exit-goat - Tumblr blog

exit-goat · 2 months

Text

daddy next door | j. miller (two)

❝ summer lovin’ ❞

chapter summary: you run into some trouble at the summer fair. joel is there to help.

chapter warnings/tags: MDNI. no-outbreak!joel. neighbor!joel. foul language. food consumption. age gap (reader is in her 20s, joel is in his 50s). harassment and attempted coercion (not joel). depictions of anxiety & a brief anxiety attack. reader is a sensitive gal!! readers dad is a cop, other side characters are as well. major daddy issues. absent mother(s). reader is a bit prudish to the idea of smoking, but it’s justified. flirting. mutual pining. sexual tension. fluff. angst. no depictions of race or body type, other than reader being shorter than joel. some outfit descriptions.

word count: 9.6k

a/n: don’t even look at me i know this took so fucking long. but here it is. thank you for waiting. i know, no smut, cry about it (i joke) but i am in my world building era. thank you to @kiwisbell for beta reading and being my cheerleader. truly one of the best highlights of my days these last few months, that gal. enjoy. 🤍

one. | series masterlist.

You spend most of your days thinking about Joel Miller.

You convince yourself it’s harmless. What possible threat could your imagination pose? You had otherwise kept your distance from him since the day you greeted him at his doorstep two weeks prior. Friendly exchanges of hello when he would pull in his truck from work and you were riding your bike back home. A nod over the white fence while you would read on the hammock and he would tend to something in his yard. He would chat with your father occasionally down by the mailboxes, normally only when the predicament of being there at the same time forced them to. From the pieces of conversation you had picked up, it was usually in regards to sports or the heat. Regardless, you still couldn’t help but feel on edge seeing your father standing next to him.

You have no stake in Joel, no claim. But the idea of him becoming another tainted piece in your father's puzzle makes you nauseous.

He’s not like him, you tell yourself. He couldn’t be.

And in your mind, he’s not. Your rampant imagination paints him as the picture of perfection. A good person. An idea you have long forgotten as a viable quality in a man.

You could spend hours fantasizing about what he’s like. You do.

How he might take his coffee, or what late-night talk show he prefers. Boxers or briefs? You take him for the former, though you certainly don’t mind entertaining the idea of the latter. You presume he’s not the type of person to talk through a film. Prefers the mountains to the beach. Dogs over cats. And if you had the opportunity, you would spend hours discovering every minute detail that made him the type of man worth mulling over.

The type of man worth dreaming about.

But fantasies don’t last forever. And amidst the approaching weekend, you are quickly snapped back into the realism of your world. More so, your father's world, and the predicament it poses for you:

The county fair.

The event of the summer, and how lucky your town is to host it. The fairgrounds are never as crowded as they are this weekend of the year, and ‘everyone who is anyone’ in town makes an appearance. Something that, despite your revulsion to the line of thinking, your father takes very seriously.

He expects you to be in attendance, you know this. To keep a pretty bow wrapped around the family name. The dutiful Chief and his poor, sweet daughter whose mama left her far too young.

It’s a much more entertaining show than reality.

“Meet ya back here at ten o’clock,” your father beckons as he parks the cruiser in the field already packed with cars.

You nod at him, the distant sound of children laughing and the scent of sugar inundating you. He would make his rounds, as he always did. Butter up the locals with his practiced charm and make connections with out-of-towners. It doesn’t matter how useless they are—it’s all part of the façade. And you will trudge along, find a quiet spot to read the script you snuck into your purse, or treat yourself to a funnel cake. You will smile and wave at those who greet you, even those you despise. And you’ll do so without any quips or complaints, kind and compliant as ever, as not to disturb the fragile balance.

It simply isn’t worth the disruption.

The pink cardigan you had wrapped around your waist seems useless now; even in just a tank top and floral skirt, you can feel the unforgiving heat dripping sweat down your skin. You should’ve found some excuse; pretending to be sick never worked for you as a child, and you doubt it would be any different now. Cramps? Your father is hardly inclined to speak with you, let alone about feminine problems. Too late anyway, you think to yourself as you make your way towards the bustling fairgrounds. It takes all of five minutes before you’re left alone, your father already caught up in the likes of Mrs. Wilkins and the rest of her school board posse.

Once upon a time, this used to be your favorite place to come. Distant memories of a woman with a smile much like your own, holding hands and darting towards the ferris wheel with freshly squeezed lemonade and some obscene stuffed animal you had won at one of the various carnival games in hand. There’s laughter and the sweet disposition of summer. There’s joy. There’s peace.

Now, there are only painful reminders.

You find a decently secluded spot just beyond the various game vendors on the outer perimeter of the grounds, the setting sun shielded by thicker patches of trees. There are no picnic tables, but the concrete ledge around some of the landscaping is suitable enough for you to dwell. Your thighs welcome the coolness of the stone when you sit with a huff, taking a moment to catch your breath.

It’s too hot. Too crowded. And you haven’t even had to talk to a single person to already feel properly overstimulated.

You rummage through your bag for the distraction you brought along. A heavily annotated copy of Much Ado About Nothing. Something a bit more lighthearted for such a somber affair, but still, the statements of its profound leading lady speak to you. You run your fingers over the highlighted line on your current page:

I cannot be a man with wishing, she says. Therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

How you envy Beatrice and her cunning. Merry wit and a thrill for independence, using her words to spar with men and women alike. A moment in the Bard’s work that feels ahead of its time, and yet, still couldn’t be any more relevant. Perhaps it’s less envy and more disappointment with yourself for the lack of choices, initiative in your own life.

Fiction and fantasies often have a funny way of reminding you of reality, despite how escapist they are.

You are able to spend a good twenty minutes undisturbed in your thoughts. But just when you think there is a semblance of peace to be found, your name is being shouted across the yard. Once, then twice. Heading jerking up, you have to squint before a sharp shiver shoots down your spine at the realization of who the voice belongs to.

“Fuck,” you mutter, slamming the pages shut and shoving them quickly back into your bag.

Blonde curls and devilishly deceiving dimples. He’s got a beer in his hand. Great. He’s waving and heading in your direction, no escape plan in sight.

Trevor Conrad. The star baseball player of your graduating class, the town's all-American pride and joy who of course went on to be the police academy's top cadet. You suspect he’s absolutely buzzing for your father to mentor him, one reason you assume he wants to be in your favor.

The other may have to do with the handful of dates you regrettably went on with him a couple of years prior. You didn’t consider them anything remarkably serious, never escalating any further than a few stolen kisses and an admittedly uncomfortable make-out session one afternoon when you watched a film at his house. Some boring action thriller. You had been under the impression his parents would be home, a lie for the first hour and a half that, looking back, you realize was a calculated tactic.

He’s with a group of familiar faces who all linger behind. Those you were only worthy enough to be to be seen with when you were seen with him. Superficial friendships, if that. A matter of status and convenience.

You recognize Ashley Becker, former cheerleader, who extends a miffed roll of her eyes, stomping away with the rest of the group when Trevor waves them off. You figure, even after years of less than subtle flirtation, he hasn’t picked up on her interest. Or maybe he doesn’t care, still putting his energy into you. The type of man who thinks because he staked his claim once, he’s entitled to it again.

You rise to your feet in a bit of a scramble when you hear him tell the group he’ll catch up, only a few yards ahead of you now, and put some distance between yourself and the ledge. The last thing you need is him sitting down and trapping you in conversation. You sling your bag over your shoulder, holding the strap taut, and prepare to exit whenever the easiest opportunity presents itself.

“Was wondering if I’d catch you here tonight!” He’s all smiles and pride as he approaches you, his voice just as irritating as you recall. Something about its pitch, you think. Too high for a guy of his stature. For the type of guy who carries himself like a god.

