livingemkayde

[livingemkayde]

HOLY SHIT!!!!

i finally got around to reading this and...wow.

this entire series is beautifully and masterfully written - the attention to detail and small notes / emphasized phrases is so incredibly well done and purposeful. not to get nerdy, but i cannot say enough about the syntax!! you are truly an incredible writer.

this reads like a novel and i am obsessed (read all three chapters in one sitting, as ALL OF YOU should do too)

READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS!!! its not a recommendation, it's a demand!

this is perfect 🤍

helen ; chapter three

the red circle

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the truth.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, mentions of rape/SA, cars, bill is here, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, hitman!joel finally hitmans, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST (still unresolved oopsie), we're getting there though, exposition, conflicting emotions, joel's tattoos are sexy but they're also plot-relevant, Sleeping Together, but not like That, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.6k a/n: this chapter marks this fic being halfway done already, which is madness. also, can i just say that i'm loving the amount of people who've specifically been watching john wick because of this fic?? this is my agenda!! as always, thank you so fucking much to mya baby @cavillscurls for beta reading this fic and being, idk, generally the loml. i hope you enjoy chapter 3, my friends! i'm sorry it's been such a long time coming, but life lifed, y'know?? prev | next

“How much?”

“Two million. For now, at least. It’s open.”

“Goddammit, Tommy.”

“I told you to be careful, brother. Now look at you. You’re a loose end.”

Joel resisted the urge to toss his phone. The shower continued running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed door. 

He couldn't lose you. He didn't know life without you. Love had no name until he knew you. He'd christened it with that first kiss, maybe even in the first breath he'd shared with you.

If there was a chance Cabrera’s kid could come back for you, even if just to hurt Joel, he needed to see this to its end. There was no choice. 

“He tried to rape my wife,” said Joel. “He's lucky I’m only tryin’ to kill him.”

Tommy only sighed, and the call ended.

I married you, Joel.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches you doze. The sunlight shines neatly through the break in the curtains, and you squint against it in your sleep, turning over with a little huff and bringing the duvet over your head. You’ve always needed total darkness for a half-decent sleep. 

You’ve been crying. The tears leave remnants on your cheeks, a dryness at the outer corners of your eyes, salt seeping moisture from your skin. He’s never known a thing so soft as the drag of his hand down your back. 

I loved you.

You lied to me.

You will never understand. There are reasons—too many to count—that civilians cannot know. He may have gotten you to relative safety in the Continental, but there are a hundred dangerous people in this building who have a long-standing grudge against Joel Miller or the man he worked for. A hundred people who would take you as collateral the moment you stepped outside the grounds. But as long as you remain inside, you’re safe.

He just needs to finish the job. He needs to see it through, and he’ll be out. You’ll realise he’s done it all for you.

I loved you.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the sheets. He broke your heart last night. He watched you turn in on yourself, your eyes so cold, so far away. He listened to you scream, and inside he pleaded: Keep hitting me, baby. Keep shouting. Be mad. He wanted you loud and furious and spitting fire. If you were angry, you still cared. He could work with that. 

And to see you walk away, the fire frozen over, the fight in your marrow sucked out… 

The anguish of losing your ire still stirs in his chest. The guilt peels him away in layers. Acid. 

She’ll understand, he tells himself, you, anyone who’ll listen. She’ll get it someday—why I did it, why I lied. She’ll forgive me.

Forgive me, baby. Don’t let me live the rest of this life never seeing you smile.

“Stop looking at me,” you grumble, your eyes still closed.

Joel averts his eyes. His throat feels tight. “You sleep okay?”

You haul yourself upright and stretch out your back. Joel studies the curve of your spine and the nape of your neck. You’re the muse painters rave about. The reflections of sunlight on water at dusk. The pond of water lilies. 

“You didn’t. Your sheets haven’t even moved.”

“I can’t sleep without you.”

You give him a heavy look, your eyes bleary with sleep. “You managed all those years before me, Joel. Let’s not do this.”

“What if I want to do this?” he says, dropping to the floor next to your bed and taking your hands in his. You try to pry yourself free, but he drops his head and traps you in his rapt vigil. 

“Joel…” Your voice is still groggy, but there’s agony in the way you say his name.

“You’re my wife,” he says against your skin. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re the girl I saw that night in the restaurant with the pretty eyes and you’re the girl I called every night just so I could hear your voice, and you’re always gonna be the only fucking girl for me. You’re my reason for everything, baby. I need you. Please… please just understand. You have to know that.”

You’re silent for a long while, your legs curled under you as your own husband kneels as if in prayer. Your throat burns with more tears you have little energy left to shed. You whisper his name.

He looks up and you find you cannot meet his eyes. So you stare at one of the patches of skin that disrupt the brown-grey of his beard. “That first night at the restaurant,” you say, trepidation colouring your voice blue, “you disappeared after the second course. When you came back, you told me you had to take a call. Was that the truth?”

