#JOEL MILLER MUNCH CLUB

[gutsby]

Mouthful

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel Miller thinks he’s strong enough to quit it, but something in the way you suck him says he isn’t.

Warnings: 18+. A man with a big, bad oral fixation + lots of love for a sneaky succ. Daddy kink. Dirty talk. Age gap. Blowing Joel under the table at dad’s birthday dinner.

Snippet of Hating Game

He knows better than to let a moan slip at a time like this. Not when he’s sitting at the dinner table; not when he’s surrounded by the people he knows and loves the most. Not when he’s celebrating his best friend’s 51st birthday, and certainly not when that man’s daughter is perched between his thighs, out of sight from every eye but his.

Joel lifts the tablecloth. He almost unloads on the spot.

Seeing your mouth open wide and your lips curled tight around his hot, throbbing member, Joel can’t help but ache for a split-second lapse of judgment—one where he forgets all sense of decorum and simply goes to town on that pretty little face. But, as it is, the rest of the party is totally oblivious to your absence, and he doesn’t want to draw attention to it, or him, by roughfucking your mouth.

That’ll come later.

No, now he’ll let you glide your mouth gently over his shaft, leaving trails of thick spit and hints of a shiny pink lip gloss in its wake. He’ll let you bob your head softly—self-assured in a pace you get to set—and he won’t lay a finger on your face or let a thrust of his get in the way, because this was all about you giving him the pleasure.

That doesn’t mean he can’t steal a glimpse every now and then and pin you with an expectant look when he wants something done a certain way. The room is dimly lit and everyone in it drunk; Joel will gladly take the risk.

‘You can go deeper than that, sweet pea.’

‘Nope, three-fourths ain’t enough, I need your mouth around me whole.’

‘You did wanna make daddy feel good, didn’t ya, sugar?’

He doesn’t have to speak a word of it for you to know what he means. What he needs. You loosen your jaw and stretch your lips even wider, whining just a little when the head of his cock grazes your tonsils.

“Fuck that feels nice,” Joel says aloud.

You freeze.

Then, without missing a beat, you hear him continue just as comfortably, speaking to the people around him,

“Y’all feel that breeze comin’ in?”

Sick fuck. You continue to suck him anyway.

One hand braces tight against Joel’s leg and the other flits shamelessly between your own, and you try not to moan, but the sound escapes anyway. No one hears it, but Joel feels it reverberate down his shaft, and he grips his glass of Merlot like a vice. Your dad shoots him a curious look from across the table but says nothing.

“Can’t get enough’a her, huh?” Tommy grins beside him.

“What?” Joel falters. Sets his drink aside carefully.

Down below, you drag your mouth just far enough to take his tip between your lips and suckle. Joel grunts.

“The wine,” Tommy says, still smiling, “You must love it.”

Joel lets out another strangled breath that he tries to pass off as a chuckle and nods.

“Got me on my fuckin’ knees,” he admits.

And that’s the truth. Starved for air and blinking through tears as you kneel down to blow him, it’s still you with the chokehold on Joel, and both of you know it.

Try as you might to convince yourselves otherwise, the man is enrapt. It’s just that small matter of you being his best friend’s daughter that makes Joel loath to admit it. At any rate, he has your tongue licking stripes up his cock and feels a sudden, sharp clench in his stomach.

He knows he won’t last much longer. Neither will you.

Joel can’t see it now, but you’ve practically soaked your own hand from how hard you’ve been rubbing your clit—and how turned on you are from just sucking his dick, keeping your mouth wide open for a fucking whenever he wants it. While Joel reaches for another draught of wine, you bring one hand to his balls and keep the other at your cunt, triple-tasking like the efficient little slut he needs you to be: sucking, cupping, and rubbing all at once to get the two of you off in one minute or less.

You guide him down to the furthest place in your throat, then push him even deeper. You gag, just slightly, and feel a hand reach down for your cheek. A thumb starts to rub at the tears welled up at the corners of your eyes.

‘Sweet thing hasn’t felt a man this deep before, huh? Wanna swallow some more?’

You nod that you do. Can’t actually hear him now, or see much else besides the soft tufts of hair on his belly, but you can feel a light, heady warmth seep into your brain.

You rut your hips and hope no one drops a fork nearby. Buck desperately into your hand and feel the heat start to swell to a whole new feeling, and suddenly you’re whimpering, whining on Joel’s cock from under the shade of the table and cumming all over your fingers.

Joel returns a quick smile from your father and cracks a joke about the Super Bowl. Raises his hips just the slightest bit and wipes one of your tear-soaked cheeks.

‘Almost there, hon, keep that throat open for daddy.’

All you can do is cry and try your best. Wild feelings from both the slow, deep facefuck he’s giving you and the flurry of euphoric aftershocks coursing all throughout your body make it almost impossible to bear, but you obey your sweet and strong and steady-handed Joel and sense a blossoming desire crop up for something else.

You want to taste him as he blows his load in your mouth, floods your tongue with his spend, and paints every inch of your insides with that hot, sticky stuff.

You need him whole

Your Joel.

In tune with your thoughts—or perhaps just overcome with a need to see you before he reaches his peak—Joel raises the tablecloth when Tommy isn’t looking. His gaze locks on yours and his tongue darts quick between his lips. He cocks a brow. Brushes his thumb up again.

���Ya want this, darlin’? Want all of me?’

You give one soft, wide-eyed nod, and that’s all he needs.

No sooner do you give him the green light than his cum goes pulsing out in ropes, coating your whole throat and eventually your mouth as you hold still and take it all.

There’s so much more than you thought. So much of Joel that’s been waiting to giving your mouth a proper fucking glaze that once he’s started he just can’t stop. Above the table, your dad shoots a pointed look in his direction—‘You good, man?’—and it takes every ounce of strength in Joel’s body to grit his teeth tight and nod.

He’s filled so much of your mouth it’s spilling out now.

You try to hold steady, keep your movements extra slow. You’d heard your dad’s voice and just know there’d be a lot more on the line than Joel’s dribbling seed if either one of you fuck up now. Your breath catches in your chest, and you feel too afraid to even swallow.

“I just…came,” Joel starts, and your head almost cracks on the wood surface from how abruptly you flinch back,

“—to the realization. That you are so…fuckin’ old, man.”

Your father’s laugh is the first thing you hear, followed by Tommy, your friends, and a dozen other party guests.

The next thing you feel, to your complete and utter shock, is Joel’s cock brushing your cheek. Then your lips. Then your tongue. He slides his still-hard member through the ‘o’ your mouth has made in awe and starts to move in gentle motions back and forth, like a man all but desperate to get a feel for your wet, sodden walls.

