them at the edges, softening the whole of him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” you shot back, though your throat felt tight from how much you wanted him, how much you shouldn’t.

For a moment, it was quiet. Just the hum of your dorm’s radiator, the faint buzz of his kitchen light, the way both of you stared at each other through thin glass like it might crack if you leaned too hard.

Then Joel exhaled, slow. “Alright. It’s late. I better go to bed.”

You glanced at your clock. “It’s only eight-thirty.”

“Yeah, well…been a long day. I’m tired.”

You sighed, already missing the weight of his voice. “Okay.”

The word hung there, final, like the end of a rope. But you couldn’t let it be the last thing. Not tonight.

“Joel?” you said quickly, before he could hit the red button.

His brow lifted. “Yeah?”

You let your grin spread slow, wicked, unstoppable. “Have fun looking at that picture tonight.”

And before he could react, before he could scold or protest or hang up himself, you tapped End.

The call blinked out, your screen dark, leaving you in your dorm with your pulse racing and your body humming, laughter muffled in your pillow.

A thousand miles away, you pictured him still staring at his phone, shaking his head, fighting a smile he couldn’t quite bury.

And the thought only made you giggle harder.

Chapter Text

The calls never stopped.

The cadence of his voice settled into your evenings the way the desert sun sank behind the mountains outside your dorm.

It wasn’t flirting. Not at first.

But there was a rhythm you knew too well to pretend it wasn’t there. He’d warn you, now and then, in that low voice of his “Careful. You’re pushin’ a boundary.” And you’d push right back, soft as silk, “Sometimes boundaries are meant to be broken.”

He never hung up when you said it.

The flirting was delicate at first. You’d tease him about getting older, about needing glasses to see the fine print. He’d fire back, calling you a menace, saying you’d give him gray hair, and you’d laugh because he already had it. Then came the selfies. You’d send one between classes, sitting on the library steps, sunlight striping across your face. Or late at night, hair messy from studying, lips pressed to a straw. He’d sigh, complain about how blurry his screen made them, but the corner of his mouth would tilt up every time.

One night he stared at your picture longer than usual, quiet stretching between you. Then, soft and almost to himself, he muttered, “Don’t know how the boys in your classes keep their hands off you.”

You felt the heat rise to your ears. “They try,” you admitted. “But I don’t give them attention.”

It was the truth. You hadn’t looked at anyone else the way you looked at him. Joel had ruined the world for anyone who wasn’t him, and you didn’t mind living in the ruins.

He went quiet for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “Good,” was all he said. But the way his voice dipped low, heavy as an oath, left you aching in places you tried not to name.

He never asked for more. You never offered. The chemistry stayed in that almost-space, like a storm that hadn’t broken, clouds pressing low, lightning flashing at the edges but never striking. But you thought about it. You knew he did too. Sometimes you circled back to the hotel, his face when he caught you, the shame, the hunger unspoken. You brought it up once, just to see.

“Remember that morning?” you asked, light as you could manage.

Joel’s sigh rattled through the phone. “Darlin’...”

“I’m not saying anything,” you interrupted quickly, though your voice caught. “Just..people have needs. Desire. Release.”

“Stop.” But it was the gentlest stop you’d ever heard.

You stopped talking about it, but the air between you carried the memory anyway.

September folded into October. October slipped toward November. Classes piled up. Essays stacked like bricks. You walked across campus with leaves crunching underfoot, phone pressed to your ear, Joel’s voice filling the gaps between palm trees and the copper sprawl of ASU’s quads. He asked about your grades. You asked about baby Ellie, six months now, laughing at Tommy’s exaggerated faces, already strong enough to kick when you held her tiny feet in your palm. Joel confessed he was feeling older these days, groaning when he bent too far, stiff when he woke. You told him he’d always be old to you, but that you liked him that way. He told you to hush.

The world kept moving, but your evenings stayed stitched together by those calls.

Then came November.

Thanksgiving crept close, and with it the ache. You’d circle the date on your calendar, glance at it, trace it with your fingertip like it would bring you closer. You wanted to be home, home in the way Joel’s voice made you feel, steady, safe, seen.

You missed him so fiercely you thought it might come out of your skin.

You missed the smell of cedar on his shirt. The scrape of his laugh low in his chest. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You missed his arms, his hands, his mouth. You missed the life you’d had, and the life you almost had, and the part of you that still believed you could.

More than anything, you ached to run into his arms.

And another part of you—lower, hungrier—ached just as hard.

Airports had always made you nervous. Too many voices braided together, too many rolling suitcases knocking against your ankles, too many screens flashing with the insistence of departures and arrivals. The overhead voice called numbers you didn’t know, and for a moment you felt very small inside something enormous.

But Joel had texted before you even landed, at the curb. waiting. Of course he was. Joel Miller was nothing if not dependable, even when you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.

You trailed with the crowd out of the gate, backpack straps digging into your shoulders, eyes darting over the faces that weren’t his. Families with signs. Couples tugging each other close. A soldier scooping up a child who shrieked Daddy like the word had been waiting inside her chest all year. And then

There he was.

Leaned up against a column like he’d been carved there. Hand in his jacket pockets, boots planted wide, the slouch of a man trying not to stand out and failing because the world bent a little where he was. His hair was more salt than last time you saw him, you swore it. His jaw a little rougher. He looked older—somehow older—even though only three months had passed.

Your stomach pulled tight.

You walked faster. The crowd thinned, blurred, until the only thing in focus was him straightening, pulling his hand free, that almost-smile tugging one corner of his mouth.

And then you ran.

The bag thudded against your hip, your sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, and you didn’t care who saw, didn’t care if anyone was watching when you threw yourself into his arms.

Joel caught you like he’d never let you fall. One arm hooked around your back, the other steady at your waist. You smelled cedar and smoke, and beneath it, airport coffee he’d probably bought and not finished. His chest rumbled with a low laugh, surprised but not unwelcome.

“Easy, darlin’,” he said against your hair. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. That crease between his brows had eased, but not smoothed. You wanted to reach up, press your thumb there, erase it for good.

Instead, you noticed the flowers in his hand. Small bouquet, stems wrapped in cheap paper, blooms tilted from the jostle of the crowd. Your favorites. Your breath caught.

“You, Joel.”

He cleared his throat, shifted the bouquet toward you. “They’re from Maria.”

You took them anyway. “Sure they are.”

Color climbed up his neck, and he looked away like the ceiling signs were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“It’s good to see you,” he said finally. His voice was rougher than the last time you heard it through the phone. Rougher, but warmer too. “You look…..good.”