Joel’s eyes are frantic in their search for an answer. “Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t lie to me again. Was that the truth?”

“There—” His voice cuts off, his eyes shuttering. “There was a target. That’s… why I was there in the first place.”

Your sob dies in your chest. It doesn’t even make a noise. You wrench your hands out of his, and he lets you, still kneeling at your bedside like a lost sinner. “Love has never been the problem. You might love me, but you’ve never told me the truth. Not from the first day.”

One of his hands wraps around your ankle. “I wanted out. I wanted out my whole life, and you’re the one who made me find the way. Cabrera, he… He gave me an impossible task. I completed it. And I gave you this ring.” He brushes his thumb over the knuckles of your third finger where your bands are still secure. “You said yes. You married me. Doesn’t this mean something?”

The sound of your hollow laugh hurts more than any words you could use to cut him. “It did,” you confess, “when I knew exactly who my husband was.”

He shakes his head, his lips parting in another desperate cast, but you’re standing up and crossing the room, gathering your toiletries for the bathroom. “What happens now?” you ask. 

Joel stares at the ring on his finger. “I’m going to talk to the Manager. You have to stay here.”

“Okay,” you say softly. Your back is rigid. “Just tell me something.”

“Anything,” says Joel. 

“If I asked to leave,” you whisper, “would you let me go?”

Joel feels his heart crack in two. He remembers the small outdoor wedding, in the heart of May, when he’d seen you walk down the aisle toward him and struggled to find the words, as he always did, that would be good enough. 

I vow to love you, he'd said, his hands trembling as he took yours. I vow to be your partner in all things. I vow to show you every piece of my soul, the way you've given me yours, and to be gentle with your heart. 

I vow to be the man you want, the man you need, and the man you love. 

He’s failed. He knows that. But you smiled at him that day, your eyes brimming with tears that turned black from your mascara, and you kissed him before the officiant said the words. 

I loved you.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he says, “but not that.”

Joel made a stop at the Continental Tailor before he went to find the Manager in the lounge. He paid the Tailor a bit too much for the new suit, he realises now, the sleeves a bit too tight, the pants not quite tapered. He was dressing a different body than the one he knew all those years ago. 

Joel weaves through the darkness as a crooning voice sings something about evil men up on the stage. The band is playing along, a smooth jazz tune, and the bodies around him smell of expensive cologne and perfume and vodka. He remembers with a start why he hated this place so much. 

Adjusting his jacket, he finds the Manager sitting in the VIP section on a long curved booth upholstered in crimson velvet, sipping a dry martini. 

“Joel,” he says, lifting his glass in toast. 

“Bill.”

The Manager doesn't look particularly thrilled. “You know there’s an open contract on your head. Who did you have to kill to end up back here?”

“Just a couple people.” Joel sits opposite him. “I need information.”

“And you're here on more business. Does your consort have anything to say about that?”

Joel curls his fingers into a fist atop the table. “I’m invoking my guest privileges. And she is my wife.”

Bill sniffs in amusement. “So, you did end up marrying the gal. Good for you, Joel. She's a stunner.”

“Fuck you, Bill.”

A short, booming laugh. “Nobody will so much as look her way. You have my word and all it means.”

“Doesn't mean much,” says Joel. “I’m just visiting.”

“Don't be the idiot I know you aren’t,” says Bill, leaning forward and setting his glass aside. “You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, and you won’t get out so easy. Sometime, somewhere, someone’s going to come to you with another impossible task.”

“And I’ll complete it,” says Joel. “Emiliano Cabrera. Where is he?”

“You really wanna do this, Joel?”

“Yeah.”

“Your wife may be safe now, but she won’t be forever.”

“That’s why I’m going to finish it. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”

The Manager sighs, polishing off his martini. “You know damn well business will not be conducted on Continental grounds, Joel. You may as well go have a drink at the bar, take a load off. I can’t tell you anything while you’re inside my hotel.” 

Joel suspected as much. “Then tell me something you can.”

Bill’s nostrils flare and Joel feels some satisfaction knowing he can still push the old man’s buttons. “I’ll tell you what: the game has changed since you left it. Your only chance is to get out now, while you still can. What could possibly warrant the Boogeyman reentering the fold?”

Joel licks his teeth. Your eyes blurring with tears as your skull connected with the ground, your body going limp as he stood above you. The clink of a belt buckle echoes still in his head. If he hadn’t been fast enough—

“It’s personal.”

Bill’s gaze dips. “Well,” he says, “then, unofficially, I wish you the best of luck. But, as a former friend”—Joel snorts —“let me give you a piece of advice. Take your wife home and forget about all of this. I like you, Joel, but for her sake and yours, I’d rather never see you again.”

Joel doesn’t take it personally. “Tell Frank I said hello.”

Bill grabs a full glass from a passing server. “Fuck you, Joel.”