A man who can’t risk a glimpse at you now, but wants more than anything to see the mouth he’s just filled.

Your father’s words haven’t even cooled in the air.

Joel Miller, you sneaky, freaky fuck.

As the laughter subsides and Tommy scoots back in his chair, taking leave of your table, you feel a spark ignite. Whether it’s yours or Joel’s or both your perverted minds suddenly alight and insane, you can’t be sure, but you can make out a tablecloth flipping back up above you.

Joel slips his dick out of your mouth and grins. Takes a firm hold of your face under the table so his fingers are practically coaxing your jaw to unhinge before him.

It’s the lowest, slowest, menacing sort of sound you’d ever heard from him before, but it was his all the same.

Speaking to you now, softly, “Show daddy, darlin’.”

Your Joel.

#JOEL MILLER MUNCH CLUB #i will not elaborate #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fic #joel miller x you #dbf!joel

[kiwisbell]

Whiskey Sour

chapter six: dark 'n' stormy

Reuniting with your estranged father while you finish college in Austin has unintended consequences. His best friend, for one.

series masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

series tags and warnings: dbf!joel being extremely criminally attractive, big ol' age gap (40s/early 20s), unprotected piv (do not follow the leader), creampie, multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms, oral sex (m and f receiving), dry humping, spitting, biting, joel miller is a MUNCH, very appropriate use of a showerhead, consensual somnophilia, yoga, heavy emphasis on payphones, daddy issues, family reunions, angst, dead mom, grief and mourning, father/daughter relationship, bartending, reader is a woman in STEM (author is not), being a student in university deserves a warning probably, attempted drugging (roofies), college boys suck, possessive sex, possessive joel, protective joel, obligatory warning for joel's salt-and-pepper hair, masturbation, wet dreams, no outbreak AU, hurt/comfort, healing, no sarah or ellie, stargazing, face-sitting, pining/yearning, happy ending

word count: ~ 9.1k

a/n: please know that i hate writing angst and that you will always - always! - get a happy ending from me. never forget that an epilogue is to follow :') pls forgive me you know i love you xx

chapter 6: dark 'n' stormy

Learning.

The music pounds your ribs like chisels and your vision lags a little. You're only on your second drink, but you don't make a habit of imbibing—which is why you feel like your body is floating above everybody else, watching the night take hold. 

The club is dark and humid with the crowd of bodies, and the air smells sickly sweet: something that clings to your collarbones and the back of your neck. The Tequila Sunrise in your hand is slick with condensation. Next to you, Sonya and Leigh alternate between grinding on one another and pulling you into a dance with the pair of them. As much as you're unqualified as a club dancer and the alcohol is making you spin, it’s fun. You’re having fun. 

You take a shot of vodka at the bar with Steve, Sonya, and Liam, then a shot of Jager with Steve and Leigh. Your steps are wobbly by the time you need to use the bathroom for the first time, dragging Sonya inside with you. It's hot. It’s way too hot. You need another drink. 

You burst into a fit of giggles when the door hits your ass as it swings shut. You're laughing so hard that tears stream down your face and you have to grab Sonya to steady yourself. “My dress is so tight!” you shout at her over the blaring music. 

Sonya whoops, twirling you like you're both doing a ballroom dance. “But you look sooo sexy!”

You bring her into a hug. “You need to stop being so nice to me. I’ll cry!”

“You’re already crying!”

“I know,” you sniffle. “I just… I love you.”

“Are you kidding? I love you,” Sonya cries, swaying with you in the hug. 

“Didn't we come in here to pee?”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” 

You both get in line behind two other girls and compliment the girl in front of you on her silver sequinned dress. She beams at you, rosy-faced and unfocused, and brings you into a hug, too. “Oh, my God, you're so nice.”

You really love being hugged. 

You and Sonya touch up your faces in the mirror when you're finished and make sure you don't look like you've been crying, heading back out into the club. 

At the bar, you and Steve sit next to each other while waiting for your next round of shots. In contrast to you, he seems pretty alert, still sporting that boyish smile. His hair is only a little tousled. He's a handsome young guy. 

He just can't compare to the handsome man who's waiting for you at the end of the night. Joel is so…  

You can't tell Steve about Joel. You can't tell anyone about Joel. But you want to hop up onto the bar and proclaim to the world that you've got a strong, gentle, good man to go home to. That he's what you've wanted your whole life. That he's it for you. 

“To passing chemistry,” you announce instead, “with flying colours!”

“Grounded colours,” amends Steve. “Cheers!”

You clink your shot glasses together, slam them down on the bar, then toss them back. There's perhaps a bit too much alcohol in your system now, but it feels good. It's good to let go. 

“Where's your boyfriend?” asks Steve, shouting a bit so you can hear him over the music. “I would think he'd like to see you in a dress like this.”

You are wearing the blue dress you told Joel about: it's the colour of summer sky, short and tight, complete with a pair of strappy silver heels. “Who said anything about a boyfriend?”

Safe answer, you think, rewarding yourself with a mental pat on the back. Indirect. Steve scoffs. “Please. You're never home.”

“And how do you know that?” you ask challengingly. How does he know? “I thought I was”—you hiccup—“being discreet.”

“A girl like you's gotta have a boyfriend,” says Steve. 

A girl like you? What does that mean? Didn't you just ask him how he knew how often you were home? “You're being confusing. And I’m supposed to be relaxing.”

Steve slides a Cosmo under your nose. “For putting up with me the whole term.”

You lift your brows at him. “You bought me a drink?”

“I bought you a drink.” His eyes glimmer with amusement. “Looks like you're not in dire straits, though.”

“No, no, my dad likes that band. I’m a Britney girl myself.” 

As you lift the drink to your lips, there's a hand on your arm, steering you toward the dance floor. You nearly drop your Cosmo in the person’s haste, and you nearly topple over with dizziness when you whip your head around to see who's holding onto you. 

“Liam?” You peer through the darkness at him. His lips are pressed into a grim line, and he looks a lot more sober than you. “What are you—”

“Don’t drink that,” he says, indicating the Cosmo in your hand. “He put something in it.”

What?

You blink hard and fast like it's going to clear your blurring vision. Liam’s still in front of you, not a hallucination, scraping a hand through his hair, his eyes a little frantic. He looks truly distressed. 