Something in you twisted. “You look older somehow,” you teased, the words out before you could reel them back. “Even though it’s only been a little while.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, narrowing just a fraction. “Older, huh?”

You swallowed a laugh. “I mean, you already looked old, but now”

“Careful.” His mouth tugged, not quite a smile, not quite a threat.

You hugged the flowers to your chest, heat rising to your face. Around you, the airport kept moving, families passing, announcements echoing, but the two of you stood in the middle like a pause in the world’s sentence.

For a second, you thought of saying it, the thing that sat on your tongue every night after your calls, the thing that kept you up when the dorm quieted down and the world was too big to hold. But Joel shifted his weight, rubbed his palm down his jeans, and the moment passed.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, voice gentled now. “Bet you’re tired of planes.”

You nodded, falling into step beside him, his arm brushing yours once, then twice. You told yourself it was just the crowd.

It wasn’t.

Joel’s truck smelled the same as always, leather warmed by the sun, a faint trace of coffee grounds, and that low hum of cigarette smoke that never quite went away no matter how many times he swore he was quitting. You slid into the passenger seat with the flowers balanced across your lap, their stems damp against the paper wrap. Joel closed your door with more care than necessary, like the bouquet might shatter if the frame clicked too hard.

The airport slipped behind you, its sprawl of glass and steel shrinking in the rearview mirror. The highway opened wide, dusk already pooling low, desert air brushing cool through the cracked window.

Neither of you spoke at first. You toyed with the petals of your bouquet, peeling one leaf back and smoothing it flat again. Joel’s hands stayed steady at ten and two, the rhythm of the road vibrating beneath the tires.

You glanced over. His jaw was set, stubble catching the last of the light. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked deeper than they had in August. Older, you’d teased, but the word stuck now in your throat like something tender.

“You really didn’t have to,” you said finally, holding up the bouquet. “Maria or not.”

He shrugged, eyes fixed on the road. “Figured you’d like somethin’ familiar after the flight.”

Your chest tightened. “I do. Thank you.”

Silence again, but not heavy this time. More like a blanket you both pulled close.

The city rolled by in neon and headlights. Joel flicked the turn signal, merged clean into the right lane. “So. How’s school?”

You smiled at the windshield. “Busy. Hard. I think I like it, though. Some days I feel like I’m drowning. Other days, it feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“Sounds about right.”

The road narrowed, familiar turns bending toward Austin. By the time Joel pulled into Maria and Tommy’s driveway, night had fully fallen, porch light casting a wide yellow circle against the door. You sat a moment before unbuckling, staring at the glow like it was some kind of beacon.

Joel shut the engine off. “Ready?”

You weren’t. But you nodded anyway.

Inside, the house smelled like rosemary and bread, warmth curling against your cheeks before you even shut the door behind you. Maria was already in the hallway, apron still tied from dinner prep, hair pulled back in that no-nonsense way of hers.

The second she saw you, her face crumpled.

You dropped the flowers onto the entry table and threw your arms around her. The hug was crushing, desperate, the kind that pulled tears straight from your chest before you could hold them in.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, voice breaking.

Maria squeezed tighter, rocking you slightly like you were still a kid. “You have no idea how much I missed you.” Her words cracked, but her hands stayed strong at your back, grounding you.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you swiping at damp cheeks, Tommy was there. He wrapped you in one of his bear hugs, laughing low and saying, “Look at you. College girl.”

“Don’t remind me,” you said, grinning through tears.

The four of you ended up in the living room, settled into the soft lamps and familiar couches. Joel in his usual spot at the far end, Tommy in the armchair, Maria curled beside you. The conversation unspooled naturally, like a thread you’d only set down for a minute.

You told them about campus, about classes that were already harder than you expected, about the people you’d met. Maria listened like every word was gold. Tommy cracked jokes about frat boys and overpriced textbooks. Joel stayed quiet, but you felt his gaze flicker over you, steady as a hand you couldn’t hold.

Then it was your turn to listen. Maria told you about her third graders, how they’d made turkeys out of traced handprints, each feather a scribbled note about what they were thankful for. “One wrote he was thankful for Cheetos,” she said, laughing. “And another for his dog’s ears.”

“They’re good answers,” you said, smiling.

“They are,” Maria agreed. She reached over, brushed a strand of hair from your face, her voice softening. “You look good. College is treating you well.”

You nodded, though your pulse jumped. Because even as you answered Maria, you could feel Joel’s eyes on you. The heat of them. The weight. Like a magnet pulling north, even when you tried to hold steady. Desire, restrained but thick in the air, wound itself through the room.

You didn’t dare meet his gaze. Not here. Not in front of everyone. But the knowledge of it pressed against your ribs.

The conversation rolled on. Tommy asked about professors. Maria asked if you’d found a job yet. Joel interjected only once, when you mentioned walking alone across campus at night. “Don’t,” he said, voice firm. “Not safe.”

Maria swatted his knee. “She’s fine. Don’t scare her.”

“I’m not scarin’ her,” Joel muttered. “I’m bein’ realistic.”

You hid your smile behind your glass of water. Some things never changed.

Eventually, Maria stood, wiping her hands on her apron. “The guest room’s all made up for you. Clean sheets, extra blankets. You’ll sleep well.”

You exhaled, sudden warmth flooding you. “Thank you.”

Maria smiled, kissed the top of your head. “You’re home, sweetheart. Of course.”

You looked up, heart full, and caught Joel’s eyes across the room. The look was brief, almost nothing. But it landed like everything.

The guest room smelled like laundry and lemon oil, Maria’s version of welcome. You set your bag on the quilt and stood there a moment, taking in the lamp with its soft shade, the stack of folded towels, the little dish on the dresser where she’d left two chocolates and a note in purple ink. Sleep. You’re safe.

You wrote her back a heart, brushed your fingers over Kevin’s photo on the nightstand like a quiet goodnight, and headed back to the living room. Joel was standing by the door with his keys in his palm, unhurried and already halfway gone in that way he had, a man arranged for leaving.

“Headin’ out,” he said. “Let y’all catch up.”

“Wait.” You heard the word before you’d decided to say it. “Can I…ride with you? I should go say hi to my dad, grab my car.” “If that’s okay.”

His jaw shifted, calculating, bracing, softening. “Yeah,” he said. “C’mon.”

Outside, the November air had that Texas trick of being warm and thin at once. You hugged your arms around yourself on the short walk to the truck. The cab door thunked shut, the quiet folded in. Streetlights strung the block like low stars.