He nods his head, closing the lapels of his jacket and slipping the first button through the opposite slit. As the singer on the stage transitions into the next song, Joel orders a glass of bourbon and watches the bartender slide his drink over on a pristine white napkin. 

“On the house, per the Manager’s request,” says the bartender. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.”

Pristine—save for the small red circle drawn with marker on the centre. Across the bar, Bill raises his glass in another toast, and Joel leaves the lounge, his drink untouched. 

It’s a Tuesday night, and the Red Circle is lined up around the corner. One must know someone to get inside, and that someone must be a paying member. Joel had a membership by default, being contracted under Cabrera, but it was revoked along with his other privileges once he had completed his task. 

You would hate this place. It’s throbbing bass and flashing neon lights and sweat-slick bodies rubbing up against one another. It’s brick and industrial metal and glass and the people don’t mix, either. 

Maybe part of him is hedonistic, too. He doesn’t think he ever used to be. The job gave him wealth to spend that he never cared to; when he met you, he began to understand the pleasure of material things. Gold shone when it hung around your neck and wrapped around your fingers. Diamonds glittered like the jewels in a crown when you wore them on your ears. And when he pulled you close to him for the first time, undressing you slowly, hooking his fingers in the lace panties he’d bought for you and bringing his mouth to the heat between your legs, Joel began to understand the draw of pleasure. 

It isn’t that he’d never had sex before you. He’d just… never been interested before you. Bodies always felt… too cold. They were complex. They were things to be followed, things to be killed. They were names on a piece of paper. They would bleed all their warmth and light into his palms and he would return, limping, to a house he never cared about and absolve himself of red. He’d never known the thrill of a body until he tucked his hand under the soft swell of your naked breast and put his mouth on yours and felt your heartbeat bleed into his hands. He never wanted to wash it off. 

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

After the orphanage, Joel visited a church only once. 

He hadn’t meant to find it. He’d heard an organ humming from within. The cathedral was taller than it was wide, built for a small gathering. He’d slipped inside during a sermon, delivered by a pastor with white hair and a pair of wilting hands. Joel watched the tremors pass through his face, the agonising pulse of the vein in his throat, the way he would gulp down mouthfuls of water. He spoke with rhythm, with melody, and when he was finished, he grasped the edges of the pulpit, his head bowed in silent prayer. Joel thought he had never seen a more devoted man in his life. 

When the sermon was over, he waited his turn to speak with the pastor. He did not know why. He hadn’t felt a stirring in his chest at the word of God; he never had.

I’ve never seen you in here before, my son.

Joel shook his head, frowning at the ground. I… left the faith, in a way. When I was young. I’m… sorry.

Devotion is a choice, said the pastor, taking Joel’s hands in his own. They were wrinkled, speckled with age spots. Joel lifted his gaze to find the pastor smiling. As with all things in life. Devotion, my son, is not a birthright. We must find it. Though it may not be His word, you will know someone’s word. And you’ll find it will move you enough that you choose to follow it. To whatever end. 

Joel has been slashed, burned, drowned, whipped, beaten, strangled. He could count the telltale black spots in his eyes like dreamers count sheep. He developed a reputation because he was good at what he did. He was efficient, fast, lethal. He once killed three men in a bar with a pencil, they whispered. A fucking pencil. Word in the Underworld spread of a boogeyman who would take your life in your sleep if you wronged the wrong person, if you were just an unlucky bastard.

Their word never mattered. He’d never knelt in the blood of a victim and prayed for absolution. He would never find it, anyway. His soul was black. 

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

No word has ever cut so deep as yours. How could he wake up every single day next to the love of his life and lie so easily to your face? How could he put a ring on your finger knowing damn well he’d betrayed your trust every second of your time together and you never even knew about it?

How could he wear the mask of your husband and dream of blood on the very same hands that touched you each night?

Joel checks his watch. It’s one o'clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast. You won’t sleep a wink tonight if this keeps up, but it seems you’d rather do anything in the world than speak with him. 

He doesn’t blame you.

He found his word that night in the restaurant. He’d followed it, followed you, wherever you took him. And he will follow you, his almighty word, beyond the grave, to whatever end you decide. 

He will not abandon his faith. His purpose. He will not throw up his hands and let you walk away. He’s made mistakes he cannot mend. He can’t go back to the day you met and tell you all he should have, rules be fucked. He cannot fix what he’s already broken. You cannot put a piece of tape over fractured glass, a bloodied hand over wounded skin. 

He made his fucking vows. It’s time he lived up to them.

Across the street, Joel watches, turning over the knife in his pocket by the hilt. Emiliano Cabrera and his lackeys step out of Joel’s Mustang and toss the keys to the valet. They skip the line, smacking one another around and jeering at the ladies in line, and Joel feels the hunger pull at his teeth. 

His first target is posted by the east entrance. Joel takes the alley, stepping aside trash bags brimming with used needles and slipping the Glock from the lining of his jacket. The weight of it is formidable in his hand. Under the cover of dark, he slides into a second skin, black as the names they call him. Bringing the gun to the back of the guard’s head, he watches those huge shoulders stiffen.