“Who, Steve?” You eye the drink. Steve wouldn’t… He’s—he’s nice. He’s never tried anything. He wouldn't drug you. “Are you—”

“Yes.” And he seems so earnest that it frightens you. Your stomach drops into your heels. “Please,” he says. “Don’t drink it.”

The Cosmo slips from your hand and crashes onto the dance floor. 

Glass shatters around people’s feet. A few club-goers shuffle away from the mess but largely continue to dance, while your vision rapidly sharpens. A cold sweat washes over you. 

This isn't happening. 

“Liam,” you gasp, grabbing onto his arm, “I need to get out of here.”

It's too hot. You're dizzy. Gasping for lungfuls of air, you feel the air in the room push down on your shoulders. Liam keeps his distance as he steadies you on the way to the door, but you can't feel his hands on your arms. You can't feel a thing. 

“Hey!” It’s Steve, behind you, shouting your name. “Why are you leaving?”

You can’t turn. If you look at him, you'll break. You’ll cleave in two. 

“You”—Liam pokes Steve square in his chest—“stay the fuck away.”

Steve slaps Liam’s hand away and gives him a hard shove. “Hey, listen, I don’t know what your fuckin’ problem is, but we were having fun.”

“Fun?” Liam shouts. “Does the fun come before or after whatever you were about to do with her?”

“Fuck you, man!” 

“Is it true?” Your voice sounds like a separate entity. “Did you put something in my drink?”

Steve scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Please. You think I’d do that?”

“Did you?” 

You try to sound strong, uncompromising. But you're drunk, wobbly, and miserable. And he was going to take advantage of you despite all of it. 

“This is bullshit. Your little fuckin’ dog is setting you up.” Steve aims to shove Liam again, but the latter retaliates with a crack of his fist across Steve’s jaw. 

“You’re fucking dead, Baker,” growls Steve. 

“I wish you were fucking dead,” returns Liam. “Fucking rapist piece of shit.”

You can hear them both, but the sounds are muffled, like you're just below the water’s surface. You clutch your heart with your open hand and hear your father’s voice. 

Can you imagine a nice, slow heartbeat?

You do. You try. 

Just imagine you've got my heartbeat. Take it from me. 

He's stronger than you. Everyone is stronger than you. 

You're grateful. It's how you can steady your pulse slowly enough to throw yourself out of the club, onto the street, and stumble down the block until you can find a payphone. You’re already tugging at the straps of your heels before you climb into the booth and dig through your clutch for a coin. 

Take it from me. 

Imagine a nice, slow heartbeat. 

Do not fall apart. 

“Joel,” you say softly, your hand trembling around the receiver. “Joel, are you there?”

“Hey, baby. You okay?” His voice isn’t groggy or irritated; he likely hasn't slept at all. 

Just hearing his voice forces a pathetic sob out of your mouth, covering it quickly with your hand. “I, um…” You squeeze your eyes shut and rest your head on the glass wall of the payphone. Don't cry. Don’t fucking cry. “I’m sorry it's so late.”

“Hey, hey.” His soothing voice prickles the hairs on your arms. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“I…” You’re losing it: your ability to swallow your terror. It surges up your throat, racking tremors through your breath. “I’m at a club. It’s called The Rite Way. ‘Rite,’ like ‘of passage,’ not ‘right’ as in ‘right and wrong.’ It’s kind of stupid, but—”

“Sweetheart,” says Joel, patient in the midst of your rambling. “You gotta tell me what happened. Tell me what's wrong, okay? I’m right here. I’m listening.”

You can't bottle your cries in your throat anymore at his gentle coaxing. “Oh, God,” you sob into your palm. “Oh, God, Joel, he—he put something in my drink. I thought… I thought I could trust him, and he… Fuck, he was going to—”

His voice butts in, and it’s angry. “I’m comin’ to get you. Stay right there. Don’t move.”

You've never heard him use that tone. He speaks so gently to you. This is rage: it's potent as poison and you somehow know it was the right choice to call him, anyway. 

“I won’t.”

In fact, when the line goes dead, you clutch the receiver to your chest and hoard the booth while you quietly sob, tucked into the corner as if someone’s trying to break in. The sound of a sputtering truck engine, ten minutes later, makes you lift your head. You forget that you’re supposed to hang up the receiver and drop it like it’s turned to ice in your clammy hands. He’s getting out, parked illegally on the street, slamming the door hard and scanning the street.

He finds you right away.

“Baby,” he whispers, watching you step gingerly out of the booth with your heels dangling from one hand. “Oh, Jesus, baby, c’mere.” He ushers you into his arms and you practically leap off the curb to wrap yourself up in him, squeezing out your tears onto his chest. Joel cradles the back of your head. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“He…” You hiccup, reeling from the dizzying amalgamation of being rather tipsy and sobered by the knowledge that a friend had betrayed your trust. “He was…”

He dips his chin and kisses the top of your head. “Shh, don’t tell me. Don’t tell me yet, sweetheart. Let’s get you home, first, okay?”

He helps you up into the passenger’s side and buckles your seatbelt for you. He's trying to assess your body for injuries without making a big deal of it, purposefully avoiding the tear tracks on your cheeks. A muscle in his jaw feathers when he spots a thin trickle of crimson on your ankle. 

You never even noticed the blood. 

“I…” You swallow. “I dropped the glass. It’s nothing.”

“It ain't nothin’.” Joel grips the steering wheel so tight you hear creaking leather. He could go back. He could storm right inside that club and beat the shit out of the kid. He wants to. But you're crying. Jesus, you're so sad, and he wasn't there. He's never there. 

You rest your head on his shoulder and wind your arm around his. “Just take me home, Joel. Please.”

He peels away from the curb and runs a couple yellow lights on the way. 

~

You don't let go of his hand as you both walk toward the bathroom. Joel is so careful with how he handles you, letting you sit on a chair from the kitchen as he gets on one knee in front of you, your wounded ankle up on his thigh. He wipes the tear stains from your cheeks and tends to the blood next, the first-aid kit on the floor next to him. 

“Your knees will hurt,” is the first thing you say. Your voice is raw and used. You’re still a little drunk, but he's perfectly clear. You can see every strand of hair on his head, every different shade of brown in his eyes. 

“I’m all right,” he says softly, cleaning off the dried blood. The glass from your Cosmo only sliced you, and the cut is shallow, but he frowns down at it like it's down to the bone. 

“Joel…”

“I wasn't there.” He says it through his teeth, his grip on your good leg tightening. “If I had been… I should be with you when you wanna go out and have fun. I should be dancin’ with you, and I should be the one who’s there when somethin’ goes wrong.”