Joel drove the way he always did in your neighborhood, slow, respectful of the corners he knew by heart. You watched the houses pass, the fences you used to measure summers against, the porch where you’d once stood waiting for a life to start.

“You don’t have to go in,” he said when he stopped in front of your place. The living room lamp was off, the window a flat, dark square. “If you don't want to, I mean.”

You stared at the door that had held you, hurt you, hid you. “I know.” Then, because you needed to say the true part out loud, “I want to.”

You tried your key. It turned, empty-house easy. Inside, the fan’s click, the familiar smell of dust and old upholstery, that particular quiet that isn’t peace. You flicked the light, scanned the room out of habit—couch, throw blanket, the stack of unopened mail by the TV—and let the breath go that you didn’t know you were holding.

“He’s not here,” you called softly.

Joel stepped in a foot, hands in his pockets, like he didn’t want to leave footprints. “You wanna wait?”

You thought of it, sitting in your father’s living room, the silence yanking at your sleeve, your mouth practicing conversations that never go the way you rehearse. Your throat tightened. “No.”

“Alright,” he said. The word held no judgment. Just a simple, sturdy offer. “Come over a minute. I’ll pour you somethin’ before you take the car.”

The walk across the yard felt shorter than it should have. His porch light caught you both in a small halo, the door gave under his hand like it was happy to see him. The house smelled like cedar and the ghost of morning coffee. He flicked on the lamp, and the living room came up warm, the scuffed coffee table, the books you knew by their spines, the dent your body knew by feel in the couch cushion.

You sank there. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two short cups, and a bottle of bourbon dark as tea. He set one glass in your hand, then hovered with the bottle, brow tipped. “Feels wrong, givin’ you this if you’re”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite everything. “I’ll be twenty-one in January, Joel. Also, you’ve literally shared a drink with me so many times before.”

He made a small face, caught, called out, amused. “Yeah. Well. Guess I just remembered the part I liked.”

Heat feathered under your skin, you looked down into the glass so you wouldn’t have to look at him. He poured, neat. The bourbon smelled like vanilla and dark wood and every late talk you’d ever had that ended with the sky lighter than you meant it to be.

You clinked because doing nothing with your hands would’ve felt too honest. The first sip made a small fire of your chest. Joel took his like someone who’d been practicing for years, quiet satisfaction in the corner of his mouth.

It was awkward for a minute, two people who knew the undersides of each other’s days suddenly playing at polite. You asked about work. He asked about campus. You told him a story about your professor who wrote with chalk in his palm until his hand went white. He told you Tommy had alphabetized the drill bits and then cursed himself because he could never find anything anymore. The conversation loosened. So did your shoulders. The bourbon walked a slow, warm circle through your body.

By the third pour, you were laughing too easily and not hating it. Joel had switched the lamp lower without you noticing, the room felt smaller and kinder. You stood to stretch, nerves buzzing, and wandered to the shelf under the small radio. “You still keep this thing?” you teased, running your finger along the dial.

“Works better than that phone half the time.” He tipped his glass at the battered little unit. “Go on.”

You thumbed the knob. Static at first, then a swell of strings, then a voice thick as honey. The old song crept in, the one joel had burned into your skull by repetition, the one you couldn’t hear without a picture of a kitchen light and Joel’s hands on your hips. You let it play three heartbeats, two more than you should have, then made a show of turning the dial. The needle wobbled, caught another station, softer, a slow waltz with a cheap drum machine.

You turned, held out your hand, cheeks lit with drink and nerve. “Dance with me.”

He leaned back, the kind of hesitation that wasn’t really hesitation so much as inventory. “I don’t know.”

“Joel,” you said, and let the grin prove you meant no harm. “It’s just a dance. One dance isn’t gonna hurt.”

His tongue pushed into his cheek, a familiar tell. “S’what you said before about other things.”

“Exactly,” you said, and you hated how breathy the word came out. “And we lived.”

Something in him relented. He set his glass down with the small, resigned grace of a man who knew he never really stood a chance when you asked nicely. He stepped toward you. His palm found your waist like it had been set down there and forgotten. Your fingers slid up into the fabric at his shoulder—soft, warm from him—and the room turned into a small, perfect circle.

You swayed. No performance, no steps to show off, just that ordinary miracle of two bodies finding the same gravity. Your cheek fit against his chest because of course it did. You could hear his heart, steady, a little fast, not a metronome but a drum you’d learned to trust. His breath moved your hair. His chin hovered above your crown and then dipped, barely, a homecoming he didn’t let turn into a claim.

“Missed this,” you said before you could swallow it down.

His hand spread wider at your back, thumb settling in a place that felt like it had been set there to be found. “Yeah,” he said. It was almost nothing. It was everything.

The song died and gave way to something brighter, faster, a little stupid on purpose. You laughed and stepped back, lifted your glass, drained it like bravado. “Your turn.”

“Darlin’, I can’t”

“Because you’re old?” you needled, heat curling harmlessly around the tease.

He shot you a look that was half warning, half dare, and knocked his own back. The face he made was boyish and terrible and it cracked something inside you cleanly. You cheered, reckless and quiet at once, and poured two more you didn’t need.

The second song ran its course. You set your glass down and offered your hand again. He took it this time without theatrics, and you moved together in a circle that tightened until the couch brushed the back of your calf. He twirled you—not showy, just enough to make your stomach dip—then reeled you back in, steadier than you had any right to expect from a man who claimed he couldn’t dance.

“Look at you,” you murmured, dizzy and not from the drink. “Who taught you that?”

“No one who could see my feet,” he said dryly, and you laughed into his shirt.

The bridge of the song hit. He dipped you—careful, slow, like you were made of something he wouldn’t forgive himself for dropping—and when he brought you upright, the universe miscalculated. Your noses were a breath apart. His mouth was right there, devastated and soft. You smelled bourbon and heat and the memory of a thousand almosts. The word no rose someplace rational and sat down, tired.

You kissed him.

It was not planned or coy. It was a small, helpless fall, a press of mouth to mouth that tasted like bourbon and relief. For a half second he didn’t move. Then the line inside him snapped. He kissed you back in that exact way you had been starving for, deep enough to shut you up, gentle enough to say I know. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb at the hinge, and you forgot which parts of you were supposed to be careful.

He broke it first, breath rough, forehead tipping to yours like he needed the contact and the distance in equal measure. “We shouldn’t,” he said, and his voice was sanded down, smaller than he meant it to be. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“But we are,” you said. The words surprised you with their steadiness. “We’re already here.”