“Francis,” he says politely.

“Joel,” says the guard. 

“Workin’ late?”

“Why?” says Francis. “You want in?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I do. You lost weight.”

“Twenty-seven pounds, if you’ll believe it.”

Fuck. 

Twenty-seven guards tasked with protecting the little shit. Joel may have a reputation, but it’s been years. He was ambushed in his own home last night. And after it all, he’d let the bastard slip between his fingers. 

“Why don’t you take the night off?”

Francis lowers one meaty hand to the piece in his ear and takes it out. Turning his head, he says, “Can you at least lower the gun?”

Joel does. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Word’s going around. They say you’re back.”

“I’m just passin’ through.” 

“Sure, Joel.” Francis offers his hand, and Joel shakes. “You better make it quick. I don’t feel like getting fired.”

“Understood.” Joel slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him. 

Even from afar, the music lives in his chest, a writhing thing that seeks departure by way of his throat. He tries to swallow and it wriggles back up again. The bass throbs hard against his ribs. 

There’s a bathroom on the VIP floor. As he sneaks by the frosted glass partition that separates him from the public, Joel hears the squeak of locker doors. He puts his palm on the door and pushes inside.

Did you see the tits on that girl? says one man in Spanish. Emil got a pretty one.

Another lets out a booming laugh. Shut the fuck up, man. Good pussy and you tuck your tail and run.

Yeah? And you're in here because you scored? 

I’m in here because bitches prefer to choke on clean dick. What's your excuse?

Neither feels the breeze of the shadow slipping behind them. Neither of them sees the man in black lock his arm around one of their necks and squeeze until there's no air left. By the time the other has turned on the porcelain sink and begun to splash his face, the boogeyman has him by the scruff of his neck, fisting the collar of his fluffy white bathrobe. The sink continues running, and he’s choking on the warm water as Joel holds him down.

“Jesus! Fuck!”

“Where is Emiliano?”

“Vete a la mierda,” he splutters. “Let go of me, motherfucker!”

Joel takes one of the man’s fingers and bends it all the way back. His screams are muffled by Joel’s hand.

“Where is Emiliano?”

“The bathhouse, downstairs,” he groans. “Fuck, let me go, pendejo!”

Joel bares his teeth, breaks the man’s neck, and leaves him slumped over the sink, the water still running. 

The bathhouse is doused in red and blue. The water is illuminated from within, and the whites in his victim’s eyes glow where he stands half-submerged, toasting a bottle of champagne to his rowdy friends. Joel flattens himself to the wall, listening for the tread of dress shoes. The music pounds too loudly for him to hear, but he can see the shadow before he sees its owner. 

“Clear,” says the voice. 

When he rounds the corner, Joel drives his knife into the man’s throat and silences his gurgling moans by clamping a hand over his mouth. He slides down the wall, and Joel holds his gaze while the light slowly dims in his eyes. 

One. 

Two more men are waiting behind the partition, hands folded in front of them. Joel does not recognise them. Their suits are pressed, Italian; it seems Cabrera has made some alliances. Joel lies his first victim on the ground and prowls toward his next two. 

They go easily: unsuspecting, they bleed out under his blade, choking on their blood, and he leaves them lying by the foggy partition. Three. 

The music is dreamy, the crooning of two voices set to a throbbing track. In the bathhouse, he hears the sloshing of water and the singing of a group of men nearby. They're singing an old folk song, Joel realises. A song about a ghost. 

Hurry, fall asleep, or the Boogeyman will come for you…

They don't sound particularly frightened by the spectre haunting them. Joel watches them toast their bottles of champagne and grab the waitresses’ asses. It's Emiliano and his friends, all right. Joel spots another five guards around the waist-deep water and another two by the doors upstairs. 

There's a childlike self-assuredness about him—this kid. He thinks he's protected, safe, almighty as God. He sings about Joel and smiles. 

A guard leans over him and sneers. “You need to stop drinking.”

“Are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?” jeers the kid. “I’m not! Hijo de puta.”

The guard plucks the bottle from his hand and passes it off. “You wanna vomit while you run away? Or would you just prefer to get shot in the head?”

Emiliano’s haughty sniff makes Joel wonder if a bullet in the head is retribution enough. “Get me another fucking bottle!” he says to his friend. 

Joel picks up a bottle of complimentary cologne and tosses it. The glass shatters, potent liquid pooling on the shiny floor. Three guards flank the partition. The music is too loud to let the sounds of his blade in flesh seep through. 

Six. 

On the other side of the glass, coloured blue and red and slick with humidity, the singing continues. 

From the swamp he will come…

He feels the wet splash of blood on his face. 

… and take the children that don't behave. 