“You couldn't have known,” you tell him, taking the washcloth from his hand. “I didn't… I didn't think he could… well, you know.”

Joel applies a bandage to your ankle and tucks himself a little closer to you, lifting up your chin with his thumb. “No, you couldn't have known. You handled everything so well, sweetheart.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” you say with a mirthless laugh. “I just ran. Didn't even tell anyone. Left Liam there to deal with… with—”

Your breath shudders on the way in, and Joel clicks his tongue to get your attention. “I know, baby. And you did everything right. You called me. You got out.”

“I never used to run,” you tell him. “I used to deal with all my problems head-on. I probably could've punched his lights out. I could've done more. I just…” You shake your head, averting your gaze. “He was a friend.”

Joel’s trying to blink the red mist from his eyes. Some fucker took advantage of you when you were vulnerable, when you finally decided to let loose and trust someone. He ruined your night. He put that frown on your face. He was going to take you somewhere Joel couldn't find you, and violate your body. Your beautiful, sacred body. He would have done it without regret. And you would never remember a thing. You’re fucking drunk, and he was going to rape you. 

Joel wants to kill him. No, he wants to lock him up in a fucking storage unit and torture him. He wants him to feel so much pain that skin becomes blood and blood turns to fire. He wants to do it all himself. No singular agony is sufficient. 

He’s never felt such rage before. It's like twisting the apple from the tree. His organs are all twisted up, and only drawing blood from the bastard’s filthy fucking body will reorient them. 

“I want you to look at me,” he rasps, shuffling forward so he's on his knees between your thighs. You watch him wearily as he caresses your cheek. “Good. Can I tell you somethin’?”

You nod. 

“When I was your age,” he begins, “I wasn't in college. I held down a job at the farm. I was goin’ nowhere. One night, Tommy calls me, askin’ for me to come pick him up from jail. He was three sheets to the goddamn wind, and decided to pick a fight at the bar. I was so mad. I wanted to beat the shit out of him, but in the truck, he broke down. Told me the asshole started talkin’ shit about our mom, our dad, our whole family. It was a small town. Way before Austin.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to go back to the bar just to finish the fuckin’ thing, take out the guy for good. But I had to get my brother home. Nothin’ else mattered.

“You can't solve all the world’s problems, sweetheart,” says Joel. “Sometimes, you gotta run to what's comfortable. Let other people handle the shitty parts.” He swipes a rogue tear from your cheek. “Will you let me be what's comfortable for you?”

Your fingers curl around his wrists as you give him a soft, weak smile. “How many times has your brother been to jail?”

Joel huffs. “How many hands you got?”

You laugh. It's raw and unsteady, but it isn't pain. It isn't misery. “You’re already what’s comfortable, Joel Miller.”

Later that night, you're curled up on his bed with half of your body covering his, your face buried in the crook of his neck as you doze. Showered, dried, and dressed in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, you've taken to the warmth of his body to help you sleep. Joel doesn't mind. He plays absentmindedly with your hair, his other hand occupied with stroking your thigh, which you've hitched up onto his torso. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to the unanswering room. “I’m sorry I wasn't there, baby.”

You stir just enough that your nose brushes the heart-shaped patch on his beard, a soft sigh leaving your mouth. But you don't respond, your eyes still closed, your face still serene. Joel knows the morning will hit you harder than the night. He knows he has business to take care of. 

And he knows that your body against him, seeking his comfort, is a heaven that Joel Miller could never hope to deserve. 

~

You feel like shit, and everything hurts. 

You're not new to hangovers, but it's been long enough that you forgot about the shakes. The nausea. The aches. You shield your eyes from the light in the hallway as you stumble into the bathroom and frantically splash water over your face. Gently smacking your cheeks a couple times to jolt yourself awake, you squint your way downstairs, looking for Joel. 

You expect him to be gone. It’s close to ten, and he usually gets jobs on the weekends. But he's in the kitchen, fumbling his way through an omelette on the stove. 

You slump into a chair at the table and throw your head into your arms. “My kingdom for an Advil,” you groan. 

Joel abandons the stove for a moment to bend over you and press a kiss to the top of your head. Two little pills clatter onto the table next to you, along with a glass of orange juice. “You don't drink orange juice,” you croak, blinking up at him. 

“You do,” he says simply. “Go on. I’ll have breakfast ready in a minute.”

“If I throw it back up,” you say, “it's nothing against you. I very much love that you cooked for me.”

“I know, baby.” He kisses you again. “Drink.”

You swallow the pills with a mouthful of orange juice and watch him while he cooks. His hair is gently tousled, he’s dressed in a dark blue T-shirt, and his back muscles ripple with the subtle movements of his arms as he works. He’s got a cup of coffee next to him on the counter. “I wish you could’ve been there, too,” you say suddenly, your voice still weary. “I wish we could have danced together.”

Joel’s heart squeezes. “I can’t dance,” he says.

“I can teach you how. We’ll go together someday.”

It’s the promise of something that can never happen that has Joel turning off the burner, flipping the omelette onto a plate, and approaching you with his hand outstretched. “All right, then,” he says, lifting a challenging brow, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

You make a sound of exasperation. “I didn’t mean now. I can barely see through the migraine.”

Joel reaches for the pair of aviators he left on the table and slips them gently onto your nose. “We’ll take it slow.”

You take his hand. “You keep your hand here,” you say, guiding it around to your lower back. You lace your fingers together on his other hand. “And if you feel fancy, you can twirl me.”

Joel smiles down at you, his eyes twinkling. “And if I wanna keep you right here?” he says, punctuating his words by spreading his hand over your back and pressing you closer to him.

“You lose points for style,” you tease, “but I like it, anyway.”

“Don’t think they dance like this in the club,” he chuckles.

“No, but this is better.” You rest your cheek on his chest. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

Joel sways gently with you. “How’s it sound?”

You hum. “Strong.”

“You drive me crazy, that’s why.” His voice rumbles in his chest. It dulls the constant ache in your temples. “I like you too damn much.”

It crescendos. It swells in your ribcage, expanding your lungs, joy and serenity. So much affection that it sticks to your throat on its way out. “I really like you, too, Joel,” you whisper. 

When he pulls away, his eyes are shiny with a thin sheen of water. With a slow, deliberate, near-trembling hand, he lifts the glasses to the top of your head and tilts up your chin. He nudges his nose against yours before he kisses you, aligning your palms and fingers together. His hand dwarfs yours, and it’s warm. 