“Well, here I am,” you say with a shrug, forcing a breathy chuckle. Trevor stops just a foot or two in front of you, eyes wide and slightly bloodshot. You wonder what number beer he’s on, the lofty scent detectable and off-putting.

“What’re you doin’ out here all by yourself?” he asks, and you can only presume the curiosity is linked to some ulterior motive.

Keep it casual, you remind yourself. Don’t make a scene.

“Oh, just—just killing time while dad makes his rounds,” you tell him with another shrug, displaying a polite smile.

“Hardly seen you out at all this summer.” He gives you a bit of a once-over. It makes your skin crawl. “Should come by one of the games. We play every Saturday.”

Recreational league. Because the high school glory in this town wasn’t enough to satiate him. It takes every ounce of strength inside of you not to roll your eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll try to catch one if I can,” you lie straight through your teeth. “Weekends can be a little busy around the house, though. So…”

Blame it on your father. Blame it on anything else other than the complete disregard you have for engaging with him and the rest of his group.

You can’t quite pinpoint his fascination with you, but you do note the sun disappearing, and how secluded your choice of dwelling is from the rest of the crowds. You’re not isolated, but certainly far enough that the attention is off of you, as people have begun to move away from the games and food and towards the rides and live music. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling of panic that settles in your belly.

He gives you another look over, pursing his lips before taking the finishing swig of his beer. “Should come join us,” he suggests, licking the residue of liquid off his bottom lip. “We’re thinkin’ about heading over to the fields for a bit, you know—”

He lifts his thumb and pointer finger to his lips to mimic smoking, raising his eyebrows at you.

What a gloriously law-abiding citizen, you think sneeringly.

It wouldn’t even matter if he did get caught, and you know that. The amount of ludicrous you have heard your father talk about sweeping under the rug often a cause for concern.

Your arms wrap around yourself instinctively, as if to make yourself smaller. “Oh… oh, I don’t know. Don’t really know if it's my thing.”

“Come on, princess,” he purrs, and you swear you feel the bile rise in your throat when he takes a step closer, towering over you. “Can’t stay locked up in your tower forever.”

What the fuck do you want from me? You want to scream it, shout it for him and everyone to hear, but you don’t. You don’t move, you hardly even breathe. The feeling of being zeroed in on familiar and frightening.

“I think—think I’m, uh, probably just better off waiting here for—”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better,” he continues. Like you don’t even exist. Like your words are meaningless to him, and maybe they are. Maybe he’s already deemed his thoughts the right ones. “I would think you were trying to avoid me or something.”

You try to string something coherent along, anything to settle him. “No! No. Look, Trevor, it’s just that I—”

“I’ve been nothing but good to ya since we met,” he continues. “Now I know it didn’t work out back in the high school days but, come on. Give a guy another chance.” He tilts his head at you as if to plead with you. But there is a falsehood to his innocent expression, one you do not realize until the next words continue to slip past your lips.

Why this, why now, you can’t decipher.

“I just don’t think it’s such a good idea,” you try to reason, keeping your voice as patient and temperate as possible.

The less information, the better. But he’s relentless.

“And why’s that?” he presses, arching a brow up at you, mask beginning to falter.

“I don’t… I don’t think we’d be a very good match.”

Wrong answer. You’re certain of that by the way his face falls entirely.

“Why not?”

Because you don’t know the first thing about me!

You really want to scream it now.

Because you don’t care about a word that I have to say. Because you only seek me out when it’s convenient for you. Because I don’t enjoy your company. In fact, I don’t even find you all that particularly attractive. Because I’d be miserable with you, and I’m already miserable as is!

You say none of it, of course.

“We, I mean… we hardly have anything in common, you know?” you stammer, scavenging for an answer acceptable enough to cease him but not to cross him. You have searched for similar words more times than you’d care to admit. “I don’t… I don’t think we’d make good company for each other. I would hate to waste your time.” You’re chewing on your bottom lip as you await his reaction, unprepared.

Something changes in him. A thread snaps. You think you may register the shift even before he does, nostrils flaring and pupils dilating. That’s when you feel it, cold and rough, his fingers wrapping around your forearm with the hand not occupied around the bottle. Your nervous system is shot, entering a battle for fight or flight, but your body remains frozen, rigid. Your breath catches in your throat, and your wide eyes watch his bitter countenance carefully.

“Listen, princess,” he spits, leaning down towards you, voice low and dripping with acid. It’s all condescension now. You feel his breath on your face, the stench of alcohol hitting your nose. “I’m not sure where this superiority you seem to have comes from, but let me tell you something since no one else will. This town? They ain’t interested in you. They’re interested in your father, and that’s about it. You had your chance to do something worth noticing, and you fucking lost it. So, I’d suggest you finally take me up on this opportunity I’m giving you.”

Tears burn at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. They emerge from a chasm of places; the inevitable truth, while harsh, his words hold. The current predicament that you feel less and less in control of as the minutes pass. The cowardice in you, searching and screaming for the strength to deny him, but fearing an aftermath so grand, you wonder if compliance would be an easier option.

He’s more than annoyed at your silence. “I really don’t wanna have to ask you again,” he all but threatens, and you feel a yank on your forearm sending you into his chest. “Now, don’t embarrass me by keeping friends waiting.�� He tugs on you again, this time, trying to drag you along with him.

“Trevor, please,” you croak, using every ounce of viable effort to try and pull your arm from his grasp. It’s starting to hurt, but you know it’s useless. “Maybe another time, I–”

“What did I just tell you?” he snarls, the sudden lilt in volume making you flinch. “Very least you could do after ignoring me all this time is come by to say hi, now let's go-–”

“M’pretty sure she already said no.”

It comes from behind you, unexpected. Deep and honey-coated unlike the voice in front of you. It resounds your senses, preventing them from coiling in on themselves. A warm, bright light at the end of a dark tunnel guiding you back to safety. You see Trevor’s heated eyes flicker over your shoulder, brows pulling in dissatisfied confusion. The unyielding pressure on your forearm loosens—slight, but enough for you to regain a sense of the throbbing flesh below his touch.

“Can we help you?” he seethes. You’re afraid to move despite the screaming void inside of you begging to turn around, follow the voice. Confirm your desperate suspicions of who it belongs to.

It couldn’t be, could it?

“You can help me by lettin’ go of her.” It could be. It has to be. You wouldn’t forget the sound of that voice even if your life depended on it.

“Listen, old man. I don’t know who you think you are, but this is a private conversation—”

“Doesn’t seem all that damn private when you’re makin’ a scene for anyone who walks by to see.” He cuts Trevor off, just as he did to you. A complete disregard for any sort of explanation or excuse. Though, when it happens this time, you’re overcome with a sick sense of satisfaction; watching as Trevor’s face falls further, twisting into disbelief. “Think you oughta let the lady be.”

Trevor stands up straighter now, releasing you swiftly in the process as if you’re an afterthought in the face of his challenged ego. You feel the air enter back into your lungs, using the opportunity to take a small, cautionary step back.

“Don’t think you speak for her,” Trevor quips, and you eye the way his hands tighten into fists, one still firm around the neck of his beer bottle. You take another step back.

“No more than you do, boy.” It’s a sharp, calculated choice of words, combating the way Trevor attempted to demean him. The emphasis on the final syllable sends a shiver up your arms.

You think you may be reaching the precipice of composure with how your body trembles in anxiety, dizzied, and overwhelmed. But suddenly, the shadow behind you is no longer figmented. It’s tangible and real. You can’t recall if your body continued to carry you backward on its own accord, or if he stepped forward, seeking you. Nonetheless, ever faint, your back is met with the steadying warmth of a solid chest. Trevor hardly notices, too lost in his silent, heated battle of eyes exchanged with the man behind you. Doesn’t notice the distance that separates you, nor the subtle trail of knuckles that brush along the small of your back. An anchor, grounding you back to earth. Blooming you back to life.