Another man rounds the corner as Joel is tearing the knife from the last guard’s throat. He doesn't have enough time to slash his throat, so he pulls the handgun from his holster and shoots. He crumples to the floor, but Joel’s cover is blown. 

“He’s here! Miller’s here!”

The partition explodes. Glass rains on him as he rolls to evade the gunfire, raising his barrel to strike at the remaining guards. 

Seven. Eight. 

The men by the stairs are shouting some Spanish, some Italian. The music carries on, but the song they're singing has ended. 

Joel finds the man he's been looking for: hiding behind a petrified waitress, Emiliano Cabrera looks like a goddamn child. He's wrapped himself hastily in a bath towel around his waist, and his eyes are wide as saucers. Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m going to enjoy this a little. 

He locks eyes with Emiliano for only a moment. The guards at the top of the stairs begin to fire at Joel. He ducks behind the wall as shots chip brick from the wall or plunk uselessly in the water. By the time he flanks them around the other side of the wall and brings them tumbling down the stairs—ten—the kid has already run. Joel growls at the loss of the kill and follows him into the club. 

With an eruption of deafening music, Joel bursts into the crowd. Behind him, a gigantic LED screen is illuminated with spirals in red and blue and white. Women dance in elevated cages while the crowd below becomes a sea of skin and sequins and sweat. Joel reloads, checks the clip, and resumes his hunt. 

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Joel feels the punch of the barrel into their chests as he fires, again and again and again. The commotion is lost in the din of the music and dancing. Bodies connect and grind and Joel kills. 

Fourteen. A guard by the wall. Fifteen. Another lurking by the LED spirals. Sixteen, seventeen—two men rushing him in an attempt to ambush, eyes wild with rage and a bit of fear. Joel puts them down like sick dogs and continues to push through the crowd, his eyes locked on the retreating Emiliano, who's waving a gun about like a white flag. 

But it's no surrender. It's a beacon, a sign that the deer is spooked. Joel feels his lip curl. So frightened, he thinks. 

Eighteen, nineteen…

Your bleary eyes, blinking through the pain, limbs limp and helpless as he unbuckled his belt above you. A cut on your face, barely bleeding. The red still consumes him. 

You were so afraid that night. 

Twenty. 

Twenty-one. 

He's getting closer. The crowd parts down the centre as Joel marches toward his goal. But the music is loud and he does not hear the approach from behind. 

The gunshot grazes his shoulder, but he feels the flare of pain ooze its way down his arm. Joel grunts, knocked askew from his path, and turns to forge at his assailant. 

The man is fast, though, and rushes him. The tackle brings him down to the ground, winding him just enough to briefly stun, to send his Glock spinning along the floor. He’s taller, broader, madder. 

But he shoots one-handed. 

Joel knocks the gun aside and it misfires into the gap in the crowd. In the dispersing, he sees more guards closing in his periphery. The only protection he has is the hulking body on top of him. So Joel uses it, bringing his elbow to the man’s throat and bunching the lapel of his jacket in his fist. The guard attempts to reach for the blade in his thigh holster, but Joel reaches down and bends his arm backward until the crunch crackles in his ear. The man howls, and Joel grasps the hilt of the knife. 

Twenty-two. 

He picks up his gun and fires a shot into each of the three approaching guards, but Emiliano has fled to the first floor. Joel grimaces as he stands, blood on his fingertips where he's prodded the wound in his arm. “Goddammit,” he mutters, following his target upstairs. 

The air is dizzying. Hot. Joel never liked clubs. He hated the closeness and the bodies in cages and the way skin felt so sticky, too tight, like he needed to step outside of it. He hated the feeling of being suffocated by strangers, as if any of them could be lurking low in the darkness, waiting to strike. 

He didn't understand the lure of the scantily-clad body until he saw you wrapped in a tight black dress. He didn't know the pleasure of dancing until you took his hand one night, his old vinyl player crackling out Frank Sinatra, and lay your head on his shoulder. It felt like stepping over the threshold into consecrated territory. He should not be touching you. But you were touching him. 

Joel spots Emiliano running for the back entrance, shoving another guard in Joel’s path. 

Twenty-six. 

The final man, approaching Joel from the lounge, pulls his gun in time to shoot, but not in time for Joel to notice. The bullet shatters a glass of wine and topples a waiter’s tray. Joel fires. 

One to go. 

He has no choice but to lunge for the kid before he can run out into the street. Joel’s heart is pounding in his chest, his blood electrified. The take-down is sloppy and his ankle rolls, but Emiliano Cabrera is pinned beneath him and yelping like a kicked dog. 

“My father will kill you,” he gasps, his cheek pressed to the floor.

“Your father knows exactly why I’m here,” says Joel, “and he knows how stupid you are.”

“Hijo de puta, it was just a fucking car,” he spits. “I was just going to have some fun with your bitch. I would've given her back.”

Joel isn't quite satisfied. He turns the kid onto his back and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to meet Joel’s incendiary gaze. 

“Everything has a price.”