His eyes searched your face. Whatever he was looking for, you must’ve given it without knowing, because something in him eased and gave up the losing fight. You rose onto your toes, kissed him again, and he opened for you like a man who’d found a door home in a wall that had no business having one.

Heat unspooled fast. You were suddenly all wrist and breath and the seam of his shirt. He caught your thighs when you jumped—like you weighed less than a promise, like you’d done this a hundred times—and you hooked your ankles behind him because muscle remembers. He lifted you, easy, a breath, your laugh surprised and caught in the space between your mouths. The world narrowed to the sound of his boots on the stairs, the scratch of his knuckles against the railing, the way your name sounded when he said it now, low and wrecked and grateful.

His room was dark except for the streetlight leaking through the blinds. He set you down like you might spook, then didn’t give you time to. Clothes became obstacles and then suggestions and then nothing, each button a small surrender, each inch of skin a remembered sentence you could recite without looking.

Tell me you missed me,” you whispered.

“I did,” he breathed into your skin, “Missed you like hell.”

Joel looked at you like a man starved.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, soft, fingertips tracing the curve of your stomach, the swell of your hips. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

You pulled him back down by the back of his neck. “Don’t be sweet. Just, don’t stop.”

His mouth found yoy again, slower now, trailing down until you arched, gasped. His beard scratched against tender skin and you moaned into the dark, back bowing, hair fanned out across his pillow.

Your thighs parted, slick with need, and he didn’t look away. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t memorizing you.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured, fingers tracing the seam where soft met softer. “Every damn night.”

You answered with a sharp inhale and the roll of your hips into his touch. He circled slow—just enough to tease, just enough to make you squirm—and then pushed two fingers inside, crooked perfectly.

You gasped his name. Bit your lip. Clutched his wrist with both hands, grounding yourself.

Joel kissed you like it would fix something.

And maybe it did.

“Joel” you half‑warned, half‑pleaded, but he was already there, mouth at your throat, scraping teeth down skin until you shuddered. He flipped you under him with a roughness that was still careful, a controlled kind of hunger.

Your hands slid up his shoulders, nails digging, using him like leverage. The mattress thudded against the wall. Every thrust a jolt, every sound from him a new crack in her resolve. You could feel his stubble burn on your skin, feel the slickness between you making it all a mess, a tangle.

“Goddamn it, darlin’…” he groaned, voice so wrecked it was almost a prayer. He gripped your wrists above your head, pinning you there as he moved, deeper, faster, like he’d been waiting all year for this and was afraid it would disappear if he slowed down.

You arched under him, a sharp cry slipping from your throat. He muttered something low and dirty against your mouth and you answered by biting his lip. The sound he made when you did that tipped him over the edge, his hips stuttered, yours followed, and the world dissolved into white‑hot static for both of you.

You stayed like that, breathing hard, still tangled, sweat and sheets sticking to your skin, the air thick with salt and heat. It was rough, messy, nothing like the fantasies you had and somehow exactly what youd been needing.

Morning comes in pieces, the sound of pipes, the soft thud of a cabinet door, a low curse you’d know in a crowded stadium. You wake in his bed, sheets kicked low, the room smelling faintly like laundry soap and the sweet-bitter of bourbon that never made it back into the bottle. The night flashes through you in quick, bright cuts, his hands at your waist, your name like a vow, the way the floor seemed to tilt and then go steady only when you were beneath him, around him, with him. For a second—one, reckless, holy second—you let yourself stay there.

Then you sit up.

His side of the mattress is empty. There’s a warm dent in the pillow, an elbow-crease in the blanket where he must’ve pushed up and away. You pull on what you can find—your underwear, your socks from the floor, his Miller Contracting T-shirt tossed across a chair—hair twisted into something like order with your fingers. Your throat is raw in that way that says you cried a little and kissed a lot. You breathe, straighten the hem, and follow the smell of coffee.

He’s at the stove, back to you, in sweats and a T-shirt you’ve fallen asleep on more times than you’ll ever admit out loud. The kettle sings low. He lifts it off the flame without looking, pours into the pour-over cone like he’s done it a thousand mornings, which he has. A second mug sits beside his, already doctored the way you take it when you’re not trying to be brave, a little cream, one spoon of sugar, the kind that melts slow and leaves sweetness at the bottom.

He turns when your feet hit the kitchen tile. The look that crosses his face you feel in your knees, surprise, relief, a quick lightning flicker of want he shuts down because he’s trying to be good.

“Morning,” he says, voice sanded by sleep.

“Morning.” You tie a knot in the shirt at your hip because it’s too big and because your hands need a job. “You..made coffee.”

He lifts your mug like proof. “How you like.” He sets it on the counter, slides it toward you with his knuckles. “I wasn’t sure if you…uh…if you’d want food.” His mouth tilts. “Didn’t figure on eggs bein’ the right follow-up to” He stops, scratches behind his ear, looks at the counter like it might supply the rest of that sentence. “Anyway. Coffee.”

“Coffee’s good.” Your fingers circle ceramic you’ve held a hundred mornings and never like this one. You take a sip, and the heat lands low in your chest, a small, steadying weight. He watches your mouth and pretends he’s not.

The house is quiet in the way houses are only early, air vents breathing, the fridge’s slow animal hum, a neighbor’s car whispering past outside. The clock above the sink says too early for company and too late to pretend last night didn’t happen.

He clears his throat like he’s bracing himself. “Wanna sit out back a minute?”

You nod. He picks up his mug and the screen door complains in its usual spot as you step down onto the porch. The boards are cool under your soles, dew glittering in the yard like someone shook a jar of sugar over the grass. The sky has that thin, silvery look before it remembers how to be blue. A mockingbird tries on three different songs before it finds the one it wants to keep.

You sit on the top step, hip to hip not touching, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him in waves. He doesn’t look at you right away. He cups his mug in both hands and stares out at the fence he repaired last spring. You take another careful sip, swallow around the knot at the top of your ribs, and find the smallest truth first.

“I wasn’t sure it was real.” Your voice makes a narrow bridge across the air between you. “Kept thinking I dreamed it.”

He huffs once, something like a laugh, something like a hurt. “Real,” he says, steady. “Wasn’t dreamin’.”

You nod, your eyes going glossy the way the porch does just before full sun. “Okay.”

He tips his head, studying you cautious as if you might spook and bolt. “You okay?”

“Yes.” You let the lie sit a heartbeat, then make it honest. “Yes and no.”

“me too.” He sets his mug down on the step between his boots, palms scrubbing down his thighs like he’s looking for courage in the denim. “Should probably say I’m sorry.” He keeps his gaze on the yard. “Last night…It was” He gropes for the word, comes up with plain truth. “It was good. And I don’t regret feelin’ what I felt. But it ain’t lost on me that good don’t always mean right.”