Your mouth is a little chapped and your head still pounds, but he feels so good. He guides you, as he always does, the hand on your back an anchor that brings you down through the earth to its very core. He holds you like you’re the precious centre of the world, of the very galaxy, a little orb of light that will shatter if dropped. Joel cannot, in fact, picture a world that does not have you in it. He doesn’t want to.

Neither of you register the sound of a key in the front door, nor the soft clicking of the lock as it closes. But you do hear the noise of a bag dropping to the floor, as if in shock.

It’s your father, standing in the doorway. “What the fuck?” 

~

To his credit, Mike doesn’t walk right up to Joel and punch him in the jaw. 

The two of you split apart like positive charges, smoothing down your hair as Joel rakes his fingers through his locks. Both of you are flushed and all three of you are, undoubtedly, mortified. Your father looks helplessly between you and Joel. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. “What… I… When did—”

“Dad, please.” Your voice is so small, and you feel like a child again. “Please, just listen.”

“Listen? I—” He runs his hands over his face and then braces one in the doorway. He looks ashen. “I don’t… What the fuck?”  

Neither you nor Joel say a word, and it seems to make him angrier. He storms right up to Joel and shoves him hard in the chest. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing with my daughter?” he demands. “Did you force yourself on her? Did you—”

“Hey!” You leap forward and pry him off Joel. “That is not fair.”

He rounds on you, his jaw clenched. You can see the vein in his neck protruding. “How long has this been going on?”

Joel’s slight movement toward you is minute, his hand twitching in your direction. “Mike, listen—”

“How. Long?” he says with a growl. 

“Since the night my car broke down,” you say evenly. “You weren't home, so I went to Joel’s. We…” You swallow thickly and let him put together the rest. 

Mike stumbles backward. “September?” His eyes slide murderously toward Joel. “My best friend has been fucking my daughter since September, and I didn't know about it?”

“Take it down, man,” warns Joel. “You're mad. I get it…”

“Mad. Mad is getting the wrong order of material for a job. Mad isn't this. This”—he points between you and Joel—“is the two people closest to me in the world going behind my back. This ain't mad, Joel.”

“We both made choices,” says Joel carefully, lifting his hands like he's trying to ward off an approaching bear. “Neither of us did this to hurt you, Mike. We just… just—”

“What? Like each other?” Mike scoffs. “There are a million other people in the world you could decide to like.”

He's right, of course. Both of you know it. You've even delighted a little in the illicit nature of it all, sneaking around so the pair of you could have a little peace in a pocket of the world that was all your own. “It's not just that,” you cut in. “Joel makes me happy, Dad.”

“Joel is old enough to be your father,” Mike shouts. 

Joel winces. Nobody, not ever, should raise their voice at you. “Don’t—”

“But you're my father, aren't you?” Your voice is getting louder, your tone wobbling as you approach tears. You never used to cry this much . “And you were never there. You weren't then, and you certainly weren't when you could have noticed us and you never did. You have no right to a say in who I have feelings for. You didn't even care enough to be my dad until my mom was already dead.”

The air rings with the abrupt silence when you finally let it all go. Your father looks close to a stranger with the way he stares right through you, his face a cool mask, betraying any sympathy he may have beneath. You take it as a sign that this is over. 

All of it is over. 

You dare to glance Joel’s way, but he's looking at the floor. Not even trying to reach you as you breeze past both of them and shut the front door behind you. 

And he lets you go. 

Joel regrets it the second you leave. The dread and the terror sit heavy in his chest. His oesophagus burns. It stings behind his nose, and he’s never wanted to cry the way he does now.

I’m in your corner. 

For as long as you want me there. 

Yeah. He’s no more than a fucking coward. 

He will never shed the image of your sad, hopeless expression as you realised Joel would not fight for you when you needed it. To fight for both of you. 

“She's wearing your clothes,” says Mike. There's no emotion left in his voice. Just resignation. 

“Yeah.”

Last night, he told you he would be your comfort. He’s told you time and time again that you deserve someone who will be there when you don't want to be there for yourself. That you don't have to make sacrifices. That you deserve happiness. 

How can a man like him be your happiness when he can't even lift his head up and beg you to stay? One look at real trouble and he froze. He shut down. 

Mike shakes his head, not meeting his eye. “You're sick, Joel. This is fucking sick.”

“You're outta line, Mike,” says Joel, feeling the fire in his throat surge up suddenly. “You’ve known her for, what, a couple months? Do you know what she likes? Do you know how much she's been struggling? Why she can't sleep? Jesus, do you care about anything besides fixing your own guilty goddamn conscience?”

Mike’s brows draw together. The rage burns again in his eyes. “Now you're out of line, Joel,” he says. “You don't know her any better.”

Will you let me be what's comfortable for you? 

“Yeah?” Joel steps forward. “You know why I was with her last night? This morning? Do you even know?”

I really like you, too, Joel. 

“Of course I don't know.” Mike tries to stay angry, but Joel can see it give way to concern. The fatherly concern he knows is there. 

“Some guy she thought was a friend put a roofie in her drink. She nearly drank it.” Joel lifts his brows in challenge. “You know who she called?”

I don't know what happiness is. 

He does know. Now, he's certain of it. 

“I’m gonna find the kid,” says Mike, slamming his palm down hard on the dining table. “I’m gonna fucking kill the kid. Who the fuck does he think he is, hurting my goddamn daughter?”

Joel understands. The memory of your tear-stained, distraught face makes the rage swell up again, the thick and honeyed promise of pain interlocking into a tedious tapestry. 

“You hurt her, too,” says Joel plainly. “And I hurt her. And the whole world has only ever hurt her. Take a look at everything’s she's gone through and reconsider if pushing her away for a choice she made will be worth it down the line.”

Mike sinks down onto the chair you occupied just an hour ago. 

“I just…” He rubs his hands down his face. “I just can't help but think about all the other times. All the times she was hurt and I wasn't there.” 

He knows the feeling. 

“She's been hurt plenty,” says Joel. “And she's strong.”

“She shouldn't have to be,” Mike returns. “She's young, Joel. She's got a whole life ahead of her.” He looks up, helplessly, the anger gone altogether. “You had to have thought about it.”

“Yeah. I thought about it.” And yet, the guilt is an ember that bursts into nothing. It's a passing thing. It is engulfed by the want, the need, the admiration for everything that you are. “Way I see it: she had to grow up too damn fast. She's spent her whole life making decisions for other people. I was a decision she made herself.” Joel shrugs. “I ain't sayin’ it's right. But she deserves to decide what she wants, with her life.”