The knife goes in smoothly, the flat of the blade glinting in his gaping mouth. No light flees his eyes. There is nothing but cold slate-grey. And although Joel feels no happiness feeling the pulse slow to a crawl beneath his palm, he does not pull the knife out. 

Your body, sacred, helpless, lying on the floor. A predator’s gaze. The clink of a belt buckle. Joel steps over the body and leaves, limping to the valet and slipping him a golden coin. He slips back inside his Mustang, turns on the engine, and drives back to the hotel. 

You’re tucked in the alcove by the window, staring out at the moonlit night. Your chin rests on your knees as you hug yourself close. The lamp between your respective beds colours the room orange. 

“You’re limping.” 

You haven’t even turned to face him.

“How—”

“I know how you sound when you walk.” Your temple is cool where it rests on the windowpane, your breath frosting the glass. Joel staggers to the small table and braces himself on the back of a chair as he watches you. 

You’re as warm and bright as the day he found you that night in the restaurant. Your eyes may be a little older, but the glow is the same. He folds his bleeding hands around the back of the chair. Everything around you curls in, darkens, and wilts when it confronts your beauty. 

“I’m all right.” He doesn’t deserve your concern. He’ll swallow any bullet to keep you from worrying.

You stand at last and cross the room to face him. His heart jumps like it’s the first time you asked him on a date. Like the first time he kissed you, his chest taut with tension and nerves and the assumption that you’d reject him. 

“You can lie to me about lots of things, Joel, but I know this face.” The pad of your thumb ghosts over the crease between his brows. “I’ve painted it a hundred times. It doesn't lie.”

It's the first time you've touched him in days. Joel closes his eyes. Part of him, the part that jolts back to life under the tender weight of your soft skin, means it when he says, “I’m okay.”

You seem to ponder him for a moment. “This wouldn't be the first time I patched you up,” you say, as if resigned. “Go on. Bathroom.”

He winces. “You don't have to—”

“Go. And afterward, you can tell me everything.”

The pads of your fingers memorise the ridges on the gold coin. The time is close to dawn. 

He’s no longer bleeding, and although you have nothing close to the Doctor’s prowess, you’ve managed to disinfect and wrap the wound in his arm. You can’t do anything about his ankle, but it’s a sprain; he’ll heal in time. The mangled black and blue on his tender skin reminds you of a night sky without the stars. It doesn’t seem to pain him. It only makes you wonder what sorts of agonies he’s faced—ones you never knew about.

The hurt has festered in your time away from him. He’s an open wound in the shape of a hand on your back, searing cold through to your heart. The hand sports a golden band, and it reflects in the one you still wear. You don't quite know what to make of it now. 

He looks exactly like the man you knew. Not a part of him has changed—he's still scruffy, still tired, still jaggedly gorgeous. You paint him with blurred edges, with blues and greys. Your heart still pulls when you look at him. Your chest still gapes wide open, and he digs his thumbs into the bruises. He lied to you. He broke your trust. And there's still so much of your Joel in him, from the skin to the bones. 

“It’s beautiful,” you muse, turning the coin over. 

“Technically, it’s not money,” Joel says. “It is currency. They can be exchanged for favours, information, relationships.”

“A hotel room,” you add. “Good to know I don’t have to move any savings around. Where have you been keeping these?”

“There’s a safe in the basement,” he says, “under the floorboards. When I left, I buried all of it. Weapons, coins, contacts, anything I had from the Underworld.”

The Underworld. A fitting name, if you’ve made any sense of it at all. “Do the police know about all of this?”

“Most of them are in the pockets of High Table members. Those are the ones who control how it all works. Rules and consequences,” says Joel, “is how they operate. They're what separate us from the animals.”

You lift your brows. “And who sits at this High Table?”

“Twelve leaders. They're the ones who run most of the major crime families and organisations. They control police, politicians, banks—”

Your shuddering sigh makes him stop in his tracks. He watches you lean back in the chair and bends forward slightly, as if tied to you by an invisible thread. 

“So… the girl who serves me coffee on the corner by my office could be part of it.” You frown at the coin in your hand. “She could be a witness, a runner, a messenger. She could be like you.”

“She isn't,” says Joel, “but that is the general idea.”

“But civilians are immune.”

“More or less,” says Joel. “There are… heavy penalties for harming them.”

“Penalties like death.”

“Most of the time,” he says. “And there are rules here, too. No business can be conducted on the grounds of any Continental hotel.”

“Any? You mean—”

“There's a Continental in every major city in the world. It's where we go to remind ourselves we’re civilised.”

“Civilised,” you scoff. “Civilised murder, sure. I’m buying it. And now that you’re back—”

“Visiting.”

You just glare at him, and he ducks his head. 

“—there's a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “Two million.”

You curl your fingers over the coin in your palm as your stomach bottoms out. “That's a lot of incentive to put a bullet in your brain.”