You stare at the side of his face and want to memorize the exact way the morning makes him. His profile’s all soft edges and old worries, eyes already carrying the day. “I don’t want to pretend it was a mistake,” you say, quiet but not timid. “It was..us. It felt like us.”

He nods, jaw working. “Yeah.”

“But it can’t fix what we broke,” you add, making yourself say it so the air can hold it. “And it can’t be a promise we don’t know how to keep.”

He breathes out slow, like a man setting down a heavy thing without letting it thud. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I hate it too.” The porch step suddenly looks like a map of every place you’ve said hard things and survived them. “I need you to know I’m not doing the thing where I pretend I’m fine and then implode. I’m not…that girl anymore. But I’m still me. And last night woke up pieces I’ve been trying to let sleep.”

He swallows. “Me too.”

You wrap both hands around your mug because they want to reach for him. “Then maybe we make rules.”

He smiles without parting his lips. “Always liked how your brain works.”

“I like when it works,” you say, and he snorts, because he hears the truth you didn’t bury. You take a breath. “One, we don’t disappear. No ghosting. No punishments that look like silence.”

His fingers tap the ceramic between his boots. “No hidin’,” he translates.

“Two, we talk.” You tilt your head toward him and dare yourself to hold his eyes. “If you’re mad, say you’re mad. If I’m hurt, I say I’m hurt. We don’t do the mind-reading thing we’re both bad at.”

He nods once, solemn. “Talk.” He waits. “Three?”

You look out at the fence he mended, the line he drew between his world and the world beyond. “No secret rescues,” you say, the words so clear inside you they almost shine. “No fixes I don’t get to be part of. If I need help, I ask. If you want to help, you ask. Nothing that makes me find out from a stranger.”

Something flickers across his face, there and gone, guilt’s shadow, maybe, the old instinct to shoulder the load and not tell anybody you did it. He doesn’t deny it. He just nods, slower this time, the way a man nods in church when the sermon finds a place he didn’t want touched. “No secrets,” he says, quiet. “No savin’ you from yourself. I hear you.”

You swallow. “Four.”

“Four?” He lets the corner of his mouth climb. “We makin’ a constitution?”

“We need one,” you say, because if you don’t joke you’ll cry. “Four is the one I hate.”

“Say it anyway.”

You finally let your shoulder brush his, a tiny static click that you feel down to your ankles. “No more sex,” you say, and your body mourns even as your brain says thank you. “Not while we’re like this. Not while I’m here and then gone and you’re here and then not. Not until we’re sure we aren’t..…breaking each other to keep each other.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second, like the sentence cost him. When he opens them, they’re darker, steadier. “I can do that,” he says, and you believe him because he’s never lied to you about what he can’t do. “Don’t want to. But I can.”

“Me neither.” You sniff once and laugh at yourself. “I mean. I do. Obviously. But also” You gesture at the yard, the sky, the ridiculous business of birds living their one bright life. “I want to get it right.”

He shifts, not away but alongside. “One more,” he says, surprising you. He holds up his hand like he’s counting on knuckles because he always has. “Five, you don’t apologize for wantin’ me.”

You blink. “Joel”

He shakes his head. “Listen. You didn’t trick me. You didn’t trap me. You told the truth too late and I got hurt and I’ll be mad at that sometimes. But the want, that was always mutual. We own that like grown folks. No shame. Not for either of us.”

Your eyes blur for no good reason except it’s morning and you’re tired and there’s a man beside you saying the sentence you didn’t know you needed to hear. You nod, fast, before you do something dramatic like weep into your mug. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, and the word settles, a small, firm thing between you.

The mockingbird tries on another song. A breeze slips under the porch roof and finds the sweat at the back of your neck. Joel picks up his mug again, drinks like he’s remembering how to be a person whose mouth belongs to coffee and not to you. When he sets it down, his voice has changed keys, softer.

“I still love you,” he says.

The rush inside you is a riptide. You hold on to the step with your free hand because the earth tilts. “I still love you,” you say back, because if you dodge now you’ll never tell the truth clean for the rest of your life.

He nods once like you confirmed what he already knew and also saved him. “Okay,” he says again, different this time. “Okay.”

For a while you just sit. The porch remembers other mornings—tool belts clanking, a thermos lid rolling into the corner, summer heat already mean at eight a.m.—and makes a place for this one, too. You feel the pull of him the way the tide feels the moon and you let it be physics instead of failure.

Inside, the stove clock ticks over. A neighbor’s dog lets loose two perfunctory barks and then changes its mind. Somewhere behind the fence, somebody starts their truck, coughs it to life, lets it idle. It smells like oil and cold air and the sort of morning you used to think you’d spend an entire life inside.

He reaches—a small, careful reach—and rests his hand on the step between you. Not touching you. Close enough that if you put your fingers down, you’d find his without the drama of it. You don’t. You let the space be a promise that doesn’t need proof.

Chapter Text

The car smelled like old sun and the grocery-store air freshener you’d wedged into the vent before you left for Arizona. When you slid behind the wheel, your knees didn’t hit the dash, you had to drag the seat three notches forward to even reach the pedals. You huffed a laugh you didn’t feel ready for.

“Alright, Miller,” you muttered, palm on the release bar as the seat clicked up the track. “Promise kept.”

He’d been starting it for you. Letting it run. Taking it around the block so the battery wouldn’t die and the tires wouldn’t square. The radio presets were where you left them, but the trip odometer was zeroed out. Joel’s kind of care, quiet and practical, like leaving a loaf of bread on the porch and not leaving a note.

The engine caught on the second turn. Thanksgiving morning came in milky and thin through the windshield, Austin doing that November thing where the air pretends to be cold while the live oaks keep most of their leaves out of sheer stubbornness. You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand, breathed, and backed out.

You told yourself the drive to Maria’s would give you time to decide what to say. It didn’t. The closer you got, the more the feeling behind your ribs shifted, guilt and gladness braided together, tight enough to ache. At the light by the donut shop the old man waved at the traffic with a paper bag in his hand,at the next, a runner in a turkey hat panted by and you almost laughed because the world was so aggressively normal.

Maria’s house was mostly quiet from the street, but there was a thin ribbon of steam wriggling out from the kitchen window and a string of paper leaves taped crooked along the glass of the front door. You let yourself in with your key, toes instinctively light on the mat like you could hide the sound of your own arrival. Same clothes as yesterday. Hair not pretending. A soft smear of mascara under one eye you hadn’t noticed until the foyer mirror told on you.