Trevor doesn’t like to be challenged, you know that much. The mere realization that his current opponent is not as malleable as others throwing a wrench in the usual, uncivilized manner he enjoyed handling things. He would cause a commotion with you, sure. But not with another man. What would that say about his own masculinity? His strength?

It’s frightening and cynical how quickly he changes. He looks behind you, up and down, and then to you in the same fashion. His eyes still unsettle you regardless of the way his lips begin to upturn into a lax grin, as if he hadn’t just bared his teeth and threatened to eat you alive.

“Listen, man. I think you got the wrong idea,” Trevor coaxes, charm returning to the forefront of his demeanor, and you think you may be sick to your stomach. “Total misunderstanding, we were just… catching up.” You know he’s looking at you, eyes of daggers waiting for their next slice, but you refuse to meet them. Eyes firmly planted on the grass below you, you can make out the tips of black boots at your rear. Despite your defiance, you don’t miss his final remarks before he walks away, knowing the underlying poison embedded in them is only for you: “We can finish catching up some other time.”

You’ve forgotten how to breathe. Ice-cold liquid runs through your veins, yet does nothing to stop your skin from burning in the heat. The familiar sensation of panic burrows into your limbs, and you worry you won’t be able to stop it from ruining you entirely.

But when you finally muster the strength to turn around, long after Trevor’s shadow has disappeared into the vast field, buried back in the crowds, he’s there.

The very masterpiece of your mind, an image your imagination has conjured endless times.

Joel.

He looks different, more relaxed. Lost are the pressed slacks and sleek button-ups; they’re replaced with a pair of dark wash jeans and an olive flannel atop a black t-shirt. His hair is slicked over, damp as if he’s just washed it. His glasses are gone, too. The roundness of his eyes is a bit more prominent without them, lined with age and a furrowed brow as they search you with blatant concern.

“You okay?”

His voice is so soft, so gentle, that you don’t think twice before lurching forward, body acting before brain. You wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face into his sturdy chest. You hear a quiet sound of surprise followed by a beat of hesitation. But then, a strong arm wraps around your waist pulling you flush against him. The other snakes up to the nape of your neck, fingers weaving in between locks of hair to delicately cradle your head into his chest.

“Hey,” he breathes, and you do your very best to only let the first stream of tears stain his shirt. Body beginning to tremble as you try to keep the others at bay. “Hey, s’alright, darlin’. You’re alright. He’s gone.”

Darlin’. Darlin’. Darlin’.

He smells so fucking good. Like rich mahogany and dark coffee; a hint of something fresh from his soap or shampoo. You fill your lungs with it, allowing it to linger and permeate into your bloodstream.

Comfort. Safety.

He beckons your name. Once. Hushed. Not in a manner of rushing you, but checking to see if you’re still with him. Like he knows you need this. And you do.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you mumble into his shirt.

You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for. For crying, maybe. For inconveniencing him, taking up his time with a situation you should have been able to handle yourself.

He lets you cling to him a while longer before the hand in your hair descends for your jaw, pulling your face out of the comfort of his chest and forcing you to look up at him. The churning in your stomach settles. The pass of his thumb across your cheek sends a new type of coolness over your skin, satiating the heat.

“There you go again, apologizin’ when you don’t needa be,” he mumbles, low and rich, you feel it vibrate through his chest into yours. Only for you to hear, and you’re blinking up at him in awe, disbelief that the image before you is even real. “Are you okay?” he repeats, and you swallow hard, fearful your throat has gone too dry just at the sight of him.

He’s here. He is real. He’s right in front of you. Touching you.

“Yeah… yeah, I’ll be okay.” You nod your head, clearing your throat, embarrassed at the hoarseness. You don’t know which one of you you’re trying to convince.

You realize that you’re still clinging to him, fingers bunched at the back of his flannel, neck beginning to cramp at how far back you’ve tilted it to accommodate his height. Another wave of embarrassment, and slowly, you release him, slinking your arms from around him and hugging them across your chest instead. His hand falls from your face in tandem, and there’s an unmistakable wave of disappointment. Something gone missing.

“Thank you,” you add, remembering your manners. As if there are any right words to convey the relief you feel at his presence, which, you realize, in and of itself surprises you. You furrow your brows at him. “What… what are you doing here?” you ask. Curiosity. An attempt to move the subject off of your undesirable encounter.

Joel huffs a breath, not quite a laugh, but you note the way the corners of his mouth twitch. “Good to see you, too,” he says, a hint of amusement. You open your mouth to speak, rebuttal. Tell him he has no idea how good it is to see him. Especially here, especially now. But you figure he can sense that now is not the time to joke, rattled emotions still clear in your countenance. “Thought it’d be good to make an appearance. Don’t needa be known as the town hermit,” he explains matter-of-fact, and then his eyes are looking after the direction Trevor disappeared in, brows lowering. “Who was that?”

You stare at him, uncertain.

Who was that? You’re confident that if he had asked anyone else in this town that question, they would have entirely different answers. Perhaps far kinder and polished representations.

“Guy I used to go to school with,” you settle on, unable to conjure anything else of substance. “We went on a couple of dates senior year, but… nothing special.” Nothing at all.

“Hm.” He appears to mull over your answer, eyeing you in the way that makes your chest flourish with heat, the spot between his brows twitches as he comes to his own astute conclusion. “He been botherin’ you?”

“That was the first time in a while,” you tell him honestly. “I knew I’d run into him eventually. One of many reasons I don’t like coming here anymore.” The last bit is a careless slip of the tongue.

Again, he takes you in. Processing. There is an intensity behind the way he thinks, gears seemingly turning in his head right before your eyes, both frightening and exhilarating. You can’t anticipate what he’ll say next, something that—on any other occasion, would have your stomach bubbling over with anxiety, but like most things involving Joel Miller, doesn’t—excites you.

“I reckon you came with your pops?”

“Yup.” You pop the p, less than enthused.

“Hm.” Think, think, think. You want to peer inside his brain, know everything about him. The fear of your previous encounter dissipates into nothingness under the presence of Joel. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think the time would fly by a little faster with some company.”

And there it is, served up right under your nose on a silver platter. Opportunity. To know him, ask him how he takes his coffee, or what late-night talk show he prefers, or if he would choose the mountains over the sea, or if he knew how difficult it was to not think about him every waking moment—

You’re gawking again. You know it by the way his lips move, the indent of teeth in his cheeks while he tries to bite back the amusement. So silly, he must think you are so unbearably silly for the way you behave around him. If only he knew.

“Oh, I—I don't know. I really don’t want to take up any more of your time, I—”

“Got all the time in the world, darlin’,” he shrugs, hands shoved in his pockets. You envy his nonchalance. “Besides,” he steps forward, leans in, a secret, and you hold your breath. “I’ve got quite the sweet tooth, and that ice cream stand’s been callin’ my name. You even know how quickly I finished off those muffins you gave me?”

It’s your turn to laugh, soft and bashful, the rest of the feeling your run with Trevor had sucked out of you returning with vigor. He’s teasing you, he wants to make you feel better, and the realization coats your muscles in honey and light and something so sweet, you simply have to taste it. He’s smiling down at you when you tilt your head at him, this time, flashing his pearly teeth, divulging you in a gut-wrenching glimpse of his dimple.

“You wouldn’t let me go eat it all by my lonesome now, would ya?” Cheeky, unrelenting man. He doesn’t even recognize that the decision has already been made. Giving into him a task that takes very little coaxing.

You do, for a brief moment, feel a sense of worry. It doesn’t stem from him but from those around you; would it be proper to be seen alone with him? The vast nature of the occasion would make it a rare sighting from those you know, but feasible nonetheless. Even worse, what if your father saw? Innocent as it is, you cannot shake the looming fear of a reprimanding. He would find something wrong with it, something to scold you for, tell you you’re selfish or bothersome.