“They won't,” he says. “Cabrera holds the contract, and he only opened it because of Emiliano. He’d pull it the second I agreed to stop looking for his son. He doesn't want me owing him.”

“I don't know if I’d call that a debt.”

“Considering everything I did for him,” says Joel, a bite to his voice, “anything short of killin' his kid is a favour.”

Despite yourself, you open your hand and slide the coin toward him. “Tell me what you did.”

His head shoots up, his brows knitted together. “What?”

“Tell me what you did to get out. Tell me about this ‘impossible task.’”

“Baby, that’s…” He rubs his hand across his jaw, and it strikes you then how deep those half-circles colour the space beneath his eyes. 

“Stop,” you whisper. It never used to hurt when he called you baby. “Tell me how much blood you thought I was worth.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. His knees barely touch yours under the table. “You don't wanna hear the answer to that.”

“Then start here. What did you do, Joel?”

The sigh he releases feels heavy. “I came to Cabrera, asking him to release me from my contract. He told me he'd let me out, no strings attached… if I hunted down his enemies.” 

Your mouth drops. “Which enemies?”

He picks up the coin and turns it over in his palm. The silence drops an anchor on the ground. Your belly churns with the movement of the golden piece as it catches the light. 

“All of them,” says Joel. “All of ‘em, in one night. That was his impossible task.”

The scrape of your chair legs across the floor is grating. But you stand anyway, your head vaguely stirring with the beginnings of a headache. 

“Oh my God.” 

You barely feel your own hand on your cheek, barely smell the iron tang of blood on him, barely see the red cutting through his pressed white shirt. “How many people?”

Joel shakes his head, his shy eyes lowered, still as the paintings you've made of him. “I… I don't know.” 

I lost count, he means. There were too many, he means. 

Your throat is just wide enough to let your breath escape. The air you take in feels poisonous. He killed every single one of them. All because he wanted to marry you. 

All because he wanted peace. 

“Is there anyone in the Underworld who doesn’t know your name?”

Joel’s repentant silence, head ducked as if in prayer, is all the answer you need.

“How did this happen?” Your voice is uniquely quiet. 

“When I was a kid,” he says, and your heart sinks, “I lived on the streets. Lived like a rat, mostly, but I survived. You know that much.”

You nod solemnly, lowering yourself into the chair once more. “The Sisters reunited you with your brother.”

His dark eyes reflect the lamplight and it resembles a flame igniting in the depths of the iris. “Found me on Canal Street, runnin’ drugs for a mobster I don't even remember. Tommy was only five, but he must've told them about me. They took me to the orphanage and started my training.”

You swallow, your temples pounding. Deep in your gut, something wild and dry begins to kindle. “They were the ones who taught you all of this?”

“They teach the word of God above everythin’ else, but yeah. They train children to thrive in the Underworld. We were taught knives, guns, hand-to-hand. Hell, they even taught us how to dance—how to move faster than the opponent. I knew how to kill someone before I could read.” Joel chuckles, and part of you thinks he actually thinks it's funny. “Probably why I’m so slow.”

You aren't slow, you want to say. You've never been slow, not from the first day. 

The kindling curls and you can feel your mouth pull at the corners. He had only been a child. An orphan. A child had no way to choose, to resist how they were raised. He hadn’t been given a choice—his life in exchange for a roof over his head. 

“Those fucking bastards.”

Joel’s laugh is mirthless. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.”

You angrily swipe the tears that warm your cheeks. “No adult should have that power. They should nurture and comfort and protect, not—” Your breath hitches. “You were a child. You didn't deserve that.”

Your fingers have curled into a fist atop the table. With both hands, he gently lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. You expect it to feel foreign, wrong. It just feels like Joel. 

“The Sisters were cruel,” he says softly. “But I made myself into a weapon. It was the only way I would survive.” He reaches out as if for a wounded deer and brushes his thumb over your jaw. “They never made me believe, sweetheart. That was all you.”

You sniffle, your head bobbing absently. You don't know what to think. You don't know how to feel. Your own husband has been through the seven circles and crawled back out only to teeter back over the pit once more. There’s an ancient weariness in the black of his eyes, an old hurt, a mansion slowly crumbling at the edges. 

“You hid this all from me, and never told anyone,” you say, the ache widening. You find you want to assume, consume, even a modicum of the pain that he's felt. 

One of his shoulders lifts in a mild shrug. “I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to make something of the new life I’d killed for.” He meets your gaze and you swear part of the open wound in his pupils has sealed. “I didn't want any of it to touch you.”

And you remember lying in bed with him that first night, after that first time, tracing a scar on his back. White and ridged, it spread like lightning feelers from the middle of his spine to the dimples in his lower back. 

You'd put your mouth to his shoulder blade and felt him melt into you. 

What happened? 

The silence that followed could have heard the brush of a feather over skin. 

I was raised in an orphanage. In a church. They weren't kind. 