Mike is quiet for awhile. His elbows on his knees, he bounces his leg restlessly, and Joel knows he’s fighting the urge to run out the door and follow you. Beg for you to return. Beg for your forgiveness. Joel wants to do the exact same thing. 

“You would've been good at it,” Mike says with a small, sobering laugh. “The whole dad thing. Better than me.”

“You’ve got time,” says Joel. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

~

When you get off the bus and walk up to your front door, Liam is waiting for you. His knuckles are scabbed over with blood. You can’t help but laugh, if a little hysterically.

“What the fuck,” you say through your tears, covering your mouth with your palm as you begin to sob. Liam surges forward and squeezes your arms. 

“What the fuck,” he repeats, his mouth set in a sombre line even as he matches your mirthless laugh. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” you sniffle. “I just left you there. Sonya and Leigh…”

“Understand. They very much understand.” Liam guides you inside, offering you a tissue from the living room table as you both sink onto the worn couch. “And hey, I was happy to punch him in the face.”

You try to smile, but it just doesn’t work. You’re still vaguely hungover, cold from the journey home, and your whole body feels heavy. Cinder blocks strapped to your ankles. Mouth permanently tucked downward at the corners. Eyes tired and sick of shedding tears. 

“What happened to him?” you dare to ask.

“Another guy at the bar saw him roofie your drink,” Liam explains. “He corroborated, and the bouncers chucked him out. Leigh called his parents, to make things worse. Sorry, better.”

You take a couple shallow breaths as the panic threatens to creep back up. “I have Chemistry on Monday.”

“Yeah,” says Liam. “So do I. So does Sonya and Leigh.” You frown at him, and he shrugs. “We have a free block. And if he has the balls to show up, we’d like to be there, too. Something tells me he won’t, just for the big-ass black eye I gave him.”

That just makes you cry a lot fucking harder. You drop your forehead onto Liam’s shoulder, your chest burning with the confusing pain of your misery and your affection for your friends. “I’m sorry I ever thought you were a creep,” you tell him. 

“You thought I was a creep?” Liam says. “I didn’t think I made it obvious that I liked you.”

Your laugh is a bit more genuine this time around, but the tears are still flowing. “Liam, you followed me around the house like a puppy. You asked where I was going every day just to make conversation, even though you knew my schedule.”

Liam whistles lowly. “Jesus. That’s so fucking embarrassing,” he grumbles. “I hope Sam didn’t think I was a creep.”

“Sam?”

“My girlfriend.”

You jolt upright. “You have a girlfriend? How come you never told us?”

“It’s only been a month,” says Liam sheepishly, “and I sort of thought you hated me. You’ve pretty much been avoiding this house the last few months.”

You look down at your hands in your lap. “Yeah. I had someone, too. It was never you.”

“That someone got you somewhere safe last night?”

You’re touched by his concern as much as the memory of waking up in Joel Miller’s bed makes you ache. “Yeah. He did.”

“Good.” Liam stands up, offering his hand to you. “You look like shit. Let’s go get breakfast.”

You think of the omelette Joel cooked for you, how it’s lying cold and uneaten, probably in the garbage can. He’d never eat it himself. It was all for you. 

Why couldn’t you stay? Why did you have to run away?

You take Liam’s hand after you wipe your tears away for the last time today. He doesn’t once ask about Joel. You have to thank him for that. 

Steve does not show up on Monday, nor Thursday. He’s ceased all attempts at contact, it seems, and squirrelled away to lick his wounds. Probably try again with another poor girl. You can only hope she’ll have the attentive friends that you do. 

You go to class. You go to work. You study. You sleep, sometimes. Most times, you’re trying to swallow your food even though it tastes like nothing. Liam announces one morning that Sam will be moving in by the end of the year. She’s an absolute sweetheart and Liam is smitten. 

Something is missing in your life. The shape of his body lingers in your periphery. The colour of his eyes and hair are in the trees and the sky and the earth. 

Two weeks pass and you don't see, hear from, or speak a word about Joel Miller. 

You passed all your final exams with all the extra time you could pour into studying, no longer spending the night in his bed. Your landlord had guys set up a shiny new landline throughout the house, and your phone number changed with it. So, if he’s tried to reach out, you wouldn’t know about it. He doesn’t show up at your home. You don’t drive near his neighbourhood or try to find him in the bar when you work late nights. And you still see his face everywhere.

That, you can never change.

The Longhorns have miraculously turned the season around, and they’re looking strong for the national championship. They need two more victories to secure their place, so Sandy’s Bar is packed full tonight. It’s halfway through the second period, and they’re leading 21–0. Rob has hired another girl your age, Julie, to help out, and you took a quick liking to one another. The bartop was replaced last week with a sleek new cherry wood. The lighting is warmer inside. The season is changing, and it’s noticeably colder. 

Rob notices—the way it takes more effort to smile nowadays, the way you stare off into space, the way you get dizzy sometimes because you’ve forgotten to eat—and he doubles down on his efforts to lift your spirits. He cracks more jokes, he gives you a two per cent raise for all the extra shifts you’ve taken on just to distract yourself, and he entertains you with stories on your breaks about his daughter’s hyperactive antics. 

Tonight, Rob’s working the tables, and Julie’s helping you behind the bar. She’s good at her job. And you can throw yourself into it, polishing glasses until they look transparent and perfecting each pour. It helps not to think. 

“Whiskey sour, please.”

You freeze at the sound of his voice. 

While your mother was sick, you never cried in front of her. You simply were there for her, holding her hand at her bedside and sharing anecdotes and being a daughter. You were good at it. You’ve lost that. You’ve somehow, at some point, shed your talent for confronting the world with a stern look and a strong arm.

This isn’t fair. 

You were trying to get better.

“What are you doing here?” It’s so embarrassing how terrible you sound: like wading through gravel.

“I came to beg,” says Joel. 

You pour another pint for Joe, who’s got his eyes glued to the television screen down the bar. “That isn't funny, Joel,” you whisper, avoiding his eye. 

Don’t let him see how much you’re hurting. 

“I’m not jokin’.” 

“You never order a whiskey sour.” Please just go. You’re only making it worse. “You don’t like sweet things.”

His eyes burn through your very soul the way they always have. They’re dark and warm and they make you feel like you’re the only person he’s ever truly looked at. “I’m tryin’ to change, I guess,” he says with a brief flash of a smile. “I tried to call, but I think I left a hundred messages on a dead line.”

Your throat is clogged. The corners of your eyes burn. “I’ll get that drink started for you.”

You turn your back to him once more, but he isn’t going to let you. Not this time. 