But Joel’s here. He saved you once already. And beneath the worry, you discover something stronger, something uncharacteristic, something you convinced yourself didn’t exist.

You don’t care.

Not what anyone else thinks. Not what your father may say about the matter. You don’t care. Not when there is the bright reassurance of the man looking down at you, and the warmth in your chest, and the need to know, to know him.

You take a deep breath. “We can’t have that, can we?” You give him the same, open-mouthed smile, and he is so clearly pleased, you can hardly handle the warmth now. It’s spread from your chest to your cheeks, your stomach, between your thighs. And you think, if this is what being selfish feels like, you never want it to end.

“Well c’mon then,” he beckons, cocking his head for you to follow as he turns towards the crowds.

You don’t hesitate.

You learn all about Joel Miller on your walk through the fairgrounds.

He tells you about the move from Austin, deciding it was time once he realized he was one man in a house built for two. He has a daughter, Sarah, who moved to New York after college to pursue a career in fashion. You note the instantaneous shift when he begins to talk about her, a perpetual smile plastered on his face. City life was proving to move too fast for him, and with no one around to take care of anymore, he decided to start taking care of himself. He makes it a point to tell you he’s not married, that Sarah’s mother isn’t in the picture. Something about the mentioning of it makes your stomach flip, that he considers it important you know. He doesn’t go into the details, and you don’t ask.

He owns his own company. A contracting firm that he shares the load of with his younger brother, Tommy. He tells you that neither of them finished school, he being a young, single father, and Tommy being quite the “delinquent.” That they got lucky with the hand they were dealt, and nowadays on his end, it’s mostly paperwork and phone calls.

You like the way he talks. Calm, collective, perhaps even a bit serious at times, but you don’t take offense to it. And when it comes to your turn to share, he is an attentive listener. He asks questions only without interruption, keeping the smooth flow of the conversation rolling. You tell him, although rather dreadfully, about community college, and how you have been taking a couple of general courses the last few semesters while you figure out what you want to do. It’s a partial truth.

You wonder if he notices your unease surrounding the topic, as most of his questions end up steering in the direction of your hobbies. You tell him of your love of theatre, particularly classical works, film, music. You share the last one in common, as he admits to playing a bit of guitar himself.

“Well, I don’t know a ton ‘bout that Shakespeare fella, but I think Sarah was in one of his plays once,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?” You eye him through your peripheral, raising a brow in inquisition. “You remember which one?”

He blows a stream of air through his lips like you’ve caught him thoroughly off guard, and you try not to laugh because fuck, is he so handsome. Every peek from the corner of your eye is a perfect little gift, and yet, you’re still selfish for more.

“Twelve somethin’? All I know is she played a boy, and I had no idea what she was sayin’.”

Now, you really do laugh. “Twelfth Night,” you correct gently. “It’s a good one.”

He shoots you a knowing look. “Woulda been better if I could understand half of it.”

“It’s not all that bad once you find the rhythm of the language,” you explain. “It seems a lot scarier at first glance. Or first listen.”

He’s quiet for a moment, pondering over your words. Think, think, think. Taking strides a bit slower. “Well, maybe you’ll just hafta teach me more about it sometime.”

You nearly stop in your tracks, looking over and tilting your head up at him. He’s smiling down at you, closed lip, but prominent enough that the godforsaken dimple pops out at you again. He seems genuine. You realize very quickly it’s something you’re not used to.

“I would love to,” you tell him honestly, voice failing you in a whisper.

But before your emotions can take any more reign over you, you’re both coming to a stop before the brightly lit ice cream stand. The crowds are thicker at the center of the fair, elated screams of children and laughter, music that rattles your ear drums from every direction. But now, you find it all easier to tune out. No longer do you feel the all-encompassing thread of anxiety weaving through you, and perhaps it’s because most of your focus is on Joel; in all his glory, standing with his hands on his hips as he peers up at the menu, different hues of pink and yellow and blue flashing over his face in sync with the lights around him.

“Well, shouldn’t be too hard of a decision,” he’s saying, but you’re hardly listening. Your eyes are trained on his neck, the tan skin that peeks out of the collar of his flannel, a thick vein running down its length. There’s a film of sweat glistening over his jugular, and you wonder just how delightful it would feel, taste, to run your tongue across it. Silly, silly girl.

Now, he’s looking down at you, one arm leaning against the stand’s counter, and you try with great difficulty to blink the haze out of your lust-blown eyes. “Chocolate or vanilla?” he asks.

You have a taste for something you believe is far sweeter. “Chocolate,” you say, despite yourself.

He hums in approval. “The correct choice,” and then, he’s fishing into his back pocket for his wallet, and you’re snapping out of your fantasies and back to attention.

“Oh, I can cover mine,” you tell him, fumbling with the zipper of your purse as the worker approaches the windowsill, asking Joel what he can get for him.

You look up after retrieving the wrinkled five-dollar bill to meet Joel’s unamused gaze, shaking his head. He’s already handing his card over. “Two cups of chocolate, please,” he says to the man at the counter, but his scolding eyes are still on you.

You frown. “Joel—”

“Would ya knock it off? I’m buyin’ you the damn ice cream.” He’s stern, serious with his words. But the smirk that lingers at the corner of his lips keeps everything in earnest jest. He wants to buy it for you, and that’s that—final decision. You’re almost embarrassed at how eagerly the small gesture makes your heart swell. How easy it is to give in to him without fear as a playable factor.

You can’t remember the last time someone bought something for you just because they wanted to, because they felt like it.

“Thank you,” you mutter, arguing no further.

Once you retrieve your cups, you find a vacant picnic table nearby to dwell on while you eat. Joel chooses to sit beside you, both of you facing away from the tabletop and towards the bustling crowds, the limited space of the bench forcing the firm flesh of his outer thigh to press up, ever slight, against yours. You try to focus your energy on the sweet, soothing cold taste of your treat, taking tiny spoonfuls as slowly as possible, a subconscious tactic to keep him here, next to you, longer. Even if just to watch the nameless bodies pass by, the pleasure of mere company a rarity.

“Can I ask you somethin’?” Joel’s the one to break the silence, and you’re grateful. You nod at him, and he eyes his spoon as he fiddles it mindlessly around his cup, brows pulled in focus.

“Earlier… you said seein’ that boy was one of the many reasons you didn’t like comin’ to the fair anymore.” He places his emphasis right where you had. Attentive. Thinking and listening. “Why else don’t ya like it?”

Oh.

It’s not what you were expecting. You stop eating altogether, cradling the cup delicately in your lap and losing your eyes to the passing patrons. You wonder if he can sense your trepidation because he doesn’t repeat the question even after your silence has long extended its warranted amount. Memories bombard you, and there’s that momentary feeling of fight or flight again; you don’t fear him as much as do yourself, and what may become of you, and him, if you are to spill the thoughts that now swirl ceaselessly in your brain, replacing pleasant fantasies with their stain.

You had never recounted the story yourself; it has always been told for you. More opportunity. The chance to reshape tragedy into the tale of your choosing. But no matter how long you sit there, silent, thinking, anything but truth seems like a waste. An opportunity to be honest, brave.

“Um...” You try to form the words, but they’re stuck. Be brave, be brave. You clear your throat, swallowing hard. “Well, my uh… my mother used to bring me here every summer.” Bile rises in your esophagus, the acidic taste a punishment after such a treat. “She left us when I was six,” you explain plainly. “No idea where she is.”

A waiting game. For pity, or sorrow, or some overly dramatized display of grief as a means to be sympathetic. You wait for it, brace yourself for it and the robotic actions that you once trained yourself to follow in response.

But it never comes.

Silence, and then, you find it in yourself to peer shyly at him and discover he’s already looking at you. No pity, or sorrow, or grief. Tenderness. Understanding, even. He turns himself a quarter, setting his half-eaten cup down and leaning his elbow against the table, facing you. You watch his jaw roll side to side, contemplation, before:

“Sarah’s mom… she left, too. Couple weeks before her first birthday.”