And that was that. You'd prodded and fussed and he'd said I’m fine. It was a long time ago. 

“But that's what you do, Joel,” you tell him. “You hide your hurt and you bury your feelings and you do it all because you're afraid it'll make everyone leave you.” 

Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat, heaving, tossing aside the sheets, but he would never make a sound. You'd see him, pretending to sleep, and place your hand over his chest. His fingers would grasp yours as if marooned on the water, seeking driftwood, his hand suffocating yours. He'd keep it pressed to his heart until the beats slowed. 

You regret those times you never pressed. In a way, you were afraid, too. If you opened your eyes, if you asked him to confess, he would close the lattice and turn his back to you. You didn't want to lose him, either. 

But you did. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it doesn't hold the weight you want it to. It doesn't blow out the candles in the cathedral. It doesn't pluck the scared little boy from the streets or give him a warm bed. It doesn't stop the beatings and the lashings and the pain. 

It does not pry the pain from his heart and bury the shrapnel in your chest instead. It is something he bears, as he always has, and must. It is something you cannot take from him. And you feel more helpless than you ever have. 

He shakes his head. “I know we can't go back,” he says, tracing one of the little daisy charms on your bracelet. “But it feels… good. It feels good to finally tell you. Even if we were too late.”

The sound of his voice breaking shakes your heart loose from your rib cage. 

“Come to bed.” Your voice is raw and used. “Just… come to bed, and sleep.” 

He doesn't dare look hopeful, though you can see the tremor that courses through his hand. He wants to take yours, the way he did the day he proposed, dropping to one knee with your palms flush. 

He looked a little hopeful that day, too. With rapt attention, he'd taken hold of you and said, I love you. I love you more than anything. You’re my best friend. Will you marry me? Will you let me be your husband?

You realise now why he'd let himself hope. He'd gotten out. He'd started his new life. With you. 

You can see his old scars, even in the dark. You think, in all your time together, you've learned his body as you learn the earth you tread upon. The praying hands of Dürer lie beneath the name inked in small black lettering. 

Your name. 

You gingerly reach out and place your hand on his back. Joel shudders. He does not turn to face you where you both lie on your sides. 

“If you bleed on the bed sheets,” you say to the darkness, “will management make us pay?”

He chuckles. “Strongly worded phone call at best. I’ll take the hit.”

You frown, ghosting your fingers over the tender skin around the makeshift patch job on his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?” 

“No,” he says, leaning into your touch, “not anymore.”

“You never told me about this scar on your back.” You touch the edges of the puckered skin. “I never stopped wondering. But I should never have stopped asking.”

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Don’t say any of that like it's your fault.”

The silence bleeds as viscous as an open gash into the dry air. His watch broke the day of your wedding. He told you it was all right, that we've got all the time in the world, and you'd kissed him and laughed. He’d replaced the battery since then, but sometimes the little hand lags behind, as if afraid to chug forward. Afraid to let time, of all silly, trivial things, consume your world. 

“Do you remember your vows?” you ask him. 

“‘Course I do.” 

“Do you remember mine?”

His head bows slightly on the pillow. “‘I vow to be your partner in all things,’” he recites. “‘I vow to protect your heart like it's my own. I vow to take your pain, and to shoulder it so you don't have to.’” 

The tears saturate the pillowcase beneath your cheek. You fall asleep with your arm around his waist, your hand next to his, not touching, but nearly. 

#NOT TOUCHING BUT NEARLY!! #RAHHHH #fic rec #joel miller x f!reader

[livingemkayde]

[livingemkayde]

We want you to stay.

#mac if you see this i am reblogging this for you #<- prev tag #BABY #ily bec #how romantic #the mandalorian #din djarin

[livingemkayde]

PEDRO PASCAL | Vanity Fair's 30th Annual Hollywood Issue

#my bf

[livingemkayde]

@livingemkayde moodboard

#BEC #I LOVE YOU SO MUCH #no what r u talking about this is soooo aesthetic #THE SOJU #THE CALICO #if you didn't know that's actually me and bec in the top left #ugh so much love for you

[livingemkayde]

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 stories 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. 

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Ao3 | KOFI

#OH MY GOODNESS EVERYONE #ITS DADDY NEXT DOOR #TBRRRR #mya 🫶 #joel miller

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do you ever just think about din djarin one day and then never stop

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#my god #tommy miller #gabriel luna #tlou season 2

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Shhh he's FINALLY getting a good night's rest

#rdr2 #arthur morgan

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Chipi chipi chapa chapa 🐈‍⬛🎶

#the mandalorian

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big enjoyer of shitty media that i would never recommend to people ever in my life

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↠ THE LAST OF US PART II REMASTERED (2024)

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some of you need to romanticise the fucking paragraph break

#i'll die for the paragraph break

[livingemkayde]

make whoever scored lowest on the RAADS test go talk to the pizza delivery guy

#it won't be me

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what's that comic book say, 'endure and survive'?