“I should've fought,” he says to your retreating form. It makes you freeze all over again. “I should have clawed tooth and fuckin’ nail to get him to understand. But I didn’t. I let you go.” You turn to look at him, finally, and the look he’s giving you—an on-his-knees pleading look—makes your knees weak. “I said I’d be in your corner for as long as you wanted me there. I lied. I’m yours no matter whether you want me here or not. You’re it for me, baby.”

You swallow hard. It burns all the way down. You recall slow-dancing in his kitchen, kissing him in the bed of his truck, his hands in your hair as he attempted a braid that never worked out. Touching you, comforting you, defending you. Appreciating you. Telling you it’s okay to be selfish sometimes. Telling you that you deserve to be fought for—that you don’t always have to be the one who fights. 

“You're his best friend,” you say plainly, pouring the simple syrup into the shaker. “I told you once that I never wanted to jeopardise your friendship, and I meant that. I still do.” You add the bourbon, your vision sharpening to the task at hand. Mind sharpening to the cold truth. The right path. “So you should go.”

Don’t choose me. 

Joel shakes his head, leaning in to get closer to you. You’re certain that some people are watching the intimate exchange, but he doesn’t seem to care anymore. He’s only looking at you. “You’re the smartest, strongest fuckin’ woman I’ve ever seen. I have never known someone with so much life in her.” Every word is strong and rounded and so firm you almost start to believe it yourself. “Bein’ with you was like finally breathing, baby. I was stupid to ever think I could give you up.”

“Don’t.” It comes out as a croak. Your hands are shaking as you pour in the lemon juice. “I’m working. I can’t have this conversation with you.”

“Look at me. Please.” You blink hard to clear your vision and muster the courage to meet his dark eyes. “I need you. And I don’t give a fuck who sees or knows or looks at me the wrong way. I just need you. I need you here, with me, safe. Fuck, I want you happy.” 

He can’t stand seeing you like this. You’re visibly weary, dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks a little sallow and your colour less bright. He wonders if you’ve slept as little as he has. If you’ve laid awake and stared at the ceiling, thinking about him, the way he has you. If you’ve noticed all the times he’s driven past your home just to see if he can catch a glimpse of a light turned on in your bedroom. If you’ve wondered if he’s been calling, trying to reach you. He has. 

I’d hate to ever see you unhappy, Joel Miller.

“You once asked me if I was happy,” he says. “And I told you I didn’t know what happiness was. But it’s you. It’s being near you. It’s talkin’ to you on the phone, drivin’ out to the middle of nowhere with you, cookin’ with you even though I’m so fucking bad at it. You’re my happiness, baby. Only a fuckin’ coward like me would throw that all away—make you feel like you weren't worth it.

“Let me be with you. Let me make things right,” Joel pleads.

“He will never look at you the same,” you state, plain as day.  

He needs you to understand. “He’ll never look at me the same no matter what. You've spent your entire life sacrificing the things you want for other people.” Joel watches your eyes flicker between his, choosing which one to look at. You’re so beautiful that it strikes him, hard and true as a lance. “Remember that day in the kitchen, when I told you about selfishness? It’s okay to want. It’s okay to put yourself first.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath. You need him to understand. “When I called him the very first time, I was so scared. I was scared he would reject me, decide he didn't want a relationship after all. But he did, and that was even scarier. Because I thought of my mom, and the way she died without getting to say a proper good-bye. I can’t… lose him like that, Joel.” 

“If your dad would rather see you like this than see you happy, he ain't your dad.” You’re so close, and he could touch you the way he wouldn’t even hesitate to mere weeks ago. But he doesn’t. “I’ll wait forever if that's what it takes, baby. But I want you to know, I—”

“Stop.” You shake the drink together to mix it until the outside is tearing up with condensation. “Just… stop. I’ll speak to him. But I—” 

“—can’t just pick it back up again.” He watches you pour the mixture into a rocks glass to the perfect level. “I know that. Didn't I tell you I’d wait forever?”

And when he gets his first smile from you in weeks, it feels like loosening the shackles around his ankles and soaring up to the heaven he doesn’t deserve. “Here’s your drink,” you say softly, sliding it in front of him. No orange wheel. No sickly-sweet cherry. You know him, inside and out. “Have a good night, Joel.”

He indulges in the feel of your soft fingers brushing his knuckles when he takes the drink. Flashes of skin and lips and the honey-warm look in your eye when he used to make you happy. He’s going to earn that again. You turn your back and tend to another patron. The Longhorns make the field goal.

~

He knocks on your door first. 

“I never should've let you leave,” he blurts out before you can open the door all the way. You can see his car parked on the street, but he still looks like he’s run all the way here, flushed and bounding with energy. 

You blink. “I…”

“You’re my daughter. You're my family. I know I don't have the right to that title, not with the way I treated you, but I want to earn it. I want to do better.” He puts his hand to his heart, and you remember the first time he talked you down from an attack. “That starts with understanding. Knowing why it's you and him.”

When you let him inside and guide him toward the dining table in the kitchen, Sonya and Leigh, dozing together on the living room couch, jolt upright and scurry upstairs with a quick wave to your father. You’re grateful for the newfound quiet when you sit across from him. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.” You can see that he’s nervous, lacing his fingers together then unlocking them and repeating the actions all over again. “I… I should have come earlier. I called, but—”

“New number,” you explain.

“Oh.” He studies you from across the table, lingering on your hair, your eyes. You remember having to explain the precise colour to him over the phone. “We took a break from doing jobs together, for a bit. Me and Joel. He’d take Tommy, or I’d take Tommy. I think the guy felt a little used.”

You laugh, even though he eyes you carefully when he says Joel’s name. “I’m sure Tommy’s flattered.”

“We’re okay,” he says tentatively. “We are.”

You break eye contact first, tracing a groove in the table. “I was afraid of ruining that.”

“I know. You’re a selfless person.”

“If I were really selfless, I never would have been with him in the first place.”

“Then, you’d be miserable.” Your head shoots up to meet his gaze, and he pins you with a pointed state. “Am I wrong?”

Slowly, you shake your head. 

“I don't promise to get it, honey,” he says. “But if I let you leave my life now, after all the time I've spent outside yours, I can't call myself a father. Will you let me try again?”

“You must know he came to see me.”

“I know,” he confirms. “That isn’t why I’m here. I’m here because my girl has been drowning in her own grief, just like when her mom died, and I wasn’t there to pull her out. I’m not doing that this time. I want to be someone you can go to.” He grimaces slightly. “I don’t want to be M.I.A. when your car breaks down because I’m out on a date.”