Yes, understanding. You feel it all, a tsunami, washing you away from your lonesome shore and back into the vast waters. Anger, sadness, resentment, and understanding. Your heart aches in your chest. For Joel, for his daughter, for yourself, a version then and now. Being brave pays off.

You set your cup down, turning to face him similarly. “I’m so sorry, Joel,” you whisper, sincerity.

He nods slowly. “Yeah, me too.” And he means it. You know he does. “Listen, m’not… pretendin’ to understand your situation, but if there’s anythin’ I took from mine s’that… who we are? It ain’t based on other people’s poor decisions. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean there’s somethin’ wrong with us.”

Words you have waited a lifetime for, and he gifts them to you effortlessly.

The sting of tears is second nature, though you hardly notice them at first with the way he’s looking at you—so much understanding. Only when a drop of liquid slips off your lashes, tainting your cheek, do you attempt to compose yourself.

You blink rapidly. “I’m sorry, I—”

He’s touching you, and suddenly, the weight of the world seems less daunting. Two careful palms cradling your cheeks, a sea of copper boring into you. “Hey, no. No. Don’t be.” He’s shaking his head, eyes pained, but honest. “Not about this. Never about this, okay?” A rogue thumb swipes away the proof of your despair, and you want to loosen the floodgates, sob into his arms, and relinquish yourself to him with the budding trust that he would take care of you.

But you also want to be strong, be strong for him. Harness the strength he’s giving you. So you nod, a promise that you hear what he’s saying and accept it at face value. You let him wipe the few following tears that slip, let him hand you back your ice cream cup and tell you to eat it, it’s good for the soul, which makes you blow out a shaky laugh. You let the silence wash over you again, less fearful of its presence, while you eat and watch the crowds. You let yourself be brave again, scooting an inch over, and laying your head on the curve of his shoulder. You let him rest his cheek against the crown of your head in return, a subtle intimacy, necessary and calm. You can’t remember the last time you felt so calm.

You stay like this for some time—you could stay like this forever—until he tells you, rather dismally, that he has a work conference call tomorrow morning that he’s dreading.

“On a Saturday?” you question, lifting your head and flashing him a twisted expression.

He smiles tiredly. “Bein’ the boss doesn’t always allow alotta down time.”

You purse your lips, attempting to hide your disappointment. It’s his much too kind way of telling you it’s time to call it a night.

“Well, then we oughta get you home,” you say, forcing yourself to your feet, empty cup in hand.

Joel studies your face for a moment—you still can’t decipher what he’s thinking, a mystery you’re growing impatient to crack—before following suit. He takes the cup out of your hands, stacking it atop his, and nodding his head for you to follow towards the garbage bins.

It’s on your short stroll across the yard that you take a moment to dig into your purse, finding your phone to check the time, only to discover something far worse: two missed calls and three texts from your father.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, coming to a stop. You’d left it on silent. With shaky fingers, you open messages.

9:57 pm – Heading towards car.

10:04 pm – Where are you? Let’s go!!!

10:11 pm – Leaving. Call a cab.

The last one was fifteen minutes ago.

Joel slows his steps once he realizes you’re no longer beside him. “Everythin’ okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes. I just—my dad had to um… he had to leave, and I’ve gotta find another way home.”

Because of course, he couldn’t possibly give you some grace. Couldn’t make the effort to at least look for you before taking off. The bare minimum had never been an expectation from him before. You’re rapidly tapping away at your phone, hoping your nearby option isn’t outrageously expensive, when Joel’s frame steps in front of you.

“Well, here. Let me give ya a ride back.” You hear him say it, but only for a moment do your eyes flicker up to acknowledge him.

It’s a nice offer. Generous. Too generous. If you weren’t so accustomed to self-sabotage, and less panicked, you may have even taken him up on it.

You shake your head. “Oh, no. It’s okay, I don’t wanna—”

He’s touching you again. A swift hand loosely coming up to take one of your wrists between his fingers, any ability to focus on the task at hand lost to his allure. You look up at him properly, the sight of a sympathetic smile and sincere eyes causing your breath to hitch.

“What, put me out of my way?” he muses. His thumb draws a pattern over your pulse point, your ride awaiting confirmation suddenly a tedious afterthought. He has your full attention with a single touch.

You open your mouth to rebuttal but nothing comes. It’s nothing if not sensible. Your neighbor offering you a ride home, inevitably heading in the same direction. Although it isn’t just your neighbor, it’s Joel, and for some reason, the two haven’t solidified in your head as equals yet. Just how attainable he really is.

You realize you would be a fool to turn him down.

You lower your phone, nibbling at your bottom lip. “Are you sure?” you ask quietly, but your stomach churns with excitement at the prospect of your perfect evening not quite having to reach its end.

Joel smiles.

“Positive.”

He’s witty. It’s something you didn’t expect. You laugh more on the drive home in Joel’s truck than you think you’ve laughed all year. Granted, most of his jabs stem from the ridiculous interactions he’s had with those in town—those you know, have known, their mind-boggling antics less surprising to you now—but you find solace in how honest he is with you. How he confides in you.

He looks good. Meaty thighs spread open in the driver's seat, one hand occupying the wheel while the other arm leans casually against the center console. He takes up the whole seat, a vision, the kind of man who can occupy space without consuming all of it, the inside of the vehicle appearing crammed with his broad body. The front windows are rolled down, a steady breeze whistling through his curls, and you’re grateful for the cardigan now as it’s wrapped around your shoulders, shielding you from the goosebumps growing on your arms. Whether they’re from the wind, or him, you don’t know. You attempt not to stare too long or too often, regardless of how your eyes hunger to follow the veins across his thick forearm or the strong build of his jaw. Try to maintain some semblance of composure, despite the proximity of him, his scent, his being, intoxicating. And no matter how many times you clench your thighs together below your skirt, you cannot ignore the growing ache that lingers there just upon the sight of him.

You think, however naive, how easy it would be for him to become the end of you. In every fantastic way imaginable.

Still, in those moments of silence, there’s comfort. You find solace in how mindless his presence feels; no worries, no regrets. You can just be. A pleasantry long forgotten, perhaps never fully discovered.

You’re looking wistfully out the window, elbow propped up on the sill, resting your cheek against your palm and admiring the clarity of the stars, when a familiar percussive intro coming from his stereo perks your attention.

“Oh, I love this song,” you tell him, eagerly reaching for the volume knob on the dash and dialing it up a couple notches.

I've been roamin' around, always lookin' down at all I see.

“Whole album’s a good one,” Joel remarks, and you tilt your head at him with faint surprise.

“You know it?”

Painted faces fill the places I can't reach.

You catch him rolling his eyes. “M’not that old.”

“Yeah? Well, you never told me just how old,” you tease.

You don’t expect it to land so unsteady, but there’s a pause, a shift in the air palpable enough that it frightens you briefly. “Fifty-two,” he tells you, less conviction in his tone.

You know that I could use somebody.

Only three years younger than your father.

It should make you uneasy, yet somehow, it only causes your sick fascination with him to blossom.

You only hum in response, nodding. Scared to display your interest too eagerly, but you catch the way he eyes you out of his peripheral at the revelation. Seeming to search for your reaction, he waits until the truck is pulled still at the approaching red light, cocking his head fully over his shoulder to take you in. You return the glance, eyes timid—timid, but not unsure, nor displeased, nor appalled, nor any other reaction you assume he anticipates—and you’re studying one another, seeking common ground in the heavy silence, and you think he must find his reassurance in your eyes for his own soften if only a bit, and you note the way the corner of his lips threaten to upturn, your own mirroring.

Someone like you and all you know and how you speak; countless lovers under cover of the street.