“There you are,” Maria called without turning, as if kitchens taught you to echolocate. “I was about to come rescue you.”

The house was warm in the way of butter melting in a pan. She was already elbow-deep in it all, two pies cooling near the window, a casserole dish making its slow pilgrimage from counter to oven, the bird big as a small child trussed on a cutting board like a promise. Somewhere, cranberries ticked in a pot, bursting one by one like tiny fireworks. The radio was low and golden, old soul, the kind of station that knew what a holiday kitchen sounded like.

You stood there and watched her move and then you did the thing you promised yourself you would. You swallowed. “I didn’t stay at my dad’s.”

She wiped her hands on a towel and turned. Her eyes flicked once over you, yesterday’s jeans, hair, the hour. Not a tally a read. “No?”

“No.” Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. “I stayed with Joel.”

Her eyebrows did a small surprised dance, the kind grown women do when they’ve already considered three outcomes and you’ve handed them the fourth. Shock, yes, but not a weapon. She tipped her head, let the moment pass. “Do you think that was the right choice for you?”

You breathed. The truth was the only thing that ever worked with Maria. “I think….we talked. We set rules. Boundaries. We said one night doesn’t mean we’re back together. We said we wouldn’t ” Your mouth tugged. “we wouldn’t be stupid about it.”

Her mouth softened in that way that always made you feel like a kid and a peer at once. “That sounds like a different girl than the one I met the first day you walked into that classroom.” She stepped closer, thumb brushing, without touching, the mascara smudge like she was warning it. “You’re growing up honest. That’s the only kind that sticks.”

Something unknotted under your ribs. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m a teacher,” she said, and smiled that small, complicated smile. “Which is to say, I know grown kids make choices. Sometimes good, sometimes learning. I love you either way.” She tipped her head toward the hallway. “Go shower. Fresh start. Then I’m yoking you to the stove like a pilgrim.”

You laughed, relieved, and it tumbled out as gratitude more than humor. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her face warmed at the ma’am like it always did when you used it on purpose. “And bring me your laundry. I’ll start a load.”

“Maria”

“Don’t argue with a woman holding poultry,” she said, lifting the towel like a flag.

You showered fast under the strawberry shampoo you’d left on the corner of the tub in August, steam loosening the last of last night from your hair, the water drumming your shoulders back into your body. In the mirror, you looked like a girl making choices on purpose. When you came back barefoot in clean cotton, Maria wordlessly pressed a mug into your hands. Coffee, exactly right, cream first, the way you’d taught her you liked it and the way she’d remembered.

“Apron,” she said, tossing you the one with the sunflowers. “You’re on onion duty.”

You cried into two onions like you were getting something done. She slid a cutting board beside yours and worked at celery with the kind of speed that terrifies fingers. You fell into the rhythm of it. Your hip to the cabinet, her elbow to the stove, the hand-off dance of measuring spoons and hot pads and the towel you both kept losing under a pile of potholders. Every so often she’d rest her palm quick and heavy between your shoulder blades—not a pat, a presence—and it would steady the place beneath your sternum that still tried to float away sometimes.

“Are you going to call your mom?” she asked eventually, gentle like a question asked over a fence you both respected.

You kept chopping. “No. She’s the mom. It’s her job to reach out.”

“I agree,” she said, and you felt the relief of not having to defend the boundary you’d built. She slid diced celery into the sweating onions, the pan hissing like a cat. “You know where I keep my phone if you change your mind. But I won’t push you toward hurt.”

You looked up. The kitchen light had found a soft place in her hair, threaded amber through it. “I wish you were my mom.”

For one second, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were bright and steady. “I know,” she said, voice dipped in something that wasn’t quite sorrow. “And I’m honored that it feels like this. But also, things worked out like they did. And I get you now. Which is a gift to me.”

You moved because you were going to cry otherwise, slid the onions into the big bowl waiting for dressing and grabbed the cornbread maria baked last night. “I can make the crumble,” you said, like you always did when words got too big and food knew what to do with them.

“Make it extra sagey,” she called after you. “I want it to taste like a herb garden fell in love.”

You smiled into the bowl. “You and your metaphors.”

“They keep the children from crying.”

“They don’t work on me.”

“That’s because you are a menace,” she said fondly.

By the time the turkey was in, you’d both lost track of how many times you’d wiped the counter. A pie had been “checked” three times. The timer had been restarted twice with a muttered, “I am not the boss of you,” from Maria that made you laugh so hard you almost dropped the cranberry spoon. Somewhere between basting and browning, she handed you a stack of little place cards from the junk drawer and a pen.

“Your handwriting,” she said. “Make it nice so everyone thinks we’re more organized than we are.”

You wrote names carefully as if each one were a spell. Maria. Tommy. Sarah. Ellie (with a tiny heart Maria didn’t see). Andrew, Sarah's new boyfriend. Joel, your hand stumbled, then steadied. You put his card on the counter and put your palm over it for a second like it might try to run away.

“You’re gonna call your mom,” Maria said again, but this time it wasn’t a question so much as an observation about the future, some far shore where you might want proof you tried. “Someday. When she has hands that can hold what you hand her.”

“Maybe,” you said. “Not today.”

“Not today,” she agreed. “And today, as your de facto mother, I am putting you on pecan duty because I’m mean.”

You grinned. “Boss me around.”

A clatter from the hallway cut across the music. Tommy appeared in the doorway, hair in about six directions, T-shirt proclaiming his allegiance to some long-lost classic rock station. He sniffed the air like a cartoon and made a grab for the spoon in your hand.

“Absolutely not,” you said, swatting him like a fly. “Banned. You are a hazard.”

“I am an excellent member of this culinary team,” he said, affronted, already angling for the pie server.

“You and Joel together could burn water,” you said.

Maria snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

Tommy put a hand to his heart. “Et tu, wife?”

“You are in charge of” Maria glanced around like the house itself might whisper suggestions. “Chairs. And the cooler. And nothing with fire that isn't a grill.”

Tommy saluted, grabbed a stack of folding chairs from the hall like a man who had never been happier to be useless, and stomped back out, calling, “I’m vital to this operation!”

“You are,” Maria called. “To morale!”

You stuck your tongue out at his retreating back and turned back to your bowl. Pecans, brown sugar, a scandalous amount of butter. Outside, a leaf blower started up three yards over, and the neighborhood dove into that holiday hush where everyone is doing the same thing in different houses. You could feel Joel somewhere inside it, maybe in his kitchen, maybe in his truck, maybe upstairs in the house that sat on the other side of the fence you’d once mistaken for a border and learned was only a line you kept crossing.