You lift your brows. “You were?”

“Her name’s Melissa.” He looks up at you and you can swear there’s a grin brewing behind those eyes. “She’s… a few years older.”

Your mouth drops open, the irony striking you like a slap across the face. “You hypocrite!”

He’s blushing so hard you can see it in the tips of his ears. “It’s my job to get angry when I find out my daughter’s dating!”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. Fondly. “I’ve been making decisions for myself for a long time. I’ve been on my own a long time, too. And for the record, I’m happy for you. I’m sure Melissa is lovely.”

He drums his fingers on the table. “When you had the… incident at the bar, I didn’t even know it happened until Joel told me. I guess it hurt more than anything that you didn’t call me when it happened. You went to him. It just—it reminded me that I’m practically a stranger in your life.”

Guilt twists your stomach. You hadn’t even considered how it would feel for him to hear the news from a separate party altogether. “I’m so sorry,” you tell him, reaching for his hand. “You are not a stranger to me. It wasn’t fair of me to reach out to you and then never give you a chance to be let in on my life. I said things I’m not proud of that day, and I’m sorry.”

“What you said that day was right,” he says. “I never noticed. A dad should notice things.”

“We both fucked up,” you offer, “a lot.”

He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. “I wanna be better, honey. I want to be able to look at the two of you and see what’s good about it, not what’s wrong.”

You sit up straighter. “There isn’t… We aren’t the two of us anymore. I—”

“You are not going to throw away what makes you happy because some people can’t understand it.” He squeezes your hands tighter. “You have lived your life alone for so long. I will not be the one who keeps you from being happy. You don’t think I see how terrible you look right now?”

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” you say with a wry smile. “Do I really look like shit?”

“With all my love, honey,” he says, “yes, you do.”

You laugh with him, and the knot around your stomach loosens. “So,” you prompt, “can I meet the cougar you’re dating anytime soon?”

He gently ruffles your hair, and it feels like a bridge has been mended. “Smartass.”

~

It’s two days from Christmas when Joel sees the note. 

He and Mike are about to head out to Sandy’s before it shuts down for the holidays, but the rainstorm is bound to deter other patrons from doing the same. Truthfully, he’s hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Since you’ve picked up more shifts at the bar, it’s unpredictable when you’ll be there, and even the briefest of glances will thrill him, satiate him. His blood yearns for you. His bones ache for your touch. Every day he’s apart from you feels like cracking down a chisel onto his chest. He’s going to split open soon. 

The small, pink Post-It note is stuck to the countertop. Joel sets down his keys next to the note—he’s agreed to drive tonight—and spots your handwriting.

Dad—

Boxes all packed up. Rental truck will be here to pick up at seven. Thanks for dinner. 

Joel crumples the note in his hand. You were here, not long ago, where he was standing. No. No, no, no. 

You're leaving? 

He doesn't wait around for Mike to finish showering. He sprints out to his truck in the pouring rain and peels away from the curb, eyeing the clock on his dash. 6:54. 

He’ll make it. He has to. 

Your neighbourhood is a ten-minute drive at most, but Joel makes it at precisely seven o’clock. There isn’t a rental truck in the driveway; it either hasn’t come yet, or you’ve left with it. 

Joel nearly forgets to take the keys out of the ignition in his haste. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it over the rain in his ears; it’s a cold and brutal wind that sends the rain hurtling down diagonally from the clouds. He races up to your front door and pounds on it. 

You open the door, dressed so prettily in a pair of yoga pants and a cozy blue sweater, and you’re fucking beautiful. You’re the most radiant thing he’s ever seen. His heart surges forward, calling to you. There’s a permanent scar carved into it, and it’s in the shape of your name.

“Joel?” You frown at him, stepping onto the porch and peering up at the sky. The rain is lashing him in the face, making him blink hard to clear it from his vision and keep on looking at you. His hair is wet as a dog’s after a bath, and it drips from his drenched clothes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Don’t go,” he begs, shuddering hard from the cold, relentless rain. “Don’t leave, baby. Please.”

You hug yourself, taking another step down, still shielded from the rain. “Joel, I…”

He can’t stop talking. He won’t shut up—not if it means he can still get you to say yes. “If you go, I go. I don’t like travellin’, and I’ll probably get sick in one of those brown paper bags, but I’ll be okay once we land.” 

“Joel—”

“I told you I’d wait for you forever, and I meant it. But if you get on a goddamn airplane, I am, too. You're not the kind of woman a man just lets go.”

You walk down so you’re only one step above him, shivering as the rain hits you.

“Joel, shut the fuck up,” you cut in. “I’m not leaving. I’m just moving.”

He blinks up at you. “What?”

“To my own apartment,” you explain. “Liam’s girlfriend’s lease is almost up, and the landlord is her uncle, so I’m taking her place on a discount while she moves into my old room.” 

“You’re…” The joy and relief pierce him at the core, and his voice breaks when he says, “You’re staying?”

You’re looking at him softly, your sweet eyes giving him that look you used to. “Of course I’m staying. I still have school, and work.” The rain plasters your hair to your face, soaks through your sweater, and he wants to curl you up in a thousand blankets, lie with you beneath the cover of warmth, never let you go.

You look down at the ground for a moment, and when your eyes meet his again, he dares not hope at the glimmer of happiness in your eyes. “I’ll need help unpacking all my shit again.” 

“Baby…” He chokes on the word. He’s suffocating on the knowledge that you still want him around. You’re staying. You’re here. 

“You came all the way here because you thought I was leaving the state?”

“Yeah,” he says lamely.

“And you still want to be with me?”

He nods, frantic, ready to sink to his goddamn knees if you ask. “I’m never gonna want anything more in my life.”

You step down so you have to look up at him, raindrops clinging to your lashes. You’re a picture. He hasn’t been this close to you in so long. He can smell your heady perfume through the earthy scent of rain. He could—

“Then can you just kiss me now?” you say, like a sigh of exasperation, closing the distance between you and clutching the hem of his shirt in your hand.

It is heaven to obey. He knows this time, clear and ringing true in his ears, that the world isn’t all bad. 

Joel cups your face in his hands and slants his mouth over yours.

Kissing you is like muting the sounds of the world and watching the colours hum with vibrancy. He keeps his eyes open for a moment because he can’t quite fool himself into believing this is real. But he sees your face, your eyes fluttering shut, and he feels your soft mouth, slick with rainwater, tasting of salt and your strawberry lip balm, and he lets his eyes close.

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