And then there’s the summer night breeze, mischievous and unruly, wafting through the open windows and taking the hem of your skirt carelessly in its path. The fabric flounders mere inches, revealing the tops of your thighs, and his eyes, just as untamed now, falter to catch a glimpse.

You know that I could use somebody.

You suck in a breath, fingers twitching in your lap with the instinct to reach for the fabric, pull it back down to your knees, and allow yourself some semblance of decency. You fight a war with the warmth in your belly, and it wins, too enamored at the way he unabashedly takes in your body. As if he had been holding back before, and only now does he allow himself the indulgence. Fantasy and reality become one. And when he trails his wandering eyes back to your face, your lips part; not for words, nor air, nor sounds, but some hope that he’ll give you a taste of everything you have ever wanted.

Someone like you.

Green flashes across his face. He clears his throat, and then, his eyes abandon you for the road as the engine roars back to life. The loss is agonizing.

No more than five minutes later, he’s pulling into the driveway adjacent to yours. You see your father's cruiser parked in the driveway and your stomach sinks, every muscle in your body returned to its usual tension-coated stasis. Joel cuts the engine, and with it, the music, the breeze, the serenity, all disappear. You’re both silent, still, eyes plastered forward for a while. Lost in thought. Wonder what he’s thinking,

Joel gets out first, wordless, but stalks around the front hood to the passenger side to open the door for you. You flash him your wide eyes, his own as chasmic as the sky in the low light, muttering a soft thank you as you scoot off the high bed of his truck.

He walks you over to your side of the yard. You’re aware it's essentially useless, but neither of you complains. When you reach your side of the fence, you stop before the gate, turning on your heels to face him. He comes to a halt a few feet ahead of you, hands in his pockets, the glow of the moon casting shadows across his face. You take a deep breath, clutching the strap of your purse taut, and finding the courage to speak first.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you tell him, sheepish, peering up with caution. “Thank you.”

He’s looking down at you, expression neutrally unreadable. “No need to thank me, darlin’,” he speaks lowly, as if not to jar the night sky, quiet and intimate around you. “It was real good for me, too.” And you know again that he means it, and you’re certain you won’t be able to sleep tonight with such rampant thoughts.

Don’t just stand here like a freak, the moment’s over.

You clear your throat, eyes falling to your feet. “Well, I should… I should get inside.” Let me stay out here forever, please. “Goodnight.”

“Yeah, me too.” When you look up again, he’s nodding to himself. His expression has changed, brows back to their perpetual knot and stiffness in his jaw. “G’night.”

And it’s so hard to look away, even harder to move. Something that lingers between your exchange of glances is heavy, palpable, real.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, once more for good measure.

And with great difficulty, you peel your eyes off of him and turn toward the gate. Your feet feel like weights trying to depart from him, but you only make it about three paces before—

“Wait.”

Calloused skin grazes you, careful fingers wrapping around your wrist, a bit more firm than before, and halting you in your tracks. The touch is unlike Trevor’s. Considerate, soft. Awaiting permission to go any further. And when you finally muster the courage to turn and face him, you find a dire look in his eyes.

Pained, desperate. Restraining himself from something unspoken.

The gap between you feels vast, only his outstretched arm occupying the space. It’s vibrating, begging to be explored. Uncharted terrain. And maybe it’s the rescue, or the conversation, or the sweet treat, or the ride home, or just Joel and your unyielding fantasies. But you cannot deny what feels like a culmination of every blip in time leading up to this moment, and you’re striding forward, a split second of doubt before trembling fingers reach for the collar of his flannel.

You think he descends towards you in unison, for when you touch lips, there’s urgency. Clambering hands and uneven breath, there is no space to find where you end and he begins. His hands steady themselves at your waist, pulling you flush against his warm body, and if it weren’t for the taste of him enticing you—coffee, mint, and chocolate so sweet—you may have collapsed. But he would catch you. You know this by the way his fingertips dig into you, bits of skin meeting skin where the hem of your cardigan and tank top rise, and you’re on fire. A light you did not even know existed inside of your flourishing, whirling, wild flames.

Your fingers find the skin of his neck, thick and warm, before your arms wrap snug around it. Close, you need to keep him close. His hands, steady and seasoned, explore the slopes and panes of your back, bunching up the fabric of your cardigan between your shoulder blades, a means of restraint.

Don’t, you want to beg him. Don’t hold back.

That’s when you feel it—wet and sweltering and fucking delicious, his tongue prodding at your lower lip, and you waste no time in granting him his desires. Your lips part in a gasp, a deep groan rumbling through Joel’s chest that leaves you lightheaded, as he licks eagerly into your mouth; tongues dancing, lips sheen with saliva and growing swollen from the sheer intensity of it, and your throat releases a faint, uninhibited moan between breaths. He loses a bit of himself then; you hear that same, low sound, this time sending a wave of warmth to your thighs, before he wraps you in his wingspan, pulling you to your toes, as close as he can have you.

And this is it, you think. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Even when he’s pulling away from you to catch his breath, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in. Even when you find the courage to open your eyes and look into his, instantly lost in the allure. More, more, you want more. You would take anything he gave you. Peaceful. Perfect. And nothing could take it away from you. It’s yours now. Nothing, nothing, nothing—something.

You almost miss it. Just out of the corner of your eye, distant and flickering, the light turns on in your father's window from behind the curtains. The bubble pops.

“Oh my god!” you gasp, planting your hands on his chest and pushing firmly, creating distance. You hardly notice the sudden concern on his face, vision gone white, hands sweating, breathing no longer labored by desire, but panic. “I—I can’t—I’m—” You’re unable to find the words, and maybe they don’t exist.

He’s saying something, but you don’t register it. His cheeks are flushed, brows lowered in despair, disappointment, but he doesn't know. He doesn’t know why you can’t be here, why you can’t do this, why you have to break away. And that version inside of you, the one that had always pleaded and cried to be let out, crawls her way up your throat. She pushes tears into your eyes, and like always, just before you can let her out, a greater force shoves her back down, wires your lips shut, and forces you to remain as you are.

You hardly even notice that you’re moving, running. Stumbling your way through the gate and dashing across the backyard. You don’t dare look back, and the sound of Joel calling your name is the last thing you hear before you unlatch the back door, slipping out of fantasy, and drowning back into the den of harsh reality.

follow @cavillscurlsupdates & turn on notifications to be notified when I update!

Ao3 | KOFI

#AAAAAAHHHHHHH #im gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure #this is everything #I am LIVING for the slow burn #joel miller x reader

2K notes · View notes

exit-goat · 2 months

Text

daddy next door | j.miller (one)

❝welcome to the neighborhood❞

chapter summary: you meet your new neighbor and quickly discover he’s all you’re able to think about.

chapter warnings: MDNI. mostly exposition. no-outbreak!joel. neighbor!joel.foul language. discussions of alcoholism. verbal abuse (readers father). discussions of prior domestic abuse. readers father is a police officer, that gets its own warning. age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel is in his 50s), pet names. slow burn. tension. female masturbation. no descriptions of race or body type, except implication that Joel is noticeably taller than reader.

word count: 3.5k

series masterlist.

The first time you saw him was through your bedroom window.

Bulging biceps and graying curls stuck to his forehead with sheen sweat under the Texas sun. You wished you could make out the features of his face better. He was with another man, equally handsome from what you could tell in a boyish sort of way, sporting long, raven hair. Together, they unloaded the moving van. You couldn’t decipher what they were saying, but you could hear the booming cadence of their voices and occasional laughter.

There is a perfect view of his driveway from your room. Beyond the picket fence, a beautiful two-story white home that had been otherwise unoccupied for nearly a decade. It’s unsurprising; you can’t quite fathom why anybody would want to live in the poorly populated outskirts, let alone relocate on their own volition. Outside of city limits, things move slower. Everyone knows everyone, and secrets often turn into idle gossip even the innocent cannot escape.