Maria brushed flour off your cheek with the side of her finger, the way you imagine she did to Kevin, to the kids who come to her classroom without breakfast, to every person she’s decided is hers. “You doing okay?”

You nodded, eyes on the casserole. “Yeah.” And then, because she made truth easy “I told him I’m not going to pretend last night didn’t happen. But I also told him I’m not trying to drag us back to what we were. We set rules.”

“Look at you,” she murmured, like sweetness. “Setting rules with your heart and keeping them with your brain.”

“It felt..…adult.”

“It was.” She lifted a corner of foil, peeked at the browning edges, and smiled. “Grown-up doesn’t mean never making messes. It means cleaning the kitchen after.”

You breathed out a laugh that held more gratitude than air. “I can do that.”

“I know.” She nudged your elbow with hers. “And you are not cooking alone today, so boss me around when I start trying to do it all.”

“Consider yourself bossed.”

She looked at you, eyes shining in that filled, not-about-to-spill way she had. “It’s a joy to have you here.”

“I wish” you started, then swallowed, changed the tense, changed the wish. “I’m glad I’m here.”

“Me too.” She tapped the recipe card with a fingernail. “Now hand me that sage before I start describing it again and make you mad.”

“Please don’t make me imagine herbs kissing.”

“Why are you so rude to me,” she sighed, but she was smiling.

The door banged again and Tommy stuck his head in like a cartoon groundhog. “I have successfully achieved chairs,” he declared. “Permission to snack?”

“No,” you and Maria said at the same time.

He put his hands up and backed out. “I live in a prison.”

“You live in a home that loves you,” Maria called.

“Worse!” he yelled back cheerfully.

You shook your head, smiling into the steam. The kitchen felt like the inside of a secret you’d been allowed to keep. You slid the casserole into the oven, reset the timer, wiped the counter one more time even though it didn’t need it. The clock over the stove clicked forward one minute like a soft nod.

“Alright,” Maria said, clapping her hands once to shake off the sentiment like flour. “Shower girl's on potato duty. Then we can sit for ten minutes before the chaos arrives.”

“Yes, chef.”

She pointed a spatula at you. “And call me if you start to sink. I’ll throw you a life preserver or a dinner roll, dealer’s choice.”

You leaned your hip against the counter and looked at her a second, the way you’ll look at a photograph in ten years. The towel on her shoulder, the smear of flour near her wrist, the way she makes a house a thing that holds.

“I love you,” you said, because you could say it to her without it breaking anything.

“I love you more,” she said, automatic and true. “Now mash.”

“Bossy.”

“Motherly,” she corrected, and if there was any difference, today you couldn’t find it.

The doorbell chimed while you were still elbow-deep in the mashed potatoes, and Maria threw you a look over her shoulder that said, “wipe your hands and go.” You did, dragging the towel down your palms until they were just tacky with steam, heart doing that skitter it did whenever the day caught up with the night you weren’t finished thinking about.

Joel stood on the porch in a good shirt—the dark blue one that made his eyes look like evening—and a paper bakery box nested in his hands like a peace offering. The cold air behind him smelled like wet leaves and someone else’s fireplace.

“You brought tribute?” you said, tilting your head at the box as you stepped aside.

He cleared his throat, the ghost of a smile tugging. “Figured I’d keep outta your kitchen’s way.” He held it up so you could read the sticker. Maple pecan, the fancy place across town that charges extra for the crimped edges. “Don’t tell Maria it ain’t homemade. She’ll revoke my invitation next year.”

“Sir,” you said, solemn, “this house is a safe harbor for store-bought anything. Especially if it has a crumble.”

He huffed a laugh and stepped in, the warmth of him cresting past you like a wave. In the narrow of the entryway he reached without thinking, palm settling for one second between your shoulder blades—warm, steady, familiar—and then he let it fall like he remembered where you both were. The touch left a print that kept heat.

“Smells good,” he said, voice soft enough to make a compliment sound like a secret. “Whole block smells like butter.”

“Maria’s superpower.” You took the pie from him, your fingers brushing his knuckles, and turned toward the kitchen before you could inventory the shiver that ran through you. “Come on. She’ll want to pretend she isn’t thrilled you brought dessert.”

Maria, consummate actress of the home, lifted her chin like she’d expected nothing less. “Ah, pecan,” she said, approving but imperious. “Put it by the pumpkin. We like a little variety in this house.”

Joel obeyed, meeting your glance like you two were in a play where you knew all the lines. Tommy wandered in behind the smell of cologne that had been ambitious with itself and clapped Joel on the shoulder. They fell into easy talk about a job downtown and a stubborn inspector, you disappeared long enough to tug foil off a pan and shake a little more salt over the green beans, listening to the rise and fall of their voices like a song you almost remembered.

The second knock came with chaos, Sarah juggling a diaper bag and a baby carrier, a grin, and a man you hadn’t met yet who was trying to keep a bouquet of grocery store flowers upright like they were prone to fainting.

“Hi!” Sarah sang, breathless and gorgeous in a way that made you want to hug and feed her simultaneously. “Look who I brought.”

“Two very important guests,” you said, and crouched because the second important guest was trying to eat her sock.

Ellie’s hair was thicker now, a downy cap with a mind of its own. Six months had filled her cheeks with peaches and her legs with rolls. She had the self-satisfied look of someone who had recently discovered both hands and the power of her own yell. When you leaned close and said her name—the way only you seemed to say it—she turned toward you with the gravity of a lighthouse finding its beam and opened her mouth in a gummy O of delight.

“Oh, hey, mama’s girl,” you crooned, and Sarah laughed and surrendered her, weight into your arms like a ceremony.

“Andrew,” Sarah said over your shoulder, “this is” she said your name with that soft affection that always startled you a little, “my almost-mother-in-law-not-slash-sister. It's complicated. The person who will steal the baby if I don’t watch her closely.”

Andrew stuck out a hand you couldn’t take because you were already adjusting Ellie to your hip, he pivoted, charming and smart, and offered a little wave instead. He was tall, kind-eyed, the sort of man who looked like he would apologize to furniture if he bumped it.

“Nice to finally meet you,” he said. “I’ve heard nothing but threats.”

“Believe all of them,” you said. “I’m ruthless about baby time.”

Ellie cooed like she agreed and then reached a determined hand for your hair, caught a fistful, and pulled herself closer with the single-mindedness of a mountaineer. Pain flared, you laughed anyway. “Ah! Okay, okay, small terror.”