The quaint neighborhood has been your home for a lifetime, and a fresh face — his face — is the most excitement the residents have seen in years.

The next time you saw him was three days after that. You were riding your bike home from the library and noticed the horde of local women on his doorstep. Even with your headphones in, you could make out the grating nature of their boisterous voices. You couldn’t see his face, only the broad shadow of his frame as he accepted the welcoming gifts the women gave him with less than minimal eagerness.

You were admittedly intrigued by the thought of him. You knew very little about the man, other than the web of talk in town: middle-aged, moved in alone, some work in contracting. But the summers got lonely, and the fascination was a welcomed distraction.

The third time you see him is a particularly sweltering Thursday afternoon. You are thumbing the crisp pages of a book, lying horizontal across the sofa, when your father's footsteps descend the stairs.

“Still caught up in that nonsense, I see.”

Never is there an opportunity missed to berate you. To remind you that your hobbies, interests, and ambitions are foolish or beyond attainable for the life you are supposed to live.

You know what that means to him. It means taking the same, dreadful path as your mother. Marrying a man who has too much stake in the community. Giving up your job, your autonomy, to please him. A picture-perfect, Southern doll to fall into the habits of a man's pleasing. It’s why she left. That, and the incessant drinking which often led to sharp words or even sharper blows. She knew she couldn’t defy him; going against his wishes was like abandoning the law itself.

He is a proud man and unafraid to embody it. You often wonder what you may be like if you encompassed a fraction of that trait; to be unabashedly secure in oneself, so much so that it appeared he could bend the will of those that surrounded him.

Perhaps the bronze badge pinned to his chest, proudly displaying CHIEF, has something to do with his choice of demeanor.

Yes, you understand why she left him. You just can’t pinpoint why she abandoned you in the process.

It’s not nonsense, you want to scream. Calling one of the most prolific playwrights in history nonsense is confirmation enough of your father's stance in your interests, but you know better than to argue. Instead, you place the bookmark delicately between the pages. A copy of Othello. Act four, scene two. How seamlessly Shakespeare’s words paint the page, eliciting a clear image in your head:

Desdemona, the wife of the great Othello, seen both as a tragic victim and heroine. You had always favored the latter, her unyielding loyalty to her husband until her last breath — even despite his own accusations of her infidelity — something of admiration. How infatuated one must be with another, how deeply their souls are intertwined to continue to proclaim her love in the face of such aversion. You often daydream about the sort of connection it may take to maintain such sacrifice and—

It’s your father's voice pulling you from your imagination and back into reality again. You set the play down on the coffee table.

“Won’t be back till late,” he says, bending over near the front door now to lace up his boots. He’s never home early when he takes afternoon shifts. Days you look forward to. “Do me a favor and get somethin’ together for the new neighbor — Mr. Miller, I think? Been a week now. We oughta make a good impression.”

You’re unable to define why, but something about your father's mentioning of the man next door rouses your stomach. As if his existence, despite being the talk of the town, is your own hushed secret. It’s a reminder that he sees the world around you, too. That you are not contained to the stories within your fingertips.

You look up to catch him in your peripheral. “I think he’s gotten plenty of gifts from our other neighb—”

“I didn’t ask for the goddamn attitude, just do it!”

It’s not his voice that startles you. It hardly ever is anymore. You expect him to yell, even when it’s uncalled for in the situation. But the sound of his palm smacking against the front door panel makes you tremble to your feet. When you look at him, his eyes are stern. Lifeless. He would rather be looking at anything else, anyone else, you think. How much his own creation had become such a burden on his precious life.

You don’t move. Simply nod your head and mutter a yes, sir under your breath. It appeases him enough for now. While he’s sober, forgiveness comes easier. You know better than to open your mouth, even if it is with the intent of basic conversation. He isn’t there to converse. He isn’t there to be your friend. Hardly your father. He’s the man of the house. In his mind, the man of the town. And how easy it is for men like him to assert themselves over the closest woman they can sink their teeth into.

It’s why he never let you go away for college.

Never let you leave.

He needed the game to feel like a predator, and you were the next best prey.

The breath lodged in your chest expels as soon as he’s out the door. Some days are better than others. Some days, he’s too preoccupied with his own meaningless life to direct his anger at you. On other days, you’re better at keeping the emotions of anguish, resentment, grief, at bay. But not today. Today, when the door latches shut and your father's cruiser revs out of the driveway, you fall back into the couch cushions and bury your face into the nearest pillow.

Today, you allow yourself to cry.

You spend the rest of the afternoon baking. Muffins are the chosen treat, and the activity is a soothing routine to distract you from your anxieties. Much to your dismay, you discover you are all out of chocolate chips. You scour the pantry and fridge alike for an alternative before happening upon a bag of frozen blueberries in the freezer. They would have to do.

Within a couple of hours, the kitchen is filled with the pleasant scent of fruit and sugar. The recipe makes a dozen, but you keep half on the counter once they cool, plating the other six and covering them in foil. You shuffle on your flip-flops, balancing the treats between the palms of your hands as you begin the short journey across the yard. The sun is blinding and the heat suffocating, your skin instantly missing the comfort of the air conditioning.

It isn’t until you make it up his driveway, stand before his door, and knock three times that nerves find you. Their origin still remains unknown, but real is the frantic beat of your heart against your chest when you hear footsteps beyond the door's threshold. Then, the unlatching of the lock. And finally, the deep timbre of a somewhat distressed voice.

“Tellin’ y’all, I really don’t need any more of that cornbread — oh.” You don’t have time to acknowledge his unabashed complaint. You’re too busy gawking.

The man before you now, despite his image through the window just days prior, is not the man you expect. He’s staring at you, eyes a bit wide through the panes of the black-rimmed glasses that rest on a curved nose, as if he had not expected to see you on his doorstep, either.

You take him in for a moment. Soft brown eyes peer into your very soul, the signs of age lining them in faint wrinkles and peppered freckles. He’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a pale blue button-up, the picture of refinement. Save for his hair that curls up in odd directions, as if he had run his hands through it too many times for the product to stick. He’s tall; you realize very quickly that you are looking up at him rather than at him. And he down at you, the momentary shock melting into something more subdued.

Oh god, he isn’t just handsome. He’s terribly, horribly, painstakingly beautiful.

You blink at him rapidly, clearing your throat when you register that your awestruck silence isn’t boding well for a first impression.

“Um, h-hi, Mr. Miller. I’m so sorry to bother you,” you finally stammer, offering him your name in the process. “I live next door—”

“I know,” he interjects swiftly. You hope he doesn’t hear the way your words catch in your throat. It’s not rude, nor creepy, but matter of fact. He’s noticed you as you have him. Though it’s much less enticing to him, you think, as mapping out your neighbors in a new town seems common practice. Nonetheless, the idea excites you.

“You’re, uh…you’re the Chief's daughter, yeah?” And just as quickly as the thrill fills you, it’s drained to the bone.

The Chief’s daughter. Of course, what did you expect? For your identity to not be reduced to your father's stake in this town?

“Yeah,” you answer, mustering up the politest smile you can find. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Huh,” is all he breathes, and then, his eyes are darting down to the plate in your hands. You hope he doesn’t pick up on the way they tremble.

“Oh!” you chirp, following his gaze. “They’re, um. They’re muffins. We wanted to drop off something to welcome you in, but…” you trail off, peering up at him again through your lashes to find he’s already staring. The quiet stoicism he displays while studying you makes you uneasy; not by means of discomfort, but nearly eliciting a sick sort of fascination.

You have never seen a man exhibit power as delicately as he does.

Your eyes scramble back for your hands, finding it difficult to maintain direct eye contact. “But I – I told my father you probably already have so many other gifts to get through, so if you – if you don’t want them…”

There you go again. Looking up only to be lured into the beast's trance. You try to decipher his eyes, remarkably dark even in the unforgiving sun. Yet despite their color, there remains a gentleness. Warm, welcoming, perhaps even tired.

You watch the way his brows scrunch slightly above his eyes. “You make ‘em?” he asks after a moment, raising one brow.

You nod. “From scratch.”

“Chocolate?”

“No, blueberry,” you frown, but he’s grinning at you then.

“My favorite.” You aren’t sure if it's his words or the way the dimple pops out on his cheek when he smiles that settles you, but regardless, you’re grateful. He looks younger when he smiles, you think. Then, you find yourself questioning just how old he even is—

He’s reaching out for the plate now, nudging the door open the rest of the way with his hip. His entire body takes up the door frame, and you have to work hard to not let your eyes rake over him. Luckily, you have something else to distract you: his hands. They brush yours when he takes the plate. Rough, thick fingers just barely grazing over your skin.

“You saw all them folks out here the last couple days then, huh?” It takes you a moment to register that he’s speaking to you, asking you a question. The plate is stable in his hands now, much to your appreciation.

You breathe out a shaky chuckle, nodding. Your hands clasp bashfully behind your back now that they are free, fiddling with your fingers to ebb the nerves that, regardless of how long you stand there under the intense sun and his even more intense eyes, would not cease.

“Yeah, I did,” you answer honestly. “But I’m not surprised,” you find yourself adding, tilting your head up at him. You’re finding it’s surprisingly easy to speak with him. “If there’s anything the women in this town love, it's shopping, gossip, and something new and pretty to sink their teeth into.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, the low vibration making your chest flutter in delight. He throws his head back a little bit before shaking it. Then, he returns his eyes to you. This time, a dash of implication clouds them.

“S’that what I am?” he asks. He must see the confusion on your face. “Somethin’ new and pretty?” he clarifies, grin growing wider when the confusion is replaced by mortification.

You feel your cheeks scald with heat, hotter than the sun above.

“Wha—I, well no. No, no I just meant—” You clamp your sputtering lips shut as soon as he breaks into another fit of laughter, wanting nothing more than to melt into a pathetic puddle right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” you try again, flustered. You bring your hands from behind your back up to cover your cheeks. The apology is a conditioned response. “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean–”

“Hey,” he beckons you softly, and you dare to look. You’re glad you do because he’s eyeing you almost apologetically, balancing the plate in one hand while he uses the other to lean against the doorframe. “M’just teasin’ you. Don’t gotta apologize, you’re sweet for sayin’ all that.”

Sweet.

He thinks you’re sweet. You don’t say anything else, just nod and stifle another awkward bough of laughter, feeling sufficiently embarrassed. And sweaty. You’ve been standing outside way too long, but for some reason, you can’t locate any impending desire to end the interaction. You think it may be the most you’ve talked to someone other than your father all summer.

“What about you then?” he suddenly questions. It appears he isn’t ready for it to be over, either.

You furrow your brows at him. “What about me?”

There’s that smile, again. This time, it reaches so far that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced. “What do you love? Assuming it ain’t the same as the rest of the women in town.”

You’re certain now that your belly has overflowed with the budding warmth. Growing stronger, more intense, and prominent every moment you spend in his presence. How mundane a task it is – speaking to you, directly to you with genuine interest and pure fascination – and yet, you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced it as real and raw as right now.

“Um…” You’re looking for the right words, a bit too lost in the murky sea of his eyes to find them. “Books, old films, art. You know, boring, meaningless stuff like that,” you answer, shrugging. It’s meant to be sarcastic, but you get the sense he understands the validity of the statement. How a town like this could suck the life out of anything that didn’t fit a cookie-cutter standard.

He doesn’t seem to fit it, either.

He observes you for a moment, and you think you see the path of his eyes do a once over the entirety of your body. Is it the first time he’s done so? Or just the first one you’ve caught?

“Well, that answer alone may just make ya the most interestin’ person in this town,” he finally concludes, voice dropping only a few decibels lower, but you notice the shift. Notice the way sincerity floods his features, an invisible string of curiosity and magnetism drawing your gaze to him. This time when you maintain eye contact, you don’t feel inclined to break it. In fact, there is an unanticipated comfort in it. A realization that he is seeing you, just you in all that you are, for the first time. And maybe he even likes what he sees. More so then the women flooding his doorstep the past week, at least.

His lips part, looking as though he is about to speak again when his phone rings from within his pocket.

The unspoken moment is broken by his scrambling for it, careful to set down your plate of treats at the entryway table before fishing it out of his pocket. “Shit,” you hear him mutter under his breath as he examines the screen, tender eyes returning to the same, focused nature they had taken when he first opened the door.

“M’really sorry, I gotta take his. It’s work,” he explains, looking at you apologetically.

You shake your head. “No, no. It’s — it’s alright. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time, anyway.” Your stomach drops upon the loss of his attention, quickly discovering how much you were enjoying it. It frightens you.

“Thank you again for the muffins,” he grumbles to you, but his eyes are on the device, rapidly tapping a message to whoever may be trying to get ahold of him.

You do your very best to not take offense to the distraction. It’s not his fault, he would’ve kept talking to you if he could’ve, you convince yourself. It still does little to shroud the disappointment.

“No problem,” you reply as you begin to back away down his front porch, not wishing to distract him any further. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Miller,” you say as you turn on your heels, returning back to the role of casual, kind, and welcoming next-door neighbor. Lost is the moment of fantasy, of fiction, you had allowed yourself to entertain.

But then, he’s surprising you all over again. “Joel,” he calls out, right when your feet hit the pavement leading up to his porch.

“Hm?” You whip your head around, not entirely sure if you made up hearing his voice again altogether.

“Joel,” he repeats when you face him, his eyes already on you. “Just Joel is fine, darlin’.”

You nearly lose your balance.

“Joel,” you test the name out on your lips, loving the way it sounds, honeyed and masculine. He gives you a final nod of his head, the shape of his smile a picture you capture and store away in memory as he sends you a single wave and shuts the door behind him. Then, with great difficulty, you force yourself to turn around again and carry yourself forward. A sort of haze seems to settle over your mind as you recount the moment prior.

Darlin’. He called you darlin'.

The word buzzes in your ears during the short trek across the yard, having to focus intently on the ground in front of you to keep from toppling over.

Darlin’.

It follows you throughout the entire night, in the shower where you turn the handle to cold in hopes of relieving your burning skin.

Darlin’.

It shamelessly echoes in your mind while you lay in bed that night, urging the hand that slips beneath your night shorts and into your damp underwear. You feel your entire body tighten when your fingers make contact with your core, slick and awaiting. The fullness of your two fingers sinking inside of you sends your feet fluttering into the air, toes curling in delight. You gnaw on your bottom lip to keep the soft whimpers from ringing too loud, worrying the front door could open at a moment's notice.

Darlin’.

You hear it like a chant, a prayer, coaxing you closer to the impending edge until you’re tearing your fingers out of your cunt and feverishly circling your pulsing clit. You bring your opposite hand up to your mouth, biting into your palm as the orgasm washes over you, back arching and thighs littered with tiny tremors. And when you come down, collapsing back into your mattress, with wide eyes and heavy breaths going up towards the ceiling, it is no longer the summer heat causing sweat to pool at your temples.

You think of him as you fall asleep. Warm brown eyes and scruffy cheeks. Broad frame and a presence that should instill fear, but quite the contrary. That’s what scared you the most; how inviting he was, how safe he seemed.

You don’t need any of your stories to aid your imagination tonight.

You hear it in your dreams.

Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’.

follow @cavillscurlsupdates & turn on notifications to be notified when I update!

my kofi linked HERE if you’re interested in supporting my work further!

#THIS IS SO GOOD #i’m so excited #joel miller #joel miller x reader

2K notes · View notes