Tommy stuck his head around the corner. “Gimme my niece.”

You turned so Ellie could see him, and she considered the outstretched arms, considered the beard, considered life, and let out a theatrical pre-cry breath that warned of a storm to come.

“Oh,” Tommy said, hands up. “Rejection. Deep and personal.”

“Here,” you said, and transferred her cautiously to his forearms like she was a bomb that could only be soothed by your scent. She lasted one second, two, and then folded into a howl that sounded like someone had slandered her character in a national newspaper.

Sarah winced. “She’s been like this all week. Velcro.”

“Here,” Tommy said quickly, half-panicked, half-offended. “Take the gremlin.”

“Come on, drama queen,” you whispered, pulling Ellie back to your chest. “I know. Men are suspicious.” She quieted as if you’d told her something deeply true, face burrowing under your jaw, breath warm and damp on your collarbone. You swayed in place without thinking, the oldest dance.

A quiet fell near your shoulder. You didn’t have to look to know who had sat down beside you on the couch. Joel, leaving a careful gap but close enough that his thigh warmed the air between you. You studied Ellie’s eyelashes and pretended you were not aware of his every molecule.

“She likes you,” he said, and his voice did that softened thing it did only for babies and you.

“She likes anybody who lets her yank their hair,” you said, though your throat went thick because you knew it wasn’t just that. Ellie had always found you on Sarah's phone screen, some babies know their people.

Joel’s hand twitched on his knee like it wanted something to do. He leaned forward, elbows on thighs, and put his face where Ellie could see him. “Hey, bug.”

She blinked, registering, and then reached, both hands, grabby and delighted, the way she does for bottle, for light, for the moon.

“Oh,” you said, the word breaking in your mouth. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“She does that for her grandpa,” Sarah said, chin in her hand, proud and tired and happy all at once on the arm of the chair. “It’s ridiculous.”

Joel took her carefully, the way he always did, like he learned it from holding breakable things all his life. She settled—of course she did—one hand in his shirt, eyes half-masted like she already trusted his heartbeat to set the tone of the world. He stood again without meaning to and paced two slow steps, that instinctive parent loop that draws a circle of safety in the air.

Something surged up in you so fast it made your vision go bright at the edges. It wasn’t envy. It wasn’t exactly grief. It was a picture you’d been carrying in the pocket of your mind for months, creased and handled so much the corners had gone soft, and here it was, full color and moving. He looked good with her. Not in the glossy way of commercials, better. Solid. Right. Like his hands had found their old work and were grateful.

“You look good with her,” you said, before pride or fear could stop you.

He looked up. Met your eyes. Didn’t look away immediately the way he’d trained himself to do. “You do too.”

The room telescoped, the sound of Tommy telling Andrew a story about a ladder and a raccoon dimming until it was just the two of you and this small human who had all your history in her grip and none of your mistakes. You and Joel had learned to live in these charged half-seconds, to breathe them and not be burned, but this one felt different, wider, like the door you’d both shut had a window you hadn’t noticed and the light was pouring through it against your will.

If it had been only the two of you, the moment might have gone on too long and said something neither of you could walk back from. It was not only the two of you. Maria clapped her hands in the kitchen like a conductor calling the orchestra to the downbeat, voice rising over the dark music of the oven door. “Alright, my feral family. Food on the counter in five. Wash your hands or I’ll tell every kindergarten teacher I know to mark you absent!”

You barked out a laugh you needed. Joel startled, then smiled, the small private one he keeps for relief. Ellie, sensing the tone shift, made a conversational chirp and tried to eat his collar. He kissed the top of her head—just a press, sweet—and handed her back to you because he always would, because he knew where the baby wanted to be and where you did, too.

“C’mon,” he said, standing and offering a hand without thinking, the old reflex. You didn’t take it, and that was its own tenderness. You rose on your own, following the scent of sage and butter and all the other names for home, the heat of his presence on your right like a border you didn’t have to cross to know it was there.

In the kitchen, the counters were landscapes, turkey glowing like a small sun, mashed potatoes in a cream-white drift, greens bright as summer, Maria’s rolls lined up like a choir politely waiting their turn to sing. Sarah slid past you to steal a carrot and kissed your shoulder in apology, Andrew, in one smooth motion, opened three wine bottles like a man who had done this in professional settings, Tommy tried to put his fingers in the dressing and yelped when Maria swatted him with a wooden spoon.

“Hands,” Maria ordered, pointing toward the sink, and six grown adults obeyed like they were in her third-grade class. You shifted Ellie to your hip, and she slapped water like it owed her money, squealing when the spray bounced off her hands. The sound of it—this kitchen, these people, this ordinary miracle—filled you up to your throat.

“Get plates,” Maria said, softer now that the moment had been wrangled. “Make room. Make room for more.”

You caught Joel looking at you across the island and thought, for a blink, that this might be what you mean when you say grace, not the words, but the eye contact that says I see you here, still, and I’m glad. Then someone bumped your elbow, the serving spoon clattered, the baby laughed, and the moment folded itself neatly into the rest of the day like a napkin set right where it belongs.

Dinner stretched warm and noisy around you, the table crowded with elbows and serving spoons and the soft percussion of glass against wood. Joel took the chair at your right like it was the only open square of earth he trusted, and Sarah buckled Ellie into the highchair on your left, sliding the tray home with a practiced click. The baby banged both palms on the surface like she’d been summoned here to conduct.

“I can feed her,” you offered, already angling your chair so she filled your field of vision. “You eat while it’s hot.”

Sarah’s face went soft with that particular gratitude new mothers wear like a bruise and a blessing. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” you said, and meant it. “I’ve been waiting all day to argue with a spoon.”

“Good luck with your opponent,” Tommy muttered, heaping his plate like a man who thought winter might end tonight.

You cut a small moon of sweet potato, pressed it with the back of the spoon, and made an airplane noise you would have died rather than make in front of anyone at nineteen. Ellie’s eyes went galaxy-wide, she opened her mouth like a sunrise and let you land the bite. She kicked her feet against the rungs of the highchair, wild with pleasure.

“Show-off,” Sarah teased her, half in awe. “She loves food. Like, loves food.”

“I can tell,” you said, doing a quick second pass while the runway was still clear. She gobbled at the spoon, then grabbed your wrist with fierce, sticky fingers as if to say, stay. You did. Of course you did.

On your right, you felt Joel turn his head. Not a stare. A steadying. The kind of attention that warms a place without asking to live there. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Admiration can be quiet and still be loud enough to